VI
The sworn brothers’ ships lay rolling violently, rocking and pitching in the heavy swell south of Iceland. The day was calm and warm. High light clouds were spread over the deep blue vault of heaven. The sun poured his strong spring light in broad floods over sea and land.
That day it was fourteen days since they had sailed out from Dalsfjord. For fourteen days they had been in the power of the wind. A storm which tore the sails and broke the yards had driven them about over a raging sea, which ceaselessly sent cold showers of spray over the low gunwales. From morning till evening, from evening till morning, four men had stood in each vessel with the two baling scoops, working for life to keep the water out. In spite of being continually relieved the men were at last so worn out and wasted that they could scarcely eat, and fell asleep and rolled over wherever they sat down even for a moment.
By continual watchfulness and clever seamanship the brothers had succeeded in keeping their vessels together. Each stood day and night at the rudder. Only in the short intervals when the wind turned, or there was a short pause, did they throw themselves down to sleep for the moment as if dead. They had no time to think of Helga and Hallveig. Helga was careful not to be in the way. She rendered the small service she was able to do under these circumstances as much as possible without making herself observed. Hallveig sat with her boy in her lap and let the wind blow and the storm rage. She kept her eyes on Ingolf and felt safe.
The sworn brothers fought for life and death with storm and sea. The great thing was to hold out, not to give up, not to think of anything but what concerned the steering and the quantity of canvas they should carry, not to be wearied, not to lose one’s head—to hold out, to hold out. It was just this unceasing struggle which kept up their courage and spirits.
The animals were ill and starving; some of them died and had to be thrown overboard, others lay in their last agonies, pitiable to see. Much of their corn and other food-stores was spoilt by the dense showers of spray. The fresh water in the casks sank regularly and irremediably. The men went about slackly, and had to be kept going with a hard hand. There was hardly anything on board which was not otherwise than it should be, and giving reason for deep anxiety. But the brothers held out.
When at last on the previous day they had seen on the extreme verge of the northern horizon a light from the snow-covered interior of the new land like a faint white gleam, each had thought within himself that it was not a day too soon.
During the last twenty-four hours the storm had at last slowly quieted down, and now they lay here, held up by a presumably only short calm, a few hours’ sail from the coast, and gazed curiously and expectantly over the sea at the land in the blue distance.
The ships lay side by side, kept in their places by long boat-hooks, only so far from each other as was necessary in order to prevent their chafing and injuring their sides.
Hjor-Leif and Helga had gone on board Ingolf’s vessel in order to greet him and Hallveig and to talk over the situation. All four were seated, Hallveig with her little boy in her arms, on the stern poop. After the severe trial they had passed through there was a silence over them which was difficult to break. They had not yet grown properly accustomed to the fact that life and death did not hang on each moment as it passed. Therefore they spoke but little. Towards the north-east and north-west the soft lines of the slightly rising and falling glaciers stood out behind the blue mountains that crowned this flat land. The brothers followed the changing contours of the country with a peculiar tenderness in their eyes. But their gaze always turned back to the glaciers which shone sparkling white in the strong sunshine.
Hallveig and Helga also could not turn away their eyes from the glaciers. The few words which they now and then exchanged were said in low tones, as if they sat in a temple, and not at sea on a swaying vessel.
Ingolf and Hjor-Leif had long sat silent side by side, inspecting the land with keen eyes. Between a projecting point a long way to the east, and another far to the west, there stretched a flat, unbroken coast-line, distinctly marked by a white edge of rolling surf.
“It will be difficult to land here,” concluded Leif at last, in a slightly hard and irritated tone. “Also, it seems as if most of the land nearest the shore is barren sand.”
“There are enough landing-places by the points,” Ingolf answered quietly, “and behind the sands the land may be good and fertile, even close up to the glaciers. We saw that on the eastern side last summer.”
Ingolf was in secret rather disappointed that they had not found the Svanefjords again. But he did not speak about it. It was not possible to look for them now. At present, the great thing was to get on land as quickly as possible, and almost anywhere, so that the men and animals could have a good rest and recover.
The sworn brothers had agreed that they must settle for the summer and the coming winter on the spot where they landed. Afterwards they might look out for a permanent residence. Ingolf had very decided views with regard to the choice of a dwelling-place. These views, however, he had not yet confided to Hjor-Leif, nor to any one else. The matter concerned the gods, and in all that concerned them his brother’s attitude was a foregone conclusion. Hjor-Leif, on his part, only thought of finding a pleasant and fertile spot, preferably by the sea, and protected by the mountains, where he could feel himself at home and be comfortable.
