CHAPTER VIII
Sunday came. A glorious spring day with a bright blue cloudless sky and the air a-quiver with heat; a day of smiles without a shadow, breathing peace to all mankind.
Coming out into the sunshine on such a day, free from the cares and toil of everyday life, the heart seemed filled with a natural desire to give thanks and praise to God for the blessing of life.
But on this Sunday, there were few in all Hofsfjordur whose minds were bent on praising the Lord. Folk hastened to the service, but their thoughts were not with God. This day, the first Sunday after Ormarr Ørlygsson’s homecoming, was a day of mark; something, all knew, was about to happen. And all repaired to the church to see. Even tiny children were brought thither; no one was willing to stay at home minding children today.
Sera Ketill was up and about before any of his people at Hof. He moved about restlessly outside the house, avoiding the grass, which was still thickly drenched with dew.
Again and again he glanced over in the direction of Borg. A thin bluish column of smoke could be seen rising straight up above the chimneys of his old home. And involuntarily he found in it something like a symbol of peace. There was something of a covenant in the ray of smoke that rose as it were from some sacrifice acceptable to the Lord.
How was this day to end? Sera Ketill asked himself the question, and wondered who would be coming to church from Borg that day.
Ørlygur and Ormarr moved about in silence, each bent upon his own tasks. There was much to be done; they had made no attempt as yet to secure new hands. It had been agreed that Ørlygur should go to church, the others remaining at home. Had it not been for his duties there, Ørlygur himself would rather have stayed away.
Early that morning he had fetched in Sleipnir, his saddle-horse, from the fields, and stabled it without fodder to be ready for the road. He let another animal into the box to keep it company, and the pair remained there during the morning, relieving the tedium of their confinement by licking each other.
At last it was time to start. Ørlygur had saddled his horse, but delayed moving off, finding this thing and that to attend to, as if loth to leave the place. Now and again he stopped still, looking out over the country round; from all quarters he could see his fellow-parishioners come riding; all moving towards Hof as the centre of attraction. He noticed, too, that the enclosure round the vicarage was already dark with the crowd of those who had come early.
Finally, realizing that he had no time to spare if he wished to arrive in time, he stepped off resolutely. Then he turned and stopped.
Ormarr was in the courtyard, teaching a new-born lamb to suck. He had been an adept at the work in his younger days, but had forgotten his deftness now, and was fumbling awkwardly.
Ørlygur went straight up to him.
“I think you had better come with me, after all,” he said. “I feel—I feel lonely today, Ormarr. Never mind the lamb, it will manage till we come back.”
Ormarr looked up. There was something strange about his father’s manner today, something he had not noticed before. He rose up without a word, saddled a horse, and a few minutes later father and son set out.
Where the road was good, they gave their horses rein. But Ormarr noticed that, despite the pace, his father was constantly turning to look back at Borg. A new fancy of his, he thought.
There was a stretch of difficult going just ahead; on reaching it, they slackened speed, and rode on side by side at a walk. Suddenly, and without preamble, Ørlygur said:
“I had a strange dream last night. Curiously distinct it was too. I was standing on the hill outside”—he nodded towards Borg—“and a funeral came along the road—this very way—towards the house. A great procession, the biggest I had even seen. And the strange thing about it was that it was coming from the church towards Borg—instead of the opposite way.”
He paused for a moment, and continued:
“And that was not all. I was quite sure that it was my own corpse the people were following. And yet I stood there on the hill myself, looking on. If it means anything at all, I suppose it should be taken by contraries—to say that I am to be buried alone, without a soul to follow me to the grave.”
They reached the level road as he ceased speaking, and Ørlygur at once galloped on ahead; Ormarr did not overtake him till they had reached the vicarage. Neither spoke.
There was a numerous attendance of people. But it was noticeable that they did not talk together, but busied themselves tidying up after the ride with nervous care. There was none of the customary laughter and easy conversation, all seemed curiously silent. Neighbours did not move to greet one another and shake hands; and none entered the church. All waited, a silent crowd, with their minds at the highest pitch of sinister anticipation.
