The sun had vanished behind the western heights when Ørlygur at last
roused himself from gazing down the valley. The figure had disappeared
long since.
The name of Guest the One-eyed had always seemed to him a part of some
fantastic story; now, however, it had become a reality; he had seen and
spoken to the man.
He knew that this Guest was a wandering beggar, and had heard many
stories current concerning him. He knew also that Guest the One-eyed had
never before visited Hofsfjordur—possibly it was this fact which had led
him to regard the stories as stories only, without reality. Now that he
had learned that the man had apparently lived in Hofsfjordur before,
under another name, it seemed strange to him—it had never struck him
before that the name of Guest the One-eyed must have had some natural
origin.
As with all young and simple folk who had heard of Guest the One-eyed,
Ørlygur felt an affection for the singular character of report. Many
were the instances on record of kindness and courtesy shown by the
wanderer in his journeyings. He had lost one eye in saving a child from
a burning farm; his crippled leg was the result of his having flung
himself in the way of a sledge that was hurrying towards a dangerous
cliff—the life he had thus saved being that of no more romantic
personage than an elderly and by no means beautiful servant girl. This
latter incident had been the cause of some ill-placed amusement among
the peasantry, for it was known that the girl had been merely making a
foolhardy attempt to win the heart of one of the labourers near by. Her
rescuer, however, before leaving the farm, made it his business to see
that the marriage was duly accomplished.
Ørlygur knew, also, that Guest the One-eyed had a peculiar faculty of
getting over difficulties and removing misunderstandings; in more than
one instance he had been the means of ending an irreconcilable feud and
establishing firm friendship in its stead.
A legendary hero in real life, and gifted with wisdom far beyond that of
his fellows. Yet he never used his powers for his own advantage. Nobler
than those around him, he was nevertheless content to tramp the country
in rags, with a beggar’s staff. In point of intelligence, he seemed
fitted to be the adviser of kings; yet he chose to live alone, and to
seek his rest in barns and outhouses. All of which led folk to look upon
him as the personification of something beneficent—the spirit of
kindliness and good-will. And Ørlygur himself had felt the same.
He felt a great desire to follow after the old man; a craving for
adventure within him even suggested the idea of throwing in his lot with
him, and sharing his wanderings.
But as the sun went down, he woke from his dreams and, pulling himself
together, made his way rapidly towards home.
Half-way over the stream he stopped suddenly; the water seemed like a
flood of gold pouring towards him, glittering with strange reflections
in the evening light. And the play of colour, with the murmur of the
stream, held him for a moment entranced. Was it a dream, or had he
really met Guest the One-eyed in the flesh?
Once across, however, the spell was broken, and Ørlygur was a boy again,
filled with no more romantic fancy for the moment than an impulse to run
races with his dog. He called to the animal, and they raced away,
tearing along at top speed.
As he ran, Ørlygur was conscious that he was eager to get home and
relate his adventure; to tell of his conversation with the One-eyed
Guest, and announce the arrival of the hero.
He raced on homeward, leaving the dog far behind. The animal followed at
its best, till it saw him leap the fence of the enclosure, when it gave
up and lay down panting breathlessly.
Ørlygur likewise could run no more, and slackened to a walk. Noticing
his foster-father approaching, he made towards him.
Ormarr Ørlygsson had seen the lad come tearing down the slope, his hat
off, and his hair streaming in the wind. He knew how the boy delighted
in long walks and violent outbursts of energy, but this exuberance of
spirits caused him some uneasiness at times—he knew that a day would
come when the natural safety-valve of youth would no longer suffice. Yet
he could not suppress a smile of pleasure at sight of the handsome lad
as he raced away at a speed which bade fair to tire even his horses and
dogs.
Often he reflected how like the boy was to his father—the same fair
hair, the same blue eyes, the same splendid build; the figure of a young
god.
And he thought, with a mingling of unconscious love and conscious hate,
of his brother Ketill, who had disappeared the night after that terrible
scene that had caused his father’s death and lost his wife her reason.
It was said that he had drowned himself—he had last been seen on the
cliffs near the fjord. True, the body had never been recovered. Still,
it might have been carried out to sea.
After the revelation of that day, when the facts had been made common
knowledge, and seeing that Ketill had disappeared, in all likelihood
never to return, Ormarr had ceased to give out Ørlygur, Ketill’s and
Runa’s child, as his own. He and Runa had continued to live as man and
wife, but no children had been born to them.
They lived peacefully and happily at the farm, with never an unkind word
between them. At all times, whether they spoke or were silent, there was
a mutual bond of perfect confidence and affection between them. Life had
brought them together in a strange and merciless fashion, but the innate
good sense and nobility of both had turned all to the good. They knew
that they had never been lovers in the sense in which love is generally
understood, yet, as the years passed, there grew up between them a
happiness of each in each that filled their lives. And their mutual
trust gave them a surer foundation on which to rest than any lovers’
love could give.
