Grettir the Outlaw: A Story of Iceland

by S. Baring-Gould

"Let me look at the axe," said Flossi. Then, when he had the axe in his hand he turned it about and laughed, and said, "Verily, I did not think that Thorgeir had milk in his veins instead of blood. That accounts for it, that you have been able to slay him."

This affair was a subject of much comment, and much laughter did it provoke. Thorgeir had not received the smallest wound, only his bottle was split, and ever after he went by the name of Bottle-back.

But a song was made about this event which was never forgotten. It runs thus:—

"Of the days of old

Great tales are told

How heroes went forth to fight,

Their shields, for show

Were whitened as snow,

And their weapons were burnished bright

The battle began,

In the weapon-clang,

The red blood flowed apace

In rivers shed

It dyed red

The shields o'er all their face.

But nowaday

We tune our lay

To tell a different story.

The churls who fight

Bring axes white,

With curds and whey made gory."

When Kuggson ceased, Grettir laughed heartily. "Ah!" said he, "that cannot be said now, for indeed there flows much blood."

"You speak the truth," answered Kuggson; "and I wish that this red stream flowed less abundantly."

"That may be," said Grettir; "but I would fain hear the rest of the story. I have not heard it told me for a long time; and, indeed, to speak the truth, much of it I have clean forgotten, though I did hear it when I was a boy at home."

"If you will hear what follows, it must be as a new story," said Kuggson. Again I will tell it in my own words.

The Story of the Stranded Whale

Hard times came to Iceland, such as had not been known since it was settled, for the timber that had been thrown up by the sea came to an end, or very nearly so. There had been great accumulations, and these were exhausted, and for some reason or other that cannot now be explained the Gulf-stream ceased to carry on its current the amount of timber it had formerly, the wreckage of the forests on the Mississippi, swept down into the great Mexican Gulf, and thence washed out over the vast Atlantic, borne on the warm stream to the north, to give fuel to those lands which were by nature unprovided with trees. At this time the axe was laid against the largest and finest birch that grew in the forests in Iceland. But none of that timber was big and good enough for building purposes.