CHAPTER XII
Guest the One-eyed wandered far that day. He felt that it was fated to be his last.
Fever burned in his veins; fever in his soul. It seemed a painful task to end this life. And he was tormented by dread lest his sufferings should after all not suffice to atone for his sin.
Sun and rain and hail took turns to follow him on this the hardest of all his wandering days. Clouds and sheets of hail passed before the face of the sun, making strange shadows on the hillsides, the contrast being more pronounced where dark stretches of lava and the lighter hue of cornfields alternated. One moment the sun’s rays warmed him, the next he was stung by the sudden lash of hailstones in his face. It was a day of contest between the powers of sun and shadow—a giant’s battle where summer and life were pitted against autumn and death. And the earth over which it raged was marked by each in turn.
His beggar’s staff changed constantly from a dry, gleaming white to a dripping grey. He swung it at each step, as it were a distorted extra limb. And the figure of the man standing against the changing background of the sky seemed hardly human; more like some fantastic creation of Nature herself.
And this man’s soul, maybe, was rugged and misshapen as his body. But the soul of a man is not so easy to see....
The first homestead he came to on this day’s march was a little place. A peasant and his wife came out to meet the stranger, the rest of their people following. They were at home today, by reason of the weather, and had, moreover, expected his arrival. All the district knew by now that Guest the One-eyed had come amongst them. The peasant and his household received him kindly, with many blessings. He felt their kindness without any need of words, and marked how they were glad to have him with them.
And talking with them, he spoke the name of Sera Ketill, once their priest, whom all remembered now with execration. Here, too, the tongues that had been ready with blessing for himself were quick to curse at the mention of that name; to their minds, Sera Ketill was a monster, a thing of dread. His very name made them shudder as if at the touch of some loathsome thing. He was a murderer, a hypocrite, and a cheat; they could not find in him the slightest link of charity and affection with his fellow-men. Even his death had been the act of a despicable creature, in that he had endeavoured to secure their regard by leaving all he had to the poor, and then flinging himself over the cliffs into the sea. This last was not even a fine thought of his own—a young poet had been the first to go that way, and by that very spot.
But the Devil had taken his body, and his soul, if any shred of soul he had, had doubtless gone with it. A thing of no use upon earth! He had not even had the courage to face the consequences of his acts. He was a stain upon mankind; in justice, he should have been burned at the stake before his soul went on its way to hell.
Guest the One-eyed listened pale as death to the bitter words. Strange, how a man’s character could thus outlive him in the memory of his fellows. Twenty years had not sufficed to bring oblivion for the wrongs this man had done. His body might have been reduced to ashes in a moment, but the fire of hate burned still about his memory.
The wanderer looked at the faces of those about him—faces that one moment shone with kindly pleasure and the next glowed fiercely with hate. He could not but smile, though his heart was heavy. Poor mortals, poor unseeing men, seeing good and evil as things absolute, unalterable.
But while his thoughts were busy, his soul cried all the time to God, praying forgiveness....
Thoughts within thoughts, and thoughts again.
For they were right, after all, these men. They themselves had the power of being good or evil, of loving or hating without reserve.
It was their hatred he was feeling now, fuel added to the furnace of his own remorse; he was passing through a purgatory of maledictions.
One moment he saw himself as Guest the One-eyed, beggar and wanderer—a figure clear enough. Then he was the doomed soul on the verge of death, doubting everything, doubting even his own doubt, torn asunder to his innermost being, a living cry of anguish seeking Heaven. And then, too, he was the penitent, believing and trusting in God—yet even so unable to wrench himself free from the spectres of doubt and mockery and scorn that clung to him.
Something prompted him to rise and speak to these his fellows gathered round him. There were many now; for folk had come from places near to see the man of whom they had heard so much. Yes, let them see him and judge him by what he had been and what he was now, and act as they were prompted to do. It was not enough that they received Guest the One-eyed with blessings, and cursed the name of Sera Ketill; he longed to bring both before them as one.
But the impulse reached no further than his thought.
As they cursed the man that he had been, he sat silent, with eyes cast down. He made no movement, only sighed. Then at last he rose, and stood a moment trying to collect his thoughts.
“I must go,” he said. “I have a long way before me today.”
And he bade farewell to each in turn, confused thoughts passing through his mind the while.
“They give me their hands—but I am stealing what they give. If they knew me, they would spit on me. Stone me, perhaps. Would they, I wonder—would they do so now? But I steal what they give because I need it; it is because I must. Soon my hand will be cold, and then my soul will have no link with any other soul—no way to feel their love and innocent kindness. Yes, I must let them give me their hands—as many as I can. And after that, the grave. Lord, remember that this is my last day ... the very last. But I will be patient ... Lord, Thy will be done!”
And he went on his way, with blessings from all. The people stood silently watching him as he went; their hearts had been moved beyond their daily wont by the sight of this unhappy wanderer, and their thoughts followed him now in sympathy along his sorrowful way.
The wanderer’s heart was suffering more than all. His soul ached with loneliness—he felt as if already he were confined within the cold walls of the grave. It seemed a marvel to him that he could endure this and live.
On and on he went, thinking—thinking....
“If no man can forgive me, if no human heart can realize my atonement, can then God ever forgive? The blessings they have given me—can they ever outweigh the curses that were meant for me as well? Lord, if only one might cross my path to know me, and forgive. One who could take my hand and know and pardon all.... Lord, Thy will be done....”
He was taking the road towards the trading station. On the way he entered a house here and there, and was greeted kindly as ever. But at the mention of Sera Ketill’s name, all who heard it had but curses; eyes that had looked on him in kindliness lit now with hatred of the man he named.
“I have done more evil even than I thought,” he muttered to himself as he went on his way, refusing those who would have shared the road. “To have planted so much hatred in all their hearts; to be the cause of all those evil thoughts beyond my own; things grown in the dark from evil seed of my sowing. Lord, who shall ever tear them up and destroy them that they may not rise again? Lord, can it be that the fruits of sin never cease, when good comes to an end at last? Lord, Lord, now I see the greatness of my sin—more than I had dreamed. And now I am come to the verge of death and have no strength even to suffer more. Only Thy mercy, Lord—grant me Thy mercy, that hast denied me the forgiveness of men.”
The trading station had grown considerably in the twenty years that had passed. There were many new houses in the place. And the wanderer looked in vain for the turf huts that had formed the outskirts of the settlement when he knew it. They were gone, and modern buildings stood where they had been.
He limped from door to door, bearing with him each time blessings for Guest the One-eyed and curses for the name of Sera Ketill. At the last house, he asked:
“Where do the poor live now?”
There was still a glimmer of hope in his heart that there, among the poorest, he might find one single heart to bless Ketill the priest for what he had given.
“There are no poor here now,” was the reply.
“Are all in Hofsfjordur grown rich?”
“There is a poor widow living out at Bolli, a lonely place at the foot of the hills. But ’tis her own fault that she lives as poorly as she does. She might have taken the help that was offered her. But it was the Devil Priest’s money, and she would not take it.”
“The Devil Priest?”
“Sera Ketill was his name. But we call him the Devil Priest.”
“Good-bye,” said Guest the One-eyed.
“Peace go with you.”
On his way out from the trading station, he passed by a shed from which came the sound of voices within. The door stood half-open, and, looking in, he saw in the half-dark four strange figures—three men and a woman, ragged and wild-looking; evidently these were vagabonds like himself.
The woman was shouting a ribald song; one of the men sat crouched on the floor rocking with laughter. The other two men were fighting, the stronger chuckling at each successful blow, while the other fought in silence, waiting his chance.
The man on the floor called out to the others with an oath to come and listen. “Give over, you fools, and come and hear. ’Tis a new song—one of Gudda’s best. Ay, Gudda, she can make a song, if she’s not as young as she used to be....” And he came shambling over towards them.
He was a tall fellow, bigger than either of his two companions, still young, with reddish-yellow hair and a pasty face. The two sprang away as he came up.
“Mind your own business, Luse-Grimur!” cried the one nearest. This was a dark man of slender build, known as the Bishop, from a way he had of mimicking the tones of a priest, and repeating fragments of an indecent parody of the marriage service whenever a couple came together. “Keep away, and don’t bring your lice near me.”
“You’ll have my hands nearer than you care for in a minute,” answered Grimur, with a leer. “Go on, Gudda.”
Gudda was known for her talent in making songs. She was a powerfully built woman getting on in years, with a coarse voice in keeping with her coarse face and heavy build. Her skirt reached hardly below her knees, showing a pair of muscular legs; her stockings were of rough material, and clumsily darned. One redeeming feature she had—her large blue eyes. Children feared her until she looked them full in the face, when the glance of her eyes seemed to draw them to her.
She was one of the few women vagabonds in the country, and was known far and wide for her vulgar songs.
Looking towards the door, she caught sight of the stranger, and called to him to come in. Guest the One-eyed limped over to the group.
“God’s peace,” he said as he entered.
“God’s peace with you,” returned the others, somewhat abashed.
Suddenly the youngest of the party stepped forward. This was Jon Gislason, a short, thick-set fellow who had some claim to good repute, being known to work at times, and trusted to carry letters and parcels from place to place. He strode up to the newcomer, and looked him in the face.
“He’s one of our sort,” he said. “It is Guest the One-eyed.”
There was a shout of welcome at this, and Grimur took out a flask from his pocket.
“Best corn brandy,” he declared, handing the bottle to Guest. “Good stuff, you can take my word for it.” Then, in a slightly altered tone, he went on: “I daresay, now, you think us rather a rough lot, you being more gentle like. But it’s just our way. Rap out an oath without thinking like.”
“’Tis not such words that do the worst of harm,” said Guest the One-eyed. And he took a sip from the flask.
Then with a grimace he spat it out. “I thought it might do me good,” he said. “But I can’t swallow it, all the same.”
“Oh, you swine!” shouted Grimur as he saw the precious liquid wasted. “There, I’m sorry,” he went on. “That’s no way to speak to a godly man. But the stuff’s too good to waste. Leastways, to my thinking.”
Guest the One-eyed offered his hand.
“No harm, brother,” he said. “Each to his own ways.”
“‘Brother,’” repeated Grimur thickly. “Calls me brother—shakes hands. Nobody ever called me brother before. My own folk won’t touch me, call me Luse-Grimur, and keep far out of reach of vermin. Ay, it’s true enough what they say of you, Guest One-eyed. God’s blessing, man.”
“We’ll have Grimur drowning his lice in floods of tears,” grumbled the Bishop. “See them swimming around and saying their prayers, Amen!”
“You, Bishop,” said Grimur warningly—“well for you this good man’s here. If it weren’t for him, I’d send you swimming and saying your prayers in earnest for less than you’ve said.”
“Filthy beast,” said Gudda scornfully, and spat at the Bishop, who only laughed.
Guest the One-eyed turned to him with a keen glance.
“Have you ever thought,” he said quietly, “that one day must be your last—that your tongue may be silent for ever after any word you have spoken?”
“Ho, yes. And I’ve got it all ready what I’m going to say. When I get to the Gates of Heaven—if the Devil hasn’t pinched my soul all hot on the way—I’ll say to the Lord: ‘Here you are; Behold the Son of Man!’ That’s my words.”
“You also are my brother,” said Guest the One-eyed. And he held out his hand.
The Bishop spat in it.
Guest the One-eyed stood silent gazing at his extended hand. Then he sat down and sobbed.
The Bishop’s laugh of derision died away. He stood for a moment breathing heavily, then slunk out of the shed and went away.
The other three stood silently watching, afraid to look at each other, uncertain what to do.
After a little Guest the One-eyed regained his self-control, and, looking up at them, he said quietly:
“Friends, do not hate him; believe that he is not worse than others. Only, the way to his heart is longer and harder to find.”
“I have far to go,” he said, after a pause. “Good-bye.”
“God’s blessing,” murmured the others as he left.
He stood for a moment outside the shed, uncertain which way to turn. He would have liked to go to Hof, to the vicarage on the other side of the fjord, but it was too far to walk. This was his last day, and already a good part of it was gone, though he had lost no time.
