The two of them lived just outside the They were both called
Snjolfur, and they usually distinguished as old Snjolfur and little
Snjolfur. They themselves, however, addressed each other only as
Snjolfur. This was a habit of long standing: it may be that, having
the same name, they felt themselves bound still more firmly together
by using it unqualified in this way. Old Snjolfur was something over
fifty, little Snjolfur only just over twelve.
They were close together, the pair of them--each felt lost without
the other. It had been like that ever since little Snjolfur could
remember. His father could look further back. He remembered that
thirteen years ago he had lived on his farm within easy riding
distance of the village; he had a good wife and three sturdy and
hopeful children.
Then his luck turned and one disaster after struck him. His sheep
went down with pest, his cattle died of anthrax and other diseases.
Then the children got whooping-cough and all three died, close
enough together to lie in one grave. To pay his debts Snjolfur had
to give up his farm and sell the land. Then he bought the land on
the Point just outside the village, knocked up a cabin divided into
two by a partition, and a fish-drying shed. When that was done,
there was enough left to buy a cockle-shell of a boat. This was the
sum of his possessions.
It was a poor and dismal life they led there, Snjolfur and his wife.
They were both used to hard work, but they had had no experience of
privation and constant care for the morrow. Most days it meant
putting to sea if they were to eat, and it was not every night they
went to bed with a full stomach. There was little enough left over
for clothing and comfort.
Snjolfur's wife worked at fish-drying for the factor in the summer
months, but good drying-days could not be counted on and the money
was not much. She lived just long enough to bring little Snjolfur
into the world, and the last thing she did was to decide his name.
From then on, father and son lived alone in the cabin.
Little Snjolfur had vague memories of times of desperate misery. He
had to stay at home through days of unrelieved torment and agony.
There had been no one to look after him while he was too small to go
off in the boat with his father, and old Snjolfur was forced to tie
the boy to the bed-post to keep him out of danger in his absence.
Old Snjolfur could not sit at home all the time: he had to get
something to put in the pot.
The boy had more vivid memories of happier times, smiling summer
days on a sea glittering in the sunshine. He remembered sitting in
the stern and watching his father pulling in the gleaming fish. But
even those times were mingled with bitterness, for there were days
when the sky wept and old Snjolfur rowed out alone.
But in time little Snjolfur grew big enough to go off with his
father, whatever the weather. From then on they contentedly shared
most days and every night: neither could be without the other for
more than a minute. If one of them stirred in his sleep, the other
was awake on the instant; and if one could not get to sleep, the
other did not close his eyes either.
One might think that it was because they had a lot to talk about
that they were so wrapped up in each other. But that was not so.
They knew each other so well and their mutual confidence was so
complete that words were unnecessary. For days on end no more than
scattered phrases fell between them; they were as well content to be
silent together as to be talking together. The one need only look at
the other to make himself understood.
Among the few words that passed between them, however, was one
sentence that came up again and again--when old Snjolfur was talking
to his son. His words were:
The point is to pay your debts to everybody, not owe anybody
anything, trust in Providence.
In fact, father and son together preferred to live on the edge of
starvation rather than buy anything for which they could not pay on
the spot. And they tacked together bits of old sacking and patched
and patched them so as to cover their nakedness, unburdened by debt.
Most of their neighbours were in debt to some extent; some of them
only repaid the factor at odd times, and they never repaid the whole
amount. But as far as little Snjolfur knew, he and his father had
never owed a penny to anyone. Before his time, his father had been
on the factor's books like everyone else, but that was not a thing
he spoke much about and little Snjolfur knew nothing of those
dealings.
It was essential for the two of them to see they had supplies to
last them through the winter, when for many days gales or heavy seas
made fishing impossible. The fish that had to last them through the
winter was either dried or salted; what they felt they could spare
was sold, so that there might be a little ready money in the house
against the arrival of winter. There was rarely anything left, and
sometimes the cupboard was bare before the end of the winter;
whatever was eatable had been eaten by the tune spring came on, and
most often father and son knew what it was like to go hungry.
Whenever the weather was fit, they put off in their boat but often
rowed back empty-handed or with one skinny flat-fish in the bottom.
This did not affect their outlook. They never complained; they bore
their burden of distress, heavy as it was, with the same even temper
as they showed in the face of good fortune on the rare occasions it
smiled on them; in this, as in everything else, they were in
harmony. For them there was always comfort enough in the hope that,
if they ate nothing today, God would send them a meal tomorrow--or
the next day. The advancing spring found them pale and hollow-
cheeked, plagued by bad dreams, so that night after night they lay
awake together.--And one such spring, a spring moreover that had
been colder and stormier than usual, with hardly a single day of
decent weather, evil chance paid another visit to old Snjolfur's
home.
Early one morning a snow-slip landed on the cabin on the Point,
burying both father and son. By some inexplicable means little
Snjolfur managed to scratch his way out of the drift. As soon as he
realised that for all his efforts he could not dig his father out
single-handed, he raced off to the village and got people out of
their beds. Help came too late--the old man was suffocated when they
finally reached him through the snow.
For the time being his body was laid on a flat boulder in the
shelter of a shallow cave in the cliffside nearby--later they would
bring a sledge to fetch him into the village. For a long time little
Snjolfur stood by old Snjolfur and stroked his white hair; he
murmured something as he did it, but no one heard what he said. But
he did not cry and he showed no dismay. The men with the snow-
shovels agreed that he was a strange lad, with not a tear for his
father's death, and they were half-inclined to dislike him for it.--
He's a hard one! they said, but not in admiration.--You can carry
things too far.
It was perhaps because of this that no one paid any further
attention to little Snjolfur. When the rescue-party and the people
who had come out of mere curiosity made their way back for a bite of
breakfast and a sledge for the body, the boy was left alone on the
Point.
The snow-slip had shifted the cabin and it was all twisted and
smashed; posts missing their laths stuck up out of the snow, tools
and household gear were visible here and there--when he laid hold of
them, they were as if bonded the snow. Snjolfur wandered down to the
shore with the idea of seeing what had become of the boat. When he
saw with what cold glee the waves were playing with its shattered
fragments amongst the lumpy masses of snow below highwatermark, his
frown deepened, but he did not say anything.
He did not stay long on the shore this time. When he got back to the
cave, he sat down wearily on the rock beside his dead father. It's a
poor look-out, he thought; he might have sold the boat if it hadn't
been smashed--somewhere he had to get enough to pay for the funeral.
Snjolfur had always said it was essential to have enough to cover
your own funeral--there was no greater or more irredeemable disgrace
than to be slipped into the ground at the expense of the parish.
Fortunately his prospects weren't so bad, he had said. They could
both die peacefully whenever the time came--there was the cabin, the
boat, the tools and other gear, and finally the land itself--these
would surely fetch enough to meet the cost of coffin and funeral
service, as well as a cup of coffee for anyone who would put himself
out so far as to accept their hospitality on that occasion. But now,
contrary to custom, his father had not proved an oracle--he was dead
and everything else had gone with him--except the land on the Point.
And how was that to be turned into cash when there was no cabin on
it? He would probably have to starve to death himself. Wouldn't it
be simplest to run down to the shore and throw himself in the sea?
But--then both he and his father would have to be buried by the
parish. There were only his shoulders to carry the burden. If they
both rested in a shameful grave, it would be his fault--he hadn't
the heart to do it.
Little Snjolfur's head hurt with all this hard thinking. He felt he
wanted to give up and let things slide. But how can a man give up
when he has nowhere to live? It would be cold spending the night out
here in the open.
The boy thought this out. Then he began to drag posts, pieces of
rafter and other wreckage over to the cave. He laid the longest
pieces sloping against the cave-mouth--he badly wanted his father to
be within four walls,--covered them over and filled the gaps with
bits of sail-cloth and anything else handy, and finished by
shovelling snow up over the whole structure. Before long it was
rather better in the cave than out-of-doors, though the most
important thing was to have Snjolfur with him for his last days
above ground--it might be a week or more. It was no easy matter to
make a coffin and dig out frozen ground. It would certainly be a
poor coffin if he had to make it himself.
When little Snjolfur had finished making his shelter, he crept
inside and sat down with outstretched legs close to his father. By
this time the boy was tired out and sleepy. He was on the point of
dropping off, when he remembered that he had still not decided how
to pay for the funeral. He was wide awake again at once. That
problem had to be solved without more ado--and suddenly he saw a
gleam of hope--is wasn't so unattainable after all--he might meet
the cost of the funeral and maintain himself into the bargain, at
any rate for a start. His drowsiness fell from him, he slipped out
of the cave and strode off towards the village.
He went straight along the street in the direction of the store,
looking neither to right nor left, heedless of the unfriendly
glances of the villagers.--Wretched boy--he didn't even cry when his
father died! were the words of those respectable, generous-hearted
and high-minded folk.
When little Snjolfur got to the factor's house, he went straight
into the store and asked if he might speak to the master. The
storeman stared and lingered before finally shuffling to the door of
the office and knocking. In a moment the door was half opened by the
factor himself, who, when he caught sight of little Snjolfur and
heard that he wanted to speak to him, turned to him again and, after
looking him up and down, invited him in.
Little Snjolfur put his cap on the counter and did not wait to be
asked twice.
Well, young man? said the factor.
The youngster nearly lost heart completely, but he screwed himself
up and inquired diffidently whether the factor knew that there were
unusually good landing-facilities out on the Point.
It is much worse in your landing-place than it is in ours out there.
The factor had to smile at the gravity and spirit of the boy--he
confessed that he had heard it spoken of.
Then little Snjolfur came to the heart of the--if he let out the use
of the landing-place on the Point to the factor for the coming
summer--how much would he be willing to pay to have his Faroese
crews land their catches there?--Only for the coming summer, mind!
Wouldn't it be more straightforward if I bought the Point from you?
asked the factor, doing his best to conceal his amusement.
Little Snjolfur stoutly rejected this suggestion--he didn't want
that.--Then I have no home--if I sell the Point, I mean.
The factor tried to get him to see that he could not live there in
any case, by himself, destitute, in the open.
They will not allow it, my boy.
The lad steadfastly refused to accept the notion that he would be in
the open out there--he had already built himself a shelter where he
could lie snug.
And as soon as spring comes, I shall build another cabin--it needn't
be big and there's a good bit of wood out there. But, as I expect
you know, I've lost Snjolfur--and the boat. I don't think there's
any hope of putting the bits of her together again. Now that I've no
boat, I thought I might let out the landing-place, if I could make
something out of it. The Faroese would be sure to give me something
for the pot if I gave them a hand with launching and unloading. They
could row most ways from there--I'm not exaggerating--they had to
stay at home time and time again last summer, when it was easy for
Snjolfur and me to put off. There's a world of difference between a
deep-water landing-place and a shallow-water one--that's what
Snjolfur said many a time.
The factor asked his visitor what price he had thought of putting on
it for the summer. I don't know what the funeral will cost yet,
replied the orphan in worried tones. At any rate I should need
enough to pay for Snjolfur's funeral. Then I should count myself
lucky.
Then let's say that, struck in the factor, and went on to say that
he would see about the coffin and everything--there was no need for
little Snjolfur to fret about it any more. Without thinking, he
found himself opening the door for his guest, diminutive though he
was,--but the boy stood there as if he had not seen him do it, and
it was written clear on his face that he had not yet finished the
business that brought him; the anxious look was still strong on his
ruddy face, firm-featured beyond his years.
When are you expecting the ship with your stores?
The factor replied that it would hardly come tomorrow, perhaps the
day after. It was a puzzle to know why the boy had asked--the pair
of them, father and son, did not usually ask about his stores until
they brought the cash to buy them.
Little Snjolfur did not take his eyes from the factor's face. The
words stuck in his throat, but at last he managed to get his
question out: In that case, wouldn't the factor be needing a boy to
help in the store?
The factor did not deny it.
But he ought to be past his confirmation for preference, he added
with a smile.
It looked as if little Snjolfur was ready for this answer, and
indeed his errand was now at an end, but he asked the factor to come
out with him round the corner of the store. They went out, the boy
in front, and onto the pebble-bank nearby. The boy stopped at a
stone lying there, got a grip of it, lifted it without any obvious
exertion and heaved it away from him. Then he turned to the factor.
We call this stone the Weakling. The boy you had last summer
couldn't lift it high enough to let the damp in underneath--much
less any further!
Oh, well then, seeing you are stronger than he was, it ought to be
possible to make use of you in some way, even though you are on the
wrong side of confirmation, replied the factor in a milder tone.
Do I get my keep while I'm with you? And the same wages as he had?
continued the youngster, who was the sort that likes to know where
he stands in good time.
But of course, answered the factor, who for once was in no mood to
drive a hard bargain.
That's good--then I shan't go on the parish, said little Snjolfur,
and was easier in his mind. The man who has got something to pot in
himself and on himself isn't a pauper,--Snjolfur often used to say
that, he added, and he straightened himself up proudly and offered
his hand to the factor, just as he had seen his father do. Good-bye,
he said. I shall come then--not tomorrow but the day after.
The factor told him to come in again for a minute and leading the
way to the kitchen-door he ushered little Snjolfur into the warmth.
He asked the cook if she couldn't give this nipper here a bite of
something to eat, preferably something warm--he could do with it.
Little Snjolfur would not accept any food.
Aren't you hungry? asked the astonished factor.
The boy could not deny that he was--and for the rest he could hardly
get his words out with the sharpness of his hunger whetted still
keener by the blessed smell of cooking. But he resisted the
temptation: