No need to take care now about fastening the door, Arni of Bali said
to himself as he wrapped the string around the nail driven into the
door-post of the outlying sheepcote. Then he turned around, took out
his handkerchief, and, putting it to his nose, blew vigorously. This
done, he folded the handkerchief together again, wiped his mouth and
nose, and took out his snuff horn.
What fine balmy weather, thought Arni. That miserable fox won't come
near sheepcotes or houses now. Blast its hide! Yes, it had caused
him many a wakeful night. All the neighbouring farmers would have
the fool's luck to catch a fox every single winter. All but him. He
couldn't even wound a vixen, and had in all his life never caught
any kind of fox. Wouldn't it be fun to bring home a dark brown pelt,
one with fine overhair? Yes, wouldn't that be fun? Arni shook his
head in delight, cleared his throat vigorously, and took a pinch of
snuff.
Bending his steps homeward, he tottered along with his body half
stooped, as was his habit, and his hands behind his back. When he
looked up, he did not straighten out, but bent his neck back so his
head lay between his shoulder blades. Then his red-rimmed eyes
looked as if they were about to pop out of his head, his dark red
beard rose up as though striving to free itself from its roots, and
his empurpled nose and scarlet cheek-bones protruded.
Pretty good under foot, thought Arni. At least it was easy to go
between the sheepcotes and the house. Everything pretty quiet just
now. The sheep took care of themselves during the day, and grazing
was plentiful along the seashore and on the hillsides. No reason why
he might not now and then lie in wait somewhat into the night in the
hope of catching a fox; he wasn't too tired for that. But he had
given up all that sort of thing. It brought only vexation and
trouble. Besides, he had told everybody that he did not think it
worth his while to waste his time on such things and perhaps catch
his death to boot. The Lord knew that was mere pretence. Eighty
crowns for a beautiful, dark brown fox skin was a tidy sum! But a
man had to think up something to say for himself, the way they all
harped on fox-hunting: Bjarni of Fell caught a white vixen night
before last, or Einar of Brekka caught a brown dog-fox yesterday. Or
if a man stepped over to a neighbour's for a moment: Any hunting?
Anyone shot a fox? Our Gisli here caught a grayish brown one last
evening. Such incessant twaddle!
Arni's breath came short. Wasn't it enough if a man made an honest
living? Yet, work or achievement which brought no joy was unblessed.
At this point Samur darted up. Arni thought the dog had deserted him
and rushed off home. Now, what in the world ailed the creature?
Shame on you for a pesky cur! Can't you be still a minute, you
brute? Must I beat you? asked Arni, making threatening gestures at
Samur, a large, black-spotted dog with ugly, shaggy hair. But Samur
darted away, ran off whimpering; he would pause now and then and
look back at his master, until finally he disappeared behind a big
boulder.
What's got into the beast? He can't have found a fox trail, can he?
Arni walked straight to the rock where Samur had disappeared; then
slowing down his pace, he tiptoed as if he expected to find a fox
hidden there. Yes, there was Samur. There he lay in front of a hole,
whimpering and wagging his tail.
Shame on you, Samur!
Arni lay down prone on the snow and stretched his arm into the hole.
But all of a sudden he jerked his hand back, his heart beating as if
it would tear itself out of his breast. He had so plainly felt
something furry inside the hole, and he was badly mistaken if a
strong fox odour did not come out of it. Was the fox alive, or was
it dead? Might it bite him fatally? But that made no difference. Now
that he had a good chance of taking a fox, it was do or die. He
stood up straight and stretched every muscle, and pulled the mitten
on his right hand carefully up over his wrist. Then he knelt down,
thrust his hand in the hole, set his teeth, and screwed up his face.
Yes, now he had caught hold of it and was pulling it carefully out.
Well, well, well, well! Not so bad! A dark brown tail, a glossy
body, and what fine over-hair! For once Arni of Bali had some luck!
The fox was dead; it had been shot in the belly and just crept in
there to die. Sly devil! Poor beast! Blessed creature! Arni ended by
feeling quite tenderly towards the fox. He hardly knew how to give
utterance to his joy.
