The Icelandic Canadian - 01.12.1979, Qupperneq 20

18
THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
WINTER 1979
slatted gangway, and the sheep added their
frightened bleating to the hum of human
voices, and the captain’s crisp commands.
A dozen horses, too, were led onto the
ship.
“Dear Iceland ponies that carry Icelan-
ders on all occasions from the cradle to the
grave,” Johanna thought.
“A cargo for Scotland,” Arni Bjomsson
explained.
The passengers were embarking. Jonas
shouldered their heavy wooden koffort
(chest) and Johanna followed him, the two
little girls, Hanna and Juliana close by her
side, and the little one snuggled in her arms.
There were no tears, and no time to
mourn deserted kinfolk and friends. Only
the quiet dignity of determined action.
“God will surely be with us in America,”
Johanna comforted her sister, and the
thought eased her own qualms.
Karitas kissed little Sigurhlif’s cheek
fondly.
“the child is much too young to go on
such a journey,” she sighed. “Leave her
with us. We could give your lovely one
every advantage our ample means can af-
ford.”
“I cannot part with her; nor can I think of
depriving her father of his little one.”
“He has his two daughters from his first
marriage,” Karitas argued.
“Be patient, my Karitas. you will have a
little daughter,” Johanna comforted. “It
must be good-bye for us all, beloved
sister.”
They took ship and descended to the
lowest deck. As they made their way to their
cabin, Johanna glimpsed firemen in grimy
dungarees climbing out of the fiddley, like
dirty demons, to relieve their bursting lungs
with a breath of air. Farther along she
gasped in terror as they passed the gaping
holds into which the cargo was stored and
the animals driven.
“Hanna, hold your little sister’s hand,”
she directed urgently.
But already Jonas had stowed his chest
and other luggage, and came to relieve her
fear for the two little girls.
“Come,” he said. “We’ll stand on deck
and bid our land farewell.”
They gazed mutely while the crew hove
anchor, and the ship put out to sea. Slowly
the shores receded, and Johanna knew that
never again would they see their native
Iceland, with its gleaming glaciers, lava
landscapes, verdant valleys, heather-strewn
hills, and tumultuous waterfalls.
Johanna laid a gentle hand on her hus-
band’s arm. She sensed that his heart was
heavy like her own even while the new
world beckoned with hope for them and
their children.
The weather was calm; the sea unruffled.
Each day Johanna and her family sought the
outdoor sight of the ocean and the salt sea air
to escape their overcrowded cabin and
unpleasant animal smells from the holds
below them.
On the third day Hanna exclaimed ex-
citedly.
“Mamma! Mamma! I see America.
Look, that coast away off.”
Johanna’s eyes followed the child’s
pointing finger.
“An Island, perhaps,” she ventured.
“Not America!”
Johanna smiled at the evident disappoint-
ment in the childish voice.
Johanna laughed.
Joining the group Baldvin Baldvinsson
spoke, “the Faroe Islands,” he informed.
“We are now about halfway to Scotland.
It's not such a trying voyage for folks whose
ancestors were bold Vikings riding out
storms in open rowboats and square-sailed
dragon ships.”
The ship headed directly towards the
islands that rose abruptly out of the ocean.
As they drew nearer, Johanna marvelled at
the lush green color, contrasting strangely
with the sombre basalt ice-capped peaks of
Iceland. Their vivid color was a brighter hue