Lögberg-Heimskringla - 22.03.1985, Side 6

6-WINNIPEG, FÖSTUDAGUR 22. MARZ 1985
Summernight at Bláskógaströnd
A short story by Kristmann
Guðmundsson
Translated from the Icelandic by
Hallberg Hallmundsson
I stood on the shaky little wooden
pier, a suitcase in my hand, and wat-
ched the coastal steamer leave. I was
still trying to figure out why I had
disembarked at this remote place. Ac-
tually, I had not intended to stop here
at all; I had only toyed with the idea
as with some strange dream.
I found myself in a little village on
a quiet shore. Small houses, covered
with corrugated iron, stood apart
along a street scattered with odd
stones. Mounds of lava lay at the foot
of the mountain above and outside
the inlet was the ocean, which this
day was ^loriously calm and blue. It
was a peculiar place, covered, as it
were, by a veil. The idea entered my
head that God had withdrawn it from
the real world and put it aside, so that
it wouldn't be soiled. And the name
given it long ago had a hauntingly
beautiful sound to it —
Bláskógaströnd. (Blue Forrest Beach).
Of course, the name had a good
deal to do with my going ashore. I
had passed this place when I was a
boy, stopped for a short while, and
never since been able to forget the
sweet, lyrical name. From that time
on, I always had the feeling that
someone was awaiting me among the
mounds of lava. I sometimes recall-
ed this dream to mind when I was
tired, the blue mist of a summernight
softly embracing the shore, and
when I closed my eyes, I could
breathe the fragrance from moist,
flower-grown hollows. And she, who
awaited me, came toward me out of
the blue mist, with her black hair and
her gentle brows.
Now I stood here on the pier, a
grown-up, realistic man of ex-
perience, yet feeling in my mind the
presence of the dream; I became sud-
denly convinced that she was still
awaiting me.
In my youth, I had arrived on an
autumn evening, when everything
was screened by greenish, pale
moonlight. We had only stopped for
an hour. But in my memory, the
place was wrapped in the mist-blue
sheen of a bright summernight.
Bláskógaströnd — the name was
like a poem about sorrow receding
into oblivion.
Now I had come here again, and
my boat was gone. I would have to
stay until next morning at least, for
evening was falling.— Would there
be an inn in the village? I turned to
a group of men standing nearby on
the pier and asked them.
An inn? — Well, once there had
been something of the sort; run by
Hansen the Dane, who became
peculiar. It was a long time now since
he left. But old Þorbjörg at the farm-
house used to take in visitors and
feed them. She didn't charge much,
and she was thought to be a good
cook. — But haven't you been here
before? They wanted to know.
Perhaps, you're the brother of a man
who once spent a summer here?
I shook my head and they asked
no more, but I noticed that they look-
ed 'at me in a rather strange way.
After a short while, the oldest of
them said, "Hey, there, Helgi by boy,
carry the man's suitcase for him and
take him to old Þorbjörg."
Helgi and I walked through the
village and soon came to a handsome
farmhouse standing below the
nearest mounds of lava. I knocked on
the door and an old woman came
out. As she greeted me with a hand-
shake, asking me to step in, I became
aware that she observed me with sur-
prise. And standing there on the
pavement in front of the house, I had
a peculiar sensation. I felt that I was
dreaming. Everything around me
seemed familiar, as if I had merely
been away a few years and had come
home again. I recognized this old,
friendly woman, these turf walls,
grown with grass, the flowers on the
roof, and the scent of burned peat
and wood. It was all dear and
memorable — yet I had never been
to Bláskógaströnd, except that one
time, long ago, when I had come
there on a ship that had stopped for
no more than an hour.
The idea struck me that perhaps I
should have come here many years
ago. Perhaps this was where I was
destined to find happiness?
We went inside. The baðstofa was
unpainted and all the beams and
panels brown with age. There was a
table under the window on the gable,
and a bed under the sloping roof; the
floor was newly scrubbed. Peace and
serenity reigned here supreme.
Old Þorbjörg brought me food. She
wasted many words on how humble
it all was and what a shame it was to
offer it to high-class people from the
capital. But the food was excellent
and I ate a good portion of it. The old
woman watched me with the same
look of wonder that had met me
when,she first saw me. Finally she
said, "I hope there won't be fog
tonight."
Fog — Bláskógaströnd in the fog of
a summernight. — I replied: "I cer-
tainly couldn't mind thatí”
My answer brought a look of
wounded dignity on old Þorbjörg'^
face, as if I had offended her. -[
"They'll be rowing out to fish around
midnight, the local boys," she said a
trifle drily, "and the fog makes it dif-
ficult atsea. And then there are other
things.” — She fell suddenly silent
but continued looking at me, as if she
were trying to solve some riddle.
