Paradise Reclaimed (11 page)

15

A baby in spring

In spring no letter arrived, no message, no news at all. The mailboat Diana had come and gone, they heard. The folk at Hlíðar waited and hoped right until summer that perhaps there would come at last a crumpled piece of paper that had been soiled by many a grubby pair of hands, just like last autumn, but nothing came. Not even a single lamb came out of the ewes, as they did on other farms; and not much food either. The cow that Björn of Leirur sent could only just keep them in milk, and things would have gone worse for them if a barrel of rye-meal and a box of sugar had not arrived from an unknown source to eke out their larder.

Their land had been completely stripped of turf by the visit of the ponies the previous autumn, but the hayfield was worst of all; no one thought for a moment that it would take a scythe that summer. It was also terrible to see how much rubble had crashed down into the field that winter. How this trim little farm which had always shone so sprucely by the main track with its immortal dry-stone dykes had deteriorated since the previous summer!

The people on the farm felt jaded, but that was nothing very unusual out in the country in spring. Steina in particular complained of distension of the belly, with shooting pains above and below the waist.

“It surely can’t be a blood clot?” said her mother.

And when the discomfort had passed, she said, “I think it must just have been growing pains.”

One day the girl took to her bed, screaming with pain.

“What if I put a cold compress on it?” said her mother.

When the cold compress had no effect on the girl’s illness, her mother said, “Should we not try a hot compress?”

That night the girl could not bear the agony any longer, and her mother sent the boy off on borrowed ponies west over the river to fetch the doctor. It was a journey of many hours.

Next morning, when the sun was already high, the boy arrived back with the doctor. By then the girl had been delivered of a baby boy; her mother had cut the cord. The doctor was furious and asked what he had done to deserve humiliation and mockery in these parts.

“How on earth were we to imagine anything like this?” said the mother.

“Well, what does the girl say?” asked the doctor.

“How am I to know?” she said. “It was my death I was expecting, not that thing.”

“You probably know where you’ve been, little girl,” said the doctor.

“I haven’t been anywhere except here,” said the girl.

“Praise be to God, He has once again proved His omnipotence just when everyone was losing faith, and no lambs came,” said the woman.

“You don’t need to make any excuses for my sake over this,” said the doctor. “You can have all the babies you like. But I’m just not a bloody midwife.”

“Truly a miracle has happened here,” said the woman. “May I not offer the gentleman a cup of coffee?”

After the doctor came the pastor, but not until Steina was up and about again. He had his big book with him. He too was offered coffee.

He replied, “The poor pastor has never been offered so much as a bite since coffee was discovered. This is my thirty-seventh cup today. I shall soon have to give everything up because of my stomach, just like all other pastors. But perhaps I can scribble down what has happened here before I die.”

“There’s nothing more than what the pastor sees,” said the woman: “the farmer’s disappeared, and no one knows whether he is alive or dead.”

The pastor put on his spectacles, fished an ink-horn out of his coat pocket, and opened his book.

“Brevity is all that matters here,” he said. “Steinar Steinsson, unchanged, except that he went abroad late last summer to see the king. Rumour has it that he has met the polygamist and immerser Þjóðrekur, from the Vestmannaeyjar. Ahem, dear lady; he will show up again if he is not dead. What else?”

“Then there are the children, and me,” said the woman.

“Yes, I have a note of everyone I have baptized and confirmed,” said the pastor. “Anything else?”

“Nothing except what happened,” said the woman. “A baby was born here.”

“Ahem,” said the pastor. “Eh? Did everything not go as it should, or what?”

“We haven’t been able to find any explanation for it yet,” said the woman.

The girl was now fetched, and the pastor talked to her in private in the spare-room.

“How long is it since we were tussling over Christianity, little one?” he asked. He was referring to her confirmation; and when she had answered this, the pastor said that many a girl had been made a woman at an earlier age than that. “And I hear the baby is doing well?”

“Indeed he is,” said the girl. “And thank you for asking.”

“And the father?” asked the pastor.

“I don’t know,” said the girl. “It just arrived.”