For the second time the church bell called to the worshippers to enter. But no one moved.
At sight of Ørlygur and his son riding up, the crowd remained impassive, merely staring at the new arrivals as they approached. But they watched them closely, with occasional side-glances at others, who appeared to be watching likewise.
As Ørlygur rode up, he divined at once that no one had as yet entered the church; that all were waiting for himself and his son. They were watching them, too. One glance showed him the situation, and his anger rose suddenly. Usually, he dismounted outside the fence. But now, he galloped straight across the enclosure, up to the wall of the churchyard, Ormarr following at his heels. The crowd had to give way hastily to avoid being trampled down. Still there was no murmur, only the same watching glances from all. And all could see that the master of Borg was in no gentle mood today.
Suddenly the gathering moved with one accord towards the church and poured in. The bell called for the third time—a strange, solitary sound in the quiet air.
Ørlygur and Ormarr secured their horses and went straight into the church. They were the last to enter, save for old Kata, who hobbled along, waving her coloured kerchief in the air to ward off invisible ghosts and evil things.
Ørlygur read the opening prayer, and the service proceeded as usual, until Sera Ketill ascended into the pulpit.
Ørlygur was in his usual seat in the choir. Alma sat at his side. Ormarr had found a place in the nave, just in front of the organ.
When Sera Ketill appeared in the pulpit, a dead silence filled the church, as if all had ceased to breathe. For a moment the priest stood silent, with a thoughtful mien. Then he spoke—a little unsteadily at first, and fumbling with his fingers at the notes before him. But soon he gained power, and spoke out strongly and in a clear, resonant voice. His hands clutched the edge of the pulpit with such force that the knuckles showed white.
“Brethren in Christ,” he began, “before proceeding to interpret the text for today, I have a painful duty to perform—a painful duty indeed. Let me therefore fortify myself by supplication. I ask you all to say with me the Lord’s Prayer:
“Our Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be Thy Name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil: For Thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.”
Sera Ketill wiped his brow.
“Yes: Thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory. And we will serve Thee only. Grant us strength that no earthly ties may keep us from Thee and Thy way. That our duty to Thee may ever be set before all else; that we may willingly take up our cross and bear it in patience as did Thy well-beloved Son.”
Sera Ketill paused a moment, and then continued:
“Brethren in Christ, we all know how the Son of God cleansed the Temple at Jerusalem. Today a like duty is laid upon us, the meanest of His servants. To the Almighty, this poor house of prayer is no less sacred than the great Temple; it is the House of the Lord, and no evil must be suffered to dwell therein. And those who have given offence to God cannot be suffered to enter His House until they have begged of Him forgiveness for their sins, kneeling before him with a humble and a contrite heart.
“There is here in our midst an old man who is a cause of offence among this congregation, together with his son, the sharer of his sin.
“The son took to wife a woman out of his father’s house. And the woman has given birth to a child that cannot be the offspring of her husband. Whose, then, is the child? It is said that the old man is the father. I have seen the child, and I cannot but believe that it must have been born earlier than is said. Indeed, I am certain of this. And my wife has seen the child, and can testify to the same. The woman, then, has borne a child in sin. But who is the father?
“Until this matter is made clear, until the parentage of this child is established according to the laws of the Church, we cannot tolerate among us those from whom this offence is come. We cannot suffer them to worship God under the same roof.
“And now, Ørlygur à Borg, and you, Ormarr Ørlygsson, I call on you, in the name of God, to leave this holy place. Amen.”
Alma leaned over towards Ørlygur and grasped his arm. From the commencement of her husband’s speech she had divined his intention, and now in a moment she realized what had been vague to her before.
Ørlygur sat motionless throughout his son’s denunciation, but his brow was firmly knit, and a strange light shone in his eyes.
