From the Mouth of the Whale (15 page)

‘That’s the sort of nonsense that got us here in the first place!’

Whenever I heard those words all the wind would leave my sails; they seemed to strike at the very root of my impotence. It was only too true that my nonsense had driven us here and there, hither and thither, back and forth. We had been forced to dwell in so many ‘
here
’s against our will on our constant flight from my enemies, from the predatory silver-plated claws that clutched after me and my loved ones. Me and all I held dear. There were spies at every turn, ready to betray a poor vagabond in the hope that his powerful foes would throw them a morsel. Ah, Judas’s pleasure was short-lived and his remorse scalded and stung, but these scoundrels had no conscience; they bragged of getting the outlaw Jónas the Learned arrested for their own amusement and a reward of thirty brass farthings. My children’s despair is still etched in my memory as they watched their father being thrown in the mud, beaten and belaboured with fists and clubs, before being flung, helplessly, head first into the black hole of prison. I can still hear the poor little darlings’ sad wails as they embraced one another outside the prison wall, laying their tender ears to the stone in the hope of hearing their father say that everything would be all right. On the other side of the wall I writhed in my chains, throwing up my hands and calling out just that: ‘All will be well, dear children, with God’s help all will be well, when the Lord hears your prayers and my pleas, all will be well.’ Yet things did not improve, they only got worse. I ran my fingers gently over Sigga’s brow, down her nose and cheek, avoiding the sprig of thyme. The last time I heard her refer to ‘us’, she meant only herself and her old man, me, the two sad wretches on Gullbjörn’s Island. But once it meant ‘the two of us and our four children’, then ‘us two and our three children’, and later ‘us two and our two children’, until finally it was only ‘us two and Little Gudmundur’, for only the eldest, Pálmi Gudmundur, survived into adulthood, benefiting no doubt from being named after the good Bishop Gudmundur Arason. His brothers and sisters all fell to the scythe, slender shoots, withered before their time. One never becomes used to it. The ewe runs faster than the lamb, the swan takes to the air sooner than the cygnet, the char darts through the water quicker than the minnow, and little children tire before their parents. Father and mother look on helplessly as their babies die. ‘That’s the sort of nonsense that got us here!’ The speaker of that bitter truth had departed this life, the word ‘us’ now referred to me alone, and in that dark hour I would gladly have given my own life to have heard it once more from her living lips. A tear gleamed in the corner of her left eye. For a moment I was ecstatic with joy – Sigga was not dead, she had merely swooned from hunger; I would nurse her, cook medicinal herbs for her, rub the warmth back into her stiff hands, help her walk over the rough ground until she recovered her strength – but my world grew dark again when I realised it was only a tear that had fallen from my own eye on to hers. Sigrídur lay on her side with her legs drawn up under her, as if taking a nap, for thus had her body stiffened. I climbed into bed behind her, laying my arm over her body, resting my cheek against the back of her neck; her shawl smelt of moss campion and crowberry. I whispered:

‘So you have gone now to the kingdom beyond the clouds, beyond sun and moon and sky, to the land where all grief is comforted with eternal radiant mercy at the footstool of Christ. Where your children will greet you, running to their mother with outstretched arms …’

I could say no more, my throat tightened on the last word. If our dead children had been allowed to live they would have been grown-up by now, with many children of their own. They would have given old Grandpa Jónas and Grandma Sigga shelter in their homes; for he who has once dwelt in his mother’s body and his father’s heart is bound to provide them with a roof over their heads in their old age. But it was not to be, it will never be. I was seized by a bitter rage. Clenching my fists, I prayed:

‘Dear God, take that black-hearted knave Night-wolf Pétursson and give back to me little Hákon, who was always as gentle as a girl; merciful Father, take Ari Magnússon of Ögur and return to me quick-handed Berglind, who inherited her father’s gift for carving; heavenly Creator, take that foul-tongued slanderer, Reverend Gudmundur Einarsson, and give me back the little lad Klemens, with one moss-green eye and one blue; dear Lord, take the whole legion of good-for-nothings who every day outlive their victims, sprawling in their high seats and thrones, gorging themselves on meat, dripping with grease, from the livestock that grew fat on the green grass in meadows tended with diligence by innocent, God-fearing souls; congratulating themselves on having stripped this man of his livelihood and that woman of her breadwinner – when they can speak between ill-gotten mouthfuls; enjoying to a great old age the fruits of the wicked deeds they committed during their days on Earth with the blessing of bishops, and convinced that the despicable acts that they refer to as “a good day’s work in the Lord’s vineyard” will have paid for their place in Heaven; dear God, snatch them away and do with them what you will, but give back to me Sigrídur Thórólfsdóttir, a pious woman, a loving wife and a caring mother who never asked for anything for herself but prayed for mercy and good fortune for friends and strangers alike.’