“Ahem,” said the pastor. “Eh?”

“My mother is always saying that there has to be a father,” said the girl. “I just don’t understand that. What for?”

“It looks better in the parish register,” said the pastor. “What did you get landed in, little one?”

“I didn’t get landed in anything,” said the girl. “I’ve no idea what I should have got landed in.”

“Oh, one doesn’t need to take much off for that,” said the pastor.

“I’ve never taken anything off,” said the girl.

“By the way, were there not a few horses here last autumn?” asked the pastor.

“There certainly were.”

“They are often jolly fellows, these drovers,” said the pastor. “Eh?”

“They didn’t amuse me,” said the girl.

“It has happened before in these parts that a girl has been helping a visitor off with his things late at night, well now, and what happens? She pulls one way and he pulls the other, if you please. He pulls so hard that before she knows it, she is in bed with him.”

“I’ve never heard that before,” said the girl. “What happened then?”

“A baby arrived next spring,” said the pastor. “I have it in my book here somewhere.”

“I didn’t get into bed with anyone,” said the girl. “My brother and I were told to go out to sleep on saddle-turves in the shed.”

“The blessed child must have come into existence somehow,” said the pastor.

“That may well be,” said the girl. “But not by any human agency.”

“Well I’ll be damned!” said the pastor. “Did no one help the poor wretches off with their things when they arrived dripping wet with water?”

“I sometimes helped old Björn here in the spare-room at night,” said the girl.

“Björn of Leirur?” said the pastor. “It could have been less, I suppose.”

He pulled the stopper from the ink-horn and made ready to dip his pen.

“Well, shall we not just write the old fellow down and be done with it?” he said.

“The pastor decides what he writes, I’m not writing it,” said the girl.

“You must know how babies are made, my little chicken?” said the pastor.

“Oh, I was never confirmed for knowing that,” said the girl. “The first thing I knew, something had started to grow inside me. We all thought I was growing so fat from drinking fish-oil from the tub. And then suddenly a baby arrived.”

The pastor had laid down his pen.

“Someone said there were gold coins sometimes,” he said. “Eh?”

“Good Heavens above!” said the girl. “I would never have thought that story had spread so far. It’s quite true, I was given a gold coin last autumn. I then gave it away to the boy I thought so good-looking when I was little. I gave him the silver coins too. I gave him everything except the copper.”

“So there was copper too?” said the pastor. “That was not so good.”

“I never asked Björn of Leirur for anything,” she said.

“Those who give copper are not good people,” said the pastor. “Not to girls. Some say Björn of Leirur is a brute.”

“That’s not what I said,” the girl replied. “I wouldn’t dream of starting to speak ill of people.”

“A nice chap?” asked the pastor.

“He smells absolutely wonderful,” said the girl. “And clean hands. Very soft hands, too, come to that, for a man.”

“Quite so,” said the pastor. “Eh? Were you laughing, little one?”

“A fool often laughs at his own thoughts,” said the girl. “He just had to touch me and no more with his fingertips at night, and I fell fast asleep—that’s what I was laughing about. I was as safe with him as with my daddy.”

“Asleep, yes. Exactly,” said the pastor. “Eh?”

“I sometimes threw myself down at the foot of his bed when it was so late that there was no point in going out to the shed to sleep,” said the girl. “I know that one shouldn’t talk about such things. But I just wanted to say that old Björn isn’t a brute or unpleasant, far from it.”

“Did you notice at all where he touched you?” asked the pastor.

“No, I certainly didn’t,” said the girl. “Did I not tell you I had fallen asleep?”

“Would it have been above or below the diaphragm?”

“Diaphragm?” said the girl, quite baffled. “I haven’t the slightest idea where the diaphragm is, even. I never bother my head about people’s insides.”

“Yes, one has to watch out for these fellows even though they may not be Mormons,” said the pastor. “Take care not to become a Mormon woman, my child.”

“If Daddy is a Mormon,” said the girl, “then I want to be a Mormon woman.”

