Burial Rites by Hannah Kent

did she want from him, then? Why ask for him, if she didn’t want to talk of God? Of death and heaven and hell, and the word of the Lord? Because he helped her over a river? It was unnerving. Why not enlist a friend or a relative to help her come to terms with her life’s end?
    Perhaps she didn’t have a friend left in the world. Perhaps she wanted to talk of other things. Such as crossing the Gönguskörd pass in a waterlogged spring. Such as why she had left the Vatnsdalur valley to work further east, or why she doesn’t care for clergymen. Tóti closed his eyes, and felt Ýsa shift her warm weight from one side to the other under his forehead, restless. To soothe her he recited Hallgrímur Pétursson: ‘The pathway of Thy Passion to follow I desire, Out of my weakness fashion a character of fire.’ He opened his eyes and recited the last line again.
    By the time the pail was full, he had decided to return to Kornsá.
    A morning mist lingered in the valley, obscuring Tóti’s view of the mountains as he rode through the ghostly wreaths that hovered over the grass. He shivered from the cold and buried his hands into the warmth of his horse’s mane. Today I will right things with Agnes, he thought.
    By the time Tóti slowed his horse to a walk, up past the three strange hills of Thrístapar at the mouth of the valley, towards the green throat of Vatnsdalur, morning sunlight poured out over thecloud. It would be yet another clear day. Soon families and their servants would be dotted along the home fields, scythes in hand, spreading the cut grass out to dry and the smell of mown hay would overwhelm the valley. But now, so early in the morning, Tóti could see only the topmost caps of the mountains, their brown bulk still concealed by the band of slowly shifting fog. He heard a sudden shout and noticed Páll, the Kornsá shepherd boy, driving the sheep along the mountainside, obscured a little by the mist. Tóti urged his horse towards the bank of the river that wound through the valley and passed Kornsá at a distance, continuing on to the bowed croft of Undirfell.
    A large, unshaven farmer appeared at the door.
    ‘ Blessuð . Greetings. I’m Haukur Jónsson.’
    ‘ Saell , Haukur. I’m Assistant Reverend Thorvardur Jónsson. Is the Reverend of Undirfell here?’
    ‘Pétur Bjarnason? No, he doesn’t take the tenancy here. He’s not far though. Come in.’
    Tóti followed the hulking shape of the farmer into the croft. The dwelling was larger than most he had seen. At least eight people were in the badstofa, dressing and talking amongst themselves. A young girl with large eyes held a screaming red-faced toddler on her lap, and two servant girls were trying to wrestle clothes onto a young boy who was more interested in his game of knuckles on the floor. At the sight of Tóti they stopped talking.
    ‘Please, sit here,’ said Haukur, gesturing to a space on a bed beside a very old woman whose withered face looked blankly into Tóti’s own. ‘That’s Gudrún. She’s blind. I’ll fetch the Reverend for you if you don’t mind waiting.’
    ‘Thank you,’ Tóti said.
    The farmer left and a fresh-faced young woman soon bustled into the badstofa. ‘Hello! So you are from Breidabólstadur? Can I offer you a drink? I’m Dagga.’
    Tóti shook his head and Dagga swept the toddler out of the arms of the little girl and set her against her shoulder. ‘Poor thing, she’s been up all night screaming fit to wake the dead.’
    ‘Is she not well?’
    ‘My husband thinks it’s gripe, but I worry it’s worse. Do you know anything in the way of medicine, Reverend?’
    ‘Me? Oh, no. No more than you’d know yourself, I’m sorry.’
    ‘Never mind. ’Tis more the pity that Natan Ketilsson is dead, bless his soul.’
    Tóti blinked at her. ‘Excuse me?’
    The girl in the corner piped up. ‘He cured me of whooping cough.’
    ‘Was he a friend of the family?’ Tóti asked.
    Dagga wrinkled her nose. ‘No. Not a