Morning broke with the clear brightness of an autumn sky above the
hills.
At the first sight of dawn, the old man limped out from his cave, beat
his hands together, and stamped his sound leg repeatedly, to get some
warmth into his body. And as he did so, he thought:
“So! Once more Death has passed me by. Not worth taking....”
Then, penitently, he whispered:
“Lord, Thy will be done! Thanks be to Thee for the night that is gone,
and for all trials that are sent from Thee. Be not angry, Lord, if I
long for the peace of Death.”
The sun came up, and the man sat down on a stone, bared his head and
stretched out his hands to meet the warmth of the first rays; he smiled
towards the light, that gave but little warmth as yet.
When the first cold of waking had passed, he ate his last scraps of
food, and prepared to move.
The mood of last night and his gloomy thoughts seemed strange to
remember now; he smiled involuntarily at the difference between his
feeling then and now.
“Never twice alike,” he murmured. “What’s truth, I wonder? Can there be
any truth in thoughts and feelings that change between dark and dawn?
Where’s the note that lasts and does not change?”
He turned to go, when something made him pause. And, smiling indulgently
at himself for his foolishness, he stooped and picked away the moss and
stones with which he had closed the opening the night before. Then he
patted the two rocks that had sheltered him, and went on his way with an
easier mind. Who could say? Perhaps they were lonely there, and would
have been sorry to feel the way barred to the passage of the wind that
told so many things as it sang through the sharp-edged cleft.
He limped off, moving stiffly at first, his limbs still feeling the
cold. He found the path he had left the night before in his search for a
resting-place, and went on his way towards Hofsfjordur.
The sun rose higher in the heavens, and dried the dew from the rocks,
warming their surface where they faced it, while the northward sides
were still dark with moisture. In the shade, the moss glistened with
dew. As far as eye could see, there was no growth save the brown and
green of moss. But the old wanderer felt quite content; he was at home
among these rock-strewn hills, so rich in their weird grouping and
fantastic outlines. He was among friends here, and as he passed the
massive boulders he touched them with his hand caressingly, grateful for
the warmth that passed into his blood. The sun had given it, and they
passed it on.
He reached Langeryg, a narrow ridge between two steep ravines, and
stopped to look around him. Farther on was a meadow of pale green grass,
but not a living soul was to be seen.
Slowly he went on his way, keeping carefully to the middle between the
steep and dangerous precipices on either hand. A sinister place this,
and of ill repute, perilous especially in mist or darkness. Even now, in
the light of day, the wind moaned dismally round the sharp rocks, to the
one side, that known as Death’s Cliff, though, strangely enough, no
sound came from the other, that was called the Silent Cliff. There was a
legend current that the two had been daughters of a king—one good, the
other wicked, one dark, the other fair. And the silent chasm was the
good princess who sat listening in horror to the evil doings of her
sister. And it was said that if any could be found to cast himself
voluntarily over the Silent Cliff, he would escape unharmed, and the
ravines would close for ever.
Half-way along the track, the old man felt tempted to peer down over the
edge of Death’s Cliff. Mastering a feeling of dread, he crept cautiously
to the brink, and looked down, but could discern nothing in the darkness
below. Suddenly a great black bird fluttered up out of the gloom, and he
started back. The bird uttered a hoarse cry—and the man smiled to
himself. Only a raven, that had been to visit the princess—or perhaps to
see if there were any unfortunate creatures there on which to feast.
With a sigh of relief he drew back from his perilous position, and threw
himself down on a patch of grass to rest. Grass was a welcome thing
among these barren hills, and the sight of it gladdened him. He found
himself studying each little stalk as if it were a wonder to be
remembered.
And suddenly tears rose to his eyes; his lips quivered, and he murmured:
“Ay, there are many little joys in life....”
He glanced down the path ahead; first a flat stretch of grass, and then
over a long, stony rise. There at the top he knew was a cairn, from
which one could look out over Hofsfjordur.
Somehow or other, he felt disinclined to go on, and yet there was
something that urged him forward. He felt nervous and anxious, as a boy
about to undertake some responsible task for the first time.
When at last he reached the summit of the slope, he stopped and looked
down. There it was at last, the shore where he had spent his childhood.
There lay the blue fjord, the rockiness, the glittering stream, the
grassy slopes—all that he had so often thought of with affectionate
longing. Ay, he had come to love it all—since he had left it.
Tears dimmed his vision as he looked. And yet he was happy. He had
crossed the boundary now; he was coming home.