Lögberg-Heimskringla - 25.11.1994, Page 5

Lögberg-Heimskringla • Föstudagur 25. nóvember 1994 • 5
G rímkeirs Story
The ninth installment ofan unpublished novei
by Ragnhildur Guttormsson, discovered and
edited by Kirsten Wolf, Chair, Dept. of Icelandic, University of Manitoba.
The storyso far:
Grímkell has allowed the pregnant Signý
to visit her brother Torfi on condition
she return home for the hirth.
Encouraged by Torfi,
she refuses GrímkelTs request.
CHAPTER IX
The Dau^hter
By Ragnhildur Guttormsson
Edited by Kirsten Wolf
Amonth had gone by since Þórdís
died. The spring thaw had set in,
and the White River had flung off
the bridge of snow built across it by win-
ter. There were still occasional drifts on
either bank, and between them the
swollen river rushed on in a turbulent
hurry. Signý stood on the bank, watch-
ing the berserk rampage of the waters.
Near her stood Sigurðr, her young cousin
and a ward of Torfi’s. “Watch Signý,” had
been Torfi’s command to the youth.
“Don’t let her out of your sight.”
“How ugly and cruel it looks! Like a
throng of human faces, all twisted with
torturing hate.” Signý was speaking to
herself, but Sigurðr answered, trying to
speak heartening, “When the thaw is
over, it will run smoothly again.”
“Yes, I know,” answered Signý. “ But
then it will be too late. All the harm is
done now. Everything is too late.”
Sigurðr looked bewildered and said
nothing, not knowing what to say.
Farther up the bank some ewes were
grazing on small patches of grass laid
bare by the early thaw. The long-legged
lambs played around their mothers in the
warmth of the spring sun. One curly,
brown lamb ventured too far out on a
crumbling snow bank and fell into the
raging torrent. The ewe, its mother, came
dashing down the bank bleating moum-
fully, as only a sheep in distress can bleat.
It seemed such an unequal, hopeless
race. Once they caught sight of the
small, brown body in the boiling caul-
dron of white foam. The distressed moth-
er ran to the veiy edge of the bank as if
aiming to share the fate of her offspring.
But by one of those strange quirks of
chance, the current tossed the lamb unto
the shallows near a bend in the river. The
lamb found its legs and bounded out of
the water towards its mother. A moment
later it had shaken the water out of its
curly mop and was filling itself with
warm milk from its mother’s udder, the
ewe uttering short, happy bleats of con-
tent.
Sigurðr was about to make a remark
about this happy ending, but stopped
short when he looked at Signý. Her face
was working strangely, as she said, “Did
you see that? Love won! Hate gave back
her child, as Þórdís told me. But I did not
heed; and now it’s too late.”
Bowed by sobs, Signý turned away
from the river towards the house. Sigurðr
looked after her, deeply moved; he had
never seen anybody weep like that
before. He followed her, and after a while
they were joined by Torfi. Signý was dry-
eyed and calm again. She tumed to Torfi,
saying, “Why do you follow me about?
I’ve nothing more to give. My property,
my husband, my son; all this you’ve taken
from me. Even Þórdís is gone. Now go!
Leave me alone.” Her voice crackled with
icy scom.
A few steps farther on she fell to the
ground. They carried her home where
kind wömen’s hands took charge of her. A
while later her girl-child was bom. They
held her up for Signý to see.
“My child,” she whispered weakly.
“She’s just like you,” said the kind mid-
wife.
“I hope she’ll be happier,” whispered
Signý.
Then Torfi strode into the room.
Signý’s face became a mask of terror.
“Don’t let him touch her. Grímkell ...
with love.” Those were Signý’s last, falter-
ing words. She sank back in their arms,
and they stood about helplessly, watching
the life drain out of her face.
A short while later Torfi stumbled out
of the house carrying in his arms a bundle
which he thmst at Sigurðr.
“She’s dead! Signý’s dead!” he mut-
tered like a madman; his intense blue eyes
bumed in a tortured, knotted face.
“Throw Grímkell’s bastard into the
river. Then go and tell Grímr his mother is
dead, and to come to the funeral. We’ll
have it now at once.”
For a moment Sigurðr stood as if
stunned. Then he moved towards the
river. Torfi’s word was law. Sigurðr had
never questioned it and never dared dis-
obey it. But he knew as soon as Signý’s
child was laid in his arms that he was not
going to throw it into the river. He also
Icnew that it was his life or the child’s. His
faith in Torfi was shattered. He recalled a
fragment of a conversation overheard by
him between Torfi and Signý the day
Þórdís died.
“I’ve swom to bring Grímkell to his
knees.”
“And to destroy your sister doing it.”
“It was your choice.”
Sigurðr saw again Signý shaken with
sobs when the lamb was freed from the
river. Her child’s body was not going to
be broken on the cruel rocks or buffeted
by the ice in the wild torrent. The bundle
moved in his arms, and he heard a faint
whimper. An aching rage filled his soul,
rage and contempt of Torfi, who had
thrust upon him this heinous task. The
child had not yet been named and sprin-
kled with water. In such cases, it was not,
legally, a murder to expose a child. But in
this case it was worse: it was betrayal; it
was sacrilege. Though it cost him his own
life, he was not going to destroy Signý’s
child.
Half a mile farther down the valley
stood the manor of Grímr, the older son
of Signý. A column of blue smoke rose
from the manor high into the spring air,
a sign of fair weather. Grímr had been
out looking after his lambs. He was a
gentle and dreamy youth, as his father
had been. He had been married for some
years to finely built, red-headed Unnr,
who detested Torfi with every bone in
her slender, little body. She knew he had
Grímr completely under this thumb and
ran the two households to suit his own
convenience and purse. The only reason
Torfi tolerated her was that she had
brought Grímr Uppsala as her dowry.
