Guest the One-eyed wandered far that day. He felt that it was fated to
be his last.
Fever burned in his veins; fever in his soul. It seemed a painful task
to end this life. And he was tormented by dread lest his sufferings
should after all not suffice to atone for his sin.
Sun and rain and hail took turns to follow him on this the hardest of
all his wandering days. Clouds and sheets of hail passed before the face
of the sun, making strange shadows on the hillsides, the contrast being
more pronounced where dark stretches of lava and the lighter hue of
cornfields alternated. One moment the sun’s rays warmed him, the next he
was stung by the sudden lash of hailstones in his face. It was a day of
contest between the powers of sun and shadow—a giant’s battle where
summer and life were pitted against autumn and death. And the earth over
which it raged was marked by each in turn.
His beggar’s staff changed constantly from a dry, gleaming white to a
dripping grey. He swung it at each step, as it were a distorted extra
limb. And the figure of the man standing against the changing background
of the sky seemed hardly human; more like some fantastic creation of
Nature herself.
And this man’s soul, maybe, was rugged and misshapen as his body. But
the soul of a man is not so easy to see....
The first homestead he came to on this day’s march was a little place. A
peasant and his wife came out to meet the stranger, the rest of their
people following. They were at home today, by reason of the weather, and
had, moreover, expected his arrival. All the district knew by now that
Guest the One-eyed had come amongst them. The peasant and his household
received him kindly, with many blessings. He felt their kindness without
any need of words, and marked how they were glad to have him with them.
And talking with them, he spoke the name of Sera Ketill, once their
priest, whom all remembered now with execration. Here, too, the tongues
that had been ready with blessing for himself were quick to curse at the
mention of that name; to their minds, Sera Ketill was a monster, a thing
of dread. His very name made them shudder as if at the touch of some
loathsome thing. He was a murderer, a hypocrite, and a cheat; they could
not find in him the slightest link of charity and affection with his
fellow-men. Even his death had been the act of a despicable creature, in
that he had endeavoured to secure their regard by leaving all he had to
the poor, and then flinging himself over the cliffs into the sea. This
last was not even a fine thought of his own—a young poet had been the
first to go that way, and by that very spot.
But the Devil had taken his body, and his soul, if any shred of soul he
had, had doubtless gone with it. A thing of no use upon earth! He had
not even had the courage to face the consequences of his acts. He was a
stain upon mankind; in justice, he should have been burned at the stake
before his soul went on its way to hell.
Guest the One-eyed listened pale as death to the bitter words. Strange,
how a man’s character could thus outlive him in the memory of his
fellows. Twenty years had not sufficed to bring oblivion for the wrongs
this man had done. His body might have been reduced to ashes in a
moment, but the fire of hate burned still about his memory.
The wanderer looked at the faces of those about him—faces that one
moment shone with kindly pleasure and the next glowed fiercely with
hate. He could not but smile, though his heart was heavy. Poor mortals,
poor unseeing men, seeing good and evil as things absolute, unalterable.
But while his thoughts were busy, his soul cried all the time to God,
praying forgiveness....
Thoughts within thoughts, and thoughts again.
For they were right, after all, these men. They themselves had the power
of being good or evil, of loving or hating without reserve.
It was their hatred he was feeling now, fuel added to the furnace of his
own remorse; he was passing through a purgatory of maledictions.
One moment he saw himself as Guest the One-eyed, beggar and wanderer—a
figure clear enough. Then he was the doomed soul on the verge of death,
doubting everything, doubting even his own doubt, torn asunder to his
innermost being, a living cry of anguish seeking Heaven. And then, too,
he was the penitent, believing and trusting in God—yet even so unable to
wrench himself free from the spectres of doubt and mockery and scorn
that clung to him.
Something prompted him to rise and speak to these his fellows gathered
round him. There were many now; for folk had come from places near to
see the man of whom they had heard so much. Yes, let them see him and
judge him by what he had been and what he was now, and act as they were
prompted to do. It was not enough that they received Guest the One-eyed
with blessings, and cursed the name of Sera Ketill; he longed to bring
both before them as one.
But the impulse reached no further than his thought.
As they cursed the man that he had been, he sat silent, with eyes cast
down. He made no movement, only sighed. Then at last he rose, and stood
a moment trying to collect his thoughts.
