Independent People (38 page)

Everyone except Bjartur was waiting outside to welcome the cow and her new-born calf. The children left the home-field to meet them and examine the grey-spotted calf. The sea-cow breed was obvious. It was a little bull, and Asta Sollilja greeted him with a kiss, and the cow watched the kiss, mooing low in her throat. The dog did not try to snap at the cow’s hocks tonight; she didn’t even bark at the cow that night, silly as she was, but with her tail between her legs retreated politely to a distance whenever the cow showed any signs of attacking her, and regarded the new relations with great respect from some yards away. The old grandmother dragged herself along by the wall with the aid of a broken rake-shaft to fondle the calf and the cow. Even old Fritha was warmer-hearted than usual. “God bless the poor creature,” she said, “Jesuspeter.”

Then Bjartur came out of the house.

“So-ho,” he said. “We’d better get the knife ready.”

“Just what I thought, the bloody murderer.” cried old Fritha.

But Bjartur’s wife only looked at him appealingly and said half in a whisper as she passed him on the paving: “Bjartur dear.” So the cow was tied up in her stall with the calf by her side.

It was later in the evening, when they were all going to bed and the womenfolk were with blissful unction discussing the birth and the calf, when everyone was so happy because of this new
personality on the farm and thankful that everything had gone so well with the cow, when everyone was sharing so intimately in the cow’s happiness, that Bjartur continued from where he had left off before: “The worst of it is that I haven’t time to take the carcass down to Fjord before the end of the week.”

The next day there were curds of the cow’s first milk since calving.

The days that followed, they were great days. One had only to look at the creature that once had been so lonely and see how light was her step now as she trotted away out of the home-field with the calf prancing giddily at her side—she had no longer any need of consolation or caresses. She would try to leave the children behind as soon as she could, for they had fallen in love with the little bull and were never done fondling him. Care-free in her new life, she would wander off with her son far along the mountain and would almost lose herself, so independent of mankind did she consider herself, she who before had had her refuge in the woman’s protection; no more dealings with mankind! When Finna came to bring her home in the evenings she would look at her as if wondering what concern it was of hers, but Finna was not at all hurt by such behaviour, for she understood the joy of motherhood and how it exalts one proudly above mankind and makes everything else seem of such little value. Yes, so well did she understand her joy that though the cow gave far too little milk in the evenings, she did not dare tell anyone about it for fear that Bjartur would order the calf to be shut up in the daytime; she could not bear to think of the cow losing the joy of having her son with her in the pasture these days, she who had been lonely for so long.

Sunday morning; they usually stayed late in bed on the Sunday, sometimes even as late as nine, all except Bjartur, for whom all days were alike and who was usually to be heard pottering about with something or other on a Sunday morning, mending implements and suchlike, poor soul. On this particular morning he stuck his head up through the trapdoor and asked if everybody was dead here, or what? “Is the tyranny to be spread over on to the Sunday as well now?” asked Fritha sourly.

“The calf’s tripes are lying on the paving,” he announced. “I leave you to decide whether you’re going to let them be washed into the muck in this damned rain. I’m off down to Fjord with the carcass.”

That day the wife of Summerhouses did not trust herself to
leave her bed; she lay there facing the wall, she was not feeling very well. Old Hallbera got up, and old Fritha, and the children. The calf’s steaming entrails were lying in a trough on the paving when they got downstairs, but Bjartur was well on his way, riding over the marshes on old Blesi with veal for the merchant’s oven.

“In this way he’ll kill you all,” said Fritha, then gave vent to a stream of horrible abuse as she took charge of the offals; and the children stood on the paving with their fingers in their mouths and watched; and listened.

Bukolla’s little calf, they all remembered the look in his eyes; for he too had had a look in his eyes the same as other babies. He had looked at Nonni, he had looked at Helgi, he had looked at them all. Only yesterday he had been hopping about in the home-field, here, lifting his front feet in the air both at once, then his hind feet both at once, in a little game all of his own. And the crown of his head was as round as a ball; little calves are like that always. Asta Sollilja had said that he was very near being three-coloured. He had roamed about the slopes along by the mountain, too, and had sniffed at the wild thyme of the world; when it rained he had sheltered behind his mother. That was a dark Sunday. The cow bellowed unceasingly from her shed, and when they tried to drive her to pasture she was back again at once, bellowing in the home-field; she stood on the doorstep and bellowed in. The mountain echoed her cries, from her great eyes there ran great tears, cows weep.

