A lamb was bleating pitifully at the back of the house. He hurried over to the spot, and found the headman already there. The man looked up as he approached. Ørlygur strode forward, his face white.
“You are no longer in my service,” he said. “And I do not want your help.” And with a blow he struck the fellow to the ground, and went on, paying no further heed to him.
Ørlygur à Borg was left with none to help him save old Ossa.
The sheep alone were more than he could manage; hundreds of them, and in the height of the lambing season. Scores of the young lambs perished daily, for lack of care. Ørlygur and Ossa worked all day and far into the night, doing all they could, but despite their efforts, many of the ewes died in giving birth, or strayed and were drowned or bogged; many of the lambs starved within reach of the udders they could not find. And it was impossible to milk the burdened beasts; many were soon suffering from lack of relief.
There were the cows to be seen to as well; Ørlygur and Ossa were so exhausted when at last they ceased work for the night that neither could do more than sink down in a chair for a few hours’ rest. They spoke only briefly, of necessary things, and ate their food on the way to and from their work.
On the following Sunday, Ørlygur asked of those he met at church if they knew of any hands to be had.
It seemed that there were none available anywhere.
And now he felt that they were rejoicing inwardly at his misfortunes. All were against him, he felt certain, but their opposition was so veiled that there was nothing he could take hold of or challenge.
Patience was the only thing. Ørlygur waited.