I feel drunk with summer and sunlight. I want to seize fistfuls of sky and eat them. As the scythes run sharp fingers through the stalks, the cut grass makes a gasping sound.
Suddenly, I know that the servant, the one called Gudmundur, is watching me. He has arched his head around to leer. Perhaps he thinks I don’t notice.
I was fourteen when men began to look at me like that. Hired on at Gudrúnarstadir, I arrived in March with my belongings in a white sack, and my head sore from tightly braided hair. My first proper employ. There was a young man hired on back then as well. A tall man, with bad skin and a way of watching the servant girls — Ingibjörg, Helga and me — that made us avoid him. I’d hear him touch himself at night — a hurried shuffling under the blanket, then a groan, or, sometimes, a whimper.
I let my body swing, I let my arms fall. I feel the muscles of my stomach contract and twist. The scythe rises, falls, rises, falls, catches the sun across its blade and flicks the light back into my eye — a bright wink of God. I watch you, the scythe says, rippling though the green sea, catching the sun, casting it back to me. The servant exhales, swings his scythe, stares in a low way at my bare arms. I flick the grass and the light through the air. I watch you, says the scythe.
AS PROMISED, REVEREND TÓTI RETURNED to Kornsá early the next morning, well before the sun had risen from its resting point above the horizon. His body ached from the first day of harvest at Breidabólstadur, and he relished the smack of cold air on his face and the fine fog of his mare’s breath as they rode along the track to the Vatnsdalur valley. All the settlements of the district had begun their haymaking the previous day, and the sight of half-cleared fields, the grass gathered into cocks to stop the dew from damping the hay, contributed to a sense of order and prosperity. The lush north, they called it. Everywhere small birds hopped amongst the stubble, picking at the insects made vulnerable by the harvest, and coils of smoke lifted from the slanted roofs of the valley’s crofts and cottages.
At the large farm of Hvammur where Tóti knew Björn Blöndal lived with his family and servants, on the other side of the river and within view from Kornsá, several chimneys could be seen giving off smoke. The flat wooden face of the adjoined turf huts boasted glass windows that glimmered brightly, even in the weak yellow light of morning. Like eyes, thought Tóti, feeling fanciful. He’d heard that much of the Illugastadir trial had been held in the guest room of the farm, which looked out onto the winding body of the river and its fringe of golden marsh grass.
I wonder what went through her mind, Tóti mused, peering at the farm from across the river. Sitting there in that room when they told her she had to die. Did she look out of the window and see the ice floe on the river? Possibly the world was too dark to see anything. Possibly they covered the windows with a curtain to block out the light.
District Officer Jón was outside his home with another man — a farmhand of some sort, thought Tóti — sharpening the scythes. Jón raised his whetstone in greeting and put his cap back on before walking over.
‘Reverend Thorvardur. God bless you.’
‘And you,’ Tóti said cheerfully.
‘You’re here to see her.’
Tóti nodded. ‘How do you find Agnes?’
Jón shrugged. ‘Life goes on.’
‘She’s a good worker?’
‘She’s a good worker, but…’ He stopped.
Tóti smiled gently. ‘It’s only temporary, Jón.’ He gave the man a reassuring clap on the back and turned to go into the house.
‘Jón Thórdarson has offered to kill them,’ Jón said suddenly.
Tóti turned around. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Jón Thórdarson. He came riding up to Hvammur a few weeks back, reckoned he’d play executioner to Fridrik, Sigga and Agnes. Said he’d swing the axe for a pound of tobacco.’ He shook his head. ‘A pound of tobacco.’
‘What did Blöndal say?’
Jón grimaced. ‘What do you think he said? Thórdarson’s a nobody. He has someone else in mind, although there’s some who are against it.’
Tóti glanced at the farmhand, who was slouching against the smithy wall, listening. ‘Who would that be?’ Tóti asked.
Jón shook his head, disgusted. It was the farmhand who spoke.
‘Gudmundur Ketilsson,’ he said, loudly. ‘Natan’s brother.’
‘We can sit inside if you prefer,’ Tóti said, nearly stumbling over the rocks next to the rushing stream by the Kornsá farm.
‘I like to watch the water,’ Agnes replied.
‘Very well.’ Tóti wiped the wet spray off a large rock and gestured for Agnes to sit down. He sat next to her.
The Kornsá stream offered a good view across the river. It was beautiful, but Tóti could think only of Jón’s earlier words about the executioner. He stole a glance at Agnes’s pale neck against the grey of the rock and imagined it slit.
‘How was the harvest yesterday?’ he asked, trying to clear his mind.
‘It was very warm.’
‘Good,’ Tóti replied.
Agnes reached into her shawl and pulled out a bundle of wool and several thin knitting needles. ‘You wanted to ask me about my family?’
Tóti cleared his throat and watched her fingers move as she began to knit. ‘Yes. You were born at Flaga.’
Agnes inclined her head towards the farm in question, a slouched croft to the left of Kornsá’s border. It was close enough that the voices of its servants, calling to one another outside, could be heard on the wind. ‘The very one.’
‘Your mother was unmarried.’
‘You learnt that from the ministerial book?’ Agnes gave a tight smile. ‘The priests always make sure they write the important things down.’
‘And your father, Magnús?’
‘Magnús was unmarried too, if that’s what you mean.’
Tóti hesitated. ‘Who did you live with as a child, then?’
Agnes gazed about the valley. ‘I’ve lived in most of these farms.’
‘Your family moved about?’
‘I don’t have any family. My mother left me when I was six.’
‘How did she die?’ Tóti asked gently. He was taken aback when Agnes laughed.
‘Does my life seem such a story of tragedy? No, she left me for others to deal with, but I suppose she’s still alive. I wouldn’t know. Someone told me she’d gone into the blue. Just upped and left one day. That was some years ago now.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t know anything about my mother. I wouldn’t recognise her if I saw her.’
‘Because you were only six winters old when she left you?’
Agnes stopped knitting and looked Tóti squarely in the face. ‘You have to understand, Reverend, that the only things I know about my mother are what other people have told me. Mainly what she did, which, you’ll understand, they didn’t approve of.’
‘Could you tell me what you were told?’
Agnes shook her head. ‘To know what a person has done, and to know who a person is, are very different things.’
Tóti persisted. ‘But, Agnes, actions speak louder than words.’
‘Actions lie,’ Agnes retorted quickly. ‘Sometimes people never stood a chance in the beginning, or they might have made a mistake. When people start saying things like she must be a bad mother because of that mistake…’
When Tóti said nothing in response she went on.
‘It’s not fair. People claim to know you through the things you’ve done, and not by sitting down and listening to you speak for yourself. No matter how much you try to live a godly life, if you make a mistake in this valley, it’s never forgotten. No matter if you tried to do what was best. No matter if your innermost self whispers, “I am not as you say!” — how other people think of you determines who you are.’