THE OLD HAY

During the latter part of the reign of King Christian the Ninth,

there lived at Holl in the Tunga District a farmer named Brandur. By

the time the events narrated here transpired, Brandur had grown

prosperous and very old--old in years and old in ways. The

neighbours thought he must have money hidden away somewhere. But no

one knew anything definitely, for Brandur had always been reserved

and uncommunicative, and permitted no prying in his house or on his

possessions. There was, however, one thing every settler in those

parts knew: Brandur had accumulated large stores of various kinds.

Anyone passing along the highway could see that.

Brandur usually had some hay remaining in lofts and yards when

spring came, and, besides, there was the immense stack that stood on

a knoll out in the homefield before the house. It had been there for

many years and was well protected against wind and weather by a

covering of sod. Brandur had replenished the hay, a little at a

time, by using up that from one end only and filling in with fresh

hay the following summer.

Brandur was hospitable to such guests as had business with him, and

refused to accept payment for food or lodging; but very few people

ever came to see him, and these were mostly old friends with whom he

had financial dealings. Brandur was willing to make loans against

promissory notes and the payment of interest. There were not many to

whom he would entrust his money, however, and he never lost a penny.

Whenever these callers came, he would bring out the brandy bottle.

The buildings at Holl were all in a tumble-down state; the furniture

was no better. There wasn't a chair in the whole house; even the

baðstofa had only a dirt floor, and it was entirely unsheathed on

the inside except for a few planks nailed on the wall from the bed

up as far as the rafters. The clock was the sole manufactured

article in the room. But friends of the old man knew that underneath

his bed he kept a fairly large carved wooden chest, bearing the

inscription anno 1670. The chest was heavy and was always kept

locked. Only the nearest of kin had ever seen its contents.

Brandur was not considered obliging; it was very difficult to get to

see him. Yet he was willing to sell food at any time for cash; hay,

too, as long as there was still some remaining in his lofts. He

would also sell hay against promises of lambs, especially wethers,

once it was certain that the cold of winter was past. But his old

haystack he refused to touch for anyone.

In this way Brandur stumbled down the pathway of life until he lost

his sight. Even then, he was still sound in mind and body. While his

vision remained unimpaired, it had been his habit to walk out to the

old haystack every day and stroll around it slowly, examining it

carefully from top to bottom and patting it with his hands. This

habit he kept up as long as the weather permitted him to be

outdoors, and he did not give it up even after his sight was gone.

He would still take his daily walk out to the haystack on the knoll,

drag himself slowly around it, groping with his hands to feel it, as

if he wished to make sure that it still stood there, firm as a rock

and untouched. He would stretch out his hands and touch its face and

count the strips of turf to himself in a whisper.

Brandur still tilled the land, though he kept but little help and

was living chiefly on the fruits of his former labours. He had fine

winter pastures, and good meadows quite near the house, from which

the hay could easily be brought in. The old man steadfastly refused

to adopt modern farming methods; he had never levelled off the

hummocks, nor drained or irrigated the land. But he did hire a few

harvest hands in the middle of the season, paying them in butter,

tallow, and the flesh of sheep bellies. The wages he paid were never

high, yet he always paid whatever had been agreed upon.

Old Brandur had been blessed with only one child, a daughter named

Gudrun. who had married a farmer in the district. Since his

daughter's marriage, Brandur kept a housekeeper and one farm hand, a

young man whom Brandur had reared and who, it was rumoured, was his

natural son. But that has nothing to do with the story.

When Brandur had reached a ripe old age, there came a winter with

much frost and snow. Time and again, some of the snow and ice would

thaw, but then a hard frost would come, glazing everything in an icy

coating. This went on until late in April. By that time, almost

every farmer in the district had used up his hay; every one of them

was at the end of his store, and nowhere was there a blade of grass

to feed the live-stock, for the land still lay frozen under its

blanket of hard-packed snow and ice. When things had come to this

pass, a general district meeting was called to discuss the situation

and decide what should be done. Brandur's son-in-law Jon was made

chairman of the meeting.

During the discussion it was brought to light that many of the

flocks would die of hunger unless 'God Almighty vouchsafed a turn in

the weather very soon', or Old Brandur could be induced to part with

his old hay. That stack would help, if properly divided among those

who were in greatest need. The quantity of hay it contained was

estimated, and the general opinion expressed that, if it were

divided, the flocks of every farmer in the district could be fed for

at least two weeks, even if they could not in that time be put out

to pasture.

Jon being chairman of the District Council, as well as Brandur's

son-in-law, it fell to his lot to go to the old man and ask for the

hay.