I went out after I had finished
eating. The sun was setting, but the
weather was warm and calm. A
bluish evening mist lay over the
mounds of lava, and the air smelled
of seaweed and wild thyme. It was
a long time since I had enjoyed such
a feeling of well-being; I felt as I did
when I was a child, that all of nature
wanted to be good to me.
A trodden path led in over the lava.
When I walked it for a while, the
birds around me became silent and
the flowers began to close their
crowns; night had come. The light
changed color, a purple haze
enveloping the mounds, making
everything softer and gentler. The
lava became a petrified, enchanted
forest. And then the fog came.
At first, it was white and
transparent, but then, gradually, it
grew denser. And the night worked
its magic on me. My mind filled with
reverence, I roamed into my old
dream of Bláskógaströnd.
In dreams and fairy tales
everything is possible, so it was no
surprise to me, when I saw her com-
ing toward me. She belonged in my
dream; she had been waiting for me
at Bláskógaströnd since the morning
of creation.
I greeted her and she smiled to me.
"Good evening," she said, "and
welcome back."
Her voice was joyful and young. I
looked at the girl while we shook
hands. She appeared to be just past
twenty, and shp„was tall and dark,
with brown eyqs and a face as fresh
as a flower at dawn. Her lips were
red and moist, her cheeks flushed,
her eyes shining, dark and happy.
She was wearing a brown bodice and
a gray skirt. Behind her in the
reddish-white fog, the turreted lava
formations loomed like visions in a
dream.
"Imagine, that we should meet
again here of all palces," she said
softly and quietly.
Meet again? — I did recognize her,
I had seen her before; that firm and
warm handshake of hers was familiar
to me. — But who was she? Where
had we met? It had to have been a
long time ago, and yet she was very
young, and I remembered her exact-
ly as she was now.
"Yes, it's strange, isn't it?" I
answered after a short hesitation,
hardly recognizing my own voice.
"But I always knew that we would
meet here."
"That’s what you said before you
left! — Yes, it's been a long time. And
you have been abroad all the time?"
Abroad all the time! Good Lord —
!l hadn’t been to Iceland for fourteen
years!
We walked on slowly, she turning
around and accompanying me far-
ther into the field of lava. The path
was stony, but the girl moved light-
ly, her gait like a dance. And she was
beautiful — as fresh and beautiful asa
bedewed flower in spring.
She began chatting with me, her
voice murmuring like a brooklet,
though at timesthere was a note of
sadness in it. At first, I only listened
to the sound of it, but then, sudden-
ly, I heard her words, "You always
said we would see each other again.
You stood at the gunwale as the ship
was leaving the pier and called,
"We'll see each other again!" You
know, it wasn't until then that I was
convinced you were serious and
would come back to me."
She looked at me smiling, her eyes
shining with gladness. I kept asking
myself where we had met and how
it could be that I had forgotten her?
"Remember the last night we walk-
ed here together through the lava?"
she whispered. Her voice now was
nostalgic and quiet.
I had to reply as I did, ''Yes, I
remember it well!'' — I did
remember — but how could that be?
It had to have been at least fourteen
years ago, and she could hardly have
been older than seven at the time.
Besides, I had never before walked
through the lava.
"It was a little foggy then, too," she
continued, "And you were telling me
that you had wanted to come to
Bláskógaströnd all your life. You said
you always knew that someone
would be waiting for you here."
Was it possible that I had bee here
sometime before and forgotten it? —
No, that was quite inconceivable.
"And I was waiting for you — just
youl" she said. "My lover was to
come from somewhere far away. I
was seventeen when you came. And
I can tell you now how much I
adored you! Remember when you
said you loved brown eyes?"
That could not be right, for I have
never had any preference for brown
eyes. And yet — I did remember that
I had said it some time.
"Why, didn't you ever write to
me?" I asked trying to find some way
out ofi ípy predicamént.
She loóked at me surprised. — "How
could I have done that? I didn't know
where you were, and we had agreed
that we wouldn't yvrite. I was sup-
posed to wait until you came back.
But I have walked here through the
lava thinking of you every single
evening when the weather has been
good. And I've stood by the rock
where you carved our initials and
looked at them. 'We're united here
for ever and ever' you said when you
had finished carving. Remember? It
was the night I kissed you for the first
time!"
I felt dizzy, and I began to have
palpitations. It was burnt into my
memory — a big slab of lava with two
letters, clumsily carved. How clear-
ly I remembered it! But when did it
happen? Can a chapter of one's own
life be forgotten like that? No, it was
impossible; it had to have been a
dream.
"You said then that nothing would
ever separate us, neither distance nor
time. And I've always felt that your
thoughts were with me, and I've
been calling for you all the time —
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