Paradise Reclaimed (6 page)

7

Church-going

Steinar of Hlíðar hoisted his saddle on his back and set off for home. He took the track along the south side of the lake through the wood which has stood there for thousands of years and is unique because it never grows taller than the height of a man, or higher than a man can reach; everything above that is sheared off by the cold. All these stunted trees bent to the will of the wind. Then he followed the paths along the stream that flow out of Þingvallavatn (Lake Þingvellir) towards the lowlands and the main track to his home district. He walked all day and far into the night; it had begun to rain and the ground was wet, giving off a wonderful aroma. Midsummer was past, the two months when night did not exist; but one could scarcely call the nights dark yet. An occasional farm-dog gave tongue as he passed. He came to a meadow full of haycocks, where he put the saddle down for a pillow, spread hay over himself, and munched half a rye-scone that tasted utterly delicious, even though it was as tough as a saddle-flap. It was the last of his provisions. Before he fell asleep he recited to himself:

Wet and weary down I lay,
Far too tired to wander;
Saddle down among the hay
In the meadow yonder.

Next morning he called at a farm. The farmer was already up, and he asked the visitor if he were a Mormon. Steinar of Hlíðar said he was not—“unfortunately not, I almost said,” he added. “I come from Steinahlíðar, farther east.”

“Well, if you say you’re not a Mormon, you aren’t one,” said the farmer. “I’ve never heard of a Mormon who didn’t acknowledge he was one before being asked, even though he knew it would cost him a beating.”

“We are all inclined to take pride in our heresies,” said Steinar. “I in mine, you in yours. By the way, could I ask you for something to drink?”

“Girls!” the farmer shouted into the house. “Give this man here a drink of whey. And a bit of cod’s head.”

Soon the sun shone from a clear sky. By the afternoon one could see mirages. The sea rose trembling into the sky. The Vestmannaeyjar had floated up to heaven.

Steinar of Hlíðar had almost forgotten that it was Sunday, until a crowd of churchgoers rode past him. Someone said he had a fine saddle there.

“Indeed I have,” said Steinar. “And a riding-crop, what’s more. But the bridle I have mislaid.”

They offered him a pony, but he preferred to walk. The farmers said that this was unlike folk from Steinahlíðar.

“That’s quite right, good people,” said Steinar. “This is just a little fellow passing through—so little, in fact, that he cannot become any smaller by not being on horseback.”

Steinar reached the church on foot much later than the others; when he arrived at this unfamiliar place of worship, everyone had already gone inside for the service. Outside, there was that peculiar sense of human withdrawal that pervades a parish-of-ease every Sunday between noon and three in the afternoon. A few ponies stood drowsing in the corral; but the dogs sprawled around at the lich-gate or the church-porch and howled at the Vestmannaeyjar because they had floated up to heaven. There was not a human being within sight. The glad sound of singing could be heard from inside the church. Steinar was pleased when he realised that he had arrived in time for the second benediction.

But as he followed the path up from the farmhouse to the church he caught sight of three old tethering-blocks standing in a field; they were no longer in use, because either the farm had been shifted or else the church had. When he looked more closely at the boulders, however, he saw that some large and untidy bundle had been tethered to the middle block. He went over to see what it could be, and found that it was a man.

“Well I never,” said Steinar.

This man had been gagged and bound and the rope made fast to the iron staple in the boulder. Steinar went up to him and contemplated the state he was in.

“Can I be right? It’s surely not the Mormon, is it?” he said.

The prisoner was hatless and his mop of hair stuck out in all directions. In daylight his colour was reddish-brown, like a tanned hide, and the gag made his face look distorted. Steinar of Hlíðar at once set about removing the gag, which turned out to be a round stone picked from the mud. The man spat a few times when he had got rid of it; there was some dirt in his mouth, and his gum was bleeding slightly. The two men greeted one another.

“You have had a bit of a roughing up,” said Steinar of Hlíðar, and went on untying the rope.

“Oh, I’ve known worse,” said the Mormon, and reached into his pocket for his spectacle case. “I’m lucky they did not break my glasses.”

