Burial Rites by Hannah Kent Page A

friend, but he was a useful man to send for when the children were ill or needed to be bled. When little Gulla there had the cough he stayed a night or two, mixing his herbs and looking in books of a foreign tongue. Odd fellow.’
    ‘He was a sorcerer.’ The old woman next to him had spoken. The family looked at her.
    ‘He was a sorcerer,’ she repeated. ‘And he got what was coming to him.’
    ‘Gudrún . . .’ Dagga smiled nervously at Tóti. ‘We have a guest. You’ll scare the children.’
    ‘Natan Satan, that was his name. Nothing he did ever came from God.’
    ‘Shush now, Gudrún. That’s just a story.’
    ‘What’s this?’ Tóti asked.
    Dagga shifted the crying toddler onto her other hip. ‘You’ve not heard it?’
    Tóti shook his head. ‘No, I’ve been at school in the south. At Bessastadir.’
    Dagga raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, it’s just something folks say around the valley. There’s people here who claim that Natan Ketilsson’s mother had foresight – she dreamt things and they’d come to pass, see. Now, when she was pregnant with Natan she dreamt that a man came to her and told her she would have a boy. The dream man asked if she’d name the boy after him, and when she agreed, the man told her his name was Satan.’
    ‘She took fright,’ Gudrún interrupted, frowning. ‘The priest changed it to Natan, and they thought that was decent. But we all knew that boy would never come to any good. He was a twin, but his brother never saw God’s light – one for above, and one for below.’ She slowly swivelled on the bed and brought her face close to Tóti’s. ‘He was never without money,’ she whispered. ‘He dealt with the Devil.’
    ‘Or he was just a nimble-fingered herbalist, and the money came from charging a king’s ransom,’ Dagga suggested cheerfully. ‘As I said, it’s just something people say.’
    Tóti nodded.
    ‘Anyway, what brings you to Vatnsdalur, Reverend?’
    ‘I’m Agnes Magnúsdóttir’s priest.’
    Dagga’s smile dropped from her face. ‘I heard she’d been brought to Kornsá.’
    ‘Yes.’ Tóti saw the two servant women exchange glances. Next to him Gudrún gave a hacking cough. He felt flecks of spittle land on his neck.
    ‘The trial was held at Hvammur,’ Dagga continued.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘She’s from this valley, you know.’
    ‘That’s why I’m here,’ Tóti said. ‘At Undirfell, I mean. I want to learn a little of her life from the ministerial book.’
    The woman’s expression soured. ‘I could tell you a little of her life.’ She hesitated, and then ordered the servants to take the children outside, waiting until they had left the room before speaking again. ‘She always had it in her,’ Dagga said in a low voice, casting a careful eye at Gudrún, who had slumped against the wall and seemed to be dozing off.
    ‘What do you mean?’ Tóti asked.
    The woman pulled a face and leaned in closer. ‘I hate to say it, but Agnes Magnúsdóttir never cared about anyone but herself, Reverend. She was always fixed on bettering herself. Wanted to get on above her station.’
    ‘She was poor?’
    ‘Bastard pauper with a conniving spirit like you’d never see in a proper maid.’
    Tóti winced at the woman’s words. ‘You weren’t friendly.’
    Dagga laughed. ‘No, not quite. Agnes was a different kind.’
    ‘And what kind is that?’
    Dagga hesitated. ‘There’s some folk who are contented with their lot and those they have for company, Reverend, and thank God for them too. But not her.’
    ‘But you know her?’
    The woman shifted her whimpering child onto her other hip. ‘Never shared a badstofa, but know of her, Reverend. Know her as folks know everyone in this valley. There used to be a poem about her in these parts, when she was younger. Folks were fond of her then, and called her Búrfell-Agnes. But she bittered as she grew older. Couldn’t keep a man, something about her. Couldn’t settle. This valley is small and she