Agnes stopped to take a breath. She had begun to raise her voice, and Tóti wondered what had provoked this sudden gush of words.
‘That’s what happened to my mother, Reverend,’ Agnes continued. ‘Who was she really? Probably not as people say she was, but she made mistakes and others made up their minds about her. People around here don’t let you forget your misdeeds. They think them the only things worth writing down.’
Tóti thought for a moment. ‘What was your mother’s mistake?’
‘I’ve been told she made many, Reverend. But at least one of those mistakes was me. She was unlucky.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She did what any number of women do harmlessly in secret,’ Agnes said bitterly. ‘But she was one of the unfortunate few whose secrets are made visible to everyone.’
Tóti could feel the hot creep of a blush appear on his face. He looked down at his hands and tried to clear his throat.
Agnes looked at him. ‘I’ve offended you again,’ she said.
Tóti shook his head. ‘I’m glad that you tell me of your past.’
‘My past has offended your sensibilities.’
Tóti shifted his seat on the rock. ‘What about your father?’ he tried.
Agnes laughed. ‘Which of them?’ She stopped knitting to study him. ‘What did your book say about my father?’
‘That his name was Magnús Magnússon and that he was living at Stóridalur at the time of your birth.’
Agnes continued to knit, but Tóti noticed that she was clenching her jaw. ‘If you spoke to certain people about these parts you might get a different story.’
‘How is that?’
Agnes looked out across the river to the farms on the opposite side of the valley, silently counting the stitches on her needle with her finger. ‘I suppose it doesn’t matter if I’m honest with you or not,’ she said coldly. ‘I could say anything to you.’
‘Indeed, I hope you will confide in me,’ Tóti said, misunderstanding. He leaned closer in anticipation of what she would say.
‘Your book at Undirfell ought to have said Jón Bjarnason, the farmer at Brekkukot. I’ve been told that he is my real father, and Magnús Magnússon is a hapless servant who didn’t know better.’
Tóti was perplexed. ‘Why would your mother name you Magnús’s daughter if that were not the truth?’
Agnes turned to him, half-smiling. ‘Have you no idea of how the world works, Reverend?’ she asked. ‘Jón of Brekkukot is a married man with enough legitimate children of his own. Oh, and plenty like me, you can be sure. But it seems a lesser crime to create a child with an unmarried man than one already bound in flesh and soul to another woman. So I suppose my mother picked a different sod to have the honour of fathering me.’
Tóti considered this for a moment. ‘And you believe this because others told you so?’
‘If I believed everything everyone had ever told me about my family I’d be a sight more miserable than I am now, Reverend. But it doesn’t take an education in Copenhagen or down south to work out which bairns belong to which pabbis in these parts. Hard to keep a secret to yourself here.’
‘Have you ever asked him?’
‘Jón Bjarnason? And what would be the good of that?’
‘To get the truth out of him, I suppose,’ Tóti suggested. He was feeling disappointed with the conversation.
‘No such thing as truth,’ Agnes said, standing up.
Tóti stood up also and began rubbing the seat of his pants. ‘There is truth in God,’ he said, earnestly, recognising an opportunity to do his spiritual duty. ‘John, chapter eight, verse thirty-two: “And ye… ”’
‘Shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free. Yes, I know. I know,’ Agnes said. She bundled her knitting things together and began to walk back down to the farm. ‘Not in my case, Reverend Thorvardur,’ she called to him. ‘I’ve told the truth and you can see for yourself how it has served me.’
IT WON’T BE ANY GOOD for the Reverend to read ministerial books, or any book for that matter — what will he learn of me there? Only the things other men think important about me.
When the Reverend saw my name and birth in the church book, did he see only the writing and understand only the date? Or did he see the fog of that day, and hear the ravens cawing at the smell of blood? Did he imagine it as I have imagined it? My mother, weeping, holding me against the clammy warmth of her skin. Avoiding the looks of the Flaga women she worked for, knowing already that she’d have to leave and try to find work elsewhere. Knowing no farmer would hire a servant woman with a newborn.
If he wants to learn of my family he’ll have a hard time of it. Two fathers and a mother who seem as blurry to me as strangers departing through a snowstorm. I have few clear memories of her. One is the day she left me. Another is when I was young, watching her in the lamplight of a winter night. It’s a silent memory, and one, like the others, I can’t quite trust. Memories shift like loose snow in a wind, or are a chorale of ghosts all talking over one another. There is only ever a sense that what is real to me is not real to others, and to share a memory with someone is to risk sullying my belief in what has truly happened. Is the Reverend the person of my memory, or is he another altogether? Did I do that, or was it another? Magnús or Jón? It’s the glaze of ice over the water, too fragile to trust.
Did my mother look down at her baby daughter and think: ‘One day I will leave you’? Did she look at my scrunched face, hoping I would die, or did she silently urge me to stick to life like a burr? Perhaps she looked out to the valley, into the mist and stillness, and wondered what she could give me. A lie for a father. A head of dark hair. A hayrack to sleep in. A kiss. A stone, so that I might learn to understand the birds and never be lonely.
CHAPTER FIVE
~ ~ ~
Poet-Rósa’s poem to Agnes Magnúsdóttir,
June 1828
Undrast þarftu ei, baugabrú
þó beiskrar kennir þínu:
Hefir burtu hrífsað þú
helft af lífi mínu.
Don’t be surprised by the sorrow in my eyes
nor at the bitter pangs of pain that I feeclass="underline"
For you have stolen with your scheming
he who gave my life meaning,
and thrown your life to the Devil to deal.
~ ~ ~
Agnes Magnúsdóttir’s reply to Rósa,
June 1828
Er mín klára ósk til þín,
angurs tárum bundin:
Ýfðu ei sárin sollin mín,
solar báru hrundin.
Sorg ei minnar sálar herð!
Seka Drottin náðar,
af því Jésus eitt fyrir verð
okkur keypti báðar.
This is my only wish to you,
bound in anger and grief:
Do not scratch my bleeding wounds,
I’m full of disbelief.
My soul is filled with sorrow!