Lögberg-Heimskringla - 24.05.1985, Blaðsíða 5

WINNIPEG, FÖSTUDAGUR 24. MAÍ 1985-5
The Last Journey
by Jonas Gudlaugsson
translated by
LaDonna Breidfjord Backmeyer
Jonas Gudlaugsson was an
Icelander, but most of his work was
written in Danish. He died in 1916
at twenty-nine years of age. I don't
believe that any of his work has ever
appeared in English, though it has
been translated to other languages.
The sun cast its glowing rays into
the little four-paned window of the
cottage where Jon of Mula lay in his
sick-bed. They built a fiery play
which crept in and out of the
shadowy room filled with hides,
tools, and miscellaneous trash,
attempting with eager flaming hands
to clean the disorder, putting light on
the old and musty furnishings which
seemed to have lain in an agelong
darkness. One broad sunbeam
stretched from the window to the
bed where Jon of Mula's immense
and greyhaired head stuck up from
the black sheepskin which served
him as a bedcover. There was a look
of death on the disease-ravaged face,
upon which the white lights flickered
and fell.
Jon of Mula still slept.
It was .very early in the morning,
but the sun had already risen and
stood straight above the sea.
The flies, aware of the sun's mater-
nal touch, were quick to waken, and
the low-roofed room hummed with
their monotone hymn to the day.
Then the breeze woke from the sea,
and the long thatching of the roofs
and the walls beat along with the
jingle of silver tangents that sound-
ed from the four panes, a whisper-
play that gave out music like a joyous
sigh from the earth’s interior.
Gradually all that lived awakened:
the wind, the grass, the insects. And
the birds of the air rose from their
nests singing.
Only the old man of the house re-
mained in sleep, as though life could
not touch him. His face was sallow
and pale and ravaged by sickness and
age. Its strong form, silver white hair
and thick beard were the only
reminders of a former strength.
His breathing was troubled; it stop-
ped, then rose, coming as a deep sigh
from the breast. And the old man
slept on in a lethargic state that he
could not shake off any easier than
the sleep of the dead. The flies sat
tactlessly on his clammy forehead, as
well as on his eyelashes, but not a
feature moved upon his face.
John of Mula's powerful head lay
back on the pillow, dead opposite the
spring morning’s thousand-voiced
hymn, insensitive to the warm sun
that crept like a fairy over to the bed
and stroked him with light that eas-
ed over his high arching forehead and
tousled wild hair.
It was as though that sleeping head
only reluctantly met with the sun’s
caress. The old black sheepskin was
far more sensitive and grateful. Its
tangled hair sucked the light to itself
and tried to hold it fast, and an old
and rusty axe over the head of the
bed made well-meant attempts to
mirror the flickering luster of the
shining sunbeams between its
blights. Even the worn old saddle
which hung over the bed smiled
kindly in spite of its broken stirrups
and age, both of which illustrated a
saga about life's perishableness.
Only much later in the day did it
appear as though the great head was
showing some signs that it would
waken to life.
By then the light had become calm
and full and spread itself smoothly
over the narrow room. The wind was
darting over the salvage, and the
straw lazed dreamily in the warmth
without sound or excitement. The
flies, who sang the whole of the
music with their curious droning
song, swarmed around in a jovial
mating dance. Then, with a heavy
sigh, Jon of Mula woke to the con-
sciousness of the morning.
With a despondent grimace he
threw his red-ringed eyes open and
the eyes popped from his head to
meet the light in astonishment. He
had truly wakened to a new day.
'Tndeed," he said with a senile
look, "that is actually the sun which
shines — and this is your bed — and
over your headboard gleams your axe
— your old and faithful friend!"
His eyes sprang to life and hung
firm to the axe.
Then, with a powerful and gnarl-
ed hand he groped up from the cover
and carried the hand slowly and cer-
tainly, in spite of the tremor, up to
his forehead to stroke the heaviness
away. His thoughts cleared gradual-
ly, and the arousel of his memory
could be read in the lines of his face.
Jon of Mula’s eyes lingered upon
the axe and gleamed with a
mysterious eagerness that merged
with astonishment.
At last the eyes smiled, and the lips
opened themselves in a twitch.
"He, he!" he laughed as he rose
himself to his elbow, and though his
powerful body appeared angular and
bony, it was tempered with steel.
"He, he," he continued with a grunt.
"You shall see that Jon of Mula has
not fallen from the saddle yet!"
