The Icelandic Canadian - 01.06.1957, Qupperneq 27

THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
25
TH1E MOUNTAIN
AN ALLEGORY
(From the Icelandic of Bjorn Austneni, translated by Bogi Bjarnason)
A high mountain reared its peak
into the sky, and loomed, bleak and
ominous, above the sea.
At its foot was a narrow strip of
sward, lush with nourishing grass, a
number of farmsteads subsisting on its
vegetation, which provided both meat
and raiment. Those who peopled this
strip made the most of what it pro-
vided, lived simply and peaceably,
seeking no adventures. Their horizon
was bounded by the top of the moun-
tain and the curve of the sea, and these
were the boundaries of their world.
The mountain was so precipitous
that only the birds of the air knew its
crest, a mass of rock where caverns
purportedly sheltered a race of beings
inimical to humankind. The people
of the strand sought no traffic with
the beings of the mountain, and left
them to their own devices. It was com-
mon knowledge that they resented
interference in their affairs, and show-
ed their displeasure by instigating dire
calamities. Indeed, a few hundred
years ago some adventurous one among
the strand people had scaled the moun-
tain and peeped in on the inhabitants
of the crest, who then, to show their
displeasure had sent a tremendous
boulder hurtling down the mountain-
side, so for a long time no one essayed
to repeat the climb, lest further calam-
ities ensue.
Immediately below the rocky pin-
nacle of the mountain a broad shelf,
higher at the seaward edge, carried a
forest of trees whose fragrance wafted
down to the strand when the wind
blew off the mountain. It was a matter
of speculation what manner of fauna
existed in its depths.
Buildings of the several steads along
the shore below the mountain were
mostly of low construction so that their
inhabitants were obliged to stoop to
pass through their doorways. But one
of these steads was more imposing than
the rest, the home of the district chief-
tain. Its walls were of stone, its roof-
beam of driftwood so huge that a
grown man could barely span it. “No
wind will carry it away, nor avalanche
lay it low”, said the chieftain. No other
dangers came to mind. Its doorways
were such that he could, despite his
great height and girth, pass through
them without stooping, to which he
had never been accustomed. His neigh-
bors (in a sense his subjects) were in-
ured to it — to bowing before him and
stooping in their own lowly doorways,
accepting it as a part of their way of
life. They bowed low even in their
way of thinking, which was simple and
malleable, and to the chieftain’s lik-
ing. He did not approve of innovations,
of disturbing the ordered flow, so
placid and comfortable. So life on the
strand maintained its even tenor, with
scarce a ripple to denote an alien
thought. All alike deferred to the
wishes of the chieftain; he was their
mentor and his counsel was their law,
accepted with scarce a question. Thus
time and the seasons flowed by on the
strand below the mountain, and year
followed year in peace and orderly suc-
cession.
But all things, save time alone,
come to an end. And so it was with
the placid existence of dwellers on
the strand.
A widow of low estate and her young
son occupied a hut near the stead of
the chieftain. Their life was difficult
and one of unremitting toil and