by Hannah Kent
The suet renders quickly. Three of us drag the pot from the fire to leave it to cool, until we can break the lid of tallow hiding the liquid beneath.
The men come in to eat the kidneys, stinking of shit and wet wool. I think the servants look at us women, dropping bags of blood sausage into a pot of boiling water in the smoky, warm kitchen, with envy. When I serve Jón his food he looks me in the eyes for the first time. ‘Thank you, Agnes,’ he says quietly. It is because of Róslín’s baby – I am sure of it. He sees me differently now.
The men have finished eating, and they leave to fetch the first cuts of meat. I start to measure out the saltpetre and mix it with salt. It reminds me of when I used to help Natan in his workshop: measuring out sulphur, dried leaves, crushed seeds. I have been thinking of Illugastadir a lot today. The slaughter in the only autumn I ever spent there. I enjoyed putting provisions aside for the winter. Things we would eat later, that would sustain Natan on his long trips. He stood against the kitchen doorframe as I mixed the meal through the blood that day, reading to me from the sagas, and telling me of his time in Copenhagen, where the blodpølse was spiced and speckled with a type of dried fruit. Then Fridrik and Sigga burst into the room giggling together, with pails of guts from the slaughter yard, snow in their hair, and Natan left me for his workshop.
My fingers sting as I press layer after layer of salted meat into the wooden drum. A pink crust crackles in between my fingers, and my back aches from bending into the barrel. Steina watches me, asking how much water to sprinkle over each layer, remarks on the way her fingertips pucker from the salt. She licks her skin, wrinkles her nose at the taste. ‘I don’t see why we can’t store it all in whey. Salt is so expensive,’ she says.
‘It suits the foreign tongue,’ I reply. This barrel is to be traded for goods. The fattier meat we will store in whey, will keep for the family.
‘Is salt fetched from the sea?’
‘Why do you ask me so many questions, Steina?’
The girl pauses, her cheeks pink. ‘Because you give me answers,’ she mumbles.
Next are the bones, and the heads. I ask Lauga to empty the tallow pot of gristle and water, but she pretends she cannot hear me and keeps her eyes fixed ahead of her. Kristín goes instead. When Steina sidles up to me again, smiling shyly, wondering if there is anything I need doing, I ask her to fill the emptied pot with the bones that cannot be used for anything else. Salt. Barley. Water. Steina and I haul the pot next to the poaching blood sausage, for the marrow to leach into the simmering water, for the salt and heat to prise away all the tenderness from the carcass. She claps her hands when we fix the slopping pot upon the hook and immediately begins to throw more fuel on the fire.
‘Not too much, Steina,’ I say. ‘Don’t cover the coals.’
The sheep-heads I hold close to the embers of the hearth to singe away all the hair. The burning wool does not catch, but shrivels at the lick of flame, and I feel my nostrils flare in the rising stink of it.
Oh, God. The smell.
The badstofa in Illugastadir. The whale fat smeared on the wood and the beds, and then the flame from the lamp smoking on the greasy, woollen blankets. Burning hair.
I can’t do it; I need fresh air. Oh God!
Don’t let them see how it upsets you. I give the heads to Steina, let her do it. I need fresh air. I tell Steina it is the smoke.
Outside the drizzle settles on my face like a blessing. But the stench of scorched wool and burnt hair remains in my nostrils, acrid, sickening me to my core.
It is Margrét who finds me, squatting in the dark with my head on my knees. I wait for her to berate me. What are you doing, Agnes? Get inside. Do as you’re told. How dare you leave Steina to do it all herself. She’s burnt the meat beyond recognition.
But Margrét remains silent. She eases herself down next to me and I hear her knees crack.
‘How quickly the light leaves now.’ Is that all she is going to say?
She’s right. The blue eventide seems to have crept up from the dark intestine of the river in front of us.
The smell of things always seems stronger at night, and sitting here I am aware of the odour of the kitchen on Margrét. Blood sausage. Smoke. Brine. She is breathing heavily, and in the silence of the evening I can hear a catch in her lungs; the grip of something upon her breath.
‘I needed some air,’ I say.
Margrét gives a sigh, clears her throat. ‘No one ever died from fresh air.’