As Ketill finished, Ormarr rose to leave the church. Passing by the pulpit, he looked straight at his brother; both men were deadly pale. Ormarr stood still for a moment, and said:
“You are playing a dangerous game, brother Ketill.” Then he passed on.
But now Ørlygur rose to his feet, Alma still clinging to his arm, and called out in a loud, firm voice:
“Ormarr!”
Ormarr stopped, looked back, and strode to his father’s side.
Alma still held the old man’s arm. She clung to him, and begged imploringly: “Do not leave me here; take me back with you to Borg. Let me come with you and stay with you there.”
Ørlygur patted her trembling hands, and said gently; “Ormarr will look after you, my dear.” And to Ormarr he said: “Go with her home, and protect her, whatever happens. Do not let her leave Borg unless by her own desire. Be kind to her, my son. And now go, both of you. I will come presently.”
But Alma held Ormarr back, and they did not leave the church.
Ørlygur had followed them down the aisle toward the door. Then he turned back, not noticing that they remained inside the church. When he had left them, old Kata emerged from her corner, and going up to Ormarr, asked: “May I come with you to Borg and stay?”
Alma caught her hand, and Ormarr nodded in consent. Alma was trembling pitifully; Ormarr and Kata had to support her.
Ørlygur à Borg walked back toward the pulpit, stopped in front of it, and said:
“This is the House of God. But it seems that the Evil One has usurped His place. I am to be driven out from it—well and good. But before I go, let me tell what all these righteous folk are full of zeal to know.”
And pointing to the priest in the pulpit, he went on:
“There is the father of the child.”
When Alma heard the old man’s words, it was as if the inward tension of the past months had suddenly given way. Her features relaxed, she ceased to tremble, and her eyes lost their fire. She felt as if she were sinking into a sea of mist. And then to nothingness.
The light of her mind was suddenly extinguished, her soul had taken flight, back to the eternity whence it had come. Only her body remained, panting, unharmed, a living monument to that which had gone, an empty dwelling, that has not yet crumbled, though the last living thing it sheltered, the last thought, is gone.
A wave of astonishment swept through the congregation at Ørlygur’s revelation. Then a moment after all was quiet once more.
Sera Ketill was still in the pulpit, pale as a corpse. He had reckoned with every possibility save only this; no form of defence, no counter-attack, but he would have had his answer ready. But this.... It was not like his father.
It was all over now. The words that meant his destruction were spoken. And yet he was still alive. The earth had not swallowed him up, no fire had descended from heaven to consume him. He was unhurt; ruined beyond help, yet he stood there as if nothing had happened. It seemed somehow ridiculous.
Ørlygur faced his son, speaking directly to him:
“How could you do this thing? And how could ever God permit it? How could He tolerate a hypocrite in His House? My son, I do not hate you, and yet I say: Be thou accursed until repentance and charity have filled your soul. Ay, I curse my son, not because I hate him, but because of my love for him. Accursed—be accursed until our Heavenly Father shall have let the glory of His goodness penetrate into your soul, and the darkness of the Evil One give place to light. May your soul never rest, and may it never leave its earthly dwelling, until Almighty God has given the sign of His forgiveness!”
The congregation sat in awed silence while Ørlygur was speaking. When the old man had finished, he turned to leave the church. But he tottered, and would have fallen had he not grasped at the side of a seat for support.
Ormarr hurried to his side, leaving Kata to look after Alma. Ørlygur sank helpless into his son’s arms. The congregation looked on as if spellbound; no one moved.
The old man put his hand to his heart and murmured; “I am dying. Heavenly Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit.”
Ormarr laid him down on the floor of the church, and stood bending over him, at a loss what next to do. The old man seemed trying to speak. Ormarr put his ear close to his father’s mouth, and caught the words:
“... home ... to Borg.”
They were the last words Ørlygur à Borg ever uttered.
Ormarr felt his father’s heart and pulse—it was all over. Lifting the body tenderly in his arms, he carried it out of the church.