He hobbled down to the beach to see if there might chance to be a boat going across. Just as he neared the slope, he perceived a little group of people gathered round something he could not see. Close by, a small rowing-boat was drawn up on the sand. Going closer, he saw a man bending over a heap of clothes. Presently the man rose up, and said:
“He is dead.”
Those near bared their heads and made the sign of the cross.
Guest the One-eyed needed but a glance at the ragged heap to recognize it—it was the body of the Bishop.
“And only a moment since I was with him,” he said.
“We were too late,” said a fisherman. “Saw him throw himself into the sea, and hurried after. But he held on to some weed down below—look, there’s some of it in his hand still.”
And, true enough, the dead hand clutched a tangle of weed.
“So he is gone already to stand before the Lord,” he murmured. “Poor soul—God grant him peace.” And he made the sign of the cross above the body.
The men were running the boat out. He went up to them and asked:
“Are there many going across?”
“Only myself,” answered a young man. “I am working at the vicarage, and going back there now.”
“Will you take me with you to the other side of the fjord?”
“Gladly,” answered the young man, and flushed with pleasure.
The day was fine now, but clouds were racing across the sky. Rain and hail had ceased, only the shadows of the clouds darkened the water as they passed.
Guest the One-eyed sat still, gazing around him as the boat shot out into the fjord. His eyes took in the landscape; there, nestling in the valley, lay the homestead of Borg.
The sight of it moved him; this was the place that had been his home. Strange to think of it now. There his infant limbs had learned to walk, and thither he turned now, for the last steps on his road of life.
He was roused from his meditations by the youth, who nodded over towards a steep cliff rising from the water.
“That was where Sera Ketill killed himself,” he said. “You’ve heard of Sera Ketill?”
“Yes. I knew him. Better, perhaps, than many did.”
“A monster of wickedness he must have been,” said the young man, as if inviting the other to tell what he knew.
For the moment, Guest the One-eyed was dull to the pain which condemnation of Sera Ketill usually caused him. He was about to answer absently, “Judge not ...” but checked himself and sat gazing vacantly across the water.
“I never thought to sail on the sea again,” he said, as if to himself.
“Again?”
“Yes. I have sailed far in my time, and seen many lands.”
The young man seemed to take this as a jest.
“You mean in thought, I take it?” he suggested.
Guest the One-eyed looked at him. “You are not without sense,” he remarked. “Do you travel in thought yourself?”
The young man laughed, and shook his head. “Not much. But I am going to America this winter.”
“Do not do that,” said the other quietly.
“Why not? There is good money to be made there.”
“True. But it is easiest to die in the place where one was born.”
“I have not thought of dying just yet.”
“Maybe not. But life leads only to death. Death is the only thing we can be certain of gaining; perhaps the only gain.”
“I had heard that Guest the One-eyed preached the Gospel of Life,” said the young man seriously.
“And you are disappointed to find that Guest the One-eyed is only human after all?”
The young man did not reply, and they went on in silence. They were more than half-way across the fjord by now. Guest the One-eyed sat thinking of the strange currents beneath the smooth surface, and the marvels of life in the hidden depths. All seemed incomprehensible; the sea, the life of man—they were much alike. Human existence was merciless, restless, as the restless tossing of the waves.
It was a relief to step out of the boat and tread good earth again; for a moment his mission was forgotten.
But the sight of the churchyard brought it once more to his mind. He passed through the gateway. The church was new—a more imposing edifice than the old one. Bright in colour, and clean and pleasant in appearance—as he looked, memories of the old, dark, forbidding little place rose to his mind.
At the entrance door the old stone steps remained. He knelt down upon them, and pressed his forehead against the stone. Then he rose, and went to the burial-place of Borg. He found the stone he was seeking, and laid himself down beside it in silent prayer.
When at last he rose, he was so weak that he could hardly drag himself along. He would not enter the vicarage, however, though he needed rest and food. Passing on, he took a narrow, unfrequented path down towards the valley.
The man who had rowed him over had at once told the household that Guest the One-eyed was come, and had gone into the churchyard. Soon, as he did not appear, they went out to look for him, searching in every corner where a man might be. But Guest the One-eyed was nowhere to be seen.