Читать книгу Guest the One-Eyed - Gunnar Gunnarsson - Страница 5

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Bjarni Jonsson, the trader, and Daniel Sveisson, the parish priest,—Sera Daniel, as he was called,—sat drinking in Bjarni Jonsson’s front parlour. They were seated by the window, looking out over the fjord.

The sun was setting, and the shadow of the house was flung far out over the smooth sea. The smoke from the chimney had already reached the rocky haunt of the eider duck. The cliff was the home of immense flocks of many-coloured birds, for it was spring, and the breeding season was at its height. Numbers of gorgeous drakes were swimming round the rock, and amongst them a few plump and comely eider duck, taking an hour’s rest from their duties before sunset, leaving the nest and eggs to the care of the father birds.

Sera Daniel enjoyed the view, for he was looking out over his property. The eider-duck cliffs, even those farther out, were by ancient custom regarded as belonging to the living. And they brought him in a very nice little sum.

He puffed away at his long pipe in silence.

Bjarni noticed his contented air, and was not pleased. Surely it would be more reasonable that the revenue from the eider-duck cliffs should come to him, Bjarni, as owner of the shore lands. But priests were all alike, a greedy lot! For ages past they had been petted and spoiled with all sorts of unjust privileges and unreasonable perquisites. And what did they do for it all? Nothing in the least degree useful, nor ever had—unless it were something useful to grow fat themselves in a comfortable cure.

Such was Bjarni’s train of thought. And he meant it all quite earnestly. But he said nothing, for, outwardly, he and Sera Daniel were the best of friends—drank their grog together, and played cards in all good fellowship. At the moment, they were only waiting for the doctor to come and take a hand.

No, in his inmost heart Bjarni detested the priest; the portly figure of the man was a continual eyesore to him. Sera Daniel was a man of imposing presence, there was dignity and calm authority in his carriage and bearing, and Bjarni, having no such attributes himself, found herein further cause for jealousy.

It would be hard to find a less imposing specimen of the human male than Bjarni Jonsson, trader, of Hofsfjordur. Outwardly, he resembled more an ill-nourished errand boy than anything else. His face was grey and angular, the top of his head was covered with a growth of colourless hair, and his pale blue eyes were as a rule void of expression, for the reason that he was in constant fear of betraying his ever-present jealousy of every one and everything round him. And the struggle had marked his face, his eyes, every movement of his puny, stunted body, with a stamp of servile cunning. His clothes hung about him like the rags of a scarecrow in the field, the draggled moustache that hid most of his mouth added to the general impression of meanness and insincerity.

At a first glance, Sera Daniel presented a complete contrast.

His burly, well-fed body seemed to exhale an atmosphere of cordiality——an ecclesiastical cheerfulness which gave his whole bearing something of the stamp of the prelate. His fair hair carefully brushed back from the broad, arched forehead, the blue, beaming eyes, the frank expression of his clean-shaven face, which, however, never for a moment relapsed from the bright, superior, yet mild professional mask of dignity, of healthy godliness attained through inward strife and by the grace of Heaven; the placid, yet telling gestures of his somewhat large, plump hands; the sonorous voice with its echo of sanctity; and last, not least, his faultless black attire—in short, his whole outward appearance seemed to combine human forbearance and lofty understanding with the rare power of living a full and yet exemplary life, kindly chastening himself as well as others—all the qualities that go to the making of a true servant of the Lord.

But the simple, canny folk among whom he lived, and from whom he himself was sprung, had not been long in penetrating beneath these externals. They realized that he played his part well, and with a suitable mask, which they tolerated, even respecting him for the same—at any rate, in his presence, or when young people were about. But the elders among themselves were not afraid of unmasking Sera Daniel with a sly wink, as it were, in a manner of which he would certainly not have approved, nor found consistent with the respect due to their spiritual guide.

Men played their parts well in the parish of Hofsfjordur.

And in the opinion of his parishioners, Sera Daniel was not the only one who played a part at variance with the character behind the mask, though Sera Daniel himself might have believed so.

There was one family, or more exactly, a single figure, that did not fit in with the cast of the local comedy. A keen observer could not have failed to notice that the life of the community centred round this one man: a dominant figure among the rest, who knew how to shape their views according to his will. And he was a source of much annoyance to the actors proper, more especially those who had cast themselves for leading rôles. That man was Ørlygur à Borg.

