Burial Rites
Hannah Kent
About Burial Rites
In northern Iceland, 1829, Agnes Magnúsdóttir is condemned to death for her part in the brutal murder of two men.
Agnes is sent to wait out the time leading to her execution on the farm of District Officer Jón Jónsson, his wife and their two daughters. Horrified to have a convicted murderess in their midst, the family avoids speaking with Agnes. Only Tóti, the young assistant reverend appointed as Agnes’s spiritual guardian, is compelled to try to understand her, as he attempts to salvage her soul. As the summer months fall away to winter and the hardships of rural life force the household to work side by side, Agnes’s ill-fated tale of longing and betrayal begins to emerge. And as the days to her execution draw closer, the question burns: did she or didn’t she?
Based on a true story, Burial Rites is a deeply moving novel about personal freedom: who we are seen to be versus who we believe ourselves to be, and the ways in which we will risk everything for love. In beautiful, cut-glass prose, Hannah Kent portrays Iceland’s formidable landscape, where every day is a battle for survival, and asks, how can one woman hope to endure when her life depends upon the stories told by others?
‘Burial Rites is an accomplished gem, its prose as crisp and sparkling as its northern setting.’
GERALDINE BROOKS
‘So gripping I wanted to rush through the pages, but so beautifully written I wanted to linger over every sentence. Hannah Kent’s debut novel is outstanding.’
MADELINE MILLER, Orange Prize-winning author of The Song of Achilles
HANNAH KENT
BURIAL RITES
Contents
Cover
About Burial Rites
Dedication
A Note on Icelandic Names
A Note on Icelandic Pronunciation
Map
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
About Hannah Kent
Copyright
For my parents
A NOTE ON ICELANDIC NAMES
Icelanders have traditionally used a patronymic naming system, whereby a child’s last name is derived from his or her father’s first name, together with an affixation of -són or -dóttir. Agnes Magnúsdóttir is therefore literally translated as Agnes Magnús’s daughter. Because of this system, blood members of an Icelandic family may all have different surnames.
A NOTE ON ICELANDIC PRONUNCIATION
For ease of pronunciation, not all Icelandic letters have been used in this printing. The consonants ð (Ð) and þ (Þ) have been replaced with ‘d’ and ‘th’ respectively.
The pronunciation of certain vowels are conditioned by accents:
á as the ow in owl
é as the ye in yet
í as the ee in been
ó as the o in note
ö as in the French fleur
ú as the oo in moon
ý as the ee in been
æ as the i in wife
au as in the French oeil
ei as the ay in way
‘I WAS WORST TO THE ONE I LOVED BEST.’
Laxdæla Saga
PROLOGUE
THEY SAID I MUST DIE. They said that I stole the breath from men, and now they must steal mine. I imagine, then, that we are all candle flames, greasy-bright, fluttering in the darkness and the howl of the wind, and in the stillness of the room I hear footsteps, awful coming footsteps, coming to blow me out and send my life up away from me in a grey wreath of smoke. I will vanish into the air and the night. They will blow us all out, one by one, until it is only their own light by which they see themselves. Where will I be then?
Sometimes I think I see it again, the farm, burning in the dark. Sometimes I can feel the ache of winter in my lungs, and I think I see the flames mirrored in the ocean, the water so strange, so flickered with light. There was a moment during that night when I looked back. I looked back to watch the fire, and if I lick my skin I can still taste the salt. The smoke.
It wasn’t always so cold.
I hear footsteps.
CHAPTER ONE
Public Notice
THERE WILL BE AN AUCTION on the 24th of March 1828, at Illugastadir, for the valuables the farmer Natan Ketilsson has left behind. There is one cow, a few horses, a considerable amount of sheep, hay and furniture, a saddle, a bridle, and many dishes and plates. All this will be sold if a decent offer is presented. All valuables will be awarded to the highest bidder. If the auction is not possible due to bad weather, it will be cancelled and held the next day, weather allowing.
DISTRICT COMMISSIONER
Björn Blöndal
20th of March 1828
To the Very Reverend Jóhann Tómasson,
Thank you for your worthy letter from the 14th, where you wished to be informed of how we attended to the burial of Pétur Jónsson from Geitaskard, who is said to have been murdered and burned on the night between the 13th and the 14th of this month, with Natan Ketilsson. As my Reverend is aware, there was some deliberation over whether his bones should be buried in consecrated ground. His conviction and punishment for robbery, theft, and receiving stolen property was to follow after his prosecution in the Supreme Court. However, we have not had any letters from Denmark. The Land Court judge convicted Pétur on the 5th of February last year, and sentenced him to four years of hard labour in the Rasphus in Copenhagen, but at the time of his murder he was on ‘free foot’. Therefore, in answer to your enquiry, his bones were buried with Christian rites, alongside Natan’s, as he could not yet be thought of as belonging to those outside the Christian way. These people are expressly defined in the letter from His Majesty the King on the 30th of December 1740, which lists all persons who shall not be permitted Christian burial rites.
