‘Where was this?’
‘Near G?ngusk?rd. I had been working at Fannlaugarstadir, and was leaving my work there.’
‘Then you are from the Skagafj?rdur District?’
‘No. I’m from this valley. Vatnsdalur. The Húnavatn District’
‘And I helped you over a river?’
‘Yes. The pass was flooded and you came by on your horse just as I was about to cross the water by foot.’
Tóti wondered. He had gone through G?ngusk?rd many times, but couldn’t remember meeting a young woman. ‘When was this?’
‘Six or seven years ago. You were young.’
‘Yes. I would have been,’ Tóti said. There was a moment of silence. ‘Was it because of that kindness that you ask for me now?’ He looked closely at her face. She doesn’t look like a criminal, he thought. Not since she’s had a bath.
Agnes squinted and looked out over the valley. Her expression was inscrutable.
‘Agnes . . .’ Tóti sighed. ‘I’m only an Assistant Reverend. My training is incomplete. Perhaps you need a qualified clergyman, or one from your own district who knows you? Surely someone else has shown you kindness? Who was your Reverend here?’
Agnes tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear. ‘I haven’t met many churchmen I care for, and certainly none that I would claim know me,’ she said.
A few ravens swept through the valley, landing on the stone fence, and both Tóti and Agnes saw Margrét’s head bob up from behind it. ‘Nuisances!’ she cried. A clod of dirt flew over the wall and the birds took off, cawing indignantly. Tóti looked at Agnes and smiled, but Agnes was stony-faced.
‘They won’t like that,’ she murmured to herself.
‘Well,’ Tóti said, taking a deep breath. ‘If you require a spiritual advisor, then I will consider it my duty to visit you. As District Commissioner Bl?ndal so desires, I will come to guide you in your prayers, so that you may walk towards what lies ahead of you with faith and dignity. I will take it as my responsibility to supply you with spiritual comfort and hope.’
Tóti fell silent. He had rehearsed this speech as he rode to the farm, and he was pleased that he’d managed to remember to say ‘spiritual comfort’. It sounded paternalistic, and self-assured, as though he was in a lofty state of spiritual certainty: a state he felt he should be in, but had a vague, discomfiting sense that he was not.
Still, he wasn’t used to talking so formally, and his hands sweated against the tissue-thin paper of the Testament. He carefully closed the book, making sure not to crease any pages, and wiped his palms on his thighs. Now would be a good time to quote scripture, as his father was wont to do, but all he could think of was his sudden yearning for his snuff horn.
‘Perhaps I have made a mistake, Reverend.’ Agnes’s voice was measured, calm.
Tóti didn’t know what to say. He looked at the bruises on her face and bit his lip.
‘Perhaps it will be better if you stay at Breidabólstadur. I thank you but . . . Do you really think . . . ?’ She covered her mouth with her hands and shook her head.
‘My dear child, don’t cry!’ he exclaimed, rising from the turf.
Agnes took her hands away. ‘I’m not crying,’ she said, flatly. ‘I have made a mistake. You call me a child, Reverend Thorvardur, but you’re little more than a child yourself. I’d forgotten how young you are.’
Tóti had no response for this. He regarded her for a moment, then nodded grimly and swiftly replaced his hat on his head. He bid her a good day.
Agnes watched him walk past the stone fence to farewell Margrét and the girls. The pastor and women stood together for a few minutes, chatting and looking over at her. Agnes tried to hear what they were saying, but the wind had picked up and it was blowing their words away from her. Only when Tóti raised his hat to Margrét and began to walk to the hitching post to retrieve his cob did Agnes hear Margrét call out: ‘Easier to squeeze blood from a stone, I should think!’