Ørlygur was in his forty-second year. From early youth he had been the natural leader among his fellows; first and foremost, of course, as only son and heir to Borg, but also by virtue of his personality, which was excellently suited to bear the rank and wealth and responsibility inherited from his forebears, who had, as far back as the memory of man, been the self-appointed and generally respected leaders of the community.

Ørlygur à Borg, apart from being the greatest landowner in the district, was also chairman of the local council, and led the singing in church—in short, all that an Icelander combining wealth with intellect and personality could attain.

Moreover—and this was perhaps the corner-stone in the edifice of his absolute authority—he was a conscientious adviser, an untiring and disinterested helper of the poor, and an experienced and successful, albeit unlicensed, veterinary surgeon. In this last capacity he was consulted not only by the district, but also by many from other counties, who were glad of his unfeed advice and skilful aid.

It was generally recognized that Ørlygur à Borg was ever ready to serve and assist any one, however humble, provided they accepted him as a ruler. He never tolerated any attempt to place others on a footing of equality with himself, or any violation of his privileges, however slight. To those who submitted to his sway, he was a mild and gracious god; to those who forgot the deference he demanded, he was a merciless tyrant, swooping down on them in defiance of all generally accepted notions of justice—though he would forget and forgive readily enough when it was over.

The peasants did not mind this. To them, Ørlygur à Borg was a kind of human Providence—no less inevitable, and probably more pleasant, than the divine. They knew, of course, that there was a King who ruled over all, including the King of Borg. But they were nevertheless inclined to place both on the same level. In the event of conflict arising, doubtless Ørlygur à Borg would be a match for the other—even to gaining for himself the armlet of sovereign power, as Halldor Snorrason had done in the fight with Harold Hardrada. Ørlygur was equal to that at least.

Their faith in him amounted almost to a religion. They felt themselves, under his protection, secure and well provided for.

Some few there were, however, who did not approve of the unlimited power generally conceded to Ørlygur à Borg, and disliked what they considered his unjustifiable assumption of superiority. This spring, there were at least three such discontented souls within the parish. Two of them we have met already—Sera Daniel and the trader, drinking their grog in the parlour looking over the sea. And the third of the rebels was the doctor, whom they were expecting to join them in a hand at cards.

The priest and the trader, when alone together, spoke but little. They had no interests in common. Their intellectual sphere was very limited, and both had the same characteristic of the narrow-minded: concentrating every atom of thought and will each on his own well-being. Consequently, all talk between the two was obviously insincere; so much so, that even these two not very sensitive beings realized the fact, and instinctively shrank from any intimacy of conversation.

On this occasion, as ill-luck would have it, the doctor kept them waiting longer than usual, and Bjarni, as host, could not well sit all the time without a word. At last, by way of saying something, he asked how the wool was getting on.

“Dry and packed three days ago,” answered Sera Daniel.

Bjarni’s eyes flashed, and a smile flickered for a moment over his wooden face.

Sera Daniel read that smile, and marked the scorn of it. But as the scorn, he knew, applied no less to the smiler than to himself he refrained, on principle, from taking offence.

Bjarni looked him straight in the face, and their eyes met. Then suddenly both realized that this innocent and haphazard attempt at casual conversation had opened up common ground between them, an unexpected community of interest where each had only thought to find the altogether unwished-for company of the other.

Bjarni did not quite know how to improve the opportunity at first. He decided on a gambit of innocent raillery.

“Yes, we’re ready to weigh it now, I suppose... that is, of course....”

Sera Daniel looked searchingly at him, unwilling as yet to take any definite step himself.

“What are you paying this season?”

“Sixty-five for best white, forty-two for black and mixed.”

Sera Daniel glanced at him with a curious smile. “Is that—ah—the ordinary price, or what you are paying Ørlygur à Borg?”

The trader’s face flushed violently; the hand holding the glass trembled a little. Without waiting for an answer, Sera Daniel made another shot.

“Or perhaps you are thinking of paying the same price to all—for once?”

Bjarni eyed him awhile in silence. He seemed to be turning over something in his mind. The priest felt the glance, and knew what lay behind it, but evinced no discomfiture. On the contrary, he met the trader’s eyes with a smile of irritating calm.

At last Bjarni spoke.

