Lögberg-Heimskringla - 07.04.1995, Blaðsíða 4

4 • Lögberg-Heimskringla • Föstudagur 24. mars 1995

kell
By Ragnhildur Guttormsson
Edited by Kirsten Wolf
The autumn night had put her seal
on the activities of the day, dark,
silent, and final. There were no
stars, only the desol'ate, brooding black-
ness. Still Helga sat on, without moving,
just listening. She had sat like that often
before when Hörör was away foraging,
listening for the moumful cry of a loon,
Hörðr’s signal that all was well. But this
listening was different. It was hopéless,
and it was fearsome. Out of this darkness
might come the hushed creak of oars, the
stealthy step on the path, the cruel, hairy
hand with the sword. Helga shuddered,
she felt surrounded by unseen enemies,
yet she was too stunned to move.
“Hush! I hear something!” It was
Grímkell speaking.
“I hear it too,” whispered Björn.
“What is it?”
“Oh, just a gull,” answered Grímkell.
“Maybe he fell out of bed,” giggled
Bjöm, he was only four.
The boys were huddled together on
the white bearskin rug at Helga’s feet.
She could barely see their white faces in
the gloomy darkness. This mg Hörðr had
brought her from his trip to Hom, when
he fought the polar bear and was almost
carried away on an ice-floe. It was only
his fierce determination to live that saved
him.
“I had to come back to bring you the
pelt,” he had said with a laugh, as Helgi
was telling the tale of the adventure.
Helgi always told the stories of Hörðr’s
feats. Hörðr never did. This time Hörðr
swam for half a mile, carrying the pelt of
the bear, then went back for the exhaust-
ed Helgi and brought him to land.
“Life’s too good to throw it away,” he
used to say. “I’II sell my life dear, I’ll not
give it away.” Could she do less for his
sons.
While Helga had been sitting there,
the sky had cleared. The stars had come
out, and the northem lights appeared out
of nowhere. Their weird dance seemed
wilder than ever before, and they
swooped almost down to the earth.
“What are they?” whispered Bjöm in
an awed tone, clinging to his brother.
“Valkyries carrying our father to
Valhöll,” answered Grímkell proudly.
“Will they come and get us too?”
“Not yet,” was Grímkell’s answer. We
must avenge our father first.”
It was not the silly boasting of a child;
it was the solemn voice of a man making
a promise he meant to keep. The vibrant
strength of it pierced the numbness of
Helga’s pain.
“Grímkell!” she cried sharply.
“I’m here, mother.” The voice was
calm and steady like Hörðr’s when he
was most himself.
“We must get away from here at
once.”
“Yes, I know, mother.”
Numb with cold, which she first now
noticed, Helga roused herself and began
to make preparations for her flight from
the islet. Hörðr had often told her what
she must do if some day he did not
retum; make her way to shore by boat or
swimming, then climb the rocky cleft,
cross the mountains to Indriðastaðr and
seek shelter with his sister Þorbjörg.
Once her mind was made up Helga
did not waste any time. She mbbed the
boys from head to foot in cod liver oil till
their bodies gleamed in the fitful light like
The twenty-fífth installment ofan unpublished novel
by Ragnhildur Guttormsson, discovered and
edited by Kirsten Wolf, Chair, Dept. oflcelandic, University of Manitoba.
The story so far:
The prophecy his mother made when he was a
child is fulfilled as Hörðr is killed by his enemies.
€IEIAIPimiR ■XZÍ IPAMF II
QOcsQéa ®cdcso
Qco<íIc?d©a]oQa©c?
those of young seals. Then she dressed
them in short woolen tunics and tied
sheep-skin sandals on their feet. While
she was hastily rubbing her own supple
limbs with the oil, Grímkell dove into the
darkness of the hall. Helga was a strong
swimmer, but she knew the ordeal ahead
of her was severe. She was no longer the
pampered daughter of an Earl, but the
wife of an outlaw, a hunted creature, who
had to depend upon her own strength to
guard her young. She recalled her broth-
er’s teasing story of how Hörðr had
desisted from killing a doe because it was
followed by a fawn; now she was the doe
with a pack of wolves on shore, thirsting
for her blood and that of her sons.
“Grímkell, where are you?”
“Here, mother.”
He came within her vision. He had
been trying on his father’s gold headband,
but it was too large and was sitting on his
shoulders.
“It is father’s. I’ll grow into it,” he
declared defiantly.
“It’ll hinder you in the sea. We have to
swim.”
“I can swim faster than you, mother,”
boasted Grímkell . She knew it was true;
Grímkell was like a seal in the water, but
would he last?
The next step was to lash Bjöm unto
her back. She took a long leather thong
and tied him as securely as she could to
her own body, then sat down for last
minute directions:
“Let’s start out slowly, because we’ve a
long way to go. Don’t make any noise.
When you need me, Grímkell, use
father’s loon cry, and I’ll answer with
mine. You must not cry, Bjöm, and don’t
take hold of mother’s neck, but hold onto
my braids. Hold up your heads, and don’t
swallow any sea water.”