Good old Samur, my own precious dog, let me pat you, said Arni,
rubbing the dog's cheek with his own. They could shout themselves
blue in the face. It was no trick to kill all you wanted of these
little devils if you just had the powder and shot and were willing
to waste your time on it. But here Arni's face fell. He did not even
have his gun with him. It stood, all covered with rust, at home out
in the shed. Just his luck! And how could he claim to have shot a
fox without a gun?--Get out of here, Samur. Shame on you, you
rascal!--And Arni booted Samur so hard that the dog yelped.
But, in direst need, help is at hand. He could wait for the cover of
darkness. Not even his wife should know but that he had shot the
fox. Wouldn't she stare at him? She had always defied him and tried
to belittle him. No, she should not learn the truth, she least of
all. He would not tell a soul. Now Samur, he knew how to hold his
tongue, faithful creature! Arni sat down on the rock, with the fox
on his knees, and started singing to pass the time, allowing his
good cheer to ring out as far as his voice would carry:
My fine Sunday cap has been carried away
By a furious gale;
And I'll wear it no more to the chapel to pray
In the wind and the hail.
He chanted this ballad over and over again until he was tired, then
sat still, smiling and stroking the fox skin. He had learned the
song when he was a child from his mother, who had sung it all day
long one spring while she was shearing the sheep. And he could not
think of any other for the moment. It wasn't, in fact, a bad song.
There were many good rhymesters in Iceland. He began singing again,
rocking his body back and forth vehemently, and stroking the fox
skin the while. And Samur, who sat in front of him, cocked his head
first on one side, then on the other, and gave him a knowing look.
At last the dog stretched out his neck, raised his muzzle into the
air and howled, using every variation of key known to him. At this
Arni stopped short and stared at him, then bending his head slightly
to one side to study him, he roared with laughter.
What an extraordinary dog! Yes, really extraordinary.
In the little kitchen at Bali, Groa, the mistress, crouched before
the stove and poked the fire with such vigour that both ashes and
embers flew out on the floor. She was preparing to heat a mouthful
of porridge for supper for her old man and the brats. She stood up,
rubbed her eyes and swore. The horrid smoke that always came from
that rattletrap of a stove! And that wretched old fool of a husband
was not man enough to fix it! Oh, no, he wasn't handy enough for
that; he went at every blessed thing as if his fingers were all
thumbs. And where could he be loafing tonight? Not home yet! Serve
him right if she locked the house and allowed him to stay in the
sheepcotes, or wherever it was he was dawdling. There now, those
infernal brats were at the spinning wheel. Groa jumped up, darted
into the passage, and went to the stairs.
Will you leave that spinning wheel be, you young devils? If you
break the flier or the upright, your little old mother will be after
you.
A dead calm ensued. So Groa returned to the kitchen, and taking a
loaf of pot-bread from the cupboard, cut a few slices and spread
them with dripping.
Now a scratching sound was heard at the door, and Arni entered.
Good evening to all, said he with urbanity, as he set down the gun
behind the kitchen door. Here's that gun. It has certainly paid for
itself, poor old thing.
His wife did not reply to his greeting, but she eyed him askance
with a look that was anything but loving.
Been fooling around with that gun! Why the blazes couldn't you have
come home and brought me a bit of peat from the pit? A fine hunter
you are! I might as well have married the devil.--And his wife
turned from him with a sneer.
You're in a nice temper now, my dear. But just take a look at this,
said Arni, throwing down the brown fox on the kitchen floor.
At first Groa stared at her husband as if she had never seen him
before. Then she shook her head and smiled sarcastically.
You found it dead, I'll wager!
Arni started. His face turned red and his eyes protruded.
You would say that! You don't let me forget what a superior woman I
married! Found it dead!--And Arni plumped down on the woodbox.
His wife laughed.
I'll wager I hit the nail on the head that time!
Arni jumped to his feet. That confounded old witch should not spoil
his pleasure.
You're as stark, raving mad as you always have been. But I don't
care what you say. Kids, come and look at the fox your father has
shot.
Three days later they had a visitor. Arni stood outside and stared
at him. For a wonder, somebody had at last found his way to Arni's.
