The Greenlanders (89 page)

But most often, she thought of Gunnar and Kollgrim, and mixed them in her mind. She remembered things she had said to one as if she had said them to the other. She remembered Kollgrim’s fur clothing, but saw it in her mind upon the figure of Gunnar, who had never worn fur clothing. She remembered Gunnar in his bedcloset, still beneath the bearskin, but his face was Kollgrim’s face. The child Gunnar, whom she had carried about on her back, she remembered as Kollgrim. The staring blue eyes of Kollgrim looked at her in her dreams out of the sockets of Gunnar. The mouth opened and spoke in Gunnar’s tones, but said Kollgrim’s words: “Folk say that sisters must be given up.” When she overheard folk about the steading describing the burning, it was Gunnar’s face she saw peering out of the smoke, his peculiar striped clothing that she saw going up in flames. It did not occur to many folk to avoid this talk when she was present. She had always been so silent that it hardly ever occurred to them that she was present.

When the spring came on, and the ice in Eriks Fjord broke up, and folk began going about in boats again, Margret put together some of her pieces of wadmal, the same number as she had brought with her to Solar Fell during the great hunger, and also a change of clothing, and she went to Signy’s brother, who had a boat, and asked to be taken into Kambstead Fjord, where she could begin a trek to Hvalsey Fjord, for indeed, she longed to see her brother Gunnar with the longing of old people, that despairs, for lack of strength and time, to be fulfilled. Now Signy’s brother went to Signy’s mother, and spoke to her of this, because it seemed to him that the woman was too old to make such a trek, but Signy’s mother said only, “It must be that she knows her own mind, and it is not for us to stop her.” And so the man rowed her the long way around, into Kambstead Fjord, and set her down at the landing where folk begin the trek across to Hvalsey Fjord, which is a short and easy walk, although going around the edge of the fjord is tedious and lengthy.

Toward evening, Margret came to the door of the steading, and saw that the place had been abandoned. She pushed open the door and went inside, intending to spend the night. She was very tired from her long walk, and sat heavily on the bench against the wall of the steading. It was the case that she had depended upon his being here, that through her walk had made up the image of him standing in the doorway, then stepping forward to greet her, in such vivid colors that she had not thought of missing him. It was as if he had been given to her and taken from her all over again. She looked about the walls of the steading, at the broken or worthless objects left behind on the shelves and lost among the rushes on the floor, and then she laid her head down upon her arms on the table, and surrendered herself to such tears as she had never endured before, and as copious as they were, they seemed to be squeezed from her as water might be squeezed from stones, by the greatest crushing might, perhaps by the might of God Himself, from whom she had always turned her face.

Some little time later, Margret crept into one of the bedclosets, and lay there. Now what she had done seemed foolish and impossible to her, and she thought with longing of the round of work that she was accustomed to in Dyrnes and Solar Fell. Gunnar’s face recurred to her over and over, not as it had done, but as she remembered it when he left her on the strand at Steinstraumstead, bitter and disapproving, his blue eyes as cool as water and distant as the vault of the sky. She saw now, lying in his bedcloset, as she had never seen before, that he was her implacable enemy. Always before she had thought of her own love for him as a child, or her annoyance with him after Asgeir died, or her jealousy of Birgitta. Never had she considered his feelings for her, but now as she lay where he had lain for so many nights, his thoughts seemed to be seeping into her, and it was not that he thought of her with antagonism, it was that he had no thoughts of her at all. He shunned thoughts of her. Had not Kollgrim been surprised, at their first meeting, even to be told that she was his father’s sister? He had not even heard her name about the steading, as he would have had she died. It was Kollgrim’s way to accept such things, and not to be curious, and Margret had thought little of his surprise at the time, especially in her pleasure at getting to know him, but now the meaning of such ignorance flooded her, and she shrank before it. It was not that she couldn’t make the trip to Vatna Hverfi district, but that he would turn that same empty gaze upon her when she arrived. Wasn’t she as implacable in her way? Couldn’t she look into her own heart and recall how she had willed everything away—all grief, all desire, all hope—how she had worn herself down to a stone? Seeing that, could she expect any less from Gunnar?

