It was Thóra’s turn. She stepped up to the open grave. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” she murmured, sprinkling earth over the little coffin. She made the sign of the cross into the empty air above the polished veneer of the coffin lid and turned away.
Only a few people had come to the little church and silently followed the coffin out into the churchyard, and now they stood in the drizzle. Thóra had taken Lára’s hand for the short procession. She felt that the old lady appreciated the gesture, and she didn’t let go until Lára walked sadly over to the coffin to pay her last respects to the dead child. Only she and an elderly man among the mourners appeared to be affected by the ceremony. He was a sad sight. It was Magnús Baldvinsson. He had arrived just as the service was beginning, and had quietly taken a seat at the back of the church. In the procession too, he had stayed a few steps behind the others. His hat was clutched tightly in both hands, and whenever Thóra looked at him his eyes were fixed on the ground. She felt sorry for him. She wondered whether she should go over to him, but decided to stay with Lára. She needed her, but Thóra had no idea how Magnús would react if she approached him.
The pastor closed his eyes and began the prayer, and Thóra followed suit. She had a feeling that Kristín would have approved of his choice:
The mourners stumbled their way through “Abide with Me” before leaving, one by one, with the pastor’s blessing. Finally only three remained: Lára, Thóra, and Magnús. He still stood apart, head bowed.
“Come with me,” said Lára quietly. “I’ll make you some coffee.” She put her arm through Thóra’s. “I want to show you the letter. Are you in a hurry?”
“No,” answered Thóra. They walked out of the churchyard, leaving Magnús Baldvinsson standing alone over the remains of his long-dead daughter.
Thóra smiled to herself as she heard a faint cry from the lava field beyond the churchyard. That damned cat, she thought, but then she remembered that she had spotted the ginger tom when she drove past Tunga on her way to the funeral. He could never have made it all this way in such a short time. The crying grew more piteous and Thóra grasped the old lady’s thin, frail arm more firmly. “Could we walk a little faster?” she asked, shivering. “This place gives me the creeps.”