Old Kata, standing by the entrance, crossed herself and muttered something about the ways of the Lord.... Then to herself she added:
“So it was his death the ravens came to tell!”
And Kata took the unconscious Alma by the hand and followed after Ormarr and his burden.
When they had left, an old peasant rose and walked out of the church. Then the congregation followed, walking with downcast eyes, a few only casting furtive glances in the direction of the pulpit, where Sera Ketill stood.
Ormarr carried his father across the churchyard to the horses, Kata and Alma following close behind. When he saw his sister-in-law’s condition, he shivered.
Kata was watching him. “Ay,” she said, “her poor troubled soul’s found rest at last. And we should thank the Lord that He took her reason. Let me come and nurse her—she’ll need no other help as long as I live.”
Ormarr was puzzled to think how he should get his father’s body and the two women home, with but two horses for the journey. Sleipnir could easily carry him and his father’s body. With a side-saddle, Alma could have mounted the second horse, Kata leading it. As it was, the women would have to walk, and he must ride at a foot-pace the whole way. There was nothing else to be done that he could see.
He was on the point of telling Kata his plan when he perceived the congregation crowding round. The old peasant who had first left the church came up to him, and said:
“You will let us carry the old chief home to Borg?”
Ormarr turned on him furiously.
“You have killed my father among you; not one of you shall touch his body.”
But the old peasant would not give way. His voice was thick with emotion as he went on:
“We have done a great injustice to your father. You will not forbid us now to make amends as far as we can. Had he lived, we should have come to him, to ask his forgiveness. And for all that you are his son, you know him little if you think he would have sent us away unheard. He was too generous for that.”
Ormarr saw that there were tears in the man’s eyes. He glanced round the circle, and saw everywhere bowed heads and evident distress. And suddenly he remembered his father’s dream.
“True,” he said. “It is your right to pay him the last honour on earth. Carry him home.”
A bier was found, and the party moved off, with Ormarr at the head. Alma, with eyes staring blankly before her, walked between him and old Kata.
All the others, men, women, and children, followed on foot, leading their horses. Never had the parish seen so impressive a funeral train, nor such a numerous following.
They moved but slowly, step by step, all the long road to Borg, the men relieving one another at the bier. As soon as the body was lifted up, they commenced with one accord to sing the beautiful funeral hymn:
“Alt eins og blomstrid eina.”
They sang through all the verses, and when it was ended, another hymn was sung; afterwards, the first again.
Singing and sobbing, the procession moved on—a strange sight to see. The birds circled round the train in silence, forgetting for a moment their spring song. But the sky was clear and blue as before.
So they passed along the way. When they reached the river, Ormarr took Alma and Kata in his arms and carried them across. The men waded over likewise, leading their horses; only the women and children crossed on horseback.
At last they came to Borg. The body of the chief was laid on a big table in the hall, and another hymn was sung. The followers were about to move off, when Ormarr turned to them and said:
“You have carried my father home, and I thank you. I know that he was always your friend, and if you will accept the friendship I offer you now, it would be as he wished. I hope to hold the place he held amongst you—that of a brother and friend. And if you have need of me in any way, you know where to find me. You must be tired and hungry now. If you will break bread under my roof now, before you return, then I take it that the good-will that was of old between Borg and its neighbours is there still.”
When he had finished speaking, he had to shake hands with all. At his suggestion the women went out to the kitchen and pantries to prepare food.
It was late, and all had been well cared for, when the guests rode away. But, before they left, the whole staff of servants and hands who had been at Borg that spring had returned, having obtained release from their later masters, and permission from Ormarr to re-enter their former service.
Alma never recovered. She wandered about like a living corpse. Old Kata nursed her as well as she could, consoling herself and others with the thought that she did not suffer. Alma was no longer conscious of joy or pain.
Sera Ketill stood in the pulpit, watching his people leave the church. He made no movement, but followed all with observant eyes.