Slowly they picked their way down
the steep cliff to the sea. The slimy sea-
weeds licked at their feet as they waded
out. A seabird flew scolding away, and
they were swimming side by side. The sea
was bitterly cold,and knocked the breath
out of Helga at first. Grímkell did not’
seem to feel it. Bjöm whimpered. “Hush,
child,” demanded Helga.
Grímkell swam much faster than
Helga and drew ahead. Then he came
back to meet her again. Helga swam up
close and said softly, “Go easy,
Grímkell. Save your strength.” After that
he swam just ahead of her for the first
mile. Easily, almost pleasantly, they
slipped through the limpid water. Above
hissed and sparkled the northem lights,
in the deep below the inmates of the sea
flashed and glittered with phosphores-
cent brilliance. Once they swam
through a school of meteor-like herrings.
A seal sported about them, looking at
them out of his strangely human eyes.
Out towards sea a whale sent up his
miniature fountain. But Helga hardly
noticed these creatures of the deep, and
they did not terrify her. The terror was
on shore.
Grímkell was tiring now. His breath
came more sharply, and he was begin-
ning to lag behind. He tried to make a
game of his swimming, pretend he was
searching for treasure and the star mir-
rored in the sea was his prize. But no
matter how he tried, the star was always
beyond his reach. Then came the time
when he could no longer see the dark
head of his mother, only the slightly dis-
turbed suriíace of the sea in her wake.
The gold band on his shoulders had
become a burden by now and cut into
his flesh like a buming yoke; but it was
his father’s. It seemed to him he had no
limbs any more, just some things that
moved in spite of himself.
The troubled cry of a loon floated
over the water. It reached Helga plowing
steadily onwards. She had sensed
Grímkell’s fatigue, but she knew she
could not manage the two boys at once.
She was tired, and her breath was com-
ing in gasps. Her throat was dry and
aching, but she summoned all her
strength and sent back her cheering call,
hoping desperately that it would help
renew Grímkell’s strength till she could
go back and help him.
She headed abruptly for land. Surely,
by now they had got past the lair of their
enemies. Bjöm felt like a weight of lead
on her back, and the leather thong cut
into her body, as if made of red hot iron.
At last she heard the soft hissing of the
waves on the beach. A couple of eider
ducks swam by, murmuring as they
went. She heard the sound of mnning
water and landed beside a small river.
On the pebbly beach were heaps of dry
seaweed. With stiff, trembling fingers
she slipped off the thong. A prayer to
the gods for strength for her and
Grímkell trembled on her lips.
Hurriedly, she covered Bjöm with the
dry seaweed, whispering as she left,
“Don’t move, and don’t make a sound.”
“No, mother,” answered the drowsy,
shivering child.
For a short minute she lay down
beside the river and drank a few gulps of
water. Then waded into the sea again.
As she did so she gave her signal, the
trill of the golden plover, then waited,
breathlessly, for an answer. It came, but
gasping and muffled. Helga’s tired,
aching limbs clove the water. Her smart-
ing eyes peered through the darkness
along the undulating surface for a speck
which might be Grímkell’s head, but the
surface was unbroken except for a bit of
seaweed here and there and some bub-
bly foam. Again she sounded the bird
call as she swam. “Here, mother,”
gasped Grímkell quite close. He was
between her and shore; she had almost
passed him. His strokes were growing
faint, and he was near sinkirig.
Supporting him with one arm, she
swam towards land again. The going
was slow. Her harassed body almost
rebelled against this extra strain. But
Helga had no intention of giving up
now. Her spirit drove her tired muscles
on..She felt as if she had no body any
more, only a burning determination
which spurred her on. At last she heard
the murmur of flowing water again.
They were safe from the sea.
For a while Helga and Grímkell rest-
ed on the heaps of dried seaweed, while
Bjöm slept. But she knew they must not
linger too long, they were too close to
Hörðr’s enemies. They must seek the
protection of the hills and Þorbjörg, and
so they began their long climb up the
mountain side.
Hörðr had often described to her the
route she must follow. First cross the
mountain north of Whalefirth, then fol-
low the Wether’s Trail, a gully marked
by stone caims, across Swinedale. Then
she would come to a low range of
mountains; on the other side of these
was Skorradalr. He had also pointed
out to her the lodestar by which she
must set her course. It was there now,
high in the sky, winking at her like
Óðinn’s one eye urging her on. She had
to cany Bjöm as he could not walk fast
enough, but Grímkell trudged by her
side. His teeth were chattering, and he
whimpered as the sharp stones cut his
bare feet; his sandals he had lost while
swimming. But Helga seemed to feel
neither physical pain nor fatigue, but
kept relentlessly on; Hörðr’s sons must
be saved.
Sometimes their feet would sink into
the welcome, cool softness of moss and
deep grass; sometimes they had to clam-
ber on hands and knees up steep
precipices and rough gullies; at times
they walked over moss-grown lava
moors, where sharp stones pierced their
feet like red hot needles. But silently
they kept on guided by the cool gleam
of Óðinn’s one eye.
(Continued next week)