“I must go,” he said. “I have a long way before me today.”
And he bade farewell to each in turn, confused thoughts passing through
his mind the while.
“They give me their hands—but I am stealing what they give. If they knew
me, they would spit on me. Stone me, perhaps. Would they, I wonder—would
they do so now? But I steal what they give because I need it; it is
because I must. Soon my hand will be cold, and then my soul will have no
link with any other soul—no way to feel their love and innocent
kindness. Yes, I must let them give me their hands—as many as I can. And
after that, the grave. Lord, remember that this is my last day ... the
very last. But I will be patient ... Lord, Thy will be done!”
And he went on his way, with blessings from all. The people stood
silently watching him as he went; their hearts had been moved beyond
their daily wont by the sight of this unhappy wanderer, and their
thoughts followed him now in sympathy along his sorrowful way.
The wanderer’s heart was suffering more than all. His soul ached with
loneliness—he felt as if already he were confined within the cold walls
of the grave. It seemed a marvel to him that he could endure this and
live.
On and on he went, thinking—thinking....
“If no man can forgive me, if no human heart can realize my atonement,
can then God ever forgive? The blessings they have given me—can they
ever outweigh the curses that were meant for me as well? Lord, if only
one might cross my path to know me, and forgive. One who could take my
hand and know and pardon all.... Lord, Thy will be done....”
He was taking the road towards the trading station. On the way he
entered a house here and there, and was greeted kindly as ever. But at
the mention of Sera Ketill’s name, all who heard it had but curses; eyes
that had looked on him in kindliness lit now with hatred of the man he
named.
“I have done more evil even than I thought,” he muttered to himself as
he went on his way, refusing those who would have shared the road. “To
have planted so much hatred in all their hearts; to be the cause of all
those evil thoughts beyond my own; things grown in the dark from evil
seed of my sowing. Lord, who shall ever tear them up and destroy them
that they may not rise again? Lord, can it be that the fruits of sin
never cease, when good comes to an end at last? Lord, Lord, now I see
the greatness of my sin—more than I had dreamed. And now I am come to
the verge of death and have no strength even to suffer more. Only Thy
mercy, Lord—grant me Thy mercy, that hast denied me the forgiveness of
men.”
* * * * *
The trading station had grown considerably in the twenty years that had
passed. There were many new houses in the place. And the wanderer looked
in vain for the turf huts that had formed the outskirts of the
settlement when he knew it. They were gone, and modern buildings stood
where they had been.
He limped from door to door, bearing with him each time blessings for
Guest the One-eyed and curses for the name of Sera Ketill. At the last
house, he asked:
“Where do the poor live now?”
There was still a glimmer of hope in his heart that there, among the
poorest, he might find one single heart to bless Ketill the priest for
what he had given.
“There are no poor here now,” was the reply.
“Are all in Hofsfjordur grown rich?”
“There is a poor widow living out at Bolli, a lonely place at the foot
of the hills. But ’tis her own fault that she lives as poorly as she
does. She might have taken the help that was offered her. But it was the
Devil Priest’s money, and she would not take it.”
“The Devil Priest?”
“Sera Ketill was his name. But we call him the Devil Priest.”
“Good-bye,” said Guest the One-eyed.
“Peace go with you.”
On his way out from the trading station, he passed by a shed from which
came the sound of voices within. The door stood half-open, and, looking
in, he saw in the half-dark four strange figures—three men and a woman,
ragged and wild-looking; evidently these were vagabonds like himself.
The woman was shouting a ribald song; one of the men sat crouched on the
floor rocking with laughter. The other two men were fighting, the
stronger chuckling at each successful blow, while the other fought in
silence, waiting his chance.
The man on the floor called out to the others with an oath to come and
listen. “Give over, you fools, and come and hear. ’Tis a new song—one of
Gudda’s best. Ay, Gudda, she can make a song, if she’s not as young as
she used to be....” And he came shambling over towards them.
He was a tall fellow, bigger than either of his two companions, still
young, with reddish-yellow hair and a pasty face. The two sprang away as
he came up.
“Mind your own business, Luse-Grimur!” cried the one nearest. This was a
dark man of slender build, known as the Bishop, from a way he had of
mimicking the tones of a priest, and repeating fragments of an indecent
parody of the marriage service whenever a couple came together. “Keep
away, and don’t bring your lice near me.”
