From the Mouth of the Whale (18 page)

Hear me, gentle yet potent queen,
elfin lady, dwelling in the deep,
be forgiving now, as you’ve always been,
to an old man and a foolish sheep.

I hear a voice recite from the mound:

Welcome, well-spoken one,
sage and civil-tongued,
thanks to thee
and thine I will give,
a reward in return
when need requires.

I bow down before her … Then return to my investigation … I scan the land from the Gold Mound to the cave: in a direct line between them are two rocks, the middle rock and the southernmost rock, then the Elf Knolls where I stand, and the pond, like the stops or keys on a divinely crafted instrument … Below them lies the tunnel through the island, a shaft bored from east to west … Now there will be a great sucking and gurgling as the sea empties from the mouth of the tunnel under the mound, which is covered with water every day of the year except today … The pipe is clear …. A herring gull flies in from the sea on gleaming wing, riding over the island on the easterly breeze; first over the Gold Mound, then over the middle rock, then the southernmost rock, now the Elf Knolls … It is right over my head … I follow its course, spinning on my own axis, catch it reflected in the pond, see how all of a sudden it swoops to the mouth of the cave … What can the bird want there? Ah, yes, there it gains an updraft under both wings, which lifts it in an arc high into the sky where it hovers, its white-feathered breast towards me, brilliant in the morning sun like a dove over the high altar … And now another puff comes from the same lung that elevated the herring gull to the clouds … Invisible lips of air are placed against the Gold Mound … They blow into the pipe … I hold my breath … The blast of air passes through the rock to burst out of the cave mouth on the shore, sounding the first note of the symphony … It is a low note … As if the island were joining in with the song … The ground vibrates beneath my feet … Small birds fly up … The sheep take fright … A newly wakened spider curls into a ball … Seals slide into the sea … The note reverberates long and loud … I close my eyes and my soul begins to vibrate along with it … And I feel a sensation of mingled awe and joy … Then it falls silent as suddenly as it began, the wind drops … I grow cold, my body is covered with gooseflesh, even the taut skin of my leathery scalp … The black sheep stands quite still in the pen, every muscle tensed … He chews uneasily, glaring accusingly at me, as if I have played this noisy trick on him … No, my lad, that bookish old fellow Jónas Pálmason has not the power – though some may think he can twist great forces round his little finger with ease … Look, sheep! Here is one who has amused himself by becoming the plaything of the air: the gull has allowed the noise to carry it still further, still higher, to where its silhouette now circles … The grass begins to whisper again … I start to run; my legs may be decrepit and bent but they will do for a short sprint, such as from here down to the shore … Once there I walk slowly out on to the sand, picking my way prudently over the slippery rocks, taking care not to tread on the slimy seaweed, and station myself where I can see into the cave, bracing myself … Here the sound must surely be loudest … The odour of seaweed carries from the darkness inside, the lapping of pools on the cave floor … Water drops with a hollow sound on the rocks, the weed …. And in some places the plinks have a brighter tone, as if they are falling on something more precious than wet stone … There, the old people say, Gold-Björn’s treasure is supposed to lie hidden … Directly below the Gold Mound itself is the gold that gave him his nickname … A chest full of bright metal … Fire of the sea god Aegir, tears of Freyja, mouth-fee of the Giant Thjazi, and more gold … For a long time I wanted to go in search of it, but no more … I have been deprived of life’s luxuries for so long that gold no longer seems desirable to me unless I can make it myself … But here I have no means to do so … It seems to me that the roof furthest inside the cave is blue with light … There the tunnel dips, running down towards the sea, so it must simply be daylight … The smell of the sea plants grows suddenly stronger … The breeze becomes a gust … It sounds as if black-headed gulls are shrieking in the cave … It is the birds which swarm out by the Gold Mound at the other end of the pipe … I call in reply: ‘Come, wind, come …’ My voice echoes … The gulls fall silent … And the gale replies … A mighty roar hits me, heavy as a waterfall … It fills my senses, bellowing in my ears, parching my eyes with salt, whining in my nose, bellying out my gaping mouth … I stagger but manage to stay upright … I bend and sway like a blade of grass so that it cannot knock me off my feet … It snatches and tears at my clothes, stretching them over my body … Breeches and coat-tails whine and crack … Then it drops slightly … A little more … A little lower …. And lower still … Then hops abruptly up to the fourth rung again … Sketching a ladder of notes … Leaping up and down the scale … Sometimes it blows gently and calmly … Stopping perhaps for a long pause on a single rung with one airy foot poised, as the other runs wildly up and down the scale … All at once it has three feet, five … It howls and shrieks, murmurs and plains, laments and whistles … There are animal sounds and human speech, whole choirs sing in chorus, whole herds call their names … What a symphony … It is as if the east wind is bringing me all the songs of the Earth at once, bellowing out the saddest dirge together with the most joyous paean … As if he had swept up the news on his journey around the globe, as he passed over continents, wildernesses, forests, nations, farmlands, villages; as he leapt through palaces and houses, under tables and benches, in and out of dark corners, up skirts and down collars … Before sweeping all he has learnt high into the sky – just beneath the ethereal sphere, where the ravens go to gather news of events that have not yet occurred … There he kneaded all the news together into thick bales of cloud which he floated like post bags across the sky, sending them hither and thither, adding to them until they were so swollen with story and incident that they were ready to burst, and then he had to find them a way back into the world again … He rakes together the clouds in the sky, gathering them like a haystack in an embrace so vast that the wind can only just peep over his right shoulder … He heaves the cloud-stack to and fro, keeping a look-out for a suitable place to set it down … Then an islet rises in the north at low tide, with a hole through its middle … The wind opens his jaws wide, stuffs the clouds in his mouth, packing them into his cheeks, knits his brow, stoops down to the islet and lays his mouth to the eastern side … His name is Euros … And he blows … And plays … And blows …