So it came about that, on his way home from the meeting, Jon stopped

at Holl. The day was cold and clear, the afternoon sun shining down

upon the snow-covered landscape. The icy blanket turned back the

rays of warmth as if it would have nothing to do with the sun. But

wherever rocks and gravelly banks protruded, the ice appeared to be

peeled off, for in those spots the sun's rays had melted it, though

only at mid-day and on the south. All streams and waterfalls

slumbered in silence under the snowy blanket. A chill silence

reigned over the whole valley. Not a bird was to be seen, not even a

snow bunting, only two ravens which kept flying from farmhouse to

farmhouse, and even their cawing had a hungry note.

When Jon rode up to the house at Holl, he found Brandur out by the

haystack. The old man was carefully groping his way around the

stack, feeling it on all sides and counting the strips of turf in so

loud a voice that Jon could hear him: O-n-e, t-w-o, three.

Jon dismounted and, going over to Brandur, saluted him with a kiss.

How are you? God bless you, said Brandur. And who may this be?

Jon of Bakki, replied the visitor.--Gudrun sends greetings.

Ah, yes. And how is my Gunna? Is she well?

She was well when I left home this morning. Now I am on my way back

from the meeting that was held to discuss the desperate situation--

you must have heard about it.

Yes, certainly. I've heard about it. I should say so! One can't get

away from talk of hay shortage and hard times. That is quite true.

Any other news?

Nothing worth mentioning, answered Jon. Nothing but the general hard

times and hay shortage. Every farmer at the end of his tether, or

almost there, no one with as much as a wisp of hay to spare, and

only a few likely to make out till Crouchmas without aid.

Too bad! said Brandur. Too bad! And he blew out his breath, as

though suffocating from strong smoke or bad air.

For a while there was silence, as if each mistrusted the other and

wondered what was in the air. Brandur stood there with one hand

resting on the haystack, while he thrust the other into his trousers

pocket, or underneath the flap of his trousers. He always wore the

old-fashioned trousers with a flap, in fact had never possessed any

other kind. Meanwhile, holding the reins, Jon stood there gazing at

the hay and making a mental estimate of it. Then he turned to his

father-in-law and spoke:

The purpose of my visit to you, my dear Brandur, is to ask that you

let us have this hay--this fine old hay that you have here. The

District Council will, of course, pay you; the parish will guarantee

payment. We have discussed that matter fully.

When Jon ceased speaking, Brandur blew the air from his mouth in

great puffs, as though deeply stabbed by a sharp pain in the heart.

For a while he held his peace. Then he spoke:

Not another word! Not another word! What's this I hear? My hay for

the district? My hay to supply all the farmers in the district? Do

you think for one moment that this little haystack is enough to feed

all the flocks in the whole district? Do you think this tiny haycock

will be enough for a whole parish? I think not!

But we have calculated it, protested Jon. We have estimated that the

hay in this stack will be enough to feed the flocks in the district

for about two weeks, if a little grain is used with it, and if the

hay is distributed equally among the farmers who need it most. There

may be enough for three weeks, should it turn to be as much as or

more than I expect. By that time, we surely hope, the season will be

so far advanced that the weather will have changed for the better.

So! You have already estimated the amount of hay in my stack! said

Brandur. You have already divided this miserable haycock among

yourselves, divided it down to the very last straw. And you have

weighed it almost to a gram. Then why speak to me about it? Why not

take it just as it is and scatter it to the four winds? Why not?--

The voice of the old man shook with anger.

No, said Jon. We will not do that. We want to ask your permission

first. We had no intention of doing otherwise; we intended to ask

you for the hay. And we did not mean to vex you, but rather to

honour you in this manner. Is it not an honour to be asked to save a

whole district from ruin?

Oh, so all this is being done to honour me! said the old man,

roaring with laughter. Perhaps you believe me to be in my second

childhood. Not at all! Old Brandur can still see beyond the tip of

his nose.

The cold-heartedness shown by the old man's laughter at the distress

of his fellowmen roused Jon's ire. He could see nothing laughable

about the desperate situation in the district.

Are you then going to refuse to let us have the hay, refuse to sell

it at full price, with the Parish Council guaranteeing payment? he

asked in a tone that was angry, yet under perfect control?--Is that

your final answer?

Yes, responded Brandur. That is my final answer. I will not let the

tiny mouthful of hay I have here go while there is still life in my

body, even though you mean to insure payment, and even though you

actually do guarantee payment. After all, who among you will be in a

position to guarantee payment if all the flocks die? The cold

weather may not let up until the first of June or even later. In

that case the sheep will all die. It won't go very far, this tiny

haycock, not for so many. It will not, I tell you.

But what are you going to do with the hay? If everyone else loses

his flocks, everyone but you, what enjoyment will there be in owning

it? And what benefit? asked Jon.

That does not concern me! replied the old man. That concerns them.

It was they who decided the size of the flocks they undertook to

feed this winter, not I. Besides, they could have cut as much hay as

I did, even more, for they still have their eyesight. Their failure

is due to their own laziness and bad judgment. That's what ails

them! Ruins them!