“What a way to treat a stranger,” said Steinar of Hlíðar. “And these are supposed to be Christians!”

“Am I muddy at all?” asked the Mormon.

Steinar coiled the rope up carefully like the tidy man he was, and laid it on the tethering-block. Then he brushed the Mormon down a little.

“There is little I can say,” said Steinar. “Criticizing others will not make me any bigger.”

“When have Christians behaved in any other way?” said the Mormon. “They began to fall into the Great Apostasy right from the days of the Primitive Church.”

“Excuse me, but where is your hat?” said Steinar.

“It’s safely hidden away,” said the Mormon. “But it’s very odd that they should never try to take my topboots away, considering how good they are.”

“You must be a fearless sort of man,” said Steinar. “It’s just as well, if you have to put up with injustice.”

“Big dogs are the worst,” said the Mormon. “I’ve always been a bit scared of dogs. I was bitten by a bitch when I was small, actually.”

“Where are you going now, if I may ask?”

“I’m on my way to the Vestmannaeyjar. The people there used to be the worst rogues in Iceland, but now they are the best of the lot. The Latter-Day Saints are given sanctuary there.”

“Did you get hold of the king?” asked Steinar.

“What business is that of yours? Who are you?”

“My name is Steinar Steinsson, from Steinahlíðar. I am the man who was looking for a spot to bed down at Þingvellir the other night.”

“My goodness, hallo there, friend!” said the Mormon, and kissed him. “I had a vague feeling I recognized you. Thanks for the last time. No, I did not meet the king—the Icelanders saw to that, all right. But he sent me his greetings, and said that Joseph Smith was certainly not banned in the Danish kingdom.”

“Are you getting your pamphlets back?” asked Steinar.

“Not from the Icelanders,” said the Mormon. “But one of those gold-braided Danes put my case to the king, who is a decent German. He came back and said that I could have all my stuff back if I cared to go to Copenhagen for it. That’s the Germans all over. And if the Danes have lost them, the king promised that I could have as many pamphlets printed in Copenhagen as I wanted and then take them to Iceland and give them away or sell them just as I wished—it had been unlawful of the Icelanders to take them off me in the first place. I knew that already, for that matter; and also that the Icelanders were a much more insignificant race than the Danes—although the Germans, of course, are much better than both.”

“You are perhaps on your way to Copenhagen now to have the new pamphlets printed?” asked Steinar.

“Books don’t make themselves, my friend,” said the Mormon. “The printing isn’t the whole of it, by any means. It’s a fearful prospect for an uneducated farmhand from the Landeyjar (Land-Isles) to have to start composing books to convert a nation like the Icelanders. The only consolation is that the Lord is Almighty.”

“Indeed He is,” said Steinar of Hlíðar. “And perhaps we are still in time for the second benediction even though it is on the late side now.”

“I have already tried to go to church once today, and I am not trying again,” said the Mormon. “It is unnecessary to get oneself thrown out of chapels like these more than once a day. You go yourself, brother. And give my regards to God. What we humans have to put up with from God is as nothing to what God has to put up with from humans in this country.”

“Farewell then, friend, and may God be with you,” said Steinar of Hlíðar.

But when the Mormon had gone a little way across the field he turned towards Steinar again; he had forgotten to thank him. Steinar had not yet gone into the church, but was picking his way carefully through the dogs at the lich-gate.

“Thanks for setting me free!” shouted the Mormon.

“Hold on a minute,” said Steinar. “I forgot something.”

He picked up his saddle and hoisted it on his back, then walked across the field to the Mormon again. “I think it is rather too late to go to church in any case,” he said. “Perhaps we can keep each other company for a step or two.”

“Hallo again,” said the Mormon.

They walked away from the church together. When they reached the edge of the field the Mormon leaned down and pulled his hat out of a niche in the wall; it was carefully wrapped in grease-proof paper as before. There was also a bundle nearby containing the Mormon’s change of underclothing. He smoothed his hair into place with his hand and placed the hat neatly on his head in the sunshine.

“I forgot to ask you your name,” said Steinar.

