Free Burial Rites by Hannah Kent Page A

heard she plunged the knife into his eye socket . Pierced it like an egg yolk!’ Róslín grasped Margrét tightly on the shoulder. ‘If I were you I wouldn’t sleep a wink with her in the same room! I’d rather sleep in the cowshed than risk it. Oh, Margrét, I can’t believe the rumours are true! Murderers on our doorsteps! This parish has gone to the dogs. Worse than the things you hear about Reykjavík. And her , just now, standing in the very spot where my daughters play. It gives methe shivers. See, look at my arms – I am covered in gooseflesh! My poor Margrét, however shall you cope?’
    ‘I’ll manage,’ Margrét said briskly, bending down to pick up the plate of rye bread.
    ‘But will you? And where is Jón to protect you?’
    ‘At Hvammur, with Blöndal. Like I said.’
    ‘Margrét!’ Róslín threw her hands into the air. ‘It is wickedness for Blöndal to have you and the girls alone with this woman! I tell you what, I shall stay with you.’
    ‘You will do no such thing, Róslín,’ Margrét said firmly, ‘but thank you for your concern. Now, I hate to set you on your way, but the sheep will not milk themselves.’
    ‘Shall I help you?’ Róslín asked. ‘Here, let me take that bread and carry it inside for you.’
    ‘Goodbye, Róslín.’
    ‘Perhaps if I were to see her, I could gauge your danger. Our danger! What’s to stop her from sneaking about at night?’
    Margrét took Róslín by the elbow and turned her in the direction she had come from. ‘Thank you for your visit, Róslín, and thank you for the rye bread. Watch your step, there.’
    ‘But –’
    ‘Goodbye, Róslín.’
    Róslín cast a backward glance towards the croft, then attempted a smile and trudged heavily back down the slope towards Gilsstadir. Her little girls tottered after her. Margrét stood, gripping the plate of rye bread in front of her, and watched them leave, until they were nothing more than specks in the distance, then she squatted and coughed until her tongue was slippery. She spat wetly upon the grass. Then she slowly stood up, turned and walked back towards the croft.

    WHEN I COME INTO THE badstofa I see that the officer who was sleeping is gone. He must have joined his friends; I can hear men talking in a mixture of Danish and Icelandic outside the window. They must not have seen the farm mistress push me back inside. The two sleeping daughters have gone also. I’m alone.
    I am alone .
    There is no watchful eye, no guard at the door, no rope, no fetters, no locks, and I am all by myself, unbound. I am paralysed by the thought of it. Surely someone has an eye to a keyhole? Surely someone has pressed his body to a crack in the wall, is waiting to see what I will do, waiting to storm the room with a finger pointing like a knife at my throat.
    But there is no one. Not a soul .
    I stand in the centre of the room, and let my eyes adjust to the gloom. Yes, I am quite alone, and a tremble of exhilaration passes along my skin, like the tremor on the surface of a pot of water about to boil. In this minute I can do anything: I can examine the cottage, or lie down, or talk aloud, or sing. I can dance, or swear, or laugh and no one will know.
    I could escape.
    A bubble of fear passes up my spine. It’s the feeling of standing on ice and suddenly hearing it crack under your weight – both thrilling and terrifying together. At Stóra-Borg I dreamt of escape. Of finding the key to my fetters and fleeing – I never thought of where I might go. There was never a chance. Yet here, now, I could slip out of the yard and run down the far end of the valley, away from the farms, to wait and escape under night into the highlands, where the sky will cover me with her rough, grey hand. I could flee to the heath. Show them that they cannot keep me locked up, that I am a thief of time and will steal the hours denied to me!
    Specks of dust drift in the sunlight coming through the dried membrane fastened to the window. As I