But you won't be able to take this great big haystack with you into

the life eternal, said Jon. The time is coming when you will have to

part with it. Then it will be used as the needs require. And what

good will it do you? What are you going to do with it?

I am going to keep it, answered Brandur. I intend to keep it right

here on the knoll, keep it in case the haying should be poor next

summer. There may be a poor growth of grass and a small hay crop;

there may be a volcanic eruption and the ashes may poison the grass,

as they have done in former years. Now, do you understand me?

So saying, Brandur tottered off towards the house to indicate that

the conversation was at an end. His countenance was as cold as the

sky in the evening after the sun has set, and the hard lines in it

resembled the streaks in the ice on rocks and ledges where the sun's

rays had shone that day and laid bare the frozen ground.

Brandur entered the house, while Jon mounted again. They scarcely

said a word of farewell, so angry were they both.

Jon's horse set off at a brisk pace, eager to reach home, and

galloped swiftly over the hard, frozen ground. After the sun had

gone down, the wind rose and a searing cold settled over the valley,

whitening Jon's moustache where his breath passed over it.

Jon's anger grew as he sped along. Naturally hightempered, he had

lately had many reasons for anger since he took over his official

duties. The people in his district were like people the world over:

they blamed the Board constantly, accusing it of stupidity and

favouritism. Yet most of them paid their taxes reluctantly and only

when long overdue. Sometimes they were almost a year in arrears.

Jon reviewed the matter of the hay in his mind, also the other

vexations of the past. He was sick and tired of all the trouble. And

now the life of the whole district hung on a thin thread, the fate

of which depended upon the whims of the weather. Jon's nose and

cheekbones smarted from the cold; his shoes were frozen stiff, and

pinched his feet, and his throat burned with the heat of anger

rising from his breast.

Jon was rather quiet when he reached home that evening, although he

did tell his wife of his attempt to deal with her father.

Yes, said Gudrun, papa sets great store by that hay. He cannot bear

to part with it at any price. That is his nature.

Tomorrow you must go, Jon told her, and try to win the old man over

in some way. I'd hate to be obliged to take the hay from him by

force, but that will be necessary if everything else fails.

The following day Gudrun went to see her father. The weather still

remained cold. When Gudrun dismounted before the house at Holl,

there was no one outside to greet her or announce her arrival, and

so she entered, going straight into the baðstofa. There she found

her father sitting on his bed, knitting a seaman's mitten, crooning

an old ditty the while:

Far from out the wilderness

Comes raging the cold wind;

And the bonds of heaven's king

It doth still tighter bind.

Gudrun leaned over her father and kissed him.

Is that you, Gunna dear? he asked.

Yes papa, she said, at the same time slipping a flask of brandy into

the bosom of his shirt.

This greatly pleased the old man.

Gunna dear, he said, you always bring me something to cheer me up.

Not many nowadays take the trouble to cheer the old man. No indeed.

Any news? It's so long since you have been to see me, a year or

more.

No news everyone hasn't heard: hard times, shortage of hay, and

worry everywhere. That is only to be expected. It's been a hard

winter, the stock stall-fed for so long, at least sixteen weeks, on

some farms twenty.

Quite true, said Brandur. It's been a cold winter, and the end is

not yet. The cold weather may not break up before the first of June,

or even Midsummer Day. The summer will be cold, the hay crop small,

and the cold weather will probably set in again by the end of

August, then another cold hard winter, and ...

He meant to go on, foretelling yet worse things to come, but Gudrun

broke in: Enough of that, father. Things can't be as bad as that It

would be altogether too much. I hope for a change for the better

with the new moon next week, and mark you, the new moon rises in the

southwest and on a Monday; if I remember right, you always thought a

new moon coming on a Monday brought good weather.

I did, conceded Brandur. When I was a young man, a new moon coming

on a Monday was generally the very best kind of moon. But like

everything else, that has changed with the times. Now a Monday new

moon is the worst of all, no matter in what quarter of the heavens

it appears, if the weather is like this--raging sad carrying on so;

that is true.

But things are in a pitiful state, said Gudrun, what with the hay

shortage, almost everyone is badly off, and not a single farmer with

a scrap of hay to spare, except you, papa.

Yes, I! answered Brandur. I, a poor, blind, decrepit old man! But

what of you? Jon has enough hay, hasn't he? How is that? Doesn't he

have enough?

Yes, we do have enough for ourselves, admitted Gudrun. But we can't

hold onto it. Jon lends it to those in need until it is all gone and

there is none left for us. He thinks of others as well as of

himself.

What nonsense! What sense is there in acting like that? Every man

for himself, said the old man.

That's right. But for us that is not enough. Jon is in a position

where he must think of others; he has to think of all the farmers in

the district--and small thanks he gets for his pains. He is so

upset, almost always on tenterhooks. He didn't sleep a wink last

night--was almost beside himself. He takes it so hard.