“So you did,” said the Mormon. “My name is Bishop Þjóðrekur.”

“Well I never,” said Steinar. “That’s quite a thought. As I was going to say: that’s a great country you come from.”

“Isn’t that just what I was telling you? What of it?”

“I have been thinking about it since that evening at Þingvellir,” said Steinar. “And I am no more likely to forget it after this. Anyone who goes out of his way to get himself beaten up and tethered outside a church because he refuses to recant—there must be something in what he believes. I cannot understand why people in this country should be put off from going over to your country simply because there is immersion there. I think you are probably right in what you say, that according to the Bible there ought to be immersion. Why do the Icelanders not want to go from a bad country to a good country since it costs so little?”

“Oh, I never said it costs little,” said Bishop Þjóðrekur. “You picked me up wrong there. You can’t get much for little, my friend, no sirree.”

“Of course, I should have known,” said Steinar. “I should have guessed that immersion alone does not take you far. What costs you nothing is worth nothing. Excuse me, but what has it cost you, if I may ask?”

“What’s that to you?” asked the bishop.

“I was thinking of myself,” said Steinar, “and how much I was man enough to afford.”

“That’s your own affair,” said Bishop Þjóðrekur. “But if we come upon a stream of clear water I could immerse you.”

“And then what?” asked Steinar.

“You have freed me,” said the bishop, “and you are due your own ransom. But I can only say in the Apostle’s words: silver and gold have I none, but such as I have I give thee.”

“Ah well, bless you, it is a kind offer and a kind thought,” said Steinar. “But if you are heading south for Eyrarbakki I think we are at the crossroads now and our paths must part for a while. It has been very pleasant meeting you. So goodbye for now and may God be with you for ever and ever, and think kindly of me.”

“And the very same to you, my lad,” said the Mormon.

“And if you ever happen to be in Steinahlíðar, no one will set the dogs on you at Hlíðar.”

With that they parted, each on his own way, one to the east and the other to the south. But when they were a stone’s throw from one another, Bishop Þjóðrekur suddenly came to a halt.

“I say, there!” he shouted. “What’s your name?”

“Oh, did I not tell you?” the other shouted back. “My name is Steinar Steinsson.”

“Were you asking what it cost me to become a Mormon?” asked Bishop Þjóðrekur.

“Forget it, friend,” said Steinar.

“Only the man who sacrifices everything can be a Mormon,” said the bishop. “No one will bring the Promised Land to you. You must trek across the wilderness yourself. You must renounce homeland, family and possessions. That is a Mormon. And if you have nothing but the flowers that people in Iceland call weeds, you must take your leave of them. You lead your young and rosy-cheeked sweetheart out into the wilderness. That is a Mormon. She carries your baby in her arms and hugs it close. You walk and walk, day after day, night after night, for weeks and for months, with your belongings on a handcart. Do you want to be a Mormon? One day she sinks to the ground from hunger and thirst, and dies. You take from her arms your baby daughter who has never learned to smile; and she looks at you with questioning eyes in the middle of this wilderness. A Mormon. But a child cannot get warm against a man’s ribs. Few can replace a father, none a mother, my friend. Now you trudge alone across the wilderness for miles and miles with your daughter in your arms; until one night you realise that the biting frost has nipped the life from these tiny limbs. That is a Mormon. You dig a grave with your hands and bury her in the sand, and put up a cross of two straws that blow away at once. That is a Mormon. . . .”

8

Secret in mahogany

Now the family at Hlíðar were continually glancing out towards the shoulder of the hill to the west, where travellers from the south were first to be glimpsed. The plan was to have some milk in a pail and a lump of butter ready to thrust into the pony’s mouth when he came back from his long and tiring journey as ravenous as a wolf.

The golden plover was curiously subdued that summer, and scarcely a whistle was heard from the oyster-catcher. It was also one of those late-summer times when the cliffs of Steinahlíðar sent back no echoes. One shouted, but received no reply. The fulmar drifted silently under the black cliffs.