Uppsala was an estate with great possi-
bilities, and Torfi had his eyes on it.
Grímr saw Sigurðr come from
Uppsala towards his home. Thinking he
might be bringing a message from Torfi,
he walked towards home to meet him.
By the time Grímr reached the garden
gate, Sigurðr had been there. But instead
of waiting, he turned back on a run
towards Uppsala.
“How come?” thought Grímr.
“Cousin Sigurðr is in a powerful hurry.”
He bent down to pick up a bundle left by
Sigurðr in his path. On opening it, he
saw a new-bom baby’s face grimace, as
the cool air touched it.
“Some more of Torfi’s deviltry,” he
murmured bitterly.
At the door to the manor house Unnr
came to meet him. She had also been
watching the strange behaviour of
Sigurðr.
“I’ve no doubt, this is your sister’s,”
said Unnr, her brown eyes smouldering.
“Toifi goes to great lengths to satisfy his
hatred of Grímkell.”
“I fear my mother is no more,” said
Grímr, sadly. “She would never have
consented to the exposing of her child.”
“I’ll go to bed and pretend the child is
ours,” begged Unnr.
“Torfi will see through that pretence,”
was Grímr’s quiet answer. “Have the
maids bring some water, and we’ll sprin-
kle and name the child. That will save
her life for the time being. Even Torfi will
shrink from murder.”
The little face puckered in discomfort,
and two dark-blue eyes opened wide in
wonder, as Grímr sprinkled the clear
water on the child’s brow, naming her
Þorbjörg, while Unnr held her close and
wept silently, her tears mingling with the
ritual water.
“I must go and see what has hap-
pened at Uppsala,” said Grímr. In the
meantime, Unnr prepared to put into
effect her naive attempt to save the child
from Toifi.
When Grímr reached Uppsala Torfi
told him about the sudden death of his
mother. “ITl transfer to you all her prop-
erty. It should really have been paid to
Grímkell, but I prefer paying it to you.”
“That is well spoken, Uncle Torfi. I
feel sure you will do right by me.” Grímr
knew he must be diplomatic.
According to custom, the funeral was
conducted immediately with proper
rites. After the funeral, Grímr had a
chance to speak to Sigurðr.
“Your life will be in danger when
Torfi discovers your failure to carry out
his bidding. Come to my home tonight,
and I’ll arrange for your escape.”
When Sigurðr came to Grímsstaðr
after nightfall, Grímr had a saddle horse
ready for him and also a pack-horse
loaded with merchandise.
“You’d better go to Norway for some
years. There’s a ship sailing from Eyrar in
a few days. The skipper’s my friend and
will give you passage, if you present this
ring from me as a token and reward.
Torfi will never foigive you for saving the
child, but I and all my mother’s friends
will be grateful to you.”
They parted friends, and Sigurðr
sailed for Norway a few days later.
Next week Torfi came to Grímsstaðr.
A servant told him Unnr was in child-
bed, and he demanded to see her. He at
once recognized the child, and his face
went purple with rage. In an icy voice he
asked how they dared give shelter to a
child he had ordered destroyed.
“This child is rather close to Grímr,
and it isn’t unnatural that he should wish
to save her,” Unnr replied in a voice as
icy as his own. “By the way, we’ve sprin-
kled her with water and named her
Þorbjörg, in case you have any further
plans in mind.”
Torfi’s long, lean fingers locked and
unlocked themselves.
“I’ll discuss this with Grímr,” he said
at last, “and you watch your saucy
tongue.”
“That’s one thing you’ll never control,
Uncle Torfi,” Unnr answered. “You’lí
find Grímr in Deepdale with his men,
building a fold for all those sheep you
have promised him.”
“They might not be quite so many
now,” taunted Torfi.
“Keep your sheep. They’ll never bring
you or anybody else happiness. Your
hate withers whatever you touch.”
Unnr hoped Torfi heard this partying
salute, as he stumbled out of the room.
“You poor, wee mite,” she fondly
caressed the sleeping child. “He’ll get his
talons in you again, and may the gods
protect you.”
When Grímr came home a while
later, Unnr was dressed and working
around.
“Uncle Torfi was in a terrible rage.
We’ll have to give up the child; we have
no chance to hold her against Torfi. I’m
glad I sent Sigurðr away.” Grímr looked
utterly exhausted.
Weeping bitterly, Unnr got the baby
ready to go, and when Torfi came by, she
handed him the pathetic little bundle
with a contemptuous toss of her red
head, which he did not seem to notice.
As Torfi rode into the court-yard at
Uppsala, a grey homespun-clad woman
scuttled past the corner of the manor
house. It was Sloppy Katla with her ash
pails. A cruel smile contorted his angry
features. Sloppy Katla, crippled, bleaiy-
eyed, sooty; she would be a fit nurse for
Grímkell’s daughter. He hoped Grímkell
would hear of it. He rode up to her. She
cowered at the sight of the horse loom-
ing over her.
“Here, Sloppy Katla, take this bastard
and look after it along with your ashes
and slops.”
Katla dropped her pails of ashes and
put up both hands for the bundle. If
Torfi had hoped it would be an unwel-
come burden, he was to be disappointed,
for Katla’s begrimed face became sud-
denly almost beautiful, as if she had
caught sight of the very abode of the
gods.
“And don’t come whining to me for
any garments for the brat; any rags are
good enough for Grímkell’s child.”
But Torfi’s ire was wasted. Sloppy
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