DISTRICT COMMISSIONER
Björn Blöndal
30th of May 1829
Rev. T. Jónsson
Breidabólstadur, Vesturhóp
To the Assistant Reverend Thorvardur Jónsson,
I trust this letter finds you well and thriving in your administration of the Lord’s work in Vesturhóp.
Firstly, I wish to extend to you my congratulations, however belatedly, for the successful completion of your studies in the south of Iceland. Your parishioners say that you are a diligent young man, and I approve of your decision to repair to the north to begin your chaplaincy under the supervision of your father. It is of considerable joy to me to know that there remain righteous men willing to fulfil their duties to man and God.
Secondly, I, in my capacity as District Commissioner, write to you in request of service. As you will be aware, our community has recently been darkened by the shadow of crime. The Illugastadir murders, committed last year, have in their heinousness emblematised the corruption and ungodliness of this county. As District Commissioner for Húnavatn, I cannot abide societal waywardness and, after the anticipated authorisation from the Supreme Court in Copenhagen, I intend to execute the Illugastadir murderers. It is with this event in mind that I ask for your assistance, Assistant Reverend Thorvardur.
As you will recall, I related the event of the murders in a letter circulated to the clergy almost ten months ago, with orders that sermons of chastisement be delivered. Allow me to repeat what occurred, this time to provide you with a more invested consideration of the crime.
Last year, on the night
between the 13th and 14th of March, three people committed a severe and loathsome act against two men, with whom you may be familiar: Natan Ketilsson and Pétur Jónsson. Pétur and Natan were found in the burnt ruins of Natan’s farm, Illugastadir, and a closer examination of their corpses revealed wounds of a deliberately inflicted nature. This discovery led to an enquiry, and from there a trial ensued. On the 2nd of July last year the three persons charged with these murders – one man and two women – were found guilty in the District Court, presided over by myself, and sentenced to be beheaded: ‘He that Smiteth a Man so that he Die, shall be surely put to Death.’ The death sentences were upheld in the Land Court on the 27th of October last year, which met in Reykjavík. The case is currently being tried in Copenhagen’s Supreme Court, and it is likely that my original judgment will stand there also. The name of the convicted man is Fridrik Sigurdsson, the son of the farmer at Katadalur. The women are workmaids, named Sigrídur Gudmundsdóttir and Agnes Magnúsdóttir.
These convicted persons are currently held in custody here in the north, and will be until the time of their execution. Fridrik Sigurdsson has been taken into Thingeyrar by Reverend Jóhann Tómasson, and Sigrídur Gudmundsdóttir was removed to Midhóp. Agnes Magnúsdóttir was to be kept until her execution at Stóra-Borg, but for reasons which I am not at liberty to state, will be moved to a new holding at Kornsá in the valley of Vatnsdalur next month. She is discontented with her current spiritual administrator, and has used one of her few remaining rights to request another priest. She has requested you, Assistant Reverend Thorvardur.
It is with some uncertainty that I approach you for this task. I am aware that your responsibilities have so far been confined to the spiritual education of your parish’s youngest members, which is to say, of undoubted value, but it is of little political import. You may yourself admit that you are too pale in experience to know how to bring this condemned woman to the Lord and His infinite mercy, in which case I would not protest your disinclination. It is a weight that I would hesitate to bestow on the shoulders of experienced clergymen.
Should you, however, accept the responsibility of preparing Agnes Magnúsdóttir for her meeting with our Lord, you will be obliged to visit Kornsá regularly when the weather allows. You must administer God’s word and inspire repentance and an acknowledgement of Justice. Please do not let flattery influence your decision, nor kinship, if any resides between you and the convicted. In all things, Reverend, if you cannot construct your own counsel, seek mine.
I await word of your response. Please provide my messenger with such.
DISTRICT COMMISSIONER
Björn Blöndal
ASSISTANT REVEREND THORVARDUR JÓNSSON WAS inside the small farmstead adjoined to the church of Breidabólstadur, repairing the hearth with new stones, when he heard his father clear his throat in the doorway.
‘There’s a messenger from Hvammur outside, Tóti. He’s asking for you.’
‘For me?’ In his surprise he let a rock slip out of his hand. It dropped to the packed earth floor, narrowly missing his foot. Reverend Jón sucked his teeth in annoyance, ducked his head under the doorframe and gently pushed Tóti out of the way.
‘Yes, for you. He’s waiting.’
The messenger was a servant, dressed in a worn coat. He gave Tóti a long look before speaking. ‘Reverend Thorvardur Jónsson?’
‘That’s me. Greetings. Well, I’m an Assistant Reverend.’
The servant shrugged. ‘I have a letter for you from the District Commissioner, the Honourable Björn Blöndal.’ He pulled a small slip of paper out from the inside of his coat, and gave it to Tóti. ‘I’ve orders to wait here while you read it.’
The letter was warm and damp from sitting inside the servant’s clothes. Tóti broke the seal and, noting that it had been written that same day, sat on the chopping block outside the doorway and began to read.