Now she bethought herself of what she must do, for indeed, she could not go back to Dyrnes. They were happy enough to be rid of her. There would be steadings about Hvalsey Fjord where she might find tasks, but the district was a poor one, and getting poorer. She could stay at Lavrans Stead, for she longed for solitude, rather than feared it, but indeed, there was nothing there to start out with. She had only the food that Signy’s mother had given her, and Gunnar had taken all of his stores. There were no sheep, either. Now she thought of this, that she might lie quietly in the bedcloset for some number of days, and let hunger take her. Certainly enough folk had done this in former days, and from her time with Eyvind Eyvindsson in Isafjord she knew that it was not so hard to do. Soon enough the body weakened so that there was not even the desire to seek food, and thoughts wandered over things that had not been turned up in many winters. It was even rather pleasant, or might be, if the end was desirable rather than fearful. With these thoughts, sleep came to her, and she slept far into the morning.

But in the morning she got up and put on her stockings and her shoes and her cloak, and gathered together her things, and went out of the steading. There was a boy with some sheep not far off, using the Lavrans Stead pasturage as if it were his own, and when she stepped out of the steading, he began to call to the sheep, as if to lead them off, but she stopped him, and asked him where the folk had gone, and he said that he knew not, but that his father Harald Hakonarson knew, and then he ran off, leaving her with the seven ewes and four lambs. Soon enough, this fellow Harald came peering after her, and as he answered her questions, saying that Gunnar had taken everything to Gunnars Stead in Vatna Hverfi district, he looked her frankly up and down, and at last said, “Old woman, why do you ask after these folk? Where do you come from? Are you some former servant of theirs?”

“Yes, indeed, a nurse. And I have lost my place in Dyrnes through a death, so I came seeking in Hvalsey Fjord.”

“You have not so far to seek as Vatna Hverfi district, because we have need of a nurse around the hillside, there. My Gudny has four little ones besides this one here, and we have a good enough table as such things in Hvalsey Fjord go.”

“But I am eager to see these folk, for they have been my favorites.”

“Even so, the trek to the northern part of Vatna Hverfi district is a long one, and how is it that you will get across Einars Fjord?”

“There will be men with boats about, I am sure of that.”

“Nay, old woman. It is unseemly for you to go about like this, looking here and there for help. I have a mind to take you to my steading with me, so you might see how happy you would be there, for my Gudny is a cheerful soul, and these boys and girls she has jump about with a great deal of liveliness.”

“Even so—”

“These Lavrans Stead folk are an unlucky set. You must have heard that the old woman did away with herself, and I won’t say, indeed, that I know the rights of the case. Folk say that there is more to these things than meets the eye. But I do know that they are all old and unhappy, and age needn’t go with age, but should go with youth and good fortune. I am speaking of you, old woman. I mean it kindly.”

“Indeed, Harald, I can see that you do, and that your household must be a pleasant one.”

“You may come with me right now, if you please.”

And it seemed to Margret that she did please. The boy was as bright as an egg, staring up at her, and Harald himself one of those round, red-bearded fellows who have much to say on every topic. She said, “Even so, I must see my nurslings before I die.” And she stepped back from him and began to look about, and so at last he sighed and said, “You may go along the fjord there, and turn up through the valley, and come to Einars Fjord in a quick enough walk. But your journey, however hard it is, will be more agreeable than your arrival.”

But her journey was agreeable after all, for the trek through the valley was an easy one, bright with sunlight and the newly greening turf. Although her conviction of Gunnar’s coldness had not changed since the night before, still it seemed to her that she felt new life within her, and that she put her feet firmly on the path before her, although she had never walked it before in her life.

The sun was high in the sky when she came to the landing place, and there was a sturdy boat drawn up on the strand, and another, manned, some ways out in the fjord. Rather than hailing them, she sat down upon the hillside and opened her bag of provisions and began to eat some cheese she had with her. Soon enough a man came up to her where she was sitting, and asked her how she did, and she said, “I would do well enough if you or one of your fellows would take me across the fjord in your boat.”