These terrible curses poured in torrents from my mouth. They were so dire that when I came to my senses I hoped that the good Lord in His mercy and deep understanding of human frailty would pretend that His great all-hearing ears had been closed in that dark hour. As yet He has not brandished His rod of punishment over my head – indeed, what more could He do to me? I held Sigga’s withered hands, feeling every sinew and knuckle, tracing the bones with my fingertips, and the sunken flesh between them, for she had starved a long time before she died. In spite of my attempts to dissuade her she had insisted on staying behind on the island. But how could a lone female survive a whole winter on this cursed rock? Not even the resourceful Sigrídur Thórólfsdóttir could do that. And who knows what will become of me? She had clasped her hands in her hour of death and I found with my forefinger that she was holding something between them. I rose up on my elbow; the corner of a piece of brown cloth peeped from her fist. The cloth turned out to be wrapped round a gift from our friend Peter the Pilot, the confessor and helmsman on the whaler
Nuestra Señora del Carmen
. It was a holy relic: four little wood shavings, no larger than nail clippings, reddish in hue.

AIR SHIP:
a strange event occurred in the western quarter: a rope with an anchor on the end fell from the sky and caught in the church pavement. The whole congregation could see and touch it when they came out of the service. After a while a man came down the rope and tried to free the anchor, but when people touched him he became as weak as a fish out of water and the mark of death was straight away seen upon him. The minister forbade anyone to touch the man again and ordered them to free the anchor. Then everything was hauled up, man, rope and anchor, and never seen again.

They came gliding over the sea like cathedrals under their white sails: church ships, launched from a southern shore, their three masts bearing fluttering Christian flags and banners, their prows decorated with artfully painted figureheads, glaring with admonishment at any sea monster that dared to venture near, and crosses carved on both bows, while from the stern rose a statue of the Virgin Mary with arms outstretched in a maternal embrace that encompassed both vessel and crew. On their sterns they bore the names of the most holy and beneficent churches in their homeland:
Nuestra Señora de la Paz
,
Nuestra Señora de la Estrella
and
Nuestra Señora de la Inmaculada Concepción
– and when the wind stood from the sea one could hear the ship’s bell singing:

‘Peace, star, immaculate … Peace, star …’

Sigrídur and I had only been living at Litla-Vík for two months when we saw them coming in from the sea. It was early summer of the year 1613. She was tending to the ewes, I sat in the smithy, supposedly carving a picture story on a bull’s horn, a commission I had already been paid for and which was now overdue, but in fact struggling my way through a collection of
Aesop’s Fables
in German. Pálmi Gudmundur sat in the smithy doorway, playing at piling up some bones that I had painted in different colours for him. Then Sigga came running in, grabbed up the boy in her arms and called to me to come and see something rather remarkable. We stood on top of the farm mound, shielding our eyes with our hands. The sight was remarkable indeed; there was no ‘rather’ about it. I raised my brows and looked at Sigga enquiringly; she was smiling dreamily. I was greatly relieved, for she had been reluctant to move here from Ólafseyjar – although she had not exactly been happy there, particularly after the locals cheated me of my fee for laying the ghost of Geirmundur Hell-skin, claiming falsely that I had promised to find his buried treasure too – but I had managed to persuade her that we would be better off in the place where my fame was greatest, that is, my birth district of Strandir, bounded to the west by the Snjáfjöll coast. Yes, the marvellous spectacle floating out there on the summery sea boded well for our sojourn here. But when it became clear that these wondrous craft were heading out of sight, east round the headland and into the neighbouring fjord, we agreed that early next morning we would follow them. We set out on horseback, riding beasts given to us by my benefactors; I carrying our little boy in front of me. Our eagerness to see the ships was so great that it seemed to infect the horses, which bounded along with such lightness of foot that before we knew it we had reached Reykjafjord. But no sooner had we arrived than we began to have misgivings. There were fires burning all over the place and when we neared the farm, it became apparent that all the loose furnishings had been piled up and set alight. The buildings stood empty, evidently abandoned in haste, for pots and other household utensils lay broken in the kitchen and various other small objects were strewn around the living room and passageways. Everything indicated that the fair vessels were sailing under false pretences, that they had brought destruction and slavery to the inhabitants. Sigrídur sat rigid in her saddle, gripped by dread, Pálmi Gudmundur hid his face in my chest and I had to fight back my tears, not from fear but because it seemed such a miserable end to our expedition. We decided to turn back. Then Pálmi Gudmundur burst out laughing. He pointed up the hillside, giggling:

‘Fuddy man …!’

Quite right; in the hayfield above the farm lay a pale bundle, of human appearance, furnished with both arms and legs, though not in the right places. I dismounted, placed the boy in Sigrídur’s arms and went to take a look at this novelty. It turned out to be an unfortunate old lady who had caught her petticoat on a jutting piece of stone while climbing over the wall. She had been hanging there with her legs in the air since the day before. I released the poor dear and turned her the right way up, and once she had recovered her wits she was able to tell us the truth about the wrecked and abandoned settlement. When they saw the approaching ships the locals had panicked, and to prevent the supposed corsairs from getting anything for their pains, they had smashed and destroyed everything they could, burning their belongings or sinking them in bogs, before running away to hide among the stony wastes and moors. So great had been the panic that she herself had been left behind, hanging upside down like a nightdress on a washing line. When questioned, the old woman was fairly certain that although she had been watching them from the wrong way up, the supposed corsairs had held their course due south, sailing on towards Steingrímsfjord. This was the first indication we had of how the arrival of great ocean-going ships could terrify our neighbours in that district. At around nine o’clock that evening we rode down off the moors into the Selárdalur Valley. Out on the fjord before us the magnificent craft lay at anchor. A tent had been pitched in the hayfield belonging to Reverend Ólafur of Stadur, from which carried a delicious smell of roasting meat, accompanied by the lively sound of musical instruments and voices with a strange inflexion. They were Basques, come from Spain to try their luck at harpooning whales in the Icelandic fjords. In the following weeks the new arrivals set about building a whaling station. It would appear that the ships had accommodated a whole village in their bellies, for in no time at all there arose a harbour and forge, kitchen huts and laundries, timber and rope workshops and ovens for rendering oil, built of wonderfully regular bricks. I paid Reverend Ólafur frequent visits to observe how they conducted the whaling and rendered the oil. The minister, who was on good terms with the whalers, willingly showed them to the hunting grounds, for he said it was a kindness on their part to cull the monsters, since the Icelanders themselves had lost the knowledge of how to harpoon whales. It was sheer pleasure to watch how nimbly the Basques killed the beasts, with a combination of cunning, daring and enviable skill. There was often good cheer among us on shore as we watched the harpooners’ small boats rocking on the red foaming crests of the waves while the titans wallowed in their own blood. The news quickly spread that the Spaniards only made use of the animals’ blubber, and now the foolish people who had made themselves destitute by destroying their farms when the ships arrived began to flock to the station. The whalers showed great generosity, selling the whale meat, with the minister as middleman, for whatever small items the locals had to barter, such as stockings and bone buttons, which saved the lives of the hapless beggars. Most notable of all, however, was the visit by the new sheriff of the West Fjords, the young Hamburg-educated Ari Magnússon. After inspecting the station and questioning the foreigners and locals about their trade, he struck a deal with the captain of the Basque fleet, Señor Juan de Argaratte, that the fee for whaling should be a tenth part of each catch, to be paid to the sheriff’s office in barrels of whale oil or their equivalent value in silver. It was a bargain to the satisfaction of both, but the Spaniards asked the Minister of Stadur to look after their copy of the licence, as it would be best placed with him should different captains sail to the whaling station the following year. Seventeen whales were caught that summer and the whalers were happy men. Come Michaelmas they dismantled the station and put out to sea. All reached home safely and their voyage was celebrated throughout the Basque country, where the news soon spread that in the far northern oceans off Iceland there was an inexhaustible supply of whales. In May of 1614, twenty-six whaling ships put out to sea from many different places on the north coast of Spain, though after an attack by English pirates only ten ships reached their destination. As before, the whalers set up camp and built their rendering ovens in Steingrímsfjord, though some occupied the bays and coves further north on the West Fjords peninsula. The friendly relations between the foreigners and locals continued; good service was provided and there was plenty of trading. The farmers, who had better wares to barter than the year before, were able to lay in stores of whale meat for the winter, dried or cured in brine, while in return the Spaniards received live sheep and calves, warm milk and fresh butter. Then Reverend Ólafur of Stadur died. His funeral was a memorable affair. The service held for him in his own church was Lutheran, but outside the Basques sang a Catholic mass for their benefactor. The service was led by Peter the Pilot, a Frenchman from the fleet captain Juan de Argaratte’s ship,
Nuestra Señora del Carmen
, and he gave me permission to attend the mass. But because such heathen popish practices had not been seen in Iceland for a lifetime, it caused a mixture of scandal and fear. There was a great deal of coming and going from the church. Men pleaded the call of nature but then sat with their breeches round their ankles by the churchyard wall; they may have had difficulty in emptying their bowels but they had none in using their eyes. When they went back into church they made a great show of shuddering and banned their wives and children from going outside lest they be corrupted by the heretics’ wicked ways. But not everyone had turned up in Stadur to pay their respects to the peace-maker, Reverend Ólafur. While the perfumed smoke rose from the Catholic priest’s incense, some crofters had made their way to a cove further down the fjord and were busy stealing meat from a half-flensed whale that the Basques kept on the beach there. With that the peace was at an end and there was no one left to hold back the rabble but the Sheriff of Ögur. He, however, ignored the captains’ complaints about the theft of meat, calling them ‘lying heathens’, for he had a scheme by which to make a better profit from the foreigners than he had done before. That coming winter Ari Magnússon intended to ask for the hand of Kristín, daughter of Bishop Gudbrandur of Hólar, and in order to be a worthy match he needed to increase his means substantially. The office of sheriff had provided leaner pickings than he had anticipated and although the whale tithe was considerable, it was not enough. The master of Ögur now banned all trade with the whalers, citing the same king’s law that he himself had broken when he made a deal with the Basques over the whaling licence. At the same time he began to spread tales of their overbearing behaviour. For their voyage south they were forced to buy provisions from him alone. The whale meat he received from them in return for his sheep and dairy products he sold on to the common people at a vastly inflated price. This trade was resented by everyone except the man responsible.