“Yes,” he said slowly, “if you can let me have your wool tomorrow morning.”

That same night Ormarr sat on the slope of the hill looking down to Hofsa—just above the spot where the wool from Borg was washed every spring. He was keeping watch over the clip. Large quantities were already dry and stowed in bags; the grassy slopes were dotted with little white piles of that which had still to be spread, waiting till the morning sun had drawn the dew.

Silently, filled with emotion, Ormarr gazed at the beauty and peace of the spring night. The sky was clear and blue, and bright as day.

Below him flowed the crystal rivulets, and farther off, above green mountain slopes veiled in the glistening web of dew, rose stark grey cliffs, furrowed by glimmering waters, higher up again, the luminous white of the snow peaks, tinted all the night through with the gold of dancing sun rays.

From his childhood Ormarr had claimed the privilege of keeping guard during the spring nights. In the earlier part of the season, he took his post on the freshly growing pasture lands, keeping the sheep and horses from straying in to nibble off the first blades of the young grass. Later, when the sheep were shorn and driven up to the mountains, he mounted guard over the wool, keeping a keen look-out for prowling vagabonds, and covering up the heaps with tarpaulin in case of sudden rain.

To him, the vigils of these quiet nights were as hours of devotion. During the lonely watches, he bared his soul in worship of the majesty of nature, free of the restraint he always felt in the presence of others. He drank in the fresh night air, with its sweetness of spring, like a precious draught. And at times, the depth of his feeling brought great tears to his eyes. Alone, he could allow himself to some extent thus to give way to emotion, yet even then not without a certain sense of shame.

Tonight he was sadder than ever. It would be fine tomorrow, the last of the wool would dry during the day, in time to be fetched away before evening.

That meant it was his last night’s watch this spring.

His eyes took leave of the wild duck swimming in the stream near their nests, that he had cared for and protected; several times he had waded out to see how they fared. He looked the hillside up and down, bidding good-bye to the buttercups and dandelions—every morning he had watched their opening, a solitary witness, as they unfolded at the gracious bidding of the sun. He noted, too, the great clusters of tiny-flowered forget-me-nots that grew everywhere around.

At five o’clock he rose to go. From one of the chimneys smoke was already rising, thin and clear as from a censer; old Ossa had hung the big kettle over the fire for early coffee. A big plate of new bread would be waiting for him, with butter, meat, cheese, and a steaming cup of coffee—a delicious meal.

From force of habit he glanced round before moving off; counted the chimneys from which smoke was rising, and looked about for any other signs of life. Then suddenly he realized that something unusual was going on. With trembling hands he adjusted the telescope he always carried, and looked towards the spot.

A moment later he lowered the glass and stared in bewilderment towards the fjord. In a flash he realized what was happening, and set off home at full speed.

Heedless of Ossa and the meal she had already waiting for him, he dashed up to his father’s room, not even stopping, as was his wont, to caress the fair curly head of tiny Gudrun, the three-year-old daughter of Pall à Seyru, whom Ørlygur had adopted. Ormarr loved the child.

He did not stop till he reached his father’s bed. When Ørlygur opened his eyes, he saw Ormarr standing before him, very pale, and breathless with his speed. The sight startled even the King of Borg out of his habitual calm; he sat up with a start. Realizing instinctively that something was wrong, he reached out for his clothes at once.

“What is it, my son?”

“Father... Sera Daniel... carting his wool in already to the station....”

Ørlygur was already getting into his clothes. He stopped motionless for a second; then a faint smile passed over his face, and he seemed to be thinking. In less than a minute he had made up his mind.

“The horses!”

Ormarr did not wait for any further order. He hurried out of the room, snatched up a bridle, and ran out calling:

“Gryla, Køput, Kondut!”

Barking and delighted, the farm dogs clustered round him, and followed him out into the paddock, where he caught his father’s horse and vaulted into the saddle.

Ten minutes later, forty horses were stamping and neighing ready for work. Swiftly they were brought round, the pack-saddle put on, and loaded up with the finished wool.

Ormarr had overheard his father’s brief, sharp orders to the foreman, a man he could trust. He had kept close at hand all the time, listening eagerly to what was said. At last, when all was ready for the start, he looked up earnestly.

“Father—may I?”

Ørlygur à Borg looked at his son in surprise.

“You? Nay, lad, I’m afraid that would hardly do.”