For a long time they sat in silence, each deep in thought. Ingolf reflected how he had best communicate his plan to Hjor-Leif. He saw at once that it was no good to be silent about it longer. For already, before they departed from here, it must be put into execution. He sat and felt rather perplexed inwardly, and could not find words.
At that moment Hjor-Leif was sitting and reflecting over an experience which he had had the previous night. He had lain asleep in his bearskin bag while his old headman took charge of the tiller. Suddenly he started up from sleep, having certainly dreamt of something or other he could not remember, and as he did so he collided with a man who must have been stooping over him. It was one of his Irish serfs, Duftak, a man whose evil eye had followed him since he once in wrath had stretched him on the ground with a well-deserved blow. Hjor-Leif was not certain, but it seemed to him that the serf had thrown something or other which he had in his hand overboard, just as he had stumbled against him and stood opposite him. He thought he had heard a little splash as when a hard object strikes the water. But he was by no means certain of the matter, and neither the serf’s eyes nor his behaviour had betrayed anything. He had asked him what he was doing here, and it seemed that he had come to look after a roll of rope which lay close by. Hjor-Leif had had his thoughts occupied the whole day by this occurrence. He had already observed for a long time that the serf’s eyes followed Helga wherever she went and stood, with an evil and at the same time covetous look. He could not understand why he had not already thrown the serf overboard, and why he did not intend to do so. He was quite sure that it was not from fear, although there seemed to be a peculiar understanding among his Irish serfs. It was rather because he could not do without serfs, and because if he killed one of them it would be safest to kill them all.
At length Leif unwillingly shook these thoughts off, and asked curtly: “We shall sail southward, I suppose, when the wind gets up again?”
Ingolf was silent. It was certainly about an equal distance to the two points, and he had a very great desire to seek a landing-place near the more easterly of the two.
Instead of giving a direct answer, he began cautiously: “I have thought, brother, that I for my part will let the gods decide where I should settle in this new land.”
Leif, whose temper at the moment was a little off its balance because of the incident with the serf, gave a hard laugh: “How will you go about it?”
Ingolf pointed to the pillars of his high-seat, which lay lashed together with strong skin straps above a pile amidships.
“I will throw the pillars of my high-seat overboard. Wherever they drift to land, I will settle.”
“Even if they drift to land in the middle of the sands here?” asked Hjor-Leif incredulously and a little scornfully.
“The gods will know how to find the place where it will be best for me and my family to settle,” answered Ingolf, undisturbed. “I lay with confidence the choice of a dwelling in their hand.”
Hjor-Leif was silent for a long time. There was a hard and pitiless line round his large mouth. There was Ingolf again with his cursed gods! At last he spoke, without looking at anything: “Instead, then, of our choosing a place for ourselves where the earth is fertile and luxuriant we are to settle wherever it pleases the wind and current to wash up a pair of dead planks on shore.”
He talked himself into a bad temper. And he wound up bitterly: “We shall hardly be neighbours, then, brother!”
Ingolf sprang up from his place. He was on the point of giving an angry answer when he remembered suddenly a snowy day when he and Hjor-Leif had ridden alone over a desolate heath. He shut his lips tightly, and stood for a while silent, leaning against the tiller. In his eyes there was a seeking look which wandered in perplexity over the water. The sun’s glimmer dazzled his eyes. He could not find a word kind and cautious enough to answer with. But his resolve stood immovably firm. Suddenly he collected himself, and, calling a couple of his men, bade them take the high-seat pillars down from the pile and lay them on the gunwale. So he stood for a little and let his hands glide carefully over the age-browned wood.
Hjor-Leif sat watching with a hard, evil look in his grey eyes. Cautiously Ingolf let the pillars glide overboard. He remained standing, and followed them with his eyes as they lay there floating on the bright, oily water. Hjor-Leif could only see his back. There was an air of decision and resolve about that back which irritated him still further. Hallveig and Helga had followed the conversation, and now sat silent and anxious, not daring to look at each other. Helga did not at all reflect which of the two was more in the right. She was simply troubled. In her gentle mind there rose a strange, impotent fear which made her heart beat heavily and painfully.