Ørlygur rarely gave a thought to the fact that Ormarr was not his real
father. He knew it, because Ormarr had once, in the presence of Runa,
told him how matters stood. No details had been given, but the facts
were plainly stated: Ormarr had promised to tell him the whole story
some day, if he wished. But Ørlygur perceived that the subject was a
painful one, and had asked no further since.
Had it not been from fragments of information gathered in course of time
from one or another outside the home, he would have known but little.
What he did know made towards the conclusion that his father had been a
bad man, who had wrought harm to his own kin. But strangely enough, he,
Ørlygur, did not suffer thereby. The misfortunes that had come after
seemed to have wiped away, as it were, the stain on the family honour,
and as years went by, the recollection of Sera Ketill seemed gradually
to lose its association with the house of Borg. The story of Sera Ketill
lived on—a gruesome tale enough in itself. But it had become a thing
apart.
And Ørlygur, growing up at Borg, became one of the family there, until
it was almost forgotten that he was in any way related to his father,
Sera Ketill of unblessed memory. Ørlygur was aware of this, and at times
could feel a kind of remorse at the thought—for, after all, his father
was his father.... And, as he grew up, he tried to picture to himself
what his father had really been. In his inmost heart he could not quite
believe him so utterly evil as report made out.
But there was no one whom he could ask—no one, indeed, to whom he could
even speak on the subject at all. He could not bring himself to open a
painful subject with his foster-father or his mother. There was only old
Kata, the faithful attendant of the poor witless Danish Lady. And Kata’s
replies to his questioning were always wrapped up in mysterious,
incomprehensible allusions. Ørlygur, in common with others, regarded her
as entering on her second childhood, though she was sound and active as
ever in body.
Ørlygur was still out of breath when he reached Ormarr.
“Well,” said the latter, “did you find the lamb? You look very pleased
with yourself.”
“No,” said Ørlygur. “But I found—whom do you think? Guest the One-eyed!
Right up at the very edge of the pastures, in the hills. And I went with
him as far as Nordura. I didn’t know who he was till we said good-bye.
And I gave him my shoes, and he is wearing them now.”
Ørlygur’s delight and pride at this last fact were so evident that
Ormarr could not help smiling.
“Why didn’t you bring him back home with you?”
“He is coming. He promised faithfully he would. He was too tired now.
Said he was going down the stream to one of the nearest farms there.”
Ormarr did not fail to remark that the boy had avoided mentioning Bolli,
but he made no sign of having noticed anything. He had an idea that
Ørlygur cherished a fancy for the daughter there, but it seemed wiser to
wait before taking any definite action. He was not at all pleased with
the idea of a match between Ørlygur and the child of the so-called
“widow” at Bolli. But he was loth to interfere with the boy’s
affairs—after all, he was of an age to choose for himself. And Ormarr
knew too well that the men of his race were apt to be headstrong in
affairs of the heart. On the other hand, if he were mistaken—if the
affair were not really serious, his interference would do no good. If
the damage were already done, and Ørlygur had made up his mind, then
there was nothing to be done but wait and see.
Ørlygur himself did not know whether his parents were aware of his
affection for Snebiorg, the girl from Bolli. But he was convinced that
they would not agree with his choice. Even if they did not oppose it, he
knew it would pain them.
Up to now, his will and conscience had always been in accord with
theirs. In this case he was quite clear as to his own feelings, but was
loth to bring matters to a head. There was time enough—no definite
promise had as yet been given on either side, though there was certainly
a tacit understanding between them.
Ormarr and Ørlygur walked across the enclosure together.
“And what else did he say—the old man?” asked Ormarr.
Ørlygur was at a loss for an answer. He could not remember anything else
of importance, and it seemed somehow unsatisfactory to have met the
celebrated vagabond, renowned for his wisdom, and bring back no
utterance worthy of remark. He said nothing—and Ormarr did not press the
question, but walked beside him with the quiet, peculiar smile that had
become characteristic of him.
But when they reached the house, Ørlygur found himself once more a
person of importance. Old Kata came hobbling towards him, and laid her
hand on his arm.
“You have met him, and spoken. And felt joy of the meeting—more than
with any other you have ever met. The Lord is great, and our eyes are
blind. Yes; he will come now, and all will be well.”
Kata hobbled off again to her mistress, whom she never left for any
length of time.
The two men stood watching her with a smile.
“She still has the gift, you see,” observed Ormarr. “No need to tell her
that you had met with Guest the One-eyed in the mountains.”