The Icelandic Canadian - 01.06.1957, Side 35

THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
33
washed countless strands, and on the
horizon he saw a glittering land,
bright in the sun and bright with the
promise of adventure.
Then came thoughts of his mother,
alone in her wretched hovel, and he
made haste down the hillside, but
lighter of heart as he was quicker of
step than ever before in his young life.
Time and the seasons passed and the
youth grew in strength and stature as
he continued to explore the forest.
Now he knew his way about in it, and
could go whither he pleased. And now
its myriad voices had become familiar,
so that he could distinguish between
them, heeding only those that led him
safely over the difficulties, refusing to
have trade with those that sought to
lead him astray or to turn about. He
learned as well about the animals in
its recesses and the birds in its trees,
no longer fearing but making friends
with them, and in the process gaining
much in the coin of wisdom and under-
standing.
But his fellows of the strand looked
askance at him, some with marked
disapproval, but noting, too, if reluct-
antly, that he excelled them in
strength and comeliness and the grace
of young manhood. He talked little
about his journeys up the mountain—
the Stone Church was still standing.
The years came and went, and his
mother died. His sorrow was poignant,
for he had dearly loved her. In time
he resumed his visits to the forest,
each of longer duration than the last
one.
And now he discovered that a fault
had opened parallel with the lip of
the shelf, between it and the edge of
the wood. In time rain and frost
would extend and widen the crack,
loosing the immense mass of earth and
rock to slide in a dreadful avalanche
upon the strand below.
He tried, but timidly, to apprise his
neighbors of this danger. But when
this came to the ears of the chieftain
his ire was roused and he forbade
mention of it, threatening incarcer-
ation in Stone Church for anyone defy-
ing this edict. His word was law, the
matter was hushed up and shortly
forgotten.
The chieftain’s two children were
now grown to man— and womanhood,
vet they continued to meet with their
friend the youth only clandestinely,
but less often than formerly.
On one of his trips up the mountain
the youth saw that the fault had
greatly widened and that a breakaway
of the jutting lip was imminent. He
made haste down the mountainside
to warn his neighbors that their very
lives werein jeopardy. But they would
have none of such idiocy and hooted
him for his pains, threatening to
stone him.
He then sought out the son and
daughter of the cheiftain, imploring
them to accompany him to the forest.
They eventually acceded, if reluctant-
ly and fearful of its consequences. No
sooner had the three reached the edge
of the forest than the avalanche was
loosed and sent hurtling down upon
the strand, crushing and burying every-
thing in its path, including the stead
of the chieftain and the Stone Church.
They stood and stared at the devasta-
tion before them, shaken with its im-
mensity and its awful meaning.
And when the rumble of the
avalanche had subsided they heard the
murmur of the forest, mysterious, al-
luring.
“This,” said the son and daughter
of the chieftain, “is the wingbeat of
evil spirits. Thus would our betters
of the strand have spoken.”
“No”, said the youth, embracing them.
“It is the suspiration of life itself.”