But his voice was not so decided, harsh almost, as it was wont to be when he refused a request. He even glanced inquiringly, as it were, at the foreman, who smiled back merrily in return. That seemed to settle it. Ormarr’s eyes were bright with anticipation.

Ørlygur laid one hand on his son’s shoulder—not patting his head or cheek as he generally did—and said:

“Good. You can do the talking. You heard what is to be said and done—you are sure you understand?”

Ormarr did not give himself time to answer. But his leap into the saddle was enough; evidently he had grasped the spirit of his father’s commands.

They did not take the usual route to the trading station; anything moving along that road would be visible from below for the greater part of the way. And they were to come unexpectedly. Therefore they took the road across Borgarhals and Nordurdal, so as to reach the station before any knew of their coming.

It was the unwritten law of the district that no wool should be brought to the station before the King of Borg had sent in his. The custom dated back further than any could remember, it was part of the traditional precedence generally conceded to the masters of Borg. At first, it had sprung from a natural desire among the people to show their respect for their chieftain and benefactor. Then, when it had grown to be a time-honoured custom, the men of Borg had taken care to have it maintained, regarding any violation as a personal affront, a challenge—and none had ever known such challenge to remain unpunished.

There was, moreover, another custom in connection with the sales of wool—to wit, that Ørlygur à Borg fixed his own price for his, while the others who had wool to sell had to be satisfied with what the trader chose to pay them. Ørlygur took no heed of ruling market prices, but based his figures on the prices he had to pay during the past year for goods he himself had bought from the trader.

No one grumbled at the arrangement. Ørlygur always paid cash for what he ordered, while every one else found it necessary to take goods on credit; all had an account, great or small, with Bjarni, and were in consequence dependent on his good-will. They knew, that in the event of Bjarni’s good-will failing, there was always Ørlygur, ever ready to help whoever asked.

Truth to tell, Bjarni, the trader, was not a little nervous when Sera Daniel arrived with his wool early in the morning. He did his best, however, to conceal his uneasiness, but the false jocularity with which he strove to hide it was belied by the anxious glances wherewith he scanned every now and then the road from Borg.

The weighing in was done in the big warehouse. Sera Daniel was smiling and confident as usual, though his eyes showed signs of having slept ill the night before.

“Well, Sera Daniel,” said Bjarni, who was watching the weighing with mock earnestness, “this is a bold stroke of yours indeed.” He glanced hurriedly in the direction of Borg as he spoke. “Frankly I was not at all sure that you would have ventured, when it came to the point. Anyhow, I fancy this marks the end of ‘the King’s’ supremacy.”

The doctor came up, yawning, and rubbing his eyes.

“Aha—this looks nice,” he observed. And then, referring to Bjarni’s last remark, he went on: “And it’s high time we did start acting for ourselves. Rebellion, eh? I tell you what, I’ll stand drinks all round when you’ve finished here.”

There was great commotion at the station; folk hung about in crowds outside the stockroom. A few only dared to enter; the rest preferred to wait and see what happened. They were not without a certain satisfaction at the act of rebellion, albeit aware that it was their duty to feel indignant. There was a general atmosphere of excitement—what would happen next?

“And this year the price of wool is the same to all,” said Bjarni exultantly to the doctor. “If he doesn’t care to deal with me, he can go to Jon Borgari.”

The doctor laughed loudly, and Sera Daniel smiled approval. Jon Borgari was a man of sixty, who had set up on his own account in a small way, some five years back. On payment of fifty Kroner, he had acquired a licence to trade. His store was a mean little place, his whole stock-in-trade hardly amounted to more than one of Ørlygur’s ordinary purchases from Bjarni. He had found it impossible to do any considerable business, as the peasants were all in debt to Bjarni already, and could not transfer their custom elsewhere. Jon was considerably older than Bjarni, but the latter’s business was of longer standing. Bjarni had moved to Hofsfjordur twelve years before, and partly, at least, by his industry and smartness, he had compelled an old-established house in the place, a branch of a foreign firm, to close down. This he could never have done had it not been for the patronage of Ørlygur à Borg.

It was commonly supposed that Jon Borgari had saved a good sum in his time—and the idea was further supported by his recent marriage to a maiden of eighteen, who had accepted him in preference to many eager suitors of the younger generation. But no one ever dreamed of considering Jon Borgari as a possible “purveyor to the King.”