Hallveig, on the other hand, was at first in her inmost heart on the point of justifying Hjor-Leif. At the first moment it appeared to her that one’s own eyes’ choice of a dwelling could always be as good as that of blind gods, nay, really much safer. But when she had sat for a while with her firm, open gaze fixed on Ingolf’s back, a change took place in her mind. The air of security and assurance which was about her husband’s whole person, and which his back just now so distinctly expressed, had an unconscious effect upon her. She understood all of a sudden that it was just this sign from the gods which was needed in order to attach her husband’s heart firmly and unbreakably to his new home. There, where the pillars of his high-seat drifted on shore, Ingolf would feel himself at home with all his soul and in spite of reason. The gods’ choice of the place would give his strength and will the firm ground without which, in spite of all his strength, he could not thrive. On a spot so chosen Ingolf would force happiness and prosperity to dwell in the face of every imaginable difficulty. For in alliance with his gods he was invincible.
Hallveig sat there and became assured and peaceful in mind.
She understood that it was from an unwaveringly sure and wise instinct that Ingolf acted when he cast the pillars overboard. It was of vital importance to him to feel himself in covenant with his gods and in possession of their favour.
Hallveig stooped over her little boy and kissed him on the forehead, and remained sitting for a while with bowed head, lest any should see she had tears in her eyes.
With beating heart Ingolf stood and watched his treasured pillars tossed by the billows, lightly, aimlessly, as though they were ordinary pieces of driftwood. It was not without severe internal conflicts that he had resolved to deliver his dearest possession to the power of the sea. But here life was at stake. It was not only a matter of finding a place where his cattle could graze and his house stand, but of finding exactly that place which the gods willed to grant him and his family. The place where they could know he would stay for the future. The place where his and his family’s happiness and prosperity were not only under his but under their care and responsibility.
When Ingolf had stood for a long time watching the pillars, which gradually drifted astern in an easterly direction, his displeasure towards his brother disappeared. He turned slowly, and, with a peculiar smile upon his young face towards the others, went quietly and seated himself by the side of Hjor-Leif.
“What do you think of our choosing the eastern point as a landing-place, brother?” he asked in a quiet and friendly tone.
The question irritated Leif. There was no talk of choice; it was merely a question where a piece of driftwood should decide their landing.
“I have already for my part chosen the west,” he answered firmly, and at the same time as quietly as he could, and not without a certain satisfaction at the effect of his words.
But it was not only on Ingolf that Leif’s answer had the effect of a well-directed blow. Both Hallveig and Helga felt that here was something evil and dangerous going on. Quite involuntarily Helga called Hjor-Leif’s name in a supplicating tone. She had no idea of wishing to influence him in the least degree. She knew him, and was aware that it was hopeless. The word fell like a prayer from her gentle and anxious soul. In one hot wave the blood mounted to Hjor-Leif’s head when he heard Helga’s voice. “You can remain with your brother, since you prefer that to following me.” The bitter words leapt from his mouth. Helga broke down in a heavy and despairing fit of weeping. Leif sat motionless, and apparently un-moved. But in his breast there tore and tugged a fierce and intolerable pain which was not far from making him powerless. It was not at all, as it now appeared, a sudden whim which caused him not to wish to have Helga on board again. It was the scene by night with the serf, Duftak, which from the beginning had given rise to the thought in him that Helga would be really safer on Ingolf’s ship. Some vague and groundless presentiment or other, which made him still more sensitive and impatient, told him that there was danger in the journey for him and Helga. It was nothing but pure tenderness for Helga which made him resolve that they should part before they were all quite on shore. This time he had not thought of parting from Ingolf. But in a moment Hjor-Leif was completely in the power of his restless temperament which, as so often before, distorted his words and actions and drove him to hasty resolves. To separate from the others, and seek another landing-place, with the prospect perhaps of not seeing them for a whole year, was for him a much greater trial than for Ingolf, to whose equable temperament a year’s separation contained nothing unthinkable or alarming. Hjor-Leif could really not imagine how he could hold out merely a month, much less a whole year, without them.
And if he now chose to land in another place than Ingolf, each for the present would have to remain where he landed. But it was completely impossible for him to expose his dependence and pain at parting. He could neither humble himself nor subdue his spirit so far as to enable them to discuss matters reasonably. As soon as the fateful words were out of his mouth he was helplessly in their power.