Days and nights had passed, but nobody had come. They always came
when they weren't wanted. And now came Jon of Lon, that overbearing
fellow! But now he could see that Arni of Bali was also a man among
men.
Howdy, Arni, you poor fish! said Jon, fixing his steely gray eyes on
Arni.
How are you, you old snake! answered Arni, smiling contemptuously.
What monstrous eyes Jon had when he looked at a person!
Has something special happened? You're somehow so puffed up today,
said Jon with a sarcastic smile.
Darn him! muttered Arni. Was he going to act just like Groa? In that
case, Arni had at least a trump card in reserve.
Did you say something? inquired Jon, sticking a quid of tobacco into
his mouth. Or wasn't it meant for my ears? Oh, well, I don't care
for your mutterings, you poor wretch. But now, go ask your wife to
give me a little drink of sour whey.
Arni turned round slowly and lazily. Wasn't the old fellow going to
notice the skin? It wasn't so small that it couldn't be seen. There
it hung on the wall, right in the sunlight, combed and beautifully
glossy.
That's quite a nice fox skin. Whose is it? asked Jon, walking over
to the wall.
Arni turned round. He could feel his heart beating fast.
Mine, he said, with what calm he could muster.
What is the idea of you buying a fox skin, you poor beggar?
Buying? Arni sighed. You think I can't shoot me a fox?
You! Jon laughed. That's a downright lie, my dear Arni.
A lie! You'd best not tell people they lie unless you know more
about it. A scoundrel like you, I say, a scoundrel like you! replied
Arni, swelling. I think you'd better be getting in and see her. You
know her pretty well, I believe.
Jon looked at the farmer of Bali with his steely eyes.
For whom are you keeping the skin, Arni?
No one, said Arni, crossly; then after some hesitation: The Lord
gave it to me.
All right, Arni. Miracles never cease. That is plain enough after
this, and no question about it. That's an eighty-crown skin, however
you came by it. But now let's go in and see Groa. As you say, I know
her pretty well. She was a smart girl, you poor wretch. Too bad I
was married and had to throw her to a creature like you.
Arni grinned and, trotting to the door of the house, called: Groa, a
visitor to see you.
The woman came to the door. A smile played about her lips,
smouldering embers glowed in her blue eyes, and the sunlight lighted
up the unkempt braids of golden hair which fell down about her pale
cheeks.
But Arni for once was satisfied. At last Jon was properly impressed.
The affair between Groa and Jon was something that could not be
helped. Jon surely regretted having lost that girl! Yes, indeed! And
she had her good points. She was smart, and a hundred crowns a year,
besides everything else that was brought them from Lon, was pretty
good compensation. Yes, many a man had married less well than Arni
of Bali. And the children were his, most of them, anyway. Nobody
need tell him anything else.
*
The fox skin became Arni of Bali's most cherished possession. Every
day, when the weather was clear, he would hang it, well smoothed and
combed, on the outside wall, and when he left home he carefully put
it away in a safe place. The skin became famous throughout the
district, and many of the younger men made special trips to Bali to
examine it. Arni would beam with joy and strut around with a
knowing, self-satisfied expression on his face, and would tell of
the patience, the agility, and the marksmanship he had to put into
killing this monstrously clever fox. It certainly wasn't hard to
kill all you wanted of these devils, if you just had the powder and
shot and were willing to give your time to it, he would say, as he
turned the skin so that the sunlight shone full on the glossy pelt.
Then one day that fall, Arni came home from tending the sheep, which
had just been brought down from the mountain pastures. He hung the
skin out and went into the kitchen, where Groa was busy washing, sat
down on a box by the wall on the other side of the room, let his
head rest on his hands, and looked wise. For a while there was
silence. At last Groa looked up from her washtub and gave Arni a
piercing glance.
Have you got your eye on a cow to replace the greyspotted one we
killed last spring?
Cow? asked Arni, scratching his head. Cow? Yes, so you say, my good
woman.
So I say? Do you think the milk from Dumba alone goes very far in
feeding such a flock of children as we have? You haven't gone and
squandered the money we got for Skjalda? asked Groa, looking harder
still at her husband.
Don't be foolish, woman! The money lies untouched at the factor's.