His red-ringed and runny eyes blaz-
ed with the fanatical will that allow-
ed him to rise from the bed and set
his feet upon the floor, feet that were
long enough for two men, and as
hairy as a bear's paws, though they
were so lean that the hide merely
dropped over the bones.
A little dizzy and staggering, Jon
heaved himself up from the bed. His
bones creaked in every joint with the
exertion, but Jon of Mula paid no
heed. He groped his way to the hook
from which his clothes hung.
Leather pants and stockings and a
poor man's coat of black sheepskin
hung from the hook, the last of which
was so hard that it groaned when he
took it down. It had been several
months since he had been out of his
bed.
He began to dress himself as eager-
ly as though his life depended upon
it, stealing a glance out of the win-
dow as he dressed and accepting the
wisdom the window offered. The
sunlight poured forward to meet him
and a fragment of green grassy fields
could be seen — and the axe glearn-
ed provocatively from its peg.
It caused him great difficulty to get
the hard and crumpled coat on, so
much so that he staggered under the
exertion. Finished at last, he walked
to the peg from which the axe hung
and seized it eagerly with both hands.
Its shaft was four feet long and
mounted with iron; the blade was
long and thick. He stroked gently
over the metal and felt its sharpness.
"Ha, ha, Rimmugygi! . . . Now
shall you get Store-Kolur’s flesh and
blood to taste! Skarp-Hedin has call-
ed us! Ha, ha, ha!" It was as though
this thought poured fresh blood
through his veins for he walked to
the door with a quick sure step.
But the light from the open door
hurt his eyes, and the fresh air that
flooded through made him dizzy and
caused his thröát’ to contract. He
started and looked about him with a
child’s inquisitive though appre-
hensive expression.
Everything was alien and altered.
The whole of the land vibrated in the
sharp light so that he could not focus
his eyes on the contours of the land.
He had the sensation of a wanderer,
one who goes over the snow in bright
sunshine, and the air thrust a cold
sharp sword through his lungs.
The door slammed behind him
after a long groaning sound that caus-
ed the hound of the place to jump
and howl. But when he recognized
his master, the howl became a bark
and he wagged his tail with joy. How-
ever, Jon paid no heed to the animal
and walked farther out upon the
farmlands with the axe over his
shoulder.
Then the barn door opened and a
muddle-spined old woman stretched
her wrinkled face from the shadows
with a hand over her eyes so that she
could see what kind of strangeness
was going on. Suddenly her every
feáture stiffened in a dumbfounded
surprise that quickly spread over her
face.
"Jon, Jon," she called, "are you liv-
ing or dead?"
Her lips stood open and she held
fast to the door latch while waiting
in fear.
Jon turned himself about when he
heard her talk. He did not grasp her
words, and he only indistinctly saw
her form in the door.
"Is that you, Kristin?" he asked in
his bottomless and mumbling voice.
But without waiting for an answer he
proceeded ominously and shook the
axe in his hand:
"Now shall Store-Kolur get a kiss
from Rimmugygi! Last night Skarp
Hedin came to me and said: 'If you
want to meet Store-Kolur, you can
find him up on Mula Mountain
tomorrow!' . . . he, he!"
Kristin heaved a sign of relief when
she heard him talk. But once again
fear came into her eyes and she walk-
ed some paces with him.
"But you are so sick, man, and
ought to keep yourself to bed."
Jon drew himself up and drew his
eyebrows together.
‘T sick?" he said contemptuously.
"No. Now Jon of Mula has got his
powers back."
For a time the old woman stared
doubtfully, then she suddenly shook
her head.
"You must have lost your mind,
man," she said. "Store-Koiur is only
living in your own imagination. No
outlaws live on the mountain any-
more."
Jon squinted his eyes and looked at
her with a contemptuous glance.
"Get to your pots, Kristin. You
understand them better than out-
laws. Or perhaps you believe that
you have better information than I
. . . Or perhaps you know some other
who has taken your black bellsheep
which never came down from the
mountain? ... I say to you that no
other than Store-Kolur did that job."
"A-ha, that I do not believe. T'hat
the fox has done," Kristin answered
quietly. But with a flame of eagerness
rising in her eyes, she walked over
to him.
"Think of the deliverance of your
soul, man, you who stands on the
edge of the grave. You ought to be
wholly occupied with your savior
Jesus Christ rather than with outlaws
who never have existed. What do
you believe the pastor would say if
he heard what you think about, and
Continued on page 6
Þjóðræknisfélag íslendinga í Vesturheimi
FORSETI: JOHANN S. SIGURDSON & OLI NARFASON
Gimli, Manitoba
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