“Have you business in Vatna Hverfi district then?”

“Life and death business.”

He looked her up and down, and she began to brush crumbs off her gown. “You carry nothing with you.”

“I have nothing to carry except a few bits of weaving. I will give them all to you, at the end of the journey.”

“I would rather you told me your business.”

“Why is that?”

“We have been fishing for capelin many days now, and have run out of talk. We look at each other and say, ‘well’ and ‘well’ and ‘well’ again. We are nearly dead from the tedium of it.”

“If you take me in your boat, I will tell you a tale that may or may not be the tale of my business.” And so they got into the boat, and Margret told him the tale of Hauk Gunnarsson and the killing of the bear on Bear Island, which is two weeks sail from Herjolfsnes on the way to Markland, and after that she told them about Thorleif the Magnificent, and his great ship, and the wood and furs that were brought back from Markland in a single summer, and these men had never heard this tale before. They were so pleased by it that they took her far up the fjord, and let her out at a landing place not far over the hill from Gunnars Stead, and when they let her out, the owner of the boat said, “This is a fine tale, old woman, and hardly credible, although I do credit it, for you do not tell it with a practiced air, as folk tell tales who are used to telling lies. It seems to me that I will think upon this tale for a long time, for what you say of these distant places fires my soul.”

“My brother, Gunnar Asgeirsson, can probably still show folk the bearskin that my uncle brought back with him, that is the truth of it.”

“Someday I hope to see it, and that is the truth of that.” And the man told Margret that his name was Harald Magnusson, of Nes, in Vatna Hverfi district, and he took her hand and helped her out of the boat, and a little ways up the path. The dusk was gathering, and she looked about herself, and saw that she knew just where she was, and she began to walk toward Gunnars Stead, and when she came within sight of it, in the pale summer darkness, she sat down and wrapped her cloak about her, and waited for the light, and then for folk to begin going about their morning business.

At Ketils Stead, little Gunnhild awakened with the light, and Helga got up with her, quietly, so as to let Jon Andres and the servants sleep. Gunnhild slept little these days, for she was learning to go about on her own two feet, and could not give up this activity even for food or for sleep. Helga took some bits of cheese into her pocket and followed the child out of the steading. Gunnhild’s gait was such as Helga had never seen in a child before, already half a walk and half a run, as steady over uneven ground as over the floors of the steading. She was the image of her father, dark and wiry. It was a great pleasure to Helga to follow behind her, and to note that, as young as she was, a year and a winter, she never looked back.

Gunnhild directed her steps toward the path to Gunnars Stead, and Helga did not stop her, for she always had a longing to see her father, and even her sister, although Johanna was possessed of such a cool manner that Helga was unsure of her welcome. She let the child go before her as an offering, as Johanna was much taken with Gunnhild. Helga rather missed Elisabet Thorolfsdottir, who had been sent unhappily back to Hvalsey Fjord, to work for other folk there. Even in grief, Elisabet Thorolfsdottir had perked up with talk of cutting robes and making tablet weavings, and she had been very pretty, through everything. Now Gunnhild fell down and began to whimper, and Helga picked her up and carried her along the path. Soon enough she wiggled to get down again. Helga took some bits of cheese out of her pocket and began to eat them. The mist had cleared off; the morning was splendid. Little Unn, who had been born in the autumn, would be safely asleep, but Jon Andres would be getting up now. Helga felt a passing wish to be there with him, to run her hand down his back as he put his shirt on.

At Gunnars Stead, no one was stirring yet, and so Helga knew that Gunnhild had gotten her up even earlier than usual, and began to yawn. She paused, wondering whether to turn the child back toward Ketils Stead, but there seemed no reason for this. In fact, there seemed no reason for anything, except to follow the child here and there in the sunlight, to think of nothing and to feel no obligations. It seemed to Helga that everywhere Gunnhild stepped, she blessed the ground with her feet, and made a place for herself among the less happy ghosts whose steps she trod in. Kollgrim! Kollgrim! Seized by tears, Helga paused to catch her balance, for she could see nothing in the watery glitter.