“You’ll have my hands nearer than you care for in a minute,” answered
Grimur, with a leer. “Go on, Gudda.”
Gudda was known for her talent in making songs. She was a powerfully
built woman getting on in years, with a coarse voice in keeping with her
coarse face and heavy build. Her skirt reached hardly below her knees,
showing a pair of muscular legs; her stockings were of rough material,
and clumsily darned. One redeeming feature she had—her large blue eyes.
Children feared her until she looked them full in the face, when the
glance of her eyes seemed to draw them to her.
She was one of the few women vagabonds in the country, and was known far
and wide for her vulgar songs.
Looking towards the door, she caught sight of the stranger, and called
to him to come in. Guest the One-eyed limped over to the group.
“God’s peace,” he said as he entered.
“God’s peace with you,” returned the others, somewhat abashed.
Suddenly the youngest of the party stepped forward. This was Jon
Gislason, a short, thick-set fellow who had some claim to good repute,
being known to work at times, and trusted to carry letters and parcels
from place to place. He strode up to the newcomer, and looked him in the
face.
“He’s one of our sort,” he said. “It is Guest the One-eyed.”
There was a shout of welcome at this, and Grimur took out a flask from
his pocket.
“Best corn brandy,” he declared, handing the bottle to Guest. “Good
stuff, you can take my word for it.” Then, in a slightly altered tone,
he went on: “I daresay, now, you think us rather a rough lot, you being
more gentle like. But it’s just our way. Rap out an oath without
thinking like.”
“’Tis not such words that do the worst of harm,” said Guest the
One-eyed. And he took a sip from the flask.
Then with a grimace he spat it out. “I thought it might do me good,” he
said. “But I can’t swallow it, all the same.”
“Oh, you swine!” shouted Grimur as he saw the precious liquid wasted.
“There, I’m sorry,” he went on. “That’s no way to speak to a godly man.
But the stuff’s too good to waste. Leastways, to my thinking.”
Guest the One-eyed offered his hand.
“No harm, brother,” he said. “Each to his own ways.”
“‘Brother,’” repeated Grimur thickly. “Calls me brother—shakes hands.
Nobody ever called me brother before. My own folk won’t touch me, call
me Luse-Grimur, and keep far out of reach of vermin. Ay, it’s true
enough what they say of you, Guest One-eyed. God’s blessing, man.”
“We’ll have Grimur drowning his lice in floods of tears,” grumbled the
Bishop. “See them swimming around and saying their prayers, Amen!”
“You, Bishop,” said Grimur warningly—“well for you this good man’s here.
If it weren’t for him, I’d send you swimming and saying your prayers in
earnest for less than you’ve said.”
“Filthy beast,” said Gudda scornfully, and spat at the Bishop, who only
laughed.
Guest the One-eyed turned to him with a keen glance.
“Have you ever thought,” he said quietly, “that one day must be your
last—that your tongue may be silent for ever after any word you have
spoken?”
“Ho, yes. And I’ve got it all ready what I’m going to say. When I get to
the Gates of Heaven—if the Devil hasn’t pinched my soul all hot on the
way—I’ll say to the Lord: ‘Here you are; Behold the Son of Man!’ That’s
my words.”
“You also are my brother,” said Guest the One-eyed. And he held out his
hand.
The Bishop spat in it.
Guest the One-eyed stood silent gazing at his extended hand. Then he sat
down and sobbed.
The Bishop’s laugh of derision died away. He stood for a moment
breathing heavily, then slunk out of the shed and went away.
The other three stood silently watching, afraid to look at each other,
uncertain what to do.
After a little Guest the One-eyed regained his self-control, and,
looking up at them, he said quietly:
“Friends, do not hate him; believe that he is not worse than others.
Only, the way to his heart is longer and harder to find.”
“I have far to go,” he said, after a pause. “Good-bye.”
“God’s blessing,” murmured the others as he left.
He stood for a moment outside the shed, uncertain which way to turn. He
would have liked to go to Hof, to the vicarage on the other side of the
fjord, but it was too far to walk. This was his last day, and already a
good part of it was gone, though he had lost no time.
