And Christ (my still heart knows it)
Will bear me through the strife.
Thus in Christ’s name I’m living;
Thus in Christ’s name I’ll die;
I’ll fear not though life’s vigour,
From Death’s cold shadow fly.
O Grave, where is thy triumph?
O Death, where is thy sting?
‘Come when thou wilt, and welcome!’
Secure in Christ I sing.
ON THE SIXTH DAY OF January, a sharp rapping on the cottage door woke Tóti. He opened one eye and saw the weak light in the room: he had slept late. The knocking continued. Reluctantly, he dragged his stockinged feet to the floor and got out of bed, wrapping his blankets about him to ward off the sharp bite of cold. His legs trembled, he walked to the front door, one hand against the wall to steady himself.
The visitor was a messenger from Hvammur, blowing on his hands and stamping his boots in the frigid morning air. He nodded and handed Tóti a small folded letter. It was marked with the red seal of Bl?ndal, looking like a drop of blood against the pale paper.
‘Assistant Reverend Thorvardur Jónsson?’
‘Yes.’
The man’s nose was pink from cold. ‘Sorry about the delay. The weather has been so bad, I haven’t been able to come any sooner.’
Tóti wearily invited the man in for a cup of coffee, but the servant looked out towards the northern pass anxiously. ‘If you don’t mind, Reverend, I’ll be on my way again. There’s more snow coming and I don’t have a mind to get caught in it.’
Tóti heaved the door to and staggered into the kitchen to stir up the coals. Where was his father? He set a kettle of water upon the hearth to bring to the boil, and slowly dragged a stool over to the fire. After the dizziness had passed, he broke the seal and opened the letter.
Tóti read the letter three times, then let it rest on his knee as he stared at the fire. It could not be happening. Not like this. Not with so much unsaid and undone, and him not even by her side. He suddenly rose, the blankets slipping off his shoulders, and walked unsteadily into the badstofa. He was opening his trunk, pulling out clothes and dressing, and stuffing a few more into a sack, when his father came in to the croft.
‘Tóti? What has happened? Why are you dressing? You’re not yet recovered.’
Tóti let the lid of his trunk slam shut and shook his head. ‘It’s Agnes. She is to be killed in six days’ time. I only received the letter now.’ He fell onto his bed and tried to force his foot into a boot.
‘You’re not fit to go.’
‘It is too sudden, Father. I’ve failed her.’
The old man sat down alongside his son. ‘You’re not well enough,’ he said sternly. ‘The cold will kill you. It’s snowing outside.’
Tóti’s head pounded. ‘I have to get to Kornsá. If I leave now I might miss the storm.’
Reverend Jón placed a heavy hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘Tóti, you can hardly dress yourself. Do not kill yourself for the sake of this murderess.’
Tóti glared at his father, his eyes lit with anger. ‘And what of the Son of God? Did He die only for the righteous?’
‘You are not the Son of God. If you go you will kill yourself.’
‘I’m leaving.’
‘I forbid it.’
‘It is God’s will.’
The old Reverend shook his head. ‘It is suicide. It is against God.’
Tóti stood unsteadily and looked down at his father. ‘God will forgive me.’
The church was bitterly cold. Tóti lurched towards the altar and collapsed onto his knees. He was aware of his hands trembling, his skin burning under the layers of clothes. The ceiling swam above him.
‘Lord God . . .’ His voice cracked. ‘Pity her,’ he continued. ‘Pity us all.’