We sit and listen to the faint rush of the river. The drizzle ceases. Snow begins to fall.
‘Let’s see what those girls are doing now,’ Margrét says eventually. ‘I won’t be surprised if Steina has strung herself up on the rafters, instead of the meat. We might discover her smoked through.’
A soft thud sounds from the smithy. The men must be spreading the sheepskins out to dry.
‘Come, Agnes. You’ll catch your death.’
Looking down, I see that Margrét has extended her hand. I take it, and the feel of her skin is like paper. We go inside.
THE FIRE IN THE KITCHEN had collapsed into a pile of whispering embers, and night had fallen thick upon the spilt blood in the stocks outside, by the time Lauga, with swollen fingers, tied the last wet bag of sausage to a string to hang and dry. Steina, her apron covered in smears from offal and blood, leaned against the doorframe and watched her sister.
‘It’s snowing outside,’ she said.
Lauga shrugged.
‘Everyone’s gone to bed.’ She sniffed. ‘Smells nice in here, don’t you think?’
‘I don’t know when killing ever smelt nice.’ Lauga bent down and picked up the pails that had held the sheep entrails.
‘Oh, leave them to dry out. We’ll set to washing them in the morning.’ Steina walked over to her sister and pulled a stool out in front of the fire. ‘Did you see how Agnes set the meat in store? I’ve never seen anyone work so fast.’
Lauga stacked the pails against the wall and sat down beside Steina, holding her hands out to the hot ashes. ‘She’s probably poisoned the whole barrel.’
Steina pulled a face. ‘She wouldn’t do such a thing. Not to us.’ She sucked a corner of her apron and began to sponge at the stains covering her hands. ‘I wonder what gave her that funny turn.’
‘What turn?’
‘Agnes and I were sitting here, as we are now, tending to the heads, and all of a sudden she throws them in my lap, and off she goes, muttering to herself. Mamma followed her out, and I saw the two of them sitting there, talking. Then they came back inside.’
Lauga frowned and stood up.
‘It’s funny,’ Steina continued. ‘For all she says, I think Mamma holds a fondness for her now.’
‘Steina,’ Lauga warned.
‘She’d never say as much, but –’
‘Steina! In heaven’s name, must you always talk about Agnes?’
Steina looked up at her sister, surprised. ‘What’s wrong with talking about Agnes?’
Lauga scoffed. ‘What’s wrong? Am I the only person who sees her for who she is?’ Her voice dropped to a hissed whisper. ‘You talk about her as if she’s nothing. As if she’s a servant.’
‘Oh, Lauga. I wish you’d –’
‘You wish I’d do what? What! Make friends like the rest of you?’
Steina gaped at her sister, open-mouthed. Lauga suddenly walked to the back of the kitchen and pressed her hands, clenched in two fists, against her forehead.
‘Lauga?’
Her sister didn’t turn around, but slowly picked up the soiled buckets. ‘I’m going to go wash these.’ Her voice was unsteady. ‘You should go to bed, Steina.’
‘Lauga?’ Steina rose and took a few steps towards her. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing. Just go to bed, Steina. Leave me alone.’
‘Not until you tell me what I’ve done to upset you.’
Lauga shook her head, her face contorting. ‘I thought it would be different,’ she said
finally. ‘When Blöndal came, I thought we might not suffer her too much because there’d be officers. I thought we would keep her locked up! I didn’t think she’d always be with us, talking to the Reverend in our badstofa. Now I see that even Mamma is talking to her in a familiar way! No one seems to care that everyone in the valley gives us strange looks now.’
‘They don’t. No one minds us.’
Lauga narrowed her eyes and dropped the buckets by her feet. ‘Oh, they do, Steina. You don’t see it, but we’re all marked now. And it does us no favours that they see us talking to her, giving her plenty to eat. We’ll never be married.’
‘You don’t know that.’ Steina eased herself down on the stool by the hearth. ‘It’s not forever,’ she said finally.
‘I can’t wait till she’s gone.’
‘How can you say such a thing?’