16

The authorities,
the clergy, and the soul

A few days after the aforementioned visitation, a letter arrived from the sheriff: in view of rumours concerning the paternity of the child born to Steinbjörg Steinarsdóttir of Hlíðar, and her own unclear answers to the parish pastor’s questions, an inquiry into the whole case was requested. The girl was therefore required to present herself at Hof on such and such a day.

It has always been considered rather beggarly to travel on foot in Iceland; but the folk at Hlíðar had no choice now, for the ponies were in mediocre condition, if that, and had scarcely recovered from the winter. The birds circled the girl’s head as she walked. She took off her socks and hitched up her skirt and waded across the cold mountain-streams. It was an enjoyable journey at the height of spring. She could feel the smell of the sea and the land at one and the same time. But when she reached the Jökulfljót (Glacier River) she had to go by ferry.

Because she had been walking since early that morning and it was now nearly noon, there was so much milk in her breasts by this time that she saw no alternative but to ask the housewife at Ferjukot to have a word with her in private. The woman asked where she came from and who her people were, and then led her into the pantry.

“Is there any news out your way in Steinahlíðar?” asked the woman.

“Nothing particular that I know of,” said the girl. “Everyone hale and healthy. But there have been a lot of stones down off the mountain this winter.”

“What a shame,” said the woman. “But have the livestock done all right?”

“My goodness, yes,” said the girl. “No question about that. Although there aren’t very many lambs at Hlíðar this spring. And the horses didn’t come through the winter all that well—I’d have been riding today otherwise. There was a time, once, when we had a good horse. But excuse me, is there anything new in your part of the world?”

“Nothing to speak of,” said the woman. “Except for a fellow who forded the river today with seventeen horses.”

“That can only have been Björn of Leirur,” said the girl, and laughed.

“So you’re on your way across too?” said the woman.

“Oh, they were writing me some letter or other,” said the girl. “I think they’re all going round the bend.”

“Men are always the same,” said the woman. “And now I’ll just put this cloth on you again. I think that’s all there is for the time being.” And she showed the girl how much there was in the bowl.

“A thousand thanks for your help,” said the girl, and was grateful that the woman had not started asking why such a little girl had so much milk in her breasts.

Then the woman said, “Aren’t you hungry and thirsty? Can I not offer you a little refreshment?”

“Thanks all the same,” said the girl, “but I haven’t time to sit down. And now I feel so much lighter. Goodbye and thank you again, and think kindly of me.”

“The same to you, my dear,” said the woman, and kissed the girl out on the paving. “Just go straight on. My husband’s down on the bank with the ferry.”

“Your field’s becoming really lovely,” said the girl. “I only hope I don’t tread on the buttercups.”

“Thank you,” said the woman. “May God be with you.”

The girl walked straight across the field, taking care not to tread on the buttercups.

Then the woman called out after her. She was standing in the doorway and her voice was now dry and harsh as if she were a different person altogether; she even knew the girl’s name although she had not asked for it, and now she used it.

“Little Steinbjörg,” she said sternly.

The girl stopped in her tracks and looked round. “Were you calling me?”

Then the woman said, “Make the old devil pay. It would serve him right. You girls shouldn’t put up with these good-fornothings he buys you for husbands.”

On the far bank of the river stood a young man with two ponies. He was waiting. The girl walked towards him when she stepped off the ferry. He had dismounted and was standing leaning against the neck of his pony, which was a little restless. He watched her gait as she approached him. It was Jóhann of Drangar. He greeted her while she was still some distance away.

“Hullo,” she said. “What a very polite good morning you give nowadays. From miles away, even. How did you learn to say good morning so nicely?”

“It’s all coming on, gradually,” he said.

“Are you waiting for something?” she asked.

“For you,” he said.

“How did you know I was coming?” she said.

“I know that you’re to be questioned,” he said. “I’ve been interrogated already.”

“You should have lent me one of your horses since we were going the same way.”

“I’m clearing off now,” he said. “And anyway I haven’t got another saddle.”

“I’m pretty used to riding bareback,” she said.

“You never let me have a ride on the white horse the other year,” he said.

