I was stormbound in the fishing village. I had come there by
steamer, but now the steamer was gone and I was left behind there, a
stranger, at a loss what to do.
My idea was to continue my journey overland, and my route lay for
the most part through the mountainous country on the other side of
the fjord. I hadn't managed to hire horses or a guide, and it was no
easy matter to find one's own way in such stormy weather when the
rivers were running in full flood. This was in the spring-time,
round about the beginning of May.
I was staying at the home of the local doctor, who had given me
shelter and who was now trying to help me in every way he could. He
was in my room with me, and we were both sitting there, smoking
cigars and chatting together. I had given up all hope of continuing
my journey that day and was making myself comfortable on the
doctor's sofa. But when we least expected it, we heard the sound of
heavy sea-boots clumping along the corridor, and there was a knock
at the door.
Come in, said the doctor. The door opened slowly, and a young man in
seamen's clothes stood in the doorway.
I was asked to tell you that old Hrolfur from Weir will take that
chap over there across in his boat, if he likes, said the man,
addressing himself to the doctor.
We both stood up, the doctor and I, and walked towards the door.
That possibility hadn't occurred to either of us.
Is old Hrolfur going fishing then? asked the doctor.
Yes, he's going out to the islands and staying there about a week.
It won't make any difference to him to slip ashore at Muladalir, if
it would be any help.
That's fine, said the doctor, turning to me. It's worth thinking
over, unless you really need to go round the end of the fjord. It'll
save you at least a day on your journey, and it'll be easier to get
horses and a man in Muladalir than it is here.
This was all so unexpected that I didn't quite know what to say. I
looked at the doctor and the stranger in turn, and my first thought
was that the doctor was trying to get rid of me. Then it occurred to
me what a fine thing it would be to avoid having to cross all those
rivers which flow into the head of the fjord. Finally I decided that
the doctor had no ulterior motive and that his advice was prompted
by sheer goodwill.
Is old Hrolfur all right at the moment? the doctor asked the man in
the doorway.
Yes, of course he is, said the man.
All right? I said, looking at them questioningly. I thought that was
a funny thing to ask.
The doctor smiled.
He's just a bit queer--up here, he said, pointing to his forehead.
The thought of having to set out on a long sea journey with a man
who was half crazy made me shudder. I am certain, too, that the
doctor could see what I was thinking, for he smiled good-naturedly.
Is it safe to go with him then? I asked.
Oh yes, quite safe. He's not mad, far from it. He's just a bit
queer--he's got 'bats in the belfry', as men say. He gets these
attacks when he's at home in the dark winter days and has nothing to
occupy him. But there's little sign of it in the summer. And he's a
first-class seaman.
Yes, a first-class seaman who never fails, said the man in the
doorway. It's quite safe to go on board with him now. You can take
my word for that.
Are you going with him? asked the doctor.
Yes, there's a crew of three with him. There'll be four of us in the
boat altogether.
I looked at the man in the doorway--he was a young man of about
twenty, promising and assured. I liked the look of him, very much.
Secretly I began to be ashamed of not daring to cross the fjord with
three men such as he, even though the skipper was 'a bit queer in
the head'.
Are you going to-day? said the doctor. Don't you think it's blowing
a bit hard?
I don't think old Hrolfur'll let that bother him, said the man and
smiled.
Can you use your sails?
Yes, I think so--there's a fair wind.
It was decided that I should go with them. I went to get ready as
quickly as possible, and my luggage, saddle and bridle, were carried
down to the boat.
The doctor walked to the jetty with us.
There, in the shelter of the breakwater, was old Hrolfur's boat, its
mast already stepped, with the sail wrapped round it. It was a four-
oared boat, rather bigger than usual, tarred all over except for the
top plank, which was painted light blue. In the boat were the
various bits of equipment needed for shark-fishing, including a
thick wooden beam to which were attached four hooks of wrought iron,
a keg of shark-bait which stank vilely, and barrels for the shark's
liver. There were shark knives under the thwarts and huge gaffs
hooked under the rib-boards. The crew had put the boxes containing
their food and provisions in the prow.
