Lögberg-Heimskringla - 16.12.1994, Qupperneq 16

16 • Lögberg-Heimskringla • Föstudagur 16. desember 1994
The twelfth installment of an unpublished novel
by Ragnhildur Guttormsson, discovered and
edited by Kirsten Wolf, Chair, Dept. of Icelandic, University of Manitoba.
The story so far:
GrímkelTs son, Hörðr, has decided to
go abroad with his father’s blessing,
an indication that the rift between
father and son may be beginning to heal.
CHAPTER XII
Indriói and the Ea^le
By Ragnhildur Guttormsson
Edited by Kirsten Wolf
orbjörg spent many an hour in the
little dell on the bank of the
Salmon river overlooking Silver
Falls. Few knew of this grass-lined dell as
a young birch growing close to the
entrance concealed it from view. It was a
slender birch with silky-smooth, cream-
coloured bark, and long, fine twigs dark-
red and flutteiy. When the wind played
with them, the leaves sounded like many
little children softly clapping their hands,
but not all at the same time. Sometimes
when the wind was in a teasing mood, it
bent the birch forward until it looked
like a little green-clad fairy standing on
tip-toe and holding out her hands to the
falls below for some of their jewelled
mist.
Often she would see a slender youth
on the other side of the swift-flowing
river, spearing salmon. Sometimes he
would wave his hand to her, but she did
not wave back. A well-bred maiden did
not encourage familiarity from strangers.
Today she had brought her spindle
and was spinning fine woollen thread
over the edge of the cliff when she
noticed the eagle overhead. Poised on
wide, motionless wings it was scanning
the river below for salmon. Free, strong,
and fearless it sailed the blue deep above
as did Hörðr the seven seas. He had
been gone now for two years, and
already stories of his valour were being
told at the Alþingi. His bold adventures
were also told in many a manor-house
during the twilight evenings of the long,
northern winter; the heroic deeds of a
brave viking looking for treasure, and the
fame that goes with it.
Suddenly the eagle dropped like a
plummet down to the surface of the
river, a short distance below the falls.
Fascinated, Þorbjörg watched, expecting
the eagle to rise at once into the air with
its prey. But the eagle did not rise.
Instead it flapped its wings helplessly, as
if chained to the rocks in the bed of the
river. Þorbjörg soon guessed the reason.
It had sunk its talons in a salmon too
heavy for it to lift and could not free
itself. Eagle and salmon were locked
together in a death struggle which boded
ill for both.
A sense of horror swept over Þorbjörg.
In her thoughts she had linked the eagle
with Hörðr. It must be saved! But how?
She could do nothing but look on. She
knelt on the bank watching in agony the
apparently hopeless struggle down below.
She saw the white chuming of the waters
as the salmon frantically tried to rid him-
self of his fatal burden.
A movement on the opposite bank
caught Þorbjörg’s eye. The unknown
youth was climbing down the steep rocky
wall of the chasm. Again she 'watched
breathlessly, her anxiety divided between
the slender youth and the distressed
eagle. Hanging unto the rock, the
stranger stepped from one craggy shelf to
another; sometimes loose stones crum-
bled from the ledges and fell echoing into
the gorge; but his hold was firm, and he
felt carefully around for a sure foot-hold.
At last he reached the bottom, and
Þorbjörg breathed again; but that was
only half the battle. Eagle and salmon
were in mid-stream now, whirling in a
veritable dance of death.
“Hurry! Please, hurry!” She heard
herself shouting.
Poised behind a large rock, the youth
threw a gleaming object toward the strug-
gling pair, which seemed to bury itself in
the salmon. By means of a thong fastened
to it, he slowly pulled the flapping pair up
unto the flat rocks. Once on dry land,
the eagle seemed to regain its strength.
Wrenching its claws free from the
salmon and with a few mighty strokes of
its broad wings, it lifted itself into the
blue of the sky, then flew towards its
home in the mountains.
The boy, head thrown back, stood
for a long time gazing after the eagle; the
large salmon, glistening like a bar of sil-
ver, lay forgotten at his feet, a king’s
ransom.
Þorbjörg’s eyes also followed the
eagle. She was still kneeling on the
bank, and tears of relief were running
down her cheeks. Then she waved her
thanks to the unknown hero, and he
waved back. It still seemed to her as if it
had been Hörðr he had saved.
Next day when Þorbjörg came down
to her retreat by the river, the unknown
youth was lying full length on the grass.
His brown eyes laughed up at her, as
she drew back.
“I don’t bite,” he said.
“Thank you for saving the eagle,”
said Þorbjörg, perching daintily on a
rock.
“That was nothing,” the youth said
loftily.
“Oh, do you save eagles every day?”
Þorbjörg asked a bit quizzically.
“This was my first one, but when you
want another saved, just call me,” he
laughed.
“I’ll remember that,” Þorbjörg
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replied. Then after a slight pause,
“Guðríðr, my foster-mother, tells me it’s
a good omen to save an eagle; it means
that the Norns feel friendly towards
you.”
“I hope she’s right. If the Noms are
against you, nothing can save you.” He
spoke gravely.
“Yes.” This with emphasis from
Þorbjörg.
“I know who you are,” said the
youth after a short pause, “You are
Þorbjörg, the daughter of Grímkell,
chieftain-priest at Ölfus Lake.”
“I guess you also know that when I
was a baby I was carried from house to
house in a beggar’s scrip,” Þorbjörg said
bitterly.
“Yes,” said the boy. Then in a lower
tone,- “I’ve always felt so badly about
that.”
“You? Why should you feel badly
about that?”
“Because it must be so painful for
you to have to remember that.”
“Yes, it is. But nobody has ever said
that to me before.” Þorbjörg’s eyes filled
with tears.
“Don’t weep. It doesn’t matter any
more.”
“Why?”
“Because.” A stubbom silence.
All of a sudden Þorbjörg seemed
also to feel it did not matter any more.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“ I am Indriði from Indriðastaðr,” he
answered. “I came down to the river to
spear salmon. See the harpoon I
made.”
Þorbjörg examined the simple device
admiringly. It was made from bone,
beautifully polished.
“That’s what helped you save the
eagle,” she said. “You know how to
throw it, too,” she said, as she handed
it back.
“I’ve practised with it,” Indriði said
simply. “But I must go now, and I’ll not
comeagain, until... until...”
“Ontil what?” asked Þorbjörg impa-
tiently.
“Óh, nothing,” answered Indriði
somewhat testily. “But I’ll ride to the
Alþingi next summer.”
“My foster-mother has promised
that I shall go next summer. I want to
get news of my brother Hörðr.”
‘T’ll see you at the Alþingi next year
and tell you the news.”
“Next year at the Alþingi!” e.choed
the rocks, as Indriði slipped over the
edge and climbed nimbly down into the
craggy chasm.
“Next year at the Alþingi,” whis-
pered Þorbjörg softly to herself, as she
watched him cross the swift-flowing
river and climb up the opposite bank.
Then he turned and waved at her,
before he walked away. This time she
waved back.
Þorbjörg told nobody about Indriði’s
visit. She felt that telling about it would
somehow spoil it.
Later that summer Little Grímr died
suddenly in his sleep. After that
Guðríðr seemed to need her more and
more as her mind wandered after her
husband’s death, so Þorbjörg did not
ride to the Alþingi.
But next summer, when Þorbjörg
was seventeen, Guðríðr insisted that
she go there with her stepmother
Sigríðr who had invited her.
To Be Continued January 13/95