SOUL FLY:
large and long in appearance, almost in the shape of a man, with red thighs and two legs which hang low in flight, like the redshank when it drives an interloper from the nesting grounds. It has a distinctive singing voice.

I lie in the grass by the pond, quite spent … The island has fallen silent, the tide is coming in … I think: how wonderful Sigrídur would have found it to see and hear this … But fortunately she is on land with Reverend Pálmi, otherwise she would be dead again … And I think: how newsworthy this would seem to my esteemed rector, the famous, divinely blessed philosopher and defender of bodily as well as spiritual knowledge, the kind-hearted Ole Worm, who took pity on his downtrodden, ill-used little brother in the study of natural phenomena, Jónas Pálmason of Iceland … How I wish I could send him this musical island in gratitude for having sheltered me awhile under his academic gown; make one of the English herring boats out here on the bay tow the island south to Copenhagen … But it cannot be done … I will have to draw it instead … I will try to send him a drawing … I am exhausted … My grizzled head lolls to one side, my arms lie flung out, my legs splayed … As floppy, I suppose, as a rag doll thrown aside by a child after a vigorous game … The child has run off somewhere, the doll sprawls in a corner … So it is when the forces of nature enjoy a fleeting game with one, which ends in an instantaneous victory for the mighty, leaving behind the poor toy with all the unrealised games playing out before its mind’s eye; not that anything would ever have come of them … But today it is neither the gnawing doubt that anything will ever return to its place nor the painful certainty that the mountain will never lack for snow … It was neither an earthquake nor an avalanche … Like the game that lingers on in the doll, the music continued inside me … I am inspired, puffed up with the stories, the poems that the boisterous east wind has taught me … I feel as if I know all there is to know! The compartments of my body have been filled with all the knowledge a solitary man can possess, alone and unaided by books, schoolmasters, picture stories, wise old dames … I myself am like a compendium, which inside one thick leather cover contains all the wisdom of the world on many closely written folios, lavishly illuminated and bound up with horsehair string to prevent it from spewing out pages … Whatever I am asked, about great matters or small, I will know the answer … I can describe with equal certainty the hoarse mating call of the goosander, the cruel nature of the red-combed whale, the last days of the Greenland colony, polygamy among the Negroes, the explosive force of gunpowder, a certain cure for the squitters, the mildness of the wild pansy … Nothing, nothing at all, is strange to me any more … I am omniscient … A fit of yawning assails me … I let my mouth gape wide, stroking my face with flat palms … Breathe in and out with great sucking sounds, quite unafraid that any spirit of the air will sneak inside me … I clap my hands together: let them come! There is no room any more in this wisdom-stuffed Jónas … I feel as if at least three spirits are trying to force their way into my mouth at once, seeking an entrance to my body down my windpipe … I let them rage … Feel them crashing into my uvula again and again, but they will have to go away disappointed … My gorge is stuffed like a Danish sausage, full perhaps of lore about the natural history of bean plants and garlic, and nothing that has the merest hint of the selfish character of fallen devils can get past that stuffing; no, only the self-sacrificing breath of life can pass down there, clear, blue and pure, which keeps the heart cool and nourishes the brain … I sit up … Rock uncontrollably forwards and from side to side … Lie down again … The world may have entered my carcass but that is not to say that it has arranged itself there according to any rational order … Indeed, how could