In the stern could be seen the back of a man bending down. He was
arranging stones in the well of the boat. He was dressed in overalls
made of skin, which reached up to his armpits and which were
fastened by pieces of thin rope crossing over his shoulders. Further
forward there was a second man, and a third was up on the jetty.
Good day to you, Hrolfur, said the doctor.
Good day to you, grunted Hrolfur as he straightened himself up and
spat a stream of yellowish-brown liquid from his mouth. Hand me that
stone over there.
These last words were addressed not to the doctor or me, but to the
man on the jetty. Hrolfur vouchsafed me one quick, unfriendly
glance, but apart from that scarcely seemed to notice me. The look
in those sharp, haunting eyes went through me like a knife. Never
before had anyone looked at me with a glance so piercing and so full
of misgiving.
He was a small man, and lively, though ageing fast. The face was
thin, rather wrinkled, dark and weather-beaten, with light untidy
wisps of hair round the mouth. I was immediately struck by a curious
twitching in his features, perhaps a relic of former bouts of
drinking. Otherwise his expression was harsh and melancholy. His
hands were red, swollen and calloused as if by years of rowing.
Don't you think it's blowing rather hard, Hrolfur? asked the doctor
after a long silence.
Oh, so-so, answered Hrolfur, without looking up.
Again there was silence. It was as if Hrolfur had neither time nor
inclination for gossiping, even though it was the district medical
officer talking to him.
The doctor looked at me and smiled. I was meant to understand that
this was exactly what he had expected.
After another interval the doctor said: You are going to do this
traveller a favour then, Hrolfur?
Oh, well, the boat won't mind taking him.
In other words, I was to be nothing but so much ballast.
Don't you think it's going to be tricky landing there in Mular
Creek?
Hrolfur straightened up, putting his hand to his back.
Oh, no, damn it, he said. There's an offshore wind and the sea's not
bad, and anyway we'll probably get there with the incoming tide.
It isn't going to take you out of your way? I asked.
We won't argue about that. We'll get there all the same. We often
give ourselves a rest in the old creek when we have to row.
Immediately afterwards I said good-bye to the doctor and slid down
into the boat. The man on the jetty cast off, threw the rope down
into the boat and jumped in after it.
One of the crew thrust the handle of an oar against the breakwater
and pushed off. Then they rowed for a short spell to get into the
wind, whilst old Hrolfur fixed the rudder.
The sail filled out; the boat heeled gently over and ran in a long
curve. The islets at the harbour mouth rushed past us. We were
making straight for the open bay.
On the horizon before us the mountainous cliffs, dark blue with a
thick, ragged patch of mist at the top, towered steeply over the
waves. In between, the sea stretched out, seemingly for miles.
Hrolfur was at the rudder. He sat back in the stern on a crossbeam
flush with the gunwale, his feet braced against the ribs on either
side and in his hands the rudder lines, one on each side, close to
his thighs.
I was up with the crew near the mast. We all knew from experience
that Icelandic boats sailed better when well-loaded forward. All
four of us were lying down on the windward side, but to leeward the
foam still bubbled up over the rowlocks.
If you think we're not going fast enough, lads, you'd better start
rowing--but no extra pay, said old Hrolfur, grinning.
We all took his joke well, and I felt that it brought me nearer to
the old man; up to then I'd been just a little scared of him. A joke
is always like an outstretched hand.
For a long time we hardly spoke. In front of the mast we lay in
silence, whilst old Hrolfur was at the stern with the whole length
of the boat between us.
The crew did all they could to make me comfortable. I lay on some
soft sacking just in front of the thwart and kept my head under the
gunwale for protection. The spray from the sea went right over me
and splashed down into the boat on the far side.
The boy who had come for me to the doctor's settled himself down in
the bows in front of me. His name was Eric Ericsson, and the more I
saw of him the more I liked him.
