The Icelandic Canadian - 01.03.1981, Síða 36

34
THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
SPRING, 1981
heads bent, hands working. The wheel was
spinning. And the sound of Grandfather
Grim’s voice rose above the whir of the
wheel and became the voice of the winter’s
night. The voice spoke of the ages past. And
the ages slipped away until the past became
reality. Now he, Einar, was the brave and
valiant Viking. He was Skarp-Hedinn, leap-
ing boldly over streams, gliding above the
deep waters, swinging a short-sword of
steel.
“Scamp. You are a scamp.” Grand-
mother Ingibjorg’s voice roused him with its
anger. ‘ ‘The soup can’t stay hot once the fire
has gone out. Get in here . . . Now.”
And the mighty and fierce Skarp-Hedinn
was once again a little boy. He scrambled to
his feet and past the angry grandmother,
down the three steps to the stable, and up the
stairs to the room above. His mother, who
was busy crooning to the new baby, did not
greet him, nor did his grandfather, Grim.
Einar cast a glance toward the old man, who
sat on the farthest of the beds that lined three
walls of the room, but Grim did not look up.
It was not like his grandfather to be so
quiet, not until three days ago, the day the
old dog, Rosa, had lifted her heavy head
from crossed paws to announce the coming
of guests. There was only one guest. The
guest was a man of God, but he did not dress
like Sera Eirikur, nor did he have much to
say about God. The stranger spoke of
America, which he called “God’s own
land.” Night came, and still the men talked.
The smell of coffee rose above the moldy
smell of the sod, and the dim light of the
train oil lamp put the boy into a hypnotic
trance. He drifted into sleep, never knowing
that moment in which sleep overtook him.
In the morning, the man left and Grand-
father Grim grew silent and thoughtful.
Now it had been three days. Einar knew that
his mother and his grandmother were both
worried about the old man. Many times a
day, one or the other would turn to Grand-
father Grim, to ask him if he were well. And
Grim would answer, “As well as any old
wretch can ever hope to be,” or something
of a similar sort. Then he would turn quietly
back to his books or his scribbling. Now he
was sitting idle and bent over with a book
upon his lap, at a time of the day when the
lamps had not yet been lit. Every once in a
while he would hack or sputter into the big
old handkerchief that he kept folded up and
tucked into his pants at the waist; then he
would sigh.
Einar placed the old rag filled with bones
under his bed and climbed up beside his
grandfather. It was dark in the hut, and
getting darker. Even though the sun was still
quite high in the sky, its light barely pene-
trated the stretched membrane that covered
the one small window set into the roof. Grim
rose to light the train oil lamp, and he patted
the boy on the head in his rising. The boy
smiled. His mother’s music filled the
emptiness of the hut, and, in his heart, the
boy sang the words with her:
Bi bi og blaka,
alftimar kvaka,
eg laet sem eg sofi
en samt mun eg vaka.
Bium - Bium bamba,
bomin litlu thamba
fram a fjallakamba
ad leita ser lamba.
He liked the familiarity of the song. It made
him feel good; it quieted him.
Einar ate the soup that his grandmother
brought to him from the kitchen hall. The
baby was asleep now. Her breathing seemed
to match the flicker of the lamp. Thuridur
rose and tucked the infant into bed, brushing
her lips across the baby’s brow as she put her
down. Einar finished his soup, and the
grandmother took the bowl from his hands,
giving him a pair of knitting needles and a
bit of yam in its place. The boy was awk-
ward with his knitting, being so small, and
the mother would put her work aside to help
the boy untangle his yam. “Ah, litli Einar