When he finished Blöndal’s letter, he looked up and noticed the servant watching him. ‘Well?’ the servant prompted, with a raised eyebrow.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Your response for the District Commissioner? I don’t have all day.’
‘May I talk with my father?’
The servant sighed. ‘Go on then.’
He found his father in the badstofa, slowly smoothing the blankets upon his bed.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s from the District Commissioner.’ Tóti offered his father the unfolded letter and waited as he read it, unsure of what to do.
His father’s face was impassive as he folded the letter and handed it back. He didn’t say anything.
‘What should I say?’ Tóti asked, finally.
‘That’s your choice.’
‘I don’t know her.’
‘No.’
‘She’s not in our parish?’
‘No.’
‘Why has she asked for me? I’m only an Assistant Reverend.’
His father turned back to his bed. ‘Perhaps you ought to address that question to her.’
The servant was sitting on the chopping block, cleaning his nails with a knife. ‘Well now. What response am I to give the District Commissioner from the Assistant Reverend?’
Tóti replied before he knew his decision. ‘Tell Blöndal that I will meet with Agnes Magnúsdóttir.’
The servant’s eyes widened. ‘Is that what this is all about then?’
‘I’m to be her spiritual advisor.’
The servant gaped at him, and then suddenly laughed. ‘Good Lord,’ he muttered. ‘They pick a mouse to tame a cat.’ And with that he mounted his horse and vanished behind the swell of hills, leaving Tóti standing still, holding the letter away from him as though it were about to catch fire.
STEINA JÓNSDÓTTIR WAS PILING DRIED dung in the yard outside her family’s turf croft when she heard the rapid clop of horses’ hooves. Rubbing mud off her skirts, she stood and peered around the side of the hovel to better see the riding track that ran through the valley. A man in a bright red coat was approaching. She watched him turn towards the farm and, fighting a flicker of panic at the realisation she would have to greet him, retreated back around the croft, where she hurriedly spat on her hands to clean them and wiped her nose on her sleeve. When she returned to the yard, the rider was waiting.
‘Hello, young lady.’ The man looked down at Steina and her filthy skirts with an air of bemusement. ‘I see I have interrupted you at your chores.’ Steina stared as he dismounted, gracefully swinging his leg over his horse. For a large man he landed lightly on his feet. ‘Do you know who I am?’ He looked at her for a glimmer of recognition.
Steina shook her head.
‘I am the District Commissioner, Björn Audunsson Blöndal.’ He gave her a little nod of his head and adjusted his coat, which, Steina noticed, was trimmed with silver buttons.
‘You’re from Hvammur,’ she murmured.
Blöndal smiled patiently. ‘Yes. I am your father’s overseer. I have come to speak with him.’
‘He’s not home.’
Blöndal frowned. ‘And your mother?’
‘They’re visiting folks down south in the valley.’
‘I see.’ He looked fixedly at the young woman, who squirmed and cast her eyes nervously to the fields. A smattering of freckles across her nose and forehead interrupted what was otherwise pale skin. Her eyes were brown and widely set, and there was a large gap between her front teeth. There was something rather ungainly about her, Blöndal decided. He noted the thick crescents of dirt under her fingernails.
‘You’ll have to come back later,’ Steina finally suggested.
Blöndal tensed. ‘May I at least come inside?’
‘Oh. If you want. You can tie your horse there.’ Steina bit her lip while Blöndal wound his reins through a post in the yard, and then she turned and almost ran inside.
Blöndal followed her, stooping under the low entrance to the croft. ‘Will your father return this day?’
‘No,’ w
as the curt reply.
‘How unfavourable,’ Blöndal complained, stumbling in the dark passageway as Steina led him through to the badstofa. He had grown corpulent since his posting as District Commissioner and was accustomed to the more spacious dwelling provided for him and his family at Hvammur, built from imported wood. The hovels of the peasants and farmers had begun to repel him, with their cramped rooms constructed of turf that issued clouds of dust in the summer, irritating his lungs.
‘Commissioner –’
‘District Commissioner.’
‘I’m sorry, District Commissioner. Mamma and Pabbi, I mean, Margrét and Jón, will return tomorrow. Or the next day. Depending on the weather.’ Steina gestured towards the nearest end of the narrow room, where a grey woollen curtain served as a partition between the badstofa and a tiny parlour. ‘Sit in there,’ she said. ‘I’ll go find my sister.’
Lauga Jónsdóttir, Steina’s younger sister, was weeding the meagre vegetable plot at a little distance from the croft. Bent over her task, she hadn’t seen the District Commissioner arrive, but she heard her sister calling long before she came into sight.
‘Lauga! Where are you? Lauga!’
Lauga rose to her feet and wiped her soiled hands on her apron. She didn’t shout back to her sister, but waited patiently until Steina, running and tripping over her long skirts, spotted her.
‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you!’ Steina cried, out of breath.
‘What on God’s earth is wrong with you?’
‘The Commissioner is here!’
‘Who?’
‘Blöndal!’
Lauga stared at her sister. ‘District Commissioner Björn Blöndal? Wipe your nose, Steina, you’re snotting.’
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