The second member of the crew sat crosswise over the thwart with his
back to the mast. He too was young, his beard just beginning to
grow, red-faced, quiet and rather indolent-looking. He seemed
completely indifferent, even though showers of spray blew, one after
another, straight into his face.
The third member of the crew lay down across the boat behind the
thwart; he put a folded oilskin jacket under his head and fell
asleep.
For a long time, almost an hour, I lay in silence, thinking only of
what I saw and heard around me. There was more than enough to keep
me awake.
I noticed how the sail billowed out, full of wind, pulling hard at
the clew-line, which was made fast to the gunwhale beside Hrolfur.
The fore-sail resembled a beautifully curved sheet of steel, stiff
and unyielding. Both sails were snow-white, semi-transparent and
supple in movement, like the ivory sails on the model ships in
Rosenborg Palace. The mast seemed to bend slightly and the stays
were as taut as fiddle-strings. The boat quivered like a leaf. The
waves pounded hard against the thin strakes of the boat's side. I
could feel them on my cheek, though their dampness never penetrated;
but in between these hammer blows their little pats were wonderfully
friendly. Every now and then I could see the white frothing of the
wave-crests above the gunwale, and sometimes under the sail the
horizon was visible but, more often, there was nothing to be seen
but the broad back of a wave, on which, for a time, the boat tossed
before sinking down once more. The roll was scarcely noticeable, for
the boat kept at the same angle all the time and cleft her way
through the waves. The motion was comfortable and soothing to the
mind; quite unlike the violent lunging of bigger ships.
Gradually the conversation came to life again. It was Eric who
proved to be the most talkative, though the man on the thwart also
threw in a word here and there.
We began to talk about old Hrolfur.
We spoke in a low voice so that he shouldn't hear what we said.
There was, indeed, little danger of his doing so--the distance was
too great and the storm was bound to carry our words away; but men
always lower their voices when they speak of those they can see,
even though they are speaking well of them.
My eyes scarcely left old Hrolfur, and as the men told me more, my
picture of him became clearer and clearer.
He sat there silent, holding on to the steering ropes and staring
straight ahead, not deigning us a single glance.
The crew's story was roughly this.
He was born and bred in the village, and he had never left it. The
croft which he lived in was just opposite the weir in the river
which flowed through the village, and was named after it.
He went to sea whenever possible; fished for shark in the spring and
for cod and haddock in the other seasons. He never felt so happy as
when he was on the sea; and if he couldn't go to sea, he sat alone
at home in the croft mending his gear. He never went down to the
harbour for work like the other fishermen and never worked on the
land. Humming away and talking to himself he fiddled about in his
shed, around his boat-house or his croft, his hands all grubby with
tar and grease. If addressed, he was abrupt and curt in his answers,
sometimes even abusive. Hardly anyone dared go near him.
Yet everyone liked him really. Everyone who got to know him said
that he improved on acquaintance. His eccentricity increased as he
grew older, but particularly after he had lost his son.
His son was already grown-up and had been a most promising young
fellow. He was thought to be the most daring of all the skippers in
the village and always went furthest out to sea; he was also the
most successful fisherman of them all. But one day a sudden storm
had caught them far out to sea, well outside the mouth of the fjord.
Rowing hard, in the teeth of wind and tide, they managed to reach
the cliffs, but by that time they were quite exhausted. Their idea
had been to land at Mular Creek, but unfortunately their boat
overturned as they tried to enter. Hrolfur's son and one other on
board had been drowned, though the rest were saved.
After the disaster Hrolfur ignored everybody for a long time. It
wasn't that he wept or lost heart. Perhaps he had done so for the
first few days, but not afterwards. He just kept to himself. He took
not the slightest notice of his wife and his other children, just as
if they were no longer his concern. It was as though he felt he'd
lost everything. He lived all alone with his sorrow and talked of it
to no one. Nobody tried to question him; no one dared try to comfort
him. Then, one winter, he started talking to himself.