While thoughts and feelings were rushing like violent streams through Hjor-Leif’s lacerated soul, Ingolf had already succeeded in reviewing the matter reasonably. In separation there was the advantage that the one who first found a landing-place could, by kindling a fire on his point, inform the other, who perhaps would be seeking a landing-place in vain, where he could look for one. Ingolf, with a seaman’s practised eye, had long before discovered that the coast here was difficult, not to say impossible to land on. It confronted the open sea. The heavy swells, which were certainly almost always prevalent here, would shatter any ship that tried to land on the sands. It was by no means unlikely that the character of the coast near the two points might be equally difficult. And it was impossible to know if the coast east or south of the points was better. Since Leif now wished it, Ingolf had for his part nothing against their separation, for some days or for a year, as it might happen. He therefore quietly proposed that whoever first succeeded in landing should kindle a fire on his point as a signal to the other. The latter could then make for that place, if he had not found another harbour before, or in the contrary case might answer with a fire on his point.
Hjor-Leif briefly agreed to this arrangement. It was he who had settled that they should separate, and yet it was a severe disappointment to him that it was now finally decided on. “I may come southward in the spring, if I have not by that time found my pillars,” said Ingolf quietly, when the matter of the fires had been settled. “But if I should not come, I will send you a messenger, if I have not heard from you before.”
Hjor-Leif nodded curtly. It was incomprehensible to him that Ingolf could sit there and talk so quietly, as if nothing had happened between them and everything was all right.
“If you find my pillars,” Ingolf continued, with the same immovable calm, “take good care of them, and let me know of the discovery as soon as possible.”
Hjor-Leif made no answer. Internally he swore that if he had the luck to find the infernal pillars it would be a joy to him to let the fire devour them.
All conversation gradually died out among the four persons who sat there, swinging on the sea, swayed by the balance of fate, each mind filled with its characteristic inner thoughts, peace or unrest, wearing pain or assured contentment—sat there in the grip of their own souls and of blind powers, while the brilliant spring day glided into a light, soft night.
The red sun-gold over the sea in the west faded and died away into other and colder colours. The world was new and strange, and charged with presentiment as always on the boundary between day and night. The four sat there, and let the day go and night come over their peaceful or irritated silence. Ingolf’s little boy, Thorsten, slept quietly in his mother’s bosom. All around was quiet. Peace was there for whomsoever had a mind to receive it. The brothers sat side by side, yet each in his own world. Ingolf, as always, kept his mind collected, was his natural self, and knew it. Just as he ate what nourished his body of the good things of sea and earth, so his mind absorbed whatever benefited him from the changing moods of day and night, sea and heaven and earth. Everything else remained lying untouched and harmless outside the tightly closed circle of his mind.
With Hjor-Leif it was otherwise. He had no collectedness in his mind. Every kind of experience or mood which approached him was seized by the tentacles of his restless heart. Evil and good, health and injury—his hungry nature swallowed and satiated itself with all, without any other result than merely to increase his burning desire for something—a condition or an experience—he knew no name for it. In a measure he was himself just as Ingolf was. But his self was volatile and difficult to grasp. It died away in grief and gladness, as though it were a part of them.
Thus the night passed. And when day again bordered the east, it was followed by a gentle breeze from the sea which could be used for sailing equally westward or eastward.
Hjor-Leif rose and heaved a heavy sigh in the cool morning air. His last hope: A stiff breeze from the west, which would oblige him to follow his brother, was gone. Helga and Ingolf both rose with Hjor-Leif. Helga went to him, put her arm round his neck, and pressed close to him. No prayer came from her lips, but her whole soul was a prayer.
Hjor-Leif examined his mind and found a fear there—some misty foreboding of impending disaster, which determined him to stand firm, to be hard both towards himself and towards her.
He responded to her caress, but not in the whole-hearted way which would allow him to forget his words and revoke his determination not to let her follow him. There was a distinct air of separation in his kiss and in the gentle passing of his hand over her luxuriant fair hair.
So Helga gave up her hope and submitted silently to his will, as she had always done.
Hjor-Leif silently gave Hallveig his hand in farewell. She looked firmly and inquiringly at him, and pressed his hand silently. There was something about Hjor-Leif, the man who was so unlike Ingolf, and whom she did not understand, that stirred something in her heart.
When he had left her, she suddenly called after him: “Good-bye, Hjor-Leif, till we meet again. We shall take good care of Helga.”
Hjor-Leif turned towards her with a forced and wry smile on his irregular features—a smile which betrayed such a pathetic and involuntary gratitude that, immediately after he had turned and gone, Helga fell into Hallveig’s arms, and both wept. They had suddenly divined, with the sure instinct of women, that it was out of tenderness and love that Hjor-Leif had let Helga remain behind. There was much in the whole sudden arrangement which they did not understand, but this they did.