She looked at him wordlessly, her face flushing, and then lowered her eyes. Then she went off on her way again.

“I was talking to you,” he called out after her.

“I thought we had done all the talking there was to do, this winter,” she said.

“I was going to tell you that Björn of Leirur has fixed everything up with me,” he said. “The minute the sheriff starts asking, then hurry up and say it was me.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was me who gave you the baby,” he said. “Then there will be no more questions. We’ll get married.”

“I think you must be out of your mind,” said the girl. “I’ve never heard anything like it in my whole life.”

“You just say that I met you once in the pantry when you were churning,” he said, “and I put you down on the butter-tub. I suppose you realise that it needs a man to start a baby.”

“I don’t understand men,” said the girl. “If you are a man, that’s to say.”

“You ought to be far enough advanced to know how animals breed.”

“Do you think I’m some sort of animal?” said the girl. “Do you think I’m a cow?”

“The pastor insists on a father for the child; and when the sheriff asks, you only need to say that I pushed your skirt up over your knees a little,” said the boy.

“If the sheriff asks,” said the girl, “then I’ll tell him what I think is true. Anything else I cannot do, will not do, and don’t know how to do.”

“Don’t you understand that we have been offered money?” he shouted after her. “And land?”

“I certainly haven’t,” said the girl.

“Don’t you understand that both of our futures for the rest of our lives depend on this?”

“I have no desire for a bought good-for-nothing,” said the girl.

He mounted his pony brusquely and shouted after her, “You’d rather sleep with old Björn for a Króna!”

At that she halted, turned round, and asked: “Who got that Króna?”

He dug his heels into his pony and rode away.

The sheriff was lying on a sofa in his shirt-sleeves, reading a thriller and smoking a pipe. The girl was taken up to his room by the back stairs, but on the way she was given a plate of porridge in the kitchen. The sheriff puffed away at his pipe. It was like a haystack on fire. He began to laugh aloud at what he was reading. Finally he caught sight of the girl.

“What do you want?” he said, getting to his feet

“I got a message to come,” she said. “About a baby.”

“Oh, so it’s you, you poor little soul,” said the sheriff and began to inspect her and feel her. “It’s awful to see how young you are. What a bloody old scoundrel he is, that fellow. People like him should be fleeced and put on the parish. But the way things are, my lamb, it’s the lesser of two evils to let yourself get hitched with that boy I was examining here this morning; even though he isn’t up to much. It’s no fun for any woman to get landed with one of Björn’s illegitimate children. But tell me, what the devil draws you all into that old rascal’s bed? I never manage to get myself a wench, and I certainly don’t consider myself less of a man than old Björn. I just have to be content with sleeping with the sheriff’s wife, thank you.”

The girl was quite nonplussed; and besides, she was frightened of the sheriff.

“Do you hear what I’m saying?” said the sheriff. “I’m saying that if the clergy start insisting on a formal court hearing over this, which would be just like Pastor Jón, for he’s a cussed sort of fellow, then remember that I’m trying to help you. Whatever I ask, you don’t utter a cheep except for the one thing, that it was that young devil—what was his name again?—it was he who came to you in the outhouse, or was it in the byre. . . .”

“It wasn’t in the pantry either,” said the girl.

The sheriff was taken aback at this, and echoed the girl’s reply in surprise: “Not in the pantry either? Well, where then? Anyway—he spread you on a box.”

“Am I some sort of animal?” said the girl, and looked up at the sheriff with innocent eyes. “Or perhaps some dead thing that can be spread on a box?”

But now the sheriff had had enough. His patience was at an end. He stamped on the floor.

“What’s all this damned impertinence?” he said. “What’s the point of having authorities for such people? Do you take me for some sort of freak who pronounces virgin births here before God and the king? People who behave like this should be flogged. I’m not listening to any more nonsense; you’ll do as I tell you, my girl.”

