CHAPTER IV
Time rolled on.
The autumn nights grew longer; the days dwindled to a few hours’ feeble light.
Winter was near at hand.
Then came the snow. First one night, when all was still. There it lay next morning, a soft, white sheet spread out under a blue-tinted sky. All the earth seemed silent as in church, at the hour of meditation. And when any sound broke the stillness, its echo seemed to dwell in the ear for longer than usual, dying away slowly, as if loth to depart.
The wind came, levelling the snow to fill the hollows of the ground; then more snow, then rain, and then frost; winter was come in earnest, come to stay. Heavy, murky clouds shed their burden of snow, but passed away again; winter had many aspects and was never one thing for long at a time. Westerly winds flung the snow hither and thither, mountain torrents rushed down on their way to the sea. And then suddenly, in the midst of all this wild confusion, would come calm, clear nights, of ghostly quiet, no sound to be heard save the murmur of the sea, like beating of the wings of time.
And men lived on, under the heavy yoke of winter. It seemed as if the winter itself were ever trying to foist itself upon them, claiming acknowledgment of its presence. It set its mark upon the window-panes, thrust itself at them through the cracks of doors; but they strove to keep it out, thawing the pictures on their windows, bundling the snow from their thresholds with scant ceremony, even with abuse. No wonder that the winter turned spiteful at times, lying in wait for men and leading them astray in storms, luring them to destruction in some concealed ravine where their last breath could be offered up as a sacrifice upon its altar. It was but reasonable so.
This winter, the Hofsfjordur folk had little time to spare for contemplation of the usual struggle; they took the necessary steps for their protection, but their minds were largely occupied with other matters.
There was the new priest, Sera Ketill, son of the mighty King of Borg—and he gave them food for thought in abundance. From his first sermon, he had made his influence felt, chiefly, perhaps, through his eloquence and the depth of feeling he seemed to display. Then, later, it became evident that there was a certain tendency in his discourses; his arguments pointed towards some conclusion, though what this was could hardly be seen as yet. His masterly treatment of his texts revealed an iron will, that had evidently set itself some great and difficult task.
Sera Ketill revealed himself as a fanatic, stern and merciless in his interpretations and demands. He appeared as an idealist, looking ever toward the goal of perfection, which he seemed to regard as undoubtedly attainable. In his judgments and castigation he was unrelenting as a Jesuit; his doctrine was clear and hard, admitting of no compromise: if the eye offended, pluck it out; if the offending hand were nearer and dearer than all else, there was still no way but one—cut it off and cast it from thee. Thus Sera Ketill taught his flock.
Sunday after Sunday the church was full; week by week Sera Ketill knit more closely the bond between his parishioners and himself. At first they admired him, but it was not long before they came to love him. What had been, was forgotten; he was their priest now. All knew that Ormarr was to inherit Borg after his father, and it was not difficult to forgive Ketill for having, in earlier days, cherished other hopes. Plainly he had himself been the first to mortify the flesh, and put away his own worldly desires. And who should call him to account for any youthful indiscretions? After all, perhaps he had not been serious in his reputed intention of discontinuing the benign and considerate rule that had been a tradition of the Borg family towards those round them. His sternness in matters spiritual, on the other hand, was unimpeachable; it showed his earnest desire for the welfare of their souls, and those who followed his precepts were happy in so doing, even though it cost them something to break with the old easy-going ways. Conscience needed to be kept awake and sensitive. And it was not altogether unpleasant to come to church and be rated and stormed at for all backslidings; one sat listening with beating heart, subject to an emotion which Sera Ketill’s predecessor had certainly never had power to call forth. The wearisome homilies of the old days, full of spiritless and superficial argument, had made it hard for them to keep decorously awake. But now, it was a different atmosphere altogether. “Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thine heart.” Also, “Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.” But hence it followed that one should tolerate nothing in one’s neighbour that would not be tolerated in oneself. “For I the Lord thy God am a jealous God,” ay, jealous even towards His children. Wherefore it behoved them to adopt a similar attitude towards those around them. Wheresoever anything became apparent which was not in the spirit of God, let them rise up and denounce it; if they suffered any among them to look with scorn, or even with indifference, upon the Holy Word, then they themselves were guilty. And for such sinners there was nothing but everlasting damnation; the Scriptures had declared it plainly.
Sera Ketill’s doctrine admitted but two alternatives—either heaven or hell.
And he did not confine his teachings to the pulpit. His eyes were everywhere, and as often as he discovered anything among his flock that was not according to his teaching, he was ready with word and deed. And he brooked no resistance—he spoke in the name of the Lord. Illegitimate relationships that had gone on for years were ordered to be legalized; it was not an uncommon thing for an old couple who had never been properly married to appear in church for the ceremony with their grown-up children as witnesses. A fever of zeal spread from the vicarage throughout the parish. True, there were occasional murmurings from those who were called upon to mend their ways, but even they felt the power of this new influence in their hearts. And little by little the flock was led into the paths of righteousness.
First and foremost, Sera Ketill demanded of his congregation that they should attend regularly for worship in God’s House, where, by hearing of the Word, their hearts might be opened to receive the Lord. Anything beyond a single Sunday’s absence called forth a visit and a reproof for neglect. Thus it was not long before Sera Ketill became the unquestioned leader of the parish, acknowledged by all.
Among the poorer folk he gained great popularity by foregoing his right of grazing on their land; here was an example near to hand of the self-denial he preached. Such a thing had hardly been heard of before. Plainly, Sera Ketill was one who himself lived up to his principles.
