‘Jón Bjarnason? And what would be the good of that?’
‘To get the truth out of him, I suppose,’ Tóti suggested. He was feeling disappointed with the conversation.
‘No such thing as truth,’ Agnes said, standing up.
Tóti stood up also and began rubbing the seat of his pants. ‘There is truth in God,’ he said, earnestly, recognising an opportunity to do his spiritual duty. ‘John, chapter eight, verse thirty-two: “And ye . . . ”’
‘Shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free. Yes, I know. I know,’ Agnes said. She bundled her knitting things together and began to walk back down to the farm. ‘Not in my case, Reverend Thorvardur,’ she called to him. ‘I’ve told the truth and you can see for yourself how it has served me.’
IT WON’T BE ANY GOOD for the Reverend to read ministerial books, or any book for that matter – what will he learn of me there? Only the things other men think important about me.
When the Reverend saw my name and birth in the church book, did he see only the writing and understand only the date? Or did he see the fog of that day, and hear the ravens cawing at the smell of blood? Did he imagine it as I have imagined it? My mother, weeping, holding me against the clammy warmth of her skin. Avoiding the looks of the Flaga women she worked for, knowing already that she’d have to leave and try to find work elsewhere. Knowing no farmer would hire a servant woman with a newborn.
If he wants to learn of my family he’ll have a hard time of it. Two fathers and a mother who seem as blurry to me as strangers departing through a snowstorm. I have few clear memories of her. One is the day she left me. Another is when I was young, watching her in the lamplight of a winter night. It’s a silent memory, and one, like the others, I can’t quite trust. Memories shift like loose snow in a wind, or are a chorale of ghosts all talking over one another. There is only ever a sense that what is real to me is not real to others, and to share a memory with someone is to risk sullying my belief in what has truly happened. Is the Reverend the person of my memory, or is he another altogether? Did I do that, or was it another? Magnús or Jón? It’s the glaze of ice over the water, too fragile to trust.
Did my mother look down at her baby daughter and think: ‘One day I will leave you’? Did she look at my scrunched face, hoping I would die, or did she silently urge me to stick to life like a burr? Perhaps she looked out to the valley, into the mist and stillness, and wondered what she could give me. A lie for a father. A head of dark hair. A hayrack to sleep in. A kiss. A stone, so that I might learn to understand the birds and never be lonely.
CHAPTER FIVE
Poet-Rósa’s poem to Agnes Magnúsdóttir,
June 1828
Undrast tarftu ei, baugabrú
tó beiskrar kennir tínu:
Hefir burtu hrífsae tú
helft af lífi mínu.
Don’t be surprised by the sorrow in my eyes
nor at the bitter pangs of pain that I feel:
For you have stolen with your scheming
he who gave my life meaning,
and thrown your life to the Devil to deal.
Agnes Magnúsdóttir’s reply to Rósa,
June 1828
Er mín klára ósk til tín,
angurs tárum bundin:
Yfeu ei sárin sollin mín,
solar báru hrundin.
Sorg ei minnar sálar here!
Seka Drottin náear,
af tví Jésus eitt fyrir vere
okkur keypti báear.
This is my only wish to you,
bound in anger and grief:
Do not scratch my bleeding wounds,
I’m full of disbelief.
My soul is filled with sorrow!
I seek grace from the Lord.
Remember, Jesus bought us both
and for the same accord.
‘HOW IS IT TO HAVE her here, in this same room as you? I should find it difficult to sleep,’ said Ingibj?rg Pétursdóttir.