Bjarni’s warehousemen were busy weighing in the priest’s consignment. There was still no sign of life on the road from Borg. And gradually even Bjarni himself began to forget his fears.

Then suddenly the blow fell. Ormarr with his five men, and the laden horses, came galloping up: Ørlygur à Borg had sent his wool.

Bjarni was struck with amazement; for a moment he could not grasp the situation. Sera Daniel retired prudently to the back of the room. The doctor joined him, with an expression of pleasant anticipation on his puffy face. This was going to be amusing. And, fortunately, he himself had nothing to do with the affair.

When the first shock had passed off, Bjarni realized with a feeling of relief that Ørlygur himself had stayed at home. To the onlooker this was a wonder in itself. Never before had Ørlygur à Borg sent in his wool without accompanying it in person.

For a moment all sorts of wild conjectures passed through Bjarni’s brain. And then—he committed the fatal error of coming to the conclusion which best suited himself; Ørlygur must have stayed away in order to avoid being present at his own defeat, in the setting aside of ancient custom.

Ormarr did not dismount. He rode straight up to the trader, and said:

“My father has given orders that his wool is to be weighed in at once.”

He spoke without the slightest trace of emotion; as if it were a matter of course that the trader should stop the weighing of any one else’s wool and attend to Ørlygur’s forthwith.

Bjarni again indulged in an erroneous inference: Ørlygur à Borg had stayed away because he feared his demands might be refused. And if “the King” himself thought that possible—why, then, it could be done!

A wave of joy swept over Bjarni. He felt as if he had already won a decisive battle against heavy odds. And his reply was given in a tone more overbearing than usual—though he regretted it the moment he had spoken.

“We can’t very well stop weighing in this lot now. What do you say, Sera Daniel?”

Sera Daniel said nothing at all. His friend Bjarni would have to carry the matter through without assistance.

Bjarni turned to Ormarr once more—the boy was still in the saddle—and adopting a fatherly tone, went on:

“But it won’t take very long, you know. If you start unloading the horses now, and get the bales undone, while we’re finishing this, there won’t be much time lost.”

But before any one could say more, a new development occurred. Ørlygur à Borg, on his snorting, fiery mount, Sleipnir, dashed into the stockroom.

His entry came like a thunder-clap. The onlookers, who had kept their distance up to now, drew closer in, holding their breath. No one, not even Ørlygur’s own men, with the exception of Ormarr, had expected this.

Bjarni, Sera Daniel, and the doctor greeted him in servile fashion; he answered with an impatient gesture, as of a sovereign in ungracious mood towards importunate underlings. Then riding up to Ormarr, he asked quietly:

“What are you waiting for?”

“They are weighing in Sera Daniel’s wool.”

“Has Bjarni refused to take over mine at once?”

“Yes. He asked us to unload and wait.”

“Good. We will take it back to Borg.”

Then, having given his orders, Ørlygur rode up to Bjarni, pressing him so close that the foam from his horse bespattered the trader, forcing him to retreat step by step.

“Now mark you this, Bjarni Jonsson. You can hire horses yourself to fetch that wool from Borg. But do not come until you are prepared to pay a heavy price. I warn you, my wool this year will not be cheap.”

Then, without a word of farewell, he turned his back on the speechless and astonished trio, and with a cheery smile to the crowd, rode homeward, followed by his men.

That day messengers were sent out from Borg to all the farmers round, to say that Ørlygur à Borg was willing to buy wool for cash, at the same prices as offered by the trader.

Next morning, he sent off one of his men with a letter and a saddle-horse to Jon Borgari. Jon read the letter, mounted at once, and rode back to Borg, where he was closeted with Ørlygur for some time. When he left the place, he looked as if ten years had fallen from his shoulders.

The farmers understood that Ørlygur’s offer to buy their wool for cash was equivalent to a command—they must choose between him and the trader. And they did not hesitate a moment.

Ørlygur paid them in gold and silver. Then, with his help, they wrote out the lists of the goods they required, the lists being subsequently handed to Jon Borgari. Jon was now Ørlygur’s ally, and in a very short time his unpretending little store was threatening the trade of Bjarni Jonsson’s own.

Bjarni Jonsson’s trick had recoiled upon himself. He got Sera Daniel’s wool—but not a pound from any one beside.