Lauga gave a shuddering breath. ‘Everyone sees the Reverend gadding about Agnes like some besotted boy, and even Pabbi nods and says good morning to her now, ever since she witched Róslín’s baby from her. And you, Steina!’ Lauga turned to her sister, her face incredulous. ‘You treat her like a sister more than you do me!’
‘That’s not true.’
‘It is. You follow her around. You help her. You want her to like you.’
Steina took a deep breath. ‘I . . . It’s only that I remember her from years ago. And I can’t stop thinking that she wasn’t always like this. She was our age, once. She has a mother and father, like us.’
‘No,’ hissed Lauga. ‘Not like us. She’s nothing like us. She’s come here and no one even sees how everything has changed. And not for the better, either.’ She bent down and picked up the bloody pails and stalked out of the room.
IT HAD BEGUN TO SNOW most days in the north. Breidabólstadur was clouded in a thick fog and a cold that refused to lift, even as the October sun brought what little light it could into the world. Despite the weather, Tóti was reluctant to stay at home with his father. He felt that some invisible membrane between Agnes and him had been broken. She had begun, finally, to speak of Natan, and the thought that she might draw him closer still, might trust him enough to speak of what had happened at Illugastadir, set something quickening in him.
As he carefully wrapped his shivering body in as many layers of woollen clothing as could be found in his trunk, Tóti thought again of their first meeting. He could vaguely recall the rushing water of Gönguskörd, the roar it made as the melting spring waters plunged across the pass. Could see the wet gravel shining under the sun. And ahead of him, bending by the edge of the water and unrolling her stockings, a dark-haired woman preparing to cross the current.
Tóti pulled on his gloves in the badstofa of Breidabólstadur and searched his mind for her face as he’d first seen it that day. The woman had squinted against the sun as she’d looked up at him, unsmiling. Her hair had been damp against her forehead and neck from walking. A white sack lay on the river stones beside her.
Then, the warmth of her body against his chest as they forded the foamy waters on his mare. The smell of sweat and wild grass issuing from the back of her neck. The thought of it ran through him like a fever.
‘What’s got you in such a hurry?’
Tóti looked up and saw his father regarding him from across the room.
‘They’re expecting me at Kornsá.’
Reverend Jón looked thoughtful. ‘You spend a great deal of time there,’ he mused.
‘There is a great deal of work to be done.’
‘I hear the District Officer has two daughters.’
‘Yes. Sigurlaug and Steinvör.’
His father narrowed his eyes. ‘Beauties, are they?’
Tóti looked puzzled. ‘I’m sure some think so.’ He turned to leave the room. ‘Don’t wait into the night for me.’
‘Son!’ Reverend Jón took a few steps towards the door and gave Tóti his New Testament. ‘You forgot this.’
Tóti blushed, snatched the little book and thrust it in his coat.
Outside the Breidabólstadur croft, the cold stung Tóti’s cheeks and set his ears aching. He struggled to breathe as he saddled his sleepy mare and turned her towards Kornsá. Even as the fog gave way to snow, shaking down flakes that tangled in his cob’s mane, and Tóti felt his limbs grow sore from so long in the sharp air, he cast his mind back, again and again, to the woman he met by the Gönguskörd pass, and the memory warmed him to the bone.
‘After the harvest celebration, I did not see Natan again for some time. Then one day I was in an outbuilding, cutting hung meat from a rafter. I was on the ladder, the knife in my hand, and I had paused to watch the blue November light outside. Then suddenly he was there, leaning in the doorway.’
Agnes shifted her position on the bed to get the most of the lamplight. Tóti glanced over at the rest of the Kornsá family, seated at the other end of the badstofa. Tóti suspected they were listening but Agnes seemed oblivious. It was as though she could not stop talking, even if she wanted to.
‘I was so surprised to see him that I nearly fell off the ladder. The meat would have dropped in the dirt had Natan not caught it. He said he’d come to visit Worm, and that he’d been at Hvammur to heal Blöndal’s wife, and did not see the point of returning home when there was nothing but work and the seals to greet him. That’s what he said, anyway.
‘I think I asked him how he liked Illugastadir, and he told me he was in need of more servants to help with the work. Natan said he had a workmaid but he told me she was soft in the head. Besides, she was very young, and Karitas, his housekeeper, was leaving for the Vatnsdalur valley next Flitting Days.
