The Icelandic Canadian - 01.12.2008, Qupperneq 33

Vol. 62 #1
THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
31
Say Goodbye For Me
by Nehushta Collins
reprinted from Volume 1 #2, December 1942
The stars still shine over Iceland. It is
true that the black harbour waters do not
always reflect back the golden lights of
Reykjavik, but so far there has been no
attempt made to black out the moon. So
the moon still smiles down in silver splen-
dor on the people who live their lives in the
mountains and the valleys.
But the days are strange in Iceland.
Rumours of war spread from the city
dwellers to the farmers in the hill valley, to
the fishermen in the winding fjords, and
the shepherds who tend their sheep on the
flowering mountain sides. The shadow of
martial wings hovers over all. War has
touched the land with a changeling hand,
bringing fear and resentment, anger and
silent resignation.
Small places, sacred to the huldafolk,
have been desecrated and disturbed. Big
guns crouch in the grass and among the
rocks like vicious, chained dogs, ready to
spring to the end of their tether with a rum-
bling roar if strangers approach.
At first the cattle and horses on the hill
farms and the peaceful mountain sheep
used to scatter and race in panic when the
huge war-birds swooped low over them;
deafening them with a roar like that of the
gods when they are angry. Now they no
longer lift their heads from their grazing.
Even the animals have come to accept those
things that must be.
They tell a tale in Iceland. It is whis-
pered among the women as they grumble
over their scant coffee cups. It is spoken
among the men as they sip their vanishing
Spanish wine. It is the story of a woman
who was and is no more. One who died
that another might live. It is the story of the
woman who is, because of the one who was
and of the man who loved them both. It is
strange, this tale. But then, all things are
strange in Iceland now.
Helga was Gunnar’s wife. She was
beautiful in a grave, quiet way and she was
a good wife. Five years they had been mar-
ried; five contented, quiet years. That was
before war came to brood over the land.
Helga sang at her cooking and bent her fair
head over intricate embroidery for her
company table. Her strong hands churned
butter and carried water for her household
needs. She cheerfully scrubbed the heavy
clothes that Gunnar wore on his little fish-
ing boat. She scrubbed the floors until the
wood was white. She was happy looking
after Gunnar’s house. Yes, she was a good
wife. Gunnar was happy too. One day slid
into another day so quietly that their pass-
ing was hardly noticed.
When winter came and the snow, their
small house was snug and warm. As the
holiday drew near Helga polished and
baked, pausing to smile happily at Gunnar
where he sat in his chair by the fire. On
Christmas Eve they rejoiced with their
neighbours. The lights shone out in the
darkness and the winds died down to listen
once again as people sang the old old words
of Holy Night. Dishes were set on the table
for the Little People and sacred candles
were lit for their night long vigil. When the
midnight bells rang Helga and Gunnar
went to Mass. So the pleasant years passed
flowing one into the other as quietly as the
days.
The skies over Europe grew troubled
and men hinted at war. But it was far away
and life went on as usual. Clouds gathered
in the troubled skies, gathered and grew
dark with menace. Still life consisted of lit-
tle things. Then the heavens erupted and
war came. Whole nations went to bed as
free peoples and woke up as slaves. The
beast of prey gorged on innocent blood and
grew stronger; struck, and fed, and struck
again. Its shadow reached out and dark-