it? There was too much going on when the symphony rose to its height and the tempo of the notes merged with my own tempo … For the most part I received it with open arms but there were times when I turned my back or knelt … Five times the storm of notes knocked me out cold … I squealed and wailed, bellowed and moaned … Yes, it entered me in every conceivable manner … Fire, air, earth, water … From these elements everything is made, including me … Whatever was thrust inside me is made of the same substance as myself … It may be hot, dry, cold or damp … And so I can find the proper place for everything, as if I were a tall building of twelve floors, very spacious and furnished with cabinets containing many shelves and chests with many drawers … In the two compartments of my heart I organise everything that is warm, light and spring-like … Tales of the endearing nature of infants, the deeds of virtuous girls, the unlooked-for helpfulness of wild beasts; healing herbs that must be picked in the morning dew; fair golden jewels made in honour of the heavenly family and other holy beings or else to encase the bones and skin of saints, and of course the pelican … Some things I launch into my blood, home to all that is hot and damp: many things connected to the world of woman, her work, her womb and her love for her children and husband, though some of her fair things find a place in my kidneys, according to the alchemical order, and some even lower, in the lap, and there I am guided by the rules of astrology … And so it goes on, as if I were a curator in the great building that houses my collection … Yes, it is large but dilapidated; the copper shingles on the tower that have not been blown off have turned green, the internal timbers are rotten and the cellar needs mucking out … I walk from room to room, a large bunch of keys at my belt …. In my mind I go up and down the passageways, open the door to the kidneys, close the door to the bladder, take things out of coffers, hang them from the ceiling, lay them on the examination table … And so, slowly but surely, I move everything inside me from place to place until it ends up on the right shelf … One item goes into the brain, another into the liver, others into the limbs … And when I have placed in the spleen all that is cold and melancholy in the world, governed by the bitter black gall that it cooks in its cauldrons or its natural equivalent in the brew of tribulations – there is far too much of me in there, alas: a container of poison from plants, venomous shells and stones; an etching of the man who murdered his wife by shoving her head in a pan of boiling barley porridge; various sad poems about the dark times we live in, including several by the one who is holding the reins here, such as: ‘a coal-black sun of sins now climbs / the skies to light the ways / the defender of such heinous crimes / ’tis obligatory to praise’; the swim bladder of a pike; the blunt blade of the axe used by the eighty-year-old executioner Jón Jónsson to chop the head off Björn ‘ladies’ man’ Thorláksson, taking three dozen blows to sunder the joints of his neck; as well as gloomy clouds and all that sort of black gall rubbish – when all this has been placed in the spleen, an equilibrium is finally reached … Now at last I can stand up … I scramble to my feet … I stand upright … If an eagle-sighted man standing on the mainland placed a good spy-glass to his eye and scanned the island from end to end, he would get a tremendous shock … On the bank of the pond at the western end of the island what should he see but a sixty-five-year-old gaffer in a threadbare canvas coat, grey-haired as a head of cotton grass in autumn … No, if the onlooker’s miraculous sight was sufficiently powerful and penetrated deep, he would see not the figure of a man but the building that I feel myself to be … Built from the trunks of trees that drank water and sprouted from the earth; walled about with bricks of clay hardened in the fire, dried in the air: