The Icelandic Canadian - 01.10.1942, Qupperneq 28

24
THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
Then he took a deep breath, broke
into a run, stopped for an instant on
the perilous brink; then hurled him-
self across the dreadful gap. The re-
bound, as he landed on the rock on the
other side, almost threw him back into
the Gorge, but he recovered his balance
and ran. nimbly down the bank.
There came eagle and salmon float-
ing past the bank on the edge of the
whirlpool. John made a noose on the
end of the reins and threw it over the
struggling pair, then braced himself
against the stones on the bank and
pulled. It tightened around the salmon
but slipped off again and the eagle
went partly under. The salmon was
dragging it down!
“Dear God, help me!” breathed Jon
as he threw again. This time the noose
held, and he pulled the interlocked pair
out of the water.
In spite of its exhaustion, the sharp
eyes of the eagle snapped fiercely, as if
saying, “Don’t touch me! Don”t touch
me!”
Bird and boy looked at one another
for a moment. The king of birds, trap-
ped by his own greed, and the fair-
haired descendant of Vikings, once as
ruthless as the eagle, but now mellowed
by centuries of civilization. Then, in
an upsurge of strength, the mighty
wings flapped boldly and with a sudden
wrench the eagle tore itself free and
soared aloft, leaving its prize glisten-
ing like a bar of silver at Jon’s feet. A
king’s ransom for a king’s release!
With a feeling of fierce joy Jon
watched the eagle sailing upwards into
the cloudless blue. “Thank God!” was
his first thought. It was more a state of
mind than a prayer. He felt as if
shackles had fallen from him too; as if
he too had acquired new strength, and
a limitless horizon. For a long time he
sat there and gazed after the eagle.
Even when it was lost in the blue be
still sat there staring upwards, wrapped
in glowing thought. The song of Deatli
Leap Gorge had lost its ominous sound
—all its terror and dark menace. It had
instead the cadence of grand, triumph-
ant strength. Jon now felt himself
master of his fate. He had conquered
Death Leap Gorge.
THE BLACKBIRD PASSES BY
A flash of black against an autumn sky—
A fluted cry, exultant, shrill and high,
The red-winged black-bird, singing, passes by.
Across the meadow tightly fenced around,
As if to keep its freedom safely bound,
He darts and dips toward the golden ground.
Upon a post he pauses just to see
The sun-bathed grasses stirring sombrely,
And flaps his wings with joy to be so free.’
Out on the wire he sang, a coal black king,
And flaunts the scarlet of his wondrous wing.
The seal of God who gave him voice to sing.
A flash of black against a crimson sky.
Into the sunset merging with his cry.
The redwinged blackbird, singing, passes by.
Laura Goodman Salverson
(From the Yearbook of Verse)