For a whole week Finna dared not look at the cow, old Fritha had to milk her. There is nothing so merciless as mankind. How can we justify ourselves, especially to the dumb animals around us? But the first days are always the worst, and there is much comfort in the thought that time effaces everything, crime and sorrow no less than love.

C
ONTINUAL
rain.

Asta Sollilja, busy cooking, had taken off her wet things and laid them to dry on the hot range. The steam was rising from them, and she was cutting the fish ready for the pan, barefooted, in a tattered old slip, and the bubbles were just beginning to rise when suddenly she heard something on the move down below: the door opened, a footstep sounded in the stalls, the ladder
creaked, the hatch was lifted, and a man stepped up on to the floor and looked about him. He was wearing a sou’wester. His coat was long and strong, fitted with collars, flaps, tabs, and buttons; the rain that could penetrate such a garment was non-existent. He wore high waterproof boots, his blue eyes were clear and kind. He said good-morning. She did not dare to say good-morning; she said nothing. She usually gave her hand in silence when anyone greeted her, but this man did not offer to shake hands. She had thought that he had looked so very slim and youthful the first time that she had seen him, but in this tiny room he and his huge coat assumed such bulky proportions that she was afraid that he would bump his head on the roof. The old woman did not reply to his greeting either, but she stopped knitting and tried to focus her peering eyes on him. With him he had a string of trout and string of barnacle geese.

“Fresh meat,” he said. “A change.”

The white teeth gleamed like trinkets in the brown manly face; there was an unfamiliar ring in his voice.

“Sola,” said the grandmother in her dim, hoarse voice, “aren’t you going to offer the man a seat?”

But Asta Sollilja hadn’t the courage to offer the man a seat, her slip was so terrible, her arms so long, her hands so big; there was mud on her feet. She didn’t dare look at him, not even at the pleasing colour of the trout he was carrying. The rags she wore for underwear were lying there on the range staring him in the face and steaming with damp. He thought of course that they hadn’t enough to eat. What ought she to say? What would Father have said?

“Let’s sling a few trout into the pan,” said the visitor, picking up the knife. He had slim brown hands free of dirt, free of calluses and scratches, hands that played deftly with the knife. Quickly he gutted the fish, placing the offals in a dish and the fish itself in the pan. “First-rate fish,” he said, holding them aloft for the grandmother’s inspection, “three-pounders at least, fine fish.”

“Uhuh,” said Hallbera, “very nice for anyone that can take them, maybe. But one man’s meat is another man’s poison. And fresh fish, especially fresh-water fish, is more than I can stand. I’ve never been able to take much fresh stuff somehow. I come out in a rash with it. It’s too strong.”

That, he considered, could hardly be right; fresh food was good for you.

“Where might the gentleman hail from?” she inquired.

He said: “From the south.”

“Yes, of course, poor man,” she said with all the sympathy that old folk usually show for anyone who lives in a distant part of the country.

And Asta Sollilja just stood and gazed at him preparing the fish. His hands were so skilful, the movements so few and sure, the work seemed to be doing itself, and yet at such a marvellous speed. And there was a smile on his lips though he was not smiling, he was so good to look upon; and such a good man. He filled the pan to the brim; he was a great man, no one must discover what she had dreamed since this man came to the valley; he asked for the salt.

The fragrance of fresh trout on the boil filled the room. He took out his pipe and pressed the tobacco down before lighting it. The smoke had a smell like meadow-sweet, only much more delicious; there is another world in a sweet smell, and the fragrance remained to live and talk when the visitor himself had gone. “Good day to both of you,” he said, and went.