He saw how the scene had affected his wife, and that she had sought refuge with his father. And he understood that he had lost her for ever. Then, marking the change in her expression, he suspected the truth: that she had lost her reason on hearing her husband denounced by his own father.
He listened to his father’s curse, and saw him sink to the ground and die. He heard the congregation singing hymns outside the church. Then gradually all sound died away ... the last he heard was a vague murmur—fragments of the singing borne by errant winds towards him through the open door.
Still he remained in the pulpit, leaning on his arms, as if nothing had happened. He did not think. A scornful smile seemed frozen on his lips; he suddenly realized that he was sneering, and wondered how long he had been doing so. And then it came to him painfully that he could not rest until he knew what it was all about; he must wake, and look at things and see. And suddenly it dawned upon him that he was sneering at himself. He drew himself up and laughed aloud, as if in an endeavour to break the terrible stillness of the church. He marked the harsh, uncanny sound of his own laughter. And, stepping down from the pulpit, he left the church.
From the churchyard he could see the funeral procession moving towards Borg. He watched it for a while, tried to laugh, but in vain. He went home, and found the house empty. Looked into the servants’ quarters—the place was deserted. He went out again and searched about outside.
Coming back to the house, after making sure that there was not a soul to be seen, he found a dog beside the door. The animal slunk away. Ketill spoke to it softly, beckoned to it, trying with friendly voice and gesture to call it to him. But the dog would not come, and finally ran away.
Ketill looked after it without any sign of emotion. Then he went indoors and sat down at his writing-table. He sat there all through the day, still wearing his vestments. Thoughts crowded in upon him—thoughts that he could not drive away.
He had sinned against life, taking the gift of life in vain. And now he was alone, an outcast, rejected and despised by all. Even a dog disowned him.
He had sinned against God, taking His name in vain. The House of God was closed to him. Alone, cursed by his father and abandoned by his God!
He had sinned against love; he had used his utmost efforts to ruin the lives of two innocent women. God had intervened to save them: the one through the love of human beings, the other by taking away her reason. And he—he was left alone and shunned by all. The world was full of love around him, on every side were human beings, his fellow-creatures, loving and being loved. To him only love was denied; for him alone there was no kindly thought in any single heart. All who knew him hated and despised him. He had crushed the flower of love underfoot—it would bloom no more on his way, nor gladden him by its fragrance.
Alone. And what should he do now? Why could he not sink to the earth and die? Why was not his body given to the worms? Why could he not rot away, and return to dust? What had he to do with life now? Or was it that life had not yet done with him?
He made no effort to check the current of his thoughts, but suffered them to come and go as they pleased.
Tears flowed down his cheeks. There was a strange sensation at his heart now, as if despair and loneliness were to become a source of joy; something akin to what the earth must feel when spring casts loose the fetters of winter.
He sat on. The faint, scarcely perceptible northern twilight crept into the room; he did not mark it. He had forgotten the existence of time. His only thought was that he was alone.
Alone.
And suddenly he fell on his knees. On hands and knees he crept out of the room, through the passage, out into the courtyard and across the enclosure, through the churchyard up to the door of the church.
He pressed his forehead against the granite steps, and sobbed bitterly.
The sun showed in the north, a dull red glow, with the sky deeper and darker round it. Farther off hung clouds, a delicate rose, neatly and regularly in tier upon tier. Night, but the sun was there. The meadows were thickly veiled with dew. All nature was at peace.
But before the door of one poor dark little church lay the priest, his forehead pressed against the cold stone.
And for the first time in his life he prayed from his heart to the God in whom he had never before believed.
“Peace, Lord, give peace to my soul!”
But there was no peace.
Ketill lay there long, sobbing and praying. Then, rising, he stood with bowed head and clasped hands, and whispered:
“Lord, I will seek Thee and Thy peace. My life shall be a prayer and a cry to Thee. And Thou who hast said: ‘Seek, and ye shall find; ask, and it shall be given unto you’—Thou wilt not deny me peace. A humble and a contrite heart....”