‘Reverend!’ Jón darted forward to help them.
‘No!’ The word came out as a scream. Tóti stared up at the circle of men standing over them. Agnes clutched at his arm. ‘No,’ he said again. ‘Please let me lift her. I need to lift her.’
The men stood back as he crawled onto his knees, then slowly pushed himself upwards. He stumbled, then righted himself, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath until he wasn’t so light-headed. Do not falter, he told himself. He bent down and offered his hand to Agnes. ‘Take it,’ he said. ‘Take my hand.’
Agnes opened her eyes and grasped it, her nails gripping his skin. ‘Don’t let go,’ she whimpered. ‘Don’t let go of me.’
‘I won’t let go of you, Agnes. I’m right here.’
Clenching his teeth, he hauled her out of the snow, wrapping her arm about his neck to lift her higher. ‘There you go,’ he said gently, holding her fast about the waist. He ignored the smell of shit. ‘I’ve got you.’
Around them the farmers of the District started walking towards the three hills that stood together in a clump. Already over forty men stood around the middle hill, all dressed in black. They look like birds of prey surrounding their kill, Tóti thought.
‘Do we have to go with them?’ Agnes asked, her voice cracking.
‘No, Agnes.’ Tóti reached over and brushed her hair out of her eyes with his free hand. ‘No, we have to walk just a little way, and then wait. Fridrik is walking out first.’
Agnes nodded, and clung to Tóti as he slowly stumbled through the drifts to a tussock, lifting her as best as he could. Breathing heavily, he gently lowered her onto the snowy ground and sank down next to her. Jón squatted beside them and picked up the flask that had slipped from his gloved hand. Tóti watched as the older man took a quick sip and winced.
The minutes staggered past. Tóti tried to ignore the deadening needles of cold that wormed into his bones. He held Agnes’s hands in his own, her head was on his shoulder.
‘Why don’t we pray, Agnes?’
The woman opened her eyes and stared into the distance. ‘I can hear singing.’
Tóti turned his face to where the sound was coming from. He recognised the burial hymn, ‘Just like the flower’. Agnes was listening intently, shivering on the ground.
‘Let’s listen together then,’ he whispered. He put his arm about her as the verses lifted over the snowy field and fell about them like a mist.
On Tóti’s left, Jón was bent on his knees, his hands clasped before him, his lips muttering the Lord’s Prayer. ‘Dear Lord, forgive us all our trespasses.’ Tóti gripped Agnes’s hand more tightly, and she gave a small gasp.
‘Tóti,’ she said in a panicked voice. ‘Tóti, I don’t think I’m ready. I don’t think they can do it. Can you make them wait? They have to wait.’
Tóti pulled Agnes closer to him and squeezed her hand.
‘I won’t let go of you. God is all around us, Agnes. I won’t ever let go.’
The woman looked up into the blank sky. The sudden sound of the first axe fall echoed throughout the valley.
EPILOGUE