The Sworn Brothers: A Tale of the Early Days of Iceland

by Gunnar Gunnarsson

The only one who did not feel depressed by the silence in the hall was a fourteen-year-old boy, seated at the table right opposite the high-seat on the other side of the fire. He was content to make holiday by sitting quietly with his thoughts, and felt easy and unoccupied in mind. He sat quite still, letting his gaze linger alternately on his father and the pillars of the seat. He had little resemblance to the stalwart figures round him. His skin was as clear as a young girl's, and his long, bright yellow hair fell in heavy locks over his neck. On his face, with its regular features, there lay an expression of peculiar calm. The mouth under his straight nose appeared firm and composed. The look of his blue eyes was tranquil and fixed.

It was Ingolf, Orn's son. He often sat thus, especially of an evening. His attention was particularly taken up by the pillars of the high-seat. They seemed so strangely alive in the red light of the evening fire.

By day they were quite dead. It seemed as if the breath of the gods had crept into the hard, dry wood. Perhaps the gods slept by day, or had they possibly flown on adventures to other countries and lands? The gods had tiresome habits, for all that they were gods; one never knew exactly where to find them. Anyhow, the pillars stood by day as though they were empty.

But in the evening they came to life again. Either the gods returned, or breath issued at any rate from the inner part of the wood and seemed to wander over the surface.

Already in the gloaming, when shadows were gathering in the deep carving, they began to live.

But it was a strange, deceitful, and threatening life, as though the gods were ill-humoured on first awakening, as men are sometimes in the early morning hours. Ingolf did not like to stay alone in the hall in the evening before the fire was lit. He had a certain consciousness of the gods' discontent in the twilight, and felt by no means sure that they might not cherish some evil purpose. And when the gods were wroth or morose it was best to keep at a respectful distance. But as soon as the fire was kindled on the hearthstones, it became bright and comfortable in the hall. The fire sputtered with a cheerful crackling which seemed as though it were chatting pleasantly with the gods; it blazed up and cast its bright light over them, and diffused a kindly penetrating warmth. Then the gods recovered their good-humour; they smiled openly, and their eyes grew somewhat more friendly.

Then one ventured to look at them calmly and to sit near them. Ingolf liked to sit quietly and look at the images carved on the pillars. Certainly those in the temple were far more splendid, decked as they were with costly clothes and heavy rings of gold and other valuable metals. But the gods in the temple were those to whom they prayed at solemn festivals and offered sacrifices. It required enormous daring to approach them, for one hardly ever saw them, and knew them but little. Although they were the same gods, they seemed strangely distant in the sanctity of the temple. The gods on the pillars of the high-seat, on the other hand, were house-gods. He had grown up in their company, he had seen them in daily intercourse, as far back as he could remember. He had long been confidential with them; they were his and the family's friends. They were quiet and peaceful and made no demands. Maybe they had fits of ill-temper in the evenings. But for the most part they were almost like men, saving, of course, that as gods they were naturally higher than men.

But one ventured—it was indeed a duty—to count them as friends, as belonging in some degree to the family. One could safely rely upon them, and that led to everyday familiar intercourse with them.

They constituted, besides, so to speak, the axis of the home. They were the immovable real centre round which all things revolved. They were the persisting element. They were the visible sign of the family and of the family's continuance.