Guest the One-eyed felt both ill and tired when, after bidding farewell
to Bagga, he limped up towards the farm.
An old man, evidently the master of the place, was busy with some men
thatching a hayrick with slabs of turf. The turf lay rolled up and set
in piles about on the ground, a couple of hundred rolls, perhaps, in
all. It had been a laborious task to cut the pieces thin and even at the
edge; the strips were about ten feet long. Two men were busy on the
stack, preparing it for the roof, the highest point carefully set so as
to give an even slope on all sides. Others were lifting the rolls,
taking great care to avoid a break. The farmer himself did but little of
the work, being chiefly occupied with looking on and giving orders.
The arrival of a stranger caused a momentary pause in the work. Those on
the ground gathered round him, and the two men on the stack leaned over
to see.
“Who are you?” asked the farmer curtly.
“A beggar,” answered the newcomer, seating himself on one of the rolls
of turf.
“I thought as much,” grumbled the man. “Can’t you sit on the ground,
instead of spoiling my turf?” And, turning angrily to the men, he
shouted:
“Well, what is there to stare at? Get to your work.”
Guest the One-eyed sat down, and for a while was left to himself. A dog
came trotting up, sniffed at him, and curled up dog-fashion at his feet,
apparently satisfied of being in decent company.
At length the farmer turned to him again.
“Well, old Greybeard, what news from anywhere?”
“There’s little news I can tell.”
“I daresay. All you think of is the meals you get—in other folks’
kitchens.”
“There’s many things a man can think of. Will you give me shelter for
the night?”
“I’ve no beds for lazy vagabonds. But you can sleep in the barn if you
like, though I warn you it’s draughty. I take it you can do some tricks
or tell a story or something in return?”
Guest the One-eyed smiled and, looking up at him, said:
“Have you ever heard the story of the rich man and Lazarus?”
The farmer turned pale with rage. “You cursed bundle of rags!” he
shouted. “You dare ... I’ll have you taken up before the sheriff for
begging if you don’t mind your words!”
The men looking on smiled. The local authority was Ormarr à Borg, and
all knew there would be little gained by an angry man who came to him
demanding the punishment of some poor wanderer for begging. It would,
indeed, be about the best thing that could happen to the culprit
himself.
“What is your name?” demanded the farmer, striding towards him with a
threatening mien.
“I am called Guest the One-eyed,” answered the old man, with his quiet
smile.
The farmer was taken aback. “Guest the One-eyed! Impossible. He never
comes this way. Guest the One-eyed....”
He looked at the beggar again, shifted his feet, and stood in some
confusion. “God’s blessing,” he stammered out at last. “Forgive me—I did
not know. Come—come up to the house with me.”
And clumsily he helped the wanderer to rise; his hands were little used
to helping others.
“Let me take your sack,” he said.
“Nay—a beggar carries his own,” answered Guest the One-eyed, and hoisted
it on his back. Then suddenly he smiled and, swinging down the sack once
more, handed it to the farmer, who took it as if it were a favour
granted him.
Guest the One-eyed glanced at him mischievously.
“’Tis strange to see you with a beggar’s pouch. None would have thought
you could ever come to that.”
The farmer cast a sidelong glance at his men, and was about to make an
angry retort, but restrained himself and gave a forced laugh. Then he
said:
“If I were to fill the sack with more than you could carry—what then?”
“Then I should let it lie.”
The farmer was evidently anxious to make much of his visitor; the
latter, however, seemed to care little for his hospitality, and would
not even accept the bed that was offered him. The farmer assured him
that it was a bed reserved for personages of distinction; bishops and
high officials had lain in it. But Guest the One-eyed preferred to sleep
in the barn, and all that the farmer could do was to have the cracks in
the walls stopped as far as possible, and a fresh layer of hay laid over
the rotting stuff that strewed the floor.
Before retiring, the beggar brought up the subject of Sera Ketill.
“That scoundrel!” cried the farmer angrily. “Ay, a scoundrel he was.”
And a murmur from those around showed that he had voiced the general
feeling. “He duped them all. Not a man but was on his side. I remember
him, and his lying sermons and his talk—and I was no wiser than the
rest, to doubt my old friend. Ørlygur à Borg, he was a true man, and
Sera Ketill that killed him—his own father.... I shan’t forget! And his
poor wife, the Danish Lady at Hof—ruined for life. Twenty years now
she’s lived at Borg, and never got back to sense nor wit. ’Tis a comfort
to think he’ll suffer for it all, or there’s no justice in heaven. The
Devil must have marked him from the first—and took and kept him, and
best he should. If I met Sera Ketill at the gates of Paradise, I’d turn
and go another way.”
And the farmer laughed, pleased with his own wit and confident of his
own salvation.
Guest the One-eyed had listened with pale face to the outburst of hatred
and scorn. At last he rose heavily to his feet and said:
“It is time a weary man went to his rest.”
The farmer went with him to the barn.
“If you will sleep here,” he said. “Though why you should, with a fine
bed waiting, I can’t see.”
“’Tis best to seek a place that’s not above one’s deserts,” said the
other mildly. And he added, “Though, for some, it may be hard to find.”
* * * * *
Left to himself, the wanderer lay staring into the darkness. And his
lips moved in an inaudible prayer.
“My God, my God—if only I might dare to hope for forgiveness at the
last; only one gleam of Thy mercy to lighten my heart. I am weighed down
with the burden of my sin, and long has been my penance, but what is all
against the evil I have done? Yet I thank Thee, Lord, that I alone am
let to suffer; that Thy wrath has not been visited on that innocent
child.”
