A large, unshaven farmer appeared at the door.
‘Blessue. 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 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.’