And was gone. He closed the door behind him. Hurrying to the window, she gazed after him as he ran into the driving rain in his huge coat, and his sou’wester. Rain could do little harm to such a man—how light was his step! The girl felt her head swimming slightly, her heart knocking against her ribs. She stayed by the window till the palpitation wore off and the rain had entranced her. Then the old woman suddenly remembered that she had wanted to ask him something, seeing that it was the south he hailed from, but her wits were so gummed up nowadays that she could never remember anything, shame on you, Sola, why couldn’t you have offered the poor man some coffee? But Asta Sollilja did not hear what she said, for she felt so ridiculous somehow with her bare arms and bare feet, her old slip, her thin legs; ugly.

“Geese,” said Bjartur that evening, glancing disdainfully at the birds the visitor had left. “No one ever grew fat on fowling. May he be of all men the most cursed for his gifts!”

“We might try to boil them,” suggested his wife.

I’ve heard that the gentry are supposed to eat bird-flesh,” said old Hallbera.

“Yes, and Frenchmen are supposed to eat frogs,” snorted Bjartur, and never tasted the geese. Nevertheless he forgave the visitor for both fish and fowl, and after breakfast on the following Sunday morning he was heard to say:

“It’s just like the lot of you to snatch the gift from a stranger’s
hand and say thank-you like a bunch of tramps. But that it should ever occur to you to send the fellow a drop of milk on a Sunday morning is of course far above the flight of your imagination.”

The upshot was that Asta Sollilja and little Nonni were sent off round the lake with some milk in a little tub. She washed her face and hands and combed her hair. Her eyes, one straight, the other crossed, her eyes were very large, very dark. She donned the sheepskin shoes and her dead mother’s gown. It had been washed after her journey to town and mended where it had been torn, but it was very faded and not a bit pretty now; actually rather a miserable rag. But fortunately the soul’s joy had blossomed considerably in these ten days since the cow calved, as was obvious from her complexion.

They walked across the marshes with the tub between them. Asta Sollilja was so nervous that she was silent all the way. For three days now there had been intervals of reasonably fine weather, which, though too short to be really useful, had sufficed to rush most of the hay home. There was sunshine today also, but the marsh grass had begun to grow yellow, and the delicate blue that characterizes the spring had long since disappeared from the sunshine. The plovers had begun to gather into flocks, but the snipe crouched low in the grass in moping solitude, as if they rued all that had happened. They flew up from beneath one’s feet with a sudden flutter of wings that startled one; no song now, only the song of the heart.

There was no movement to be seen about the tent, and as they had no idea how to knock at a dwelling that had neither door nor doorpost, they halted in perplexity a few yards away. Finally they mustered sufficient courage to peep in under the edge. The man then crawled out of a fur-lined bag, pushed his head through the flap of the tent, and blinked at them with sleepy eyes.

“Were you looking for me?”

“No,” said Asta Sollilja, and setting the tub down in front of the tent, gripped her brother’s hand and took to her heels.

“Hi, there!” he shouted after them. “What do you want me to do with this?”

“It’s milk,” shouted little Nonni in full flight.

“Stop!” he bawled, and as they didn’t dare do otherwise, they halted and looked over their shoulders at him as if ready to make off again at the slightest suspicious movement, like young deer.

“Come on,” he said encouragingly, but they didn’t dare for their lives and simply stood still and watched him. He lifted the lid off
the tub, cautiously took a little drink, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, spat.

“I’ll give you a fry,” said he.

They gazed at him for a while longer, then they sat down, both on the same tiny hummock, ignorant of what a fry meant, but willing to wait for whatever might appear. The visitor began to set some things out in front of the tent, barefooted, in trousers and shirt, while they followed his every movement with marvelling eyes.

“It won’t hurt you to come a bit nearer,” he called to them, without looking up.

After waiting awhile longer, they seized the opportunity when his back was turned on them and sneaked a few yards nearer. He said they could come into the tent if they liked, so they followed him into the tent, first the boy, then the girl, and stood with their backs against the pole. They had never landed in such an adventure before; the whole tent was redolent of tobacco, fruit, and hair-oil. She gazed at his arms, brown as coffee with cream in it, and watched him light the oil-stove and melt some butter in the pan. He had three ducks all ready for cooking, and soon the smell of frying was added to the other smells.