Later that day the girl was brought into the court-room. The sheriff was sitting there dressed now in his official blue uniform with gold buttons and gold-braided cap. The recorder with the book was also there. Pastor Jón sat by himself at a window gazing out at the home-field where his horses were grazing. No one looked at the girl as she sidled in through the door with palpitations in her eyes. The sheriff told the man to bring the records book over; he preferred to have it lying in front of him. Some papers fell out when he opened it. He whistled tonelessly. Absently, and without looking up, he began to mumble something to the effect that according to a written deposition from the undersigned parish pastor, of such and such a date, etc., hmmm, there had been unclear answers about the paternity of the child born to Steinbjörg Steinarsdóttir, of Hlíðar in Steinahlíðar, on the part of the said girl to the aforementioned parish pastor. “Oh, I’m not going to read out all this rigmarole; as far as I can see the whole case is settled. Here lies a signed declaration by Jóhann Geirason, of Drangar, in which he confirms that he is the father of the child and offers to swear it on oath. . . .”

“Hmm?” asked the pastor.

“What’s that?” said the sheriff sharply.

“I am only an ignorant clergyman, of course,” said the pastor. “And that is probably why I have never heard that a male person can swear paternity on oath.”

“What, then?” asked the sheriff.

“That he can, in certain circumstances, deny paternity on oath,” said the pastor.

“Swear what you like, my good man,” said the sheriff. “I’ll have your horses saddled for you at once. I don’t give a damn what you think or what side you are on.”

He glanced formally down at the records book again: “I submit this document to you officially as a basis for lawful registration in the paternity case under discussion. And now I see no reason why anyone should ever again be bothered with any more twaddle about this affair within my jurisdiction.”

Now there was silence in the court-room. It was one of those rare silences that are most reminiscent of the silences in
Njall’s
Saga.
The flies on the window-panes had fallen to the sill. Finally a sort of interrogatory
hmmm?
escaped from the pastor; and this
hmmm?
was directed at the girl.

“I don’t know,” said the girl.

“What don’t you know?” asked the sheriff.

Eventually the girl replied, with a gasp, “I don’t know how babies happen.”

The others looked at one another dumbfounded. Finally the pastor popped a quid of tobacco into his mouth.

“This matter is not on the agenda,” said the sheriff. “We are not here to investigate natural history. This particular baby has demonstrably been born, and its paternity established. That is all there is to it.”

“Ahem,” said the pastor. “Eh? Am I not right in thinking that I heard you mention someone else’s name the other day, little one?”

“The case is closed as far as I am concerned,” said the sheriff. “I shall have your horses saddled.”

The pastor went on doggedly:

“Might I just ask one small question before we set off?” he said. “Tell me, my dear: the boy who signed his name to that document there—when did he lie with you?”

“Never,” said the girl.

“Just so,” said the pastor. “Exactly. Then perhaps I might ask the sheriff to let the horses graze for a minute or two yet. May I draw the sheriff’s attention to the fact that the girl does not acknowledge the undersigned person as the father of her child?”

“No wonder,” said the sheriff. “She doesn’t understand you. Your speech is too archaic. I don’t understand you either, mercifully. It is pointless trying to stir up trouble here by asking questions in saga-language.”

Then the pastor asked, “When did you sleep with the boy from Drangar, my dear?”

“Never,” said the girl.

“But a little with Björn of Leirur, I believe?”

“I told Pastor Jón the whole story the other day,” said the girl.

“Excuse me,” said the pastor, “but does the sheriff think it important that children be given the proper father?”

“I don’t give a damn,” said the sheriff. “No one has complained.”

“Does the sheriff deny the necessity for the cure of souls in Iceland?” asked the pastor.

“I don’t see how the way people mate concerns religion at all,” said the sheriff. “What does it matter to Jesus how mammals breed? But the clergy have their own taste, of course. Theology is welcome to site the soul in people’s genitals for all I care.”

“And I suppose it is no concern of the sheriff’s if a child is made a changeling, nothing more nor less, right from its birth, so that this individual will never be able to prove who he or she is? Not to mention the fact that such a thing should be done before the very eyes of the pastor, who is nevertheless appointed to act according to his conscience and the laws of the land!”