He hobbled down to the beach to see if there might chance to be a boat
going across. Just as he neared the slope, he perceived a little group
of people gathered round something he could not see. Close by, a small
rowing-boat was drawn up on the sand. Going closer, he saw a man bending
over a heap of clothes. Presently the man rose up, and said:
“He is dead.”
Those near bared their heads and made the sign of the cross.
Guest the One-eyed needed but a glance at the ragged heap to recognize
it—it was the body of the Bishop.
“And only a moment since I was with him,” he said.
“We were too late,” said a fisherman. “Saw him throw himself into the
sea, and hurried after. But he held on to some weed down below—look,
there’s some of it in his hand still.”
And, true enough, the dead hand clutched a tangle of weed.
“So he is gone already to stand before the Lord,” he murmured. “Poor
soul—God grant him peace.” And he made the sign of the cross above the
body.
The men were running the boat out. He went up to them and asked:
“Are there many going across?”
“Only myself,” answered a young man. “I am working at the vicarage, and
going back there now.”
“Will you take me with you to the other side of the fjord?”
“Gladly,” answered the young man, and flushed with pleasure.
The day was fine now, but clouds were racing across the sky. Rain and
hail had ceased, only the shadows of the clouds darkened the water as
they passed.
Guest the One-eyed sat still, gazing around him as the boat shot out
into the fjord. His eyes took in the landscape; there, nestling in the
valley, lay the homestead of Borg.
The sight of it moved him; this was the place that had been his home.
Strange to think of it now. There his infant limbs had learned to walk,
and thither he turned now, for the last steps on his road of life.
He was roused from his meditations by the youth, who nodded over towards
a steep cliff rising from the water.
“That was where Sera Ketill killed himself,” he said. “You’ve heard of
Sera Ketill?”
“Yes. I knew him. Better, perhaps, than many did.”
“A monster of wickedness he must have been,” said the young man, as if
inviting the other to tell what he knew.
For the moment, Guest the One-eyed was dull to the pain which
condemnation of Sera Ketill usually caused him. He was about to answer
absently, “Judge not ...” but checked himself and sat gazing vacantly
across the water.
“I never thought to sail on the sea again,” he said, as if to himself.
“Again?”
“Yes. I have sailed far in my time, and seen many lands.”
The young man seemed to take this as a jest.
“You mean in thought, I take it?” he suggested.
Guest the One-eyed looked at him. “You are not without sense,” he
remarked. “Do you travel in thought yourself?”
The young man laughed, and shook his head. “Not much. But I am going to
America this winter.”
“Do not do that,” said the other quietly.
“Why not? There is good money to be made there.”
“True. But it is easiest to die in the place where one was born.”
“I have not thought of dying just yet.”
“Maybe not. But life leads only to death. Death is the only thing we can
be certain of gaining; perhaps the only gain.”
“I had heard that Guest the One-eyed preached the Gospel of Life,” said
the young man seriously.
“And you are disappointed to find that Guest the One-eyed is only human
after all?”
The young man did not reply, and they went on in silence. They were more
than half-way across the fjord by now. Guest the One-eyed sat thinking
of the strange currents beneath the smooth surface, and the marvels of
life in the hidden depths. All seemed incomprehensible; the sea, the
life of man—they were much alike. Human existence was merciless,
restless, as the restless tossing of the waves.
It was a relief to step out of the boat and tread good earth again; for
a moment his mission was forgotten.
But the sight of the churchyard brought it once more to his mind. He
passed through the gateway. The church was new—a more imposing edifice
than the old one. Bright in colour, and clean and pleasant in
appearance—as he looked, memories of the old, dark, forbidding little
place rose to his mind.
At the entrance door the old stone steps remained. He knelt down upon
them, and pressed his forehead against the stone. Then he rose, and went
to the burial-place of Borg. He found the stone he was seeking, and laid
himself down beside it in silent prayer.
When at last he rose, he was so weak that he could hardly drag himself
along. He would not enter the vicarage, however, though he needed rest
and food. Passing on, he took a narrow, unfrequented path down towards
the valley.
The man who had rowed him over had at once told the household that Guest
the One-eyed was come, and had gone into the churchyard. Soon, as he did
not appear, they went out to look for him, searching in every corner
where a man might be. But Guest the One-eyed was nowhere to be seen.