His judgment was taken as infallible, any decision on his part was to them as if inspired by the Almighty. And week by week they grew more and more dependent upon him; every Sunday he whittled away some portion of the spiritual independence they had hitherto enjoyed. Yet they hardly felt it as a loss; they were made to feel that it was pleasing to God that they should do as they were bidden.
Sera Ketill’s doctrine bore the outward semblance of hallowed certainty and divine infallibility. But there was something vague about it still, something that had not yet been declared outright. A sense of expectancy, half-unconscious, perhaps, hung over the parish. Whither was Sera Ketill leading them? What was it that was coming?
Ketill himself realized well enough that his scope of operations was limited: he could only carry matters to a certain point. Like a skilful general, he carefully estimated the fighting strength at his disposal, and never permitted himself to indulge in any over-sanguine imaginings as to how far his people would follow him when it came to the pinch. Above all things, he must not lose his head; must not act prematurely. His objective was clear, but it could only be reached by patience. Given but time enough, the ripened fruit would fall at his feet. Meantime, he must foster the growing zeal among his flock; in time, they would be ready for any outburst of fanaticism. Not too quickly—no. But his time would surely come.
Ørlygur à Borg attended service regularly; Sunday after Sunday he listened to the wild outpourings of his son. And sorrow and wonder grew in his heart.
Ketill strove to maintain his appearance of sincerity towards his father, but he knew that the old man saw through the mask.
Ørlygur, on his part, for all that he had declared that Ketill could no longer deceive him, found it hard to account for his son’s zeal. If he were not serious, then why ... what was he aiming at? But again and again he felt an instinctive certainty that his son’s preaching was not inspired by any divine influence.
And apart from the religious aspect, Ørlygur was sorely troubled to see the people thus easily led. He knew his folk, and was himself a leader of no common power; he could not but wonder now, whither they were being led. Also, he knew only too well the cold reaction that often follows undue excitement.
Many a long winter night the King of Borg tossed restlessly in bed, uttering many a prayer to God—the only Being whose superiority he acknowledged. He was weighed down by a sense of impending disaster—there was trouble coming, and coming swiftly nearer.
Ketill was the leading source of his uneasiness; again and again he asked himself if he could not somehow step in and avert the threatening catastrophe. But he racked his brains in vain to find any way in which he could act as things were. What was there for him to oppose? He could not take action against his son’s enthusiasm in the cause of religion and piety? Heaven forbid! Was he to endeavour to minimize the devotion of the people to their God? Even though Ketill’s heart were cold, and his zeal but a sham, who could say but that he might yet be an instrument in the hand of the Lord—a creature inspired as to his deeds, though not in spirit? Ørlygur à Borg could not raise his hand against Heaven.
For all this, his suspicions never abated, but rather increased, as he watched the growing hold of his son upon the parish. Was it not a masked attack upon the supremacy of Borg? His son was trying to usurp his place as chieftain. He called to mind the story of David and Absalom, and David’s bitter lament for the death of his son. And he could not free himself from the thought that Heaven must be working out some plan with Ketill, the prodigal; at times, also, it seemed that something evil were lying in wait. And, in such moments, the old man longed to take his son, his child, in his arms, and weep over him, despite all the wrong he had suffered at his hands. Ørlygur made no attempt to disguise from himself the baseness of Ketill’s conduct, but he fancied it might be the will of God moving in some mysterious way. His heart was torn by the meanness and hypocrisy of his son; he felt himself wounded to the death. And yet all the time his heart was bursting with a desire to forgive.
Nevertheless, the same disgust and aversion filled him every time they met. He felt he must step in and put a stop to all this underhand scheming and working; Ketill was a creeping, venomous thing, to be crushed underfoot ere it had wrought irreparable harm.
For the first time in his life Ørlygur felt uncertain of himself, wavering as to his proper course of action. He doubted his right to lead; doubted even if he had been right up to now in stewardship under God of all that was His.
He searched his conscience, yet he could find no evil there. Yet what if his judgment of himself were at fault, blinded by pride and self-deceit? How should a man judge of himself?—God alone could judge.
The brave old warrior was stricken and weakened now; his own flesh and blood had wounded him, and, in face of it, doubt and uncertainty gripped his soul.
The winter wore on.
Each day brought the foreboding of disaster more and more prominently to Ørlygur’s mind; each night increased the restless tension of his heart.
Then late in March came a letter from Ormarr, then in Italy.
The news was encouraging; Runa had borne a child, a son, some weeks before, and both were well. Ormarr and his wife were happy together; Runa appeared to have forgotten her past trouble, and Ormarr did his best not to revive any unpleasant memory. He himself was well and happy, though longing at times for his home at Borg; he was anxious to return, and tend and comfort his father in the last years of his life.
They would be coming back as early as could be managed, reaching Iceland in June. The child was to be regarded as newly born; it could hardly be difficult to conceal the exact truth as to its age. And as Ørlygur knew, they had been married in Denmark the previous autumn. Finally, Ormarr bade his father be of good cheer, and wished to be sincerely remembered to his sister-in-law, Alma.
Ørlygur found the letter encouraging, yet at the same time there was something in it that saddened him. He was glad to have the support of his son’s youth and strength in his loneliness, and his heart went out to the boy in welcome. Here, at last, he would have some one he could trust, some one in whom he could confide. But at the same time, there were fears in his mind as to what would come when Ormarr returned, and his anxiety increased as the time for his homecoming grew nearer.
Gloomy dreams haunted his sleep—a thing he had never known before. What it all meant was beyond him, but somehow, all seemed to centre round the idea of approaching death. At the same time, he realized with dread that there might be worse in store for him than death—something more terrible than what was after all but a natural end.