Lögberg-Heimskringla - 28.04.1995, Page 6

6 • Lögberg-Heimskringla • Föstudagur 28. apríl 1995
" Crínkell
The twenty-eighth installment ofan unpublished novel
by Ragnhildur Guttormsson, discovered and
edited byKirsten Wolf, Chair, Dept. oflcelandic, University of Manitoba.
The story so far:
Hórðr’s widow Helga and her two sons have fled
Iceland, but not before Helga threatens revenge
against Indriði.
(ÖIHAIPHm IPADMT 1
i-B 3 'J* CD
By Ragnhildur Guttormsson
Edited by Kirsten Wolf
On a day in mid-summer in the
year 1001, a lone horseman was
riding along the northem shore
of Whalefirth. He was fully armed; his
gold helmet shone in the moming sun,
and his green cloak did not quite hide
his chain armour. At his side rattled a
sword-filled scabbard and a silver-
mounted buckler. He pulled up his
horse from time to time and kept look-
ing around as if searching for something.
Out of the molten silver of the fjord to
his right rose the grim fortress-like cliffs
of Geirhólmr with their crown of emer-
ald grass.
“It should be here somewhere,” he
muttered to himself, and the next
moment he saw the object of his search:
a swiftly flowing mountain stream. He
stopped for a moment on its bank and
listened. He had heard its song before; a
melancholy song about a father that was
slain, a weeping mother, and her two
young sons.
Bjöm, the son of Hörðr and Helga,
dismounted, and, leading his horse,
began the climb up the hillside. He fol-
lowed the brook to its main source, a
spring edged with yellowish-green moss
niear the top of the mountain pass. There
he sat down for a while and rested. He
was tired and so was his horse.
He looked down upon Whalefirth
and saw Geirhólmr, a green speck in the
middle of the fjord. He marvelled again
at the strength and courage of his moth-
er, when she swam across the fjord and
climbed this mountain carrying him,
then descended into Skorradalr to seek
refuge with Þorbjörg, his aunt, whose
husband was one of his father’s ene-
mies.
Björn had landed at Eyrar a week
ago and was now on his way to
Indriðastaðr.
The people at Indriðastaðr had sight-
ed the lone rider anti wondered who
rode so fearlessly, though alone. Indriði
and Þorbjörg were both in the courtyard
to greet him when he arrived.
Bjöm threw his reins to a groom who
stepped forward to take his horse,
sprang lightly from the saddle, and
walked towards Þorbjörg and Indriði.
“My aunt Þorbjörg and kinsman
Indriði,” he said pleasantly. “Again I
come seeking shelter at your manor.”
“You’re Bjöm!” exclaimed Þorbjörg.
“My brother’s son!” She took his hand
in both of hers, while scanning his face
COUNSELUORS
closely. Indriði also gave Bjöm a long,
questioning look, as he bid him welcome,
which Björn met with a guileless and
friendly smile.
“And your mother?” Þorbjörg asked.
“My mother died last winter. It was her
last wish that I visit you.”
“When you’ve rested after your voyage,
we will ride with you to Broad Acres,”
Indriði said when they were seated and
Þorbjörg had gone to order refreshments.
“But at first you’ll make your home with
us.”
“Yes, I promised my mother I’d visit
‘beautiful Broad Acres’. She told me it
was the one place where she’d been per-
fectly happy.”
“But Broad Acres is your heritage.
Your mother knew that. I sent her a mes-
sage to that effect with Þorbjöm, the mer-
chant, and I know she received it. I
thought you were here to take over your
heritage.”
“Strange, she never told me. She gave
me some missions to carry out, but that
was all.” Bjöm spoke thoughtfully, He
seemed to be hearing his mother’s voice,
‘What you do after that is your own
option. You must choose for yourself.’”
Indriði gave Bjöm another long look
but said nothing. Still Bjöm’s words filled
him with dismay. Was the old bitter feud
to be revived all over again? Well, what
matter? He was an old man now, but
Þorbjörg would be hurt, and she had
never failed anybody.
Later, the three of them sat and talked.
“Great many things have changed
these twelve years past,” said Indriði.
“The old generation has passed away and
ancient feuds are forgotten.”
“Yes, Bjöm,” Þorbjöig added. “A new
era has begun in our land. A year ago at
the Alþingi, our leading men accepted
Christianity for the whole of Iceland, and
all our people have been baptized into the
Choices...
new fáith.”
“The same thing has happened in
Gotland,” remarked Bjöm. “My mother
was one of the first to be baptized.”
“So we’re done with hate,” said Þorb-
jörg. She opened a carved casket on a
stand beside her seat and lifted out a
pair of yellowed child’s shoes. Inside
them glittered the broken pieces of the
once proud necklace.
“These are your father’s first shoes
and your grandmother’s broken neck-
lace, the baubles of pride and hate.