Ingolf followed Hjor-Leif to the gunwale amidships. The men were engaged in drawing the ships close together with boat-hooks. The distance between them had gradually become so small that he could soon spring over into his own ship.
“I do not rightly understand why you let Helga remain behind,” Ingolf said at last, when Hjor-Leif already had his foot on the gunwale.
Hjor-Leif paused, and stood still a little, without meeting Ingolf’s searching look. “I cannot give you any reason,” he answered at last, and the hardness and gruffness in his voice spoke of feelings of quite another sort in his heart, “except that in my judgment it is the best for her.”
Ingolf’s whole bearing clearly showed that the answer did not satisfy him.
Hjor-Leif became irritated. “I have ten serfs and only ten freemen,” he continued in a firm and rather annoyed tone, for he did not like, not only before Ingolf, but also before himself, to clothe his forebodings in such a distinct shape. “I cannot always be at hand, and the serfs are not reliable. I may fall sick and misfortune come upon us. Many things may happen. Are you satisfied?”
Hjor-Leif’s tone was still equally hard and unyielding. But Ingolf had seen through him, and smilingly reached him his hand. Hjor-Leif squeezed it with his iron claw so that it hurt, and stood meanwhile with averted face; his features worked visibly, and he bit his lip till the blood came. Hastily he let go of Ingolf’s hand, and at the same moment sprang into his own ship.
Immediately afterwards Ingolf heard his voice from it. It was cuttingly sharp, and rose higher and higher in a torrent of words. It soon appeared that Hjor-Leif had quickly succeeded in putting life into his men. Soon after, his ship, with sail hoisted, glided away before the light breeze.
Ingolf stood and thought that such a lonely year might do Hjor-Leif good. He would be a different man the next time they saw him. Ingolf only lent a momentary hearing to the voice of a strange wounded and groundless sense of loss in his soul. Quietly he turned round, roused his tired men mildly, and bade them hoist sail and make the vessel clear.
As early as the next night Hjor-Leif saw a fire shine from Ingolf’s point. So Ingolf was already on land, and everything was right there. Hjor-Leif had not fared so well. The westerly breeze he had so strongly desired had come when he had no more use for it. It had come too late, and very inopportunely. After forty-eight hours he lay here pitching in the choppy seas, tacking as well as he could without getting much nearer his object. There was not a drop of fresh water on board. The Irish serfs had discovered how to knead meal and butter into a mess they called mintak, and declared that it was a food one did not get thirsty by eating. None the less, all were suffering with thirst, and the animals were in a miserable condition, unable to swallow a straw of the hay they had brought with them. The mintak quickly fermented, and the whole mass had to be thrown overboard.
It was only Hjor-Leif’s wretched and indomitable obstinacy which prevented him from taking advantage of the wind and quickly running his ship to Ingolf’s point. By doing so all his sufferings would have been got rid of at once. It needed only a little resolution, a slight change of mind. The wind was there, the light was there. The fire gleamed and beckoned. All was well so far. The only difficulty was that the deciding little possibility was wanting—the possibility of Hjor-Leif’s bending his mind the little bit that was necessary—the possibility of giving way. In Hjor-Leif’s volatile soul there towered a steep rock. He would see his animals perish of hunger and thirst, his crew perish one by one, and himself die by any death whatever rather than turn his vessel and use the favourable wind.
At last, on the evening of the third day, a little rain fell, and Hjor-Leif succeeded in collecting some water in the outspread sail. That refreshed both men and animals. Not till four days after Ingolf had kindled his fire did he see a fire burning in answer on Hjor-Leif’s point. When he told Helga that, she went up on the point, sat by herself, and stared fixedly at the faint red light, sometimes hardly visible, far to the south-west. There she remained sitting for two days and nights, as long as Hjor-Leif kept up his fire in order to be sure that it should be seen.
Ingolf and Hallveig had at last begun to be anxious for Helga, for she ate nothing, did not sleep, and hardly answered when they spoke to her.
But when after these two days spent up there on the point she returned to the tents, she was herself again, and had recovered her old self-command. There was nothing to show either Ingolf or Hallveig that she carried about a burning sense of bereavement. Neither did they know that she lay whole and half nights sleepless, breathing in fancy the rich, delicious scent of pine trees.