During the night his fever increased. He could not sleep, and lay
tossing uneasily from side to side, murmuring often to himself:
“Lord, I feel now that Death is near. Good that it comes at last, and
yet I fear it. What will Death mean for me? Some hell more terrible than
I have lived through all these years? Thy will be done! It will not be
tonight, I think. Another day, and then ... Death.... Lord, Thy will be
done!”
He lapsed into a state of drowsy helplessness, murmuring still to
himself:
“Lord, Lord ... two children were granted me of Thy grace. And to the
one was given Thy peace in death; the other has found happiness in
life.... I thank Thee, Lord....”
He lay bathed in perspiration; dust and fragments of hay clung to his
face and hands.
“Two Women ... Lord, forgive me.... Mercy, Lord....”
He flung himself over on his side and hid his face.
“Father, how often have I sinned against Thee! And knowing my sin, yet
hardening my heart. Even then I suffered, but I would not heed, and
persevered in sin. Forgive me, Lord.”
For a while he lay still, then turned again. He strove to raise himself,
but his strength failed him, and, sinking back, he cried aloud:
“Forgive me, Lord—forgive me, Lord....”
His words were lost in the darkness, and he lapsed into unconsciousness.
He woke some hours later, exhausted and parched with thirst. But he
could not rise to seek for water, and at length he sank into a restless,
feverish sleep.
* * * * *
Early next morning he was awakened by the entry of the farmer. At first
he hardly realized where he was. He was ill, with a racking pain in his
head. But he strove to appear as if nothing were amiss.
“Good morning,” said the farmer. “And how do you feel today? Was it very
draughty up here?”
“Good morning. I have slept well, and I thank you.”
The farmer laughed at sight of his visitor’s face, which was plastered
with scraps of hay. “You’ve enough hay about you to feed a sheep through
the winter,” he said with a laugh.
Guest the One-eyed had risen. As he stepped out into the cold morning
air, his teeth chattered audibly. “The sun is not up yet, it seems,” he
murmured.
Never before had he so longed for the rising of the sun. He stood now
staring towards the east; it seemed to him a miracle that he should be
suffered to see the sun rise once more.
“The blessed sun,” he murmured to himself.
The sky showed a dull blue between hurrying banks of cloud. The farmer
yawned, and observed carelessly, “It’s cold in the mornings now. Come
in; there will be coffee ready soon.”
Guest the One-eyed went into the cowshed, washed himself at the
drinking-trough, and dried his face and hands on his coat, the farmer
watching him the while.
“You’re one for cleanliness, I see,” he said. “I never trouble to wash
myself, these cold mornings.”
The wanderer produced a piece of comb, and tidied his hair and beard; it
was a matter of some difficulty to get rid of the scraps of hay.
“Why not stay here for the day and have a good rest?” suggested the
farmer. And with a sly glance he added: “I daresay we can afford to give
you a bite of food.”
“I thank you. But I must go on.”
“Ay, there’s always haste with those that have nothing to do,” said the
farmer, with a touch of malice.
He walked down a little way with his guest, some of the farm hands
accompanying them. The wanderer bade farewell to each in turn, and all
answered with a blessing. Then they turned back, the farmer alone going
on a few steps more.
“Have you not some good word to leave with me?” he asked a little
awkwardly.
Guest the One-eyed looked at the man from head to foot; the burly fellow
stood as timidly before him as a child that had done wrong.
“It would be well if you were oftener to take the beggar’s bag upon your
shoulders,” he said. And, having shaken hands in parting, he walked
away.
“God be with you,” said the farmer, and stood for some moments watching
the beggar as he limped along. For the first time in his life he began
to feel that perhaps after all wealth and security were not the only
things worth coveting. There were other things—other feelings than the
sense of material gain or loss.
He walked back to the house somewhat humbled in mind, and, going into
his room, sat down on the bed with his head bowed in his hands. For long
hours he sat there, seemingly in thought. In the evening, he roused
himself with a sigh, and went out to where the men were working. His
tone seemed harsher than his wont as he ordered them about.
But Guest the One-eyed went on his way, shivering and muttering to
himself:
“Haste—yes, for today. But tomorrow? Who knows? Who asks? What do we
know of it all? Life ... and mortals playing at joy and sorrow; a little
life ... a long life ... playing at life ... playing with others’ hearts
and with our own. And thinking it all in earnest. And the end? The
grave, the grave. Cold earth, dark earth, where the sun cannot reach,
though its grace be spread all above. My God, my God, what are my
thoughts? Not earnest? Is it not earnest, all our life? Lord, forgive
me. Thoughts, thoughts that come and go—but not for long. Thoughts
fearing to end, to die under the earth, and never reach to heaven. My
soul—Lord God, where is my soul? Is there a soul that is mine? Lord,
Lord, forgive me! This is the last day Thy grace allows me; the last day
of life on earth, of life and the blessing of the sun for me; the last
day granted me to feel joy in the light. Joy? But my days have been
pain, pain. And yet there is joy.... The last day ... Lord, here am I,
Thy servant. Let Thy wrath be turned away from me, O Lord, and see my
heart that repents, repents. Forgive me, Lord....”
He crouched down beside a rock, and laid his head upon the stone.
“God in heaven, I can feel Thy presence. Or is it that God is far away?
Is it mercy or God’s judgment that comes? Forgive me, Lord, if there can
be forgiveness.... Thy will be done!”
He rose, and limped along his painful way.