They’ll be buried with me. But this I
want to give you,” and she held up a sil-
ver cup. “This is the chalice from the
Christian given to me by our father in
his hour of happiness. I’d like you to
have it back.”
Bjöm laughed. “You make things so
easy for me. This was one of the mis-
sions entrusted to me by my mother. I
was to beg you to give me back the chal-
ice.”
“Your father’s good ring is lost, and
his sword is long since broken,” Þorb-
jörg kept on, but Bjöm did not seem to
hear; he was carefully examining the
■chalice.
Then he said soberly: “I promised
her I’d build a church around it. It
seemed to mean so much to her.”
On a perfect summer day, Bjöm rode
between Þorbjörg and Indriði down into
Northem Smoky Valley towards Broad
Acres. Golden plovers piped them down
the hillsides. They were met by kindly,
elderly Þorgeirr, the son of Grímr,
Hörðr’s older brother, who was manag-
ing Breiðabólstaðr as well as his own
farm.
He greeted Bjöm with a hearty hand-
shake, saying, “Good to see you kins-
man Bjöm. I hope you have come to
stay. We need the sons of heroes to help
build a strong, law-abiding nation in a
new country.”
“This is well said, Uncle Þorgeirr,”
Bjöm answered guardedly. “I’ve been
made to feel veiy welcome and have met
with only goodwill. But as yet, I feel
somewhat like a guest.”
“Indriði and I will soon change that.
Wait till we show you around.”
Þorgeirr had been as good as his
word. He had shown Bjöm all around
his domain: the new manor hall, which
had been built on the ruins of the
bumed one, and the lush pasture-fields,
where fat sheep and sleek horses
roamed at will. He also showed him the
pillars of his father’s high seat. Þorgeirr
had found them on a ledge of rock,
weighted down with large slabs of stone.
“He must have hoped to come back,”
Þorbjörg said with tears in her voice,
when they told her.
The pillars were now warped and
weather-beaten, “but the core is still
good,” said Þorgeirr.
“You’ll not be able to use them
again,” Indriði remarked, while Björn
answered quickly, “I’ve no right to sit in
my father’s high seat, as I’ve not yet
avenged his death with my sword.”
“There may be other ways,” Indriði
answered mildly.
His mother had said much the same
thing, yet Björn was dismayed at the
task she had set him.
The long summer day was drawing
to a close, and the sun was nearing the
horizon, tinting the distant mountain-
tops with gold. Þorbjörg and Indriði
were sitting outside, talking quietly and
watching Bjöm trying out his new steed,
Gullfaxi, on the meadows down by the
river.
“He likes it here I’m sure,” laughed
Þorbjörg. “Look at him, speeding by like
the wind! He reminds me of Hörðr on
my father’s Gullfaxi.”
“Yes, he likes it here. I think he’ll
stay,” answered Indriði. “His mind
seems to dwell on the things he has
promised his mother. Strangely, he’s
chosen a site for his church on the mins
of Auðunn’s house, the one that Hörðr
bumed, only Bjöm doesn’t know that.”
“Strange, indeed,” echoed Þorbjörg.
Then she added, “Yet, he seems to be
brooding over something. He’ll be
happy and laughing, and all of a sudden
he’ll look as if he never had laughed in
his life.”
“He looks happy enough now,” said
Indriði, as Gullfaxi came flying towards
them. Björn jumped off the horse and
led it up to Þorbjörg and Indriði.
“What a horse!” he exclaimed. “Swift
as the wind and always raring to go and
so beautiful.” He let his hand slide along
the golden mane, while Gullfaxi playful-
ly nuzzled his shoulder. “He seems to
have taken a fancy to me,” laughed
Bjöm, a little selfconsciously.
“He’s Gullfaxi the Seventh, smiled
Þorbjörg. “A direct descendent of
Gullfaxi the First your grandfather
Grímkell used to ride.”
“Did my father also have a
Gullfaxi?” asked Bjöm.
“No, I was going to give him one ... ”
Þorbjörg did not finish.
Bjöm looked up. “But there was not
time,” he added.
. “Tomorrow you and Þorgeirr will be
riding up to the shieling in the high-
lands,” said Indriði in an unnecessarily
loud, cheerful voice.
“That’s where our Ingrid reigns,”
added Þorbjörg, equally cheerfully.
“Ingrid? I seem to remember the
name,” mused Bjöm.
“She’s the daughter of Þórólfr, who
was killed with your brother, and she’s
our foster-daughter.”
“I remember her, she was my play-
mate. She wanted to give me a lamb
when I left.”
“That I can well believe,” said Þorb-
jörg. “She will be coming to meet us
here. We sent her word. There’s Sigríðr
calling me now, she wants my advice on
some household matters.”
There was silence between the two
men for a while after Þorbjörg left. Then
Bjöm spoke up. “I’ve only one more of
my mother’s missions to carry out, but
it’s the most exacting one.”
“Yes?” queried Indriði; he had been
expecting this.
(Continued next week)
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