‘We talked for some time then. I remember I asked him about his hollow palms, it being something we had spoken of on his first visit, and he laughed and said that they would soon be filled with money if Blöndal cared to see his wife alive at the end of winter.
‘Then we walked back to the homestead, and some of the other servants working in the yard saw us. María was taking the ashes out, and when she saw Natan she stopped and stared. There is my friend, I said, but Natan ignored her. He began talking, saying how it was going to snow, he could feel it in his bones, and who was that? He was pointing at Sheepkiller-Pétur.’
‘The other dead man?’ Tóti asked.
Agnes inclined her head. ‘His name was Pétur Jónsson. He’d been sent to stay at Geitaskard for the winter after being accused of the animal killings a few years ago. He was a strange sort of man. I didn’t like him much. He had a habit of laughing when there was nothing to laugh at, and he would tell us servants about his nightmares, which made a lot of us uneasy.’
‘Did he have foresight, too?’
Agnes hesitated, and glanced around at the others in the badstofa. When she spoke again it was in a hushed tone. ‘Lots of people remember one dream Pétur told about at Geitaskard. He had it more than once, and it always gave me gooseflesh. He dreamt that he was walking in a valley when three of the sheep he had killed with Jón Arnarson came running up to him. He said that the flock was led by one of the ewes he had killed, and when the sheep reached him she vomited blood, splashing him. He laughed at this dream, but afterwards there were a number of people who saw something in it.’
‘A prophecy? Did you tell Natan about Pétur’s dream?’
‘Yes. And then Natan told me about some of the strange dreams he’d had over his life. But they’re not important now.’
‘I know about Natan’s dreams,’ a breathless voice said from across the room. Agnes and Tóti looked around and saw Lauga observing them, a queer expression on her face.
‘Lauga,’ Margrét warned.
‘Róslín told me about them, Mamma. I think you’d find them of interest.’
‘We don’t want to hear such things,’ Jón said, slowly rising to his feet.
‘No. Let her tell us about Natan Ketilsson’s dreams,’ Steina protested. ‘If Lauga thinks she knows about them, I’m sure we’d all like to hear. Agnes included.’
Jón was thoughtful. ‘Let Reverend Thorvardur speak with his charge without your interference.’
‘My interference!’ Lauga laughed and threw her knitting on her bed. ‘How about her interference! She’s in our home! Always breathing over my shoulder in the kitchen! Speaking lies in our badstofa!’ Lauga turned to her parents. ‘Mamma, Pabbi, forgive me, but you told Steina and I to close our ears to this woman. And now you let her spin stories not five feet away from us? “Oh, pity me, I’m a pauper!”’
‘We can hardly send her and Reverend Tóti out into the snow,’ Steina reasoned.
‘Well then, Pabbi, if one of us may tell fairy stories at night, why not all of us?’
Margrét was stony-faced. ‘Pick up your knitting, Lauga.’
‘Yes, pick up your knitting, Lauga,’ Steina scoffed.
‘Enough of the both of you,’ Margrét barked. ‘Reverend Tóti, you should know that we cannot help but hear –’
‘What did Róslín tell you about Natan’s dreams, Lauga?’ Agnes interrupted. She had stopped knitting and was looking at the sisters intently.
Everyone fell silent.
‘Well,’ Lauga murmured, clearing her throat. She threw a glance of uncertainty at Agnes, then looked over to her father, who lowered his eyes. ‘Róslín said that Natan told lots of people about a dream he had where an evil spirit was stabbing him in the belly. And he had another where he dreamt he was in a graveyard. She told me that, in this dream, he saw a body, or a corpse or something in an open grave, and three lizards were eating it. Then a man appeared at his side, and when Natan asked him whose corpse it was, the man replied: “Do you not know your own body?”’
‘Sweet Jesus,’ Kristín murmured.
‘What happened then?’ Bjarni asked, from his bed.
Lauga shrugged. ‘I suppose he woke up. But Róslín said that he told a lot of people about that dream, and they all agree that’s what happened. She heard it from Ósk, who heard it from her brother, who heard it from Natan himself.’