But he wouldn't pay much for the meat and hide of Skjalda, not
anywhere near enough to buy a good milking cow. He said the English
on the trawlers don't set much store by cow's meat. The summer has
been only so-so, and I'm sure we'll have plenty of uses for what
money I've been able to scrape together. Of course, a cow is a good
thing to buy, an enjoyable luxury, if only you have plenty of money.
If you can't scrape together the money for a cow, we must cut
expenses somehow. Perhaps you could stop stuffing your nostrils with
that dirty snuff? And you ought at any rate to be able to sell that
fancy fox skin you play with so childishly.
Is that so!
Yes, you play with that wretched fox skin just exactly like any
crazy youngster.
Wretched is it? Take care what you say, woman! Wretched skin! A fine
judge of such matters you are!--And standing up, Arni paced the
kitchen floor.--An eighty-crown skin! And you call it wretched! Jon
of Lon didn't call it any names. You'll believe at least what he
says.
Now, don't get puffed up. You ought to be thankful to get what you
can for the skin. It will help in buying the cow.
The cow? Let me tell you, woman, that I am not going to buy a cow
for the skin. You can take it from me that you will never get a cow
for that skin. Or anything else, in fact. The farmer at Lon can
shell out whatever is needed for buying the cow. That's the least he
can do for you.
Groa stopped her washing, stared for a few seconds at Arni, and then
with a quick movement walked up to him, brandishing a bit of wet
linen.
Will you tell me what you're going to do with the skin? she asked,
almost in a whisper.
Arni shrank back. The way to the door was cut off. He raised his arm
in self-defence and retreated as far as possible into the corner.
I'm going to sell it. Now be reasonable, Groa. I'm going to sell it.
And what are you going to buy for it? his wife hissed, boring into
him with her eyes.
A cow. I'm going to buy a cow for it.
You lie! You know you're not going to sell it. You're going to play
with it. Know your children hungering for milk and play with the
skin!
My children?
No, God be praised, they're--not--yours, said Groa, allowing the
blows to rain on Arni.--But now I'll keep the skin for you.--And
like an arrow she shot out of the door, all out of breath and
trembling.
For a few seconds Arni stood still. His eyes seemed bursting out of
their sockets, and the hair in his beard stood on end. In a flash he
rushed over the kitchen floor and out of the house.
Groa had just taken the skin down off the nail on the wall. Now she
brandished it and looked at Arni with fury in her gaze. But he did
not wait. He rushed at her, gave her such a shove that she fell,
and, snatching the skin from her, ran. A safe distance away, he
turned and stood panting for several seconds. At last, exhausted and
trembling with rage, he hissed:
I tell you, Groa. I'll have my way about this. The skin is the only
thing that is all my own, and no one shall take it from me.
Arni fled then. He took to his heels, and ran away as fast as he
could up the slopes.
---
Far in the innermost corner of the outlying sheepcote at Bali, to
which the sun's rays never reach, Arni built himself a little
cupboard. This cupboard is kept carefully locked, and Arni carries
the key on a string which hangs around his neck. Arni now has become
quite prosperous. For a long time it was thought that he must keep
money in the cupboard, but last spring an acquaintance of his
stopped at the outlying sheepcote on his way from the village. The
man had some liquor with him and gave Arni a taste. At last the
visitor was allowed to see what the cupboard contained--a carefully
combed and smoothed dark brown fox skin. Arni was visibly moved by
the unveiling of his secret. Staring at the ceiling, he licked his
whiskers and sighed deeply.
It seems to me, Gisli, he said to his friend, that I'd rather lose
all my ewes than this skin, for it was the thing which once made me
say, 'Thus far and no farther!' And since then I seem to own
something right here in my breast which not even Jon of Lon can take
away from me. I think I am now beginning to understand what is meant
in the Scriptures by 'the treasure which neither moth nor rust can
currupt.'
Arni's red-rimmed eyes were moist. For a while he stood there
thinking. But all of a sudden he shook his head and, turning to his
acquaintance, said: Let's see the bottle. A man seems to feel warmer
inside if he gets a little drop.--And Arni shook himself as if the
mental strain of his philosophizing had occasioned in him a slight
chill.