When it was two or three days past the expected time, the children thought they could make out yet another vagrant coming round the shoulder of the hill with his knapsack on his back. But as the stranger approached, they seemed to recognize his walk: with every step he would put each foot down twice, as if he were testing ice that might not be quite safe. When he reached the edge of the home-field he stopped and ran his hand over the wall, adjusting a stone here and there and fitting in some small ones which lay loose nearby.

Steinar’s little daughter stood outside on the paved doorstep and suddenly burst into tears.

“I knew it, I dreamt it,” she sobbed. “I knew this would happen. Everything’s finished now.”

And with that she rushed into the house and hid.

Steinar came walking into the farmyard with his saddle on his back. He greeted his wife and son affectionately, and asked where little Steina was.

“Where’s Krapi?” asked the viking.

“It’s a long story,” said Steinar. “But here I am with the saddle at least. And the riding-crop.”

“He has sold the horse, naturally,” said his wife.

“A small man cannot carry a big horse,” he said. “So I gave him to the king.”

“How silly of me,” said his wife. “You gave him away, of course.”

“I had the feeling, somehow, that the only proper owner for such a horse was the king,” said Steinar.

“I’m so glad you didn’t accept money from the king, my dear,” said his wife. “I have no desire to be married to a horse-coper.”

“And anyway, money for a horse like that! It’s absurd, is it not, my dear?” said Steinar.

“Our Krapi cannot be valued in money,” she replied. “Good health and peace of mind are the only real blessings in life; whereas all life’s evils spring from gold. Oh, you’ve no idea how glad I am and grateful to God that we never see gold here at Hlíðar!”

“On the other hand, the king promised me his friendship,” said Steinar.

“There you are! When has any crofter in these parts ever been given the king’s friendship?” said the woman. “God bless the king!”

“What have we left to be fond of now?” said the boy, and started to cry like his sister.

“A man can never discover his real worth until he has renounced his horse,” said Steinar.

“Stop making such a fuss, silly,” said the boy’s mother. “You don’t understand what a father you have. How do you know the king won’t summon him before long and make him his counsellor?”

This was enough to console the boy, for he was a true viking and king’s-man.

“I was only sorry I forgot to get the bridle back,” said Steinar. “But we can manage somehow, I expect.”

He took the saddle over to the outhouse.

It was late in the autumn when a sheriff’s messenger came riding into the farmyard, stepped on to the paving, pulled out a letter with an official seal on it and handed it to Steinar of Hlíðar.

In those days it was unusual for a sheriff to send a special messenger to peasants unless to tell them that their possessions were being confiscated for some valid reason, or to give them notice of the date on which they were to be evicted. A letter of the kind that was now delivered had never been received by an ordinary peasant in Iceland before, as far as is known. This document stated that His Majesty the King of Denmark sent Steinar of Hlíðar his most gracious greetings and favour as before; it was the king’s pleasure to invite this farmer to pay him a visit in Denmark, and the keeper of the royal purse had been instructed to defray the costs of his passage and all the expenses of his sojourn in the royal city of Copenhagen. The king wished to receive Steinar in person at whichever of his palaces he happened to be residing when Steinar arrived. This royal invitation was inspired by gratitude for the pony which the king had been given by this man in Iceland, and which was now called Pussy; Pussy was a great favourite in the palace, particularly with the children in the royal household. He was stabled at the Bernstorff Palace, the king’s summer residence outside the city.

It was not considered proper for sheriff’s messengers to accept hospitality from ordinary farmers when they were on official business: “We royal officials don’t have time to sit down.” But curiosity kept this one lingering on the paving while Steinar read the letter.

“This is a good letter, to be sure, and of great importance,” said Steinar when he had finished reading it. “You deserve to be given a gold piece for it—not that there is one available here, nor likely to be, either. Indeed, my dear wife says that gold is the source of all ill-fortune in men’s lives. Convey my respects to the king. Say that I shall come to visit him at the earliest opportunity. And would you remind the master of the royal household that I forgot to remove the bridle when I handed the horse over in the summer; I would be glad to have it back whenever possible.”

It was mentioned earlier in this book that Steinar of Hlíðar had the reputation of being a skilled and ingenious craftsman; his neighbours always brought their broken implements and household utensils to him for repair, and he would make them all as good as new. And now as winter approached he was more and more to be found away from his family, sitting in his workshed and tinkering with bits of wood. But it was all rather trifling and did not appear to be anything special, and he would toss his carvings aside like any other idle pastime. But if he were ever passing near the shore he would always pick up a few likely-looking bits of wood from the littoral farmers who collected driftwood. He pottered about like this all winter. He was always reciting an old stanza to himself while he was busy with the wood, one from an old ballad involving the hero Þórður hreda (Menace);* he never recited the whole verse at a time, but always in snatches, a line at a time. This is how it went:

She gave food for hungry hound,
She gave bed for sleeping sound;
She was merry above all,
She was very liberal.

But however much he carved and whittled, the wood was never the right size, it was either too long or too short, too thick or too thin. And so winter passed and the bustle of spring began; and one day Steinar came into the kitchen with all his winter’s work in his arms and thrust it on the fire under the kettle. Then he began to clear his hayfield of all the stones which had spilled down off the mountain during the winter, and to touch up the wall around it.

During the summer, people asked him if it were true that he were going to visit the king soon, but he always changed the subject. When the hay was safely stacked, however, and the approach of autumn brought ease from toil, he once more had to make a journey along the coast and then, as he had so often done before, he asked leave to poke around in the farmers’ woodpiles; but he could find nothing to his taste in most places, and almost before he realized it he had gone all the way down to Leirur.

Old Björn of Leirur was his usual genial self; he kissed Steinar affectionately and ushered him into the house, and asked what he could do for him. Steinar said he needed a few good pieces of wood, a spot of mahogany, preferably, even though it were no more than half a puppy-load: “And I beg you now, dearest friend, not to hold against me my boldness a year or two back when you offered me gold and I refused it.”

“You’ve always been a hell of a man,” said Björn of Leirur, “and I’ve never thought more highly of you than when you refused to sell me a pony that time—but you were even more of a true Icelander when you turned the sheriff down too. That’s the kind of saga-men we need nowadays! No crawling around on your knees for you! Pay heed to no one lower than the king! Some bits of wood, did you say? Mahogany? I know it’s the choicest wood in the world, and the only wood that is worthy of you. Now it so happens that I was having a Russian shipwreck dismantled down on the shore here the other day, and the whole thing was done up in mahogany. Go ahead and help yourself to whatever there is.”

“I can hardly manage to buy for more than about 75 or 80 aurar,” said Steinar. “I can give you a note for that amount in my account at the store in Eyrarbakki.”

“We king’s-men and saga-Icelanders are never such small fellows that we grudge one another a horse-load or two of mahogany,” said Björn of Leirur.

“I am a poor man,” said Steinar, “and I cannot afford to accept gifts. It is only rich men who can afford to accept gifts.”

At all events, Björn of Leirur took Steinar out to the field where the mahogany was stacked under cover.

But even though Björn of Leirur refused to listen to any mention of payment, Steinar of Hlíðar was not the man to accept more than a modest amount of mahogany. Björn and two of his men helped Steinar to load it on to a pony; then he saw him off down the path and kissed him: “Goodbye, and may God be with you for ever and ever, you hell of a man, you.”

Steinar of Hlíðar mounted and rode off, with the mahogany-laden pony in tow. Björn of Leirur closed the gate of his homefield. He was wearing big topboots, and did not get his feet wet. But just as he was tying up the gate he remembered a little trifle, for Icelanders never remember the main point of their business until after they have said goodbye. He gave Steinar a shout and said:

“Listen, my dear chap, since you happen to live on the main track, would you not let me graze my colts on your pastures for a night or two if I should happen to be driving them down this summer for shipment to the English?”

“You will always be welcome at Hlíðar with your colts, night or day, bless you, my old friend,” Steinar called back. “The grass does not care who eats it.”

“It may well be that I’ll have a few drovers with me,” said Björn of Leirur.

“You are all welcome at Hlíðar for as long as you can find houseroom there,” said Steinar. “Good friends make the best guests.”