So Jon couldn't sleep a wink last night! repeated Brandur. Why be so

upset? Why lie awake nights worrying about this? That doesn't help

matters any. It isn't his fault that they are all on the brink of

ruin.

Quite true, answered Gudrun. He is not to blame for that, and lying

awake nights doesn't help matters, but that is Jon's disposition.

He's tired to death of all the work for the Council and the

everlasting fault-finding. He has had to neglect his own farm since

he took up these public duties--and nothing for his time and

trouble. Now this is too much. He is dead tired of it all, and so am

I. In fact, I know it was worry about all this that kept Jon awake

last night. We have been thinking of getting away from it all when

spring comes and going to America.

Do you side with him in this? asked Brandur, grasping his daughter

by the arm. Do you, too, agree to his giving away the hay you need

for your own flocks, giving it away until you haven't enough for

yourselves? Do you, too, want to go to America, away from your

father who now has one foot in the grave?

Yes, I do, Gudrun replied. As a matter of fact, the plan was

originally mine. If our flocks die, there will be no alternative;

but if our sheep live and those of the neighbours die, our life will

not be worth living because of the poverty and want round about us.

Yes, papa, it was I suggested our going. I could see no other way

out.

On hearing this, Brandur's mood softened somewhat. I expected to be

allowed to pass my last days with you and your children, he said. I

cannot go on living in this fashion any longer.

Pass your last days with us! exclaimed Gudrun. Have you, then,

thought of leaving Holl? Have you planned to come and live with us?

You've never said a word of this to me.

I have no intention of leaving Holl. That I have never meant to do.

But that is not necessary. I thought you might perhaps be willing to

move over here and live with me. I could then let you have what

miserable little property I have left, Gunna, my dear.

And what about the hay, papa? Will you turn the hay over to us, the

hay in the old stack? Everything depends on that.

The hay! The hay! the old man said. Still harping on the hay--the

hay which doesn't amount to anything and cannot be of any real help.

It's sheer nonsense to think that the hay in that stack is enough to

feed the flocks of a whole district. There is no use talking about

it I will not throw that tiny mouthful to all the four winds. It

will do no good if divided among so many, but it is a comfort to me,

to me alone. No, I will not part with it as long as there is a spark

of life in me. That I will not, my love.

Brandur turned pale and the lines in his face became hard and rigid.

Looking at him, Gudrun knew from experience that he was not to be

shaken in his determination when in this mood. His face was like a

sky over the wilderness streaked with threatening storm clouds.

Gudrun gave up. The tears rushed to her eyes, as she twined her arms

around her father's neck and said: Goodbye, papa. Forgive me if I

have angered you. I shall not come here again.

The old man felt the teardrops on his face, the heavy woman's tears,

hot with anger and sorrow.

Gudrun dashed out of the room and mounted. Brandur was left alone in

the darkness at mid-day. Yet in his mind's eye he could see the

haystack out on the knoll. He rose and went out to feel it. It was

still there. Gudrun had not ridden away with it. Brandur could hear

the horseshoes crunching the hard, frozen ground as Gudrun rode off.

He stood motionless for a long time, listening to the hoof beats.

Then he went into the house.

Brandur felt restless. He paced the floor awhile, stopped for a

moment to raise to his lips the flask his daughter had brought him,

and drained it at one gulp. All that day he walked the floor,

fighting with himself until night fell.

Then he sent his foster-son with a message to his daughter. Jon, he

said, had his permission to haul the hay away the very next day, but

it was all to be removed in one day; there was not to be a scrap of

hay or a lump of sod left by evening.

But the weather changes quickly, says an old Icelandic adage. By

morning, the weather had turned its spindle and the wind shifted to

the south. Jon sent no message to anyone, nor did he proclaim that

the old hay was available. He first wished to see what the thaw

would amount to. By the following day, the whole valley was

impassable because of slush and water, and the patches of earth

appearing through the snowy blanket grew larger almost hourly.

Meanwhile, Brandur roamed through the house all day long, asking if

anyone had come.--Aren't they going to take away these miserable hay

scraps? About time they came and got them!--He seemed eager that the

hay be removed at once.

That day he did not take his usual walk out to the stack to feel the

hay. In fact, after that no one ever saw him show attachment to the

old hay. His love of it seemed to have died the moment he granted

his son-in-law permission to take it away.

That spring Brandur gave up housekeeping and of his own volition

turned over the farm to his daughter and son-in-law. With them he

lived to enjoy many years of good health. Never again did he take

his daily walk out to the haystack to feel the hay. But he was able

to take his sip of brandy to his dying day and repeat to himself the

word of God--hymns and verses from the Bible.

Now he has passed on to eternity. But his memory lives like a stone-

-a large, moss-covered stone by the wayside.