Day and night, for a long time, he talked to himself, talked as
though two or more men were chatting together, changing his tone of
voice and acting in every way as though he were taking part in a
lively and interesting conversation. There was nothing silly in what
he said, although the subject matter was often difficult to follow.
He would always answer if anyone spoke to him, slowly to be sure,
but always sensibly and agreeably. Often, before he could answer, it
was as though he had to wake up as from a sleep, and yet his work
never suffered from these bouts of absentmindedness.
He never talked about his son. The conversations he held with
himself were mostly concerned with various adventures he thought had
befallen him; some were exaggerated, others pure invention.
Sometimes he would talk of things he was going to do in the future,
or things he would have done or ought to have in the past, but never
about the present.
It wasn't long before the rumour spread that old Hrolfur was crazy,
and for a long time hardly anyone dared to go to sea with him.
Now, that's all a thing of the past, said Eric and smiled. Nowadays
there are always more who would like to go with him than he can
take.
And does he catch plenty of fish?
Yes, he rarely fails.
Isn't he quite well-off then?
I don't know. At any rate he's not dependent on anyone else, and
he's the sole owner of his boat and tackle.
He's rolling in money, the old devil, said the man at the mast,
wiping the spray from his face with his hand.
Then they began to tell me about Mular Island and the life they
would lead there in the coming week.
The island was a barren rock beyond the cliffs, and, in the autumn
storms, was almost covered by the waves. The first thing they'd have
to do, when they arrived, was to rebuild their refuge from the year
before, roof it over with bits of driftwood and cover them with
seaweed. That was to be their shelter at night, no matter what the
weather. Nature had provided a landing-place, so that they'd no
trouble with that, though the spot was so treacherous that one of
them would have to stand watch over the boat every night.
Each evening they would row off from the island with their lines to
some well-known fishing bank, for it was after midnight that the
shark was most eager to take the bait. Savouring in his nostrils the
smell of horse flesh soaked in rum and of rotten seal blubber, he
would rush on the scent and greedily swallow whatever was offered.
When he realised the sad truth that a huge hook with a strong barb
was hidden inside this tempting dish and that it was no easy matter
to disgorge the tasty morsel, he would try to gnaw through the shaft
of the hook with his teeth. Very occasionally he might succeed, but
usually his efforts failed. Attached to the hook was a length of
strong iron chain; and sometimes, though defeated by the hook, he
would manage to snip through the chain. Then, in his joy at being
free, this creature with the magnificent appetite would immediately
rush to the next hook, only to be caught there when the lines were
drawn in. If the shark failed in his efforts to gnaw himself free,
he would try, by twisting and turning, to break either the hook or
the chain; but man had foreseen this possibility and had made the
hook to turn with him. With exemplary patience 'the grey one' would
continue his twisting until he had been drawn right up to the side
of the boat and a second hook made fast in him. His sea-green,
light-shy, pig-like eyes would glare malevolently up at his
tormentors, and in his maddened fury he would bite, snap and fight
until he almost capsized the boat.
For centuries our forefathers had hunted the shark like this in open
boats, but nowadays men preferred to use decked vessels. No one in
the district still used the old method, apart from old Hrolfur.
He had dragged in many a 'grey one'. From the bottom of the boat
Eric picked up one of the hooks and passed it to me; it was of
wrought iron, half an inch thick, with a point of cast steel. But
the spinning joint was almost chewed through and the hook shaft
bitten and gnawed--the 'grey one' had fought hard that time.
The crew told me so much about their fishing adventures that I
longed to go to the island with them.
Suddenly Eric gave me a nudge.
The conversation stopped, and we all looked back at old Hrolfur.
Now he's talking to himself.
We all held our breath and listened.
Hrolfur sat like a statue, holding the rudder-lines. His eyes wore a
far-away look and a curious smile of happiness played over his face.
After a short silence, he spoke again--in a perfectly normal voice.