The Fish Can Sing (9 page)

One of the farms there was called Hvammskot. We halted on the bank of a stream just outside the home-field, where a strong barbed-wire fence had been erected – quite at random, as far as one could see. And as we were standing there, out of sight behind a knoll, one of us volunteered the information that anyone who crossed a fence of this kind would be fined ten
krónur
.

We quickly agreed that it would be fun to risk a death-leap which was valued at such a high price. And because this crime had all the fascination that any kind of gambling has when there is money involved, we all set to and began jumping over the barbed wire. I will not say that the deed was done entirely without palpitations, and indeed we had a look-out posted to see if there
were any spies about; but as we had really suspected all along, no one noticed the outrage we were committing, and no fines were imposed on us. Now, these lawful fines which were not exacted from us were in effect treasure-trove; so each and every one of us had profited by the equivalent of a yearling ram at the very first attempt. So it was little wonder that we tried again. We could not tear ourselves away from this lucrative work for hours, and it was still not nearly supper-time when each and all of us had become prosperous from unclaimed
ten-krónur
fines; and every time we performed another leap, another yearling ram was added to those we had already. In the end we were beginning to grow a little bored with all the sheep we had collected; and one of us worked it out that for all these sheep we could buy up all the chocolate there was in the country, even including caramels as well; and another said that our sheep would suffice to buy all the chocolate and caramels that had ever been imported into the country since the first settlement of Iceland. And then suddenly we were aware of a huge dun-coloured dog coming bounding towards us, barking fiercely and looking distinctly aggressive. We realized that this dog would scare away from us all the sheep we had accumulated that day, and we started to shout abuse and throw stones at him. At this the dog became twice as furious; indeed, as far as we could see he was undoubtedly a bloodhound and was sure to tear us to pieces, so we saw no other way but to take to our heels across hills and hollows as fast as our legs would carry us.

“We were beginning to wonder about you, my boy,” said my grandfather and grandmother. “What happened to you?”

“We were up at the farms,” I said.

“What were you all doing there?” they asked.

“We were making money,” I said. “I have jumped two hundred times over the barbed wire at Hvammskot. That’s two thousand
krónur
. And if a fierce dog hadn’t arrived that wanted to kill us, we would have made another two thousand
krónur
as well.”

“Tut tut!” said my grandfather. “Really!”

He was sitting on his hands on the wall of the vegetable garden, as he sometimes did of a fine evening, and he grimaced at my
story as if he had the gripes; it was a habit he had when he heard something silly. “Tut tut! Really!” My grandmother stood at the door of the cottage and gazed at him for a long time. But nothing more was said that evening.

But a few days later my grandmother said to me out of the blue, “We have decided that I and not Björn should talk to you about the barbed-wire fence at Hvammskot, Álfgrímur dear.”

“What barbed wire is that, grandmother?” I said, for I had forgotten all about that happy gambling enterprise.

“You should know by now, you young creatures, that it is against the law here in Iceland to climb barbed-wire fences,” said my grandmother.

“It was only a game, grandmother,” I said. “No one has to pay anything.”

“You can be quite sure that Jón of Hvammskot saw you at it,” said my grandmother. “Jón of Hvammskot is a good friend of Björn of Brekkukot here. Anything that displeases Jón of Hvammskot displeases Björn of Brekkukot. Anyone who climbs Jón of Hvammskot’s barbed-wire fence climbs Björn of Brekkukot’s barbed-wire fence.”

I could not say anything – even though I knew full well that the day would never dawn when Björn of Brekkukot would buy barbed wire. I held my tongue. And besides, I knew all too well that every single misdeed a man could commit was first and foremost committed against my grandfather Björn of Brekkukot.

“What am I to do, grandmother?” I asked.

“I am going to give you some food and a new pair of shoes and send you up to Hvammskot today,” she said. “I want you to ask to see the woman of the house there. Tell her where you come from and give her greetings from me, the old woman who stays with Björn of Brekkukot, and give her from me this loaf of bread.”

My grandmother, in fact, was one of the greatest known artists at making pot-bread.

When my shoes had been made I set off for Hvammskot with this great loaf of pot-bread in a bag on my back, the two-thousand-
krónur
pot-bread, the two-hundred-sheep pot-bread:
this pot-bread that was worth more than all the chocolate which has been eaten in Iceland from the days of the first settlement down to the present day, even counting caramels as well.

My grandmother stood at the turnstile-gate and called out after me, “And be careful of the Soga Stream, Álfgrímur dear. Don’t jump over it where it is narrow and deep. Wade over it instead, where it broadens out a bit.”

“Yes, grandmother,” I said.

But when I had gone a few paces farther she called out to me again:

“And if you meet the dog, Álfgrímur dear, then remember one thing: never abuse another man’s dog. If you meet a dog, let him sniff the back of your hand, and he will quickly make friends with you.”

It would drive one mad to try to tell about all the visitors who ever came to Brekkukot, and indeed such a book would burst all the printing-presses in Iceland; I intend to describe only a few of them here, not more than I can count on my fingers, and in particular those who concern my own story to some extent. And I will start by enumerating those who lived in the mid-loft.

A dilapidated, creaking stair with seven steps connected the passage with the mid-loft in our house. It was here that I and my fellow-residents lived. This mid-loft was the centre-space of the upper storey, partitioned off from the rooms on either side; we were in effect a sort of vestibule for those who lived in the east and west ends of the loft, as well as for anyone who went up or down the stair. When my grandfather did not give up his bed to a visitor, he slept in the part of the loft that faced south, but which was actually called the west end; otherwise he would lie on a pile of nets out in the store-shed, and would think nothing of it. Often
our living-room was full, and people were tightly packed in at both ends of the loft; there were sleepers in the passage and sleepers in the doorway, and sometimes during the autumn trips, when we had the largest crowds, they would bed themselves down in the store-shed and the hayloft as well. But in the mid-loft slept only those who might be called the regular residents at Brekkukot. Apart from myself there were three other guests, if I can so call them, whose stay in the mid-loft was hardly brief – at least, I can remember them from as far back as I can remember myself. The four of us slept there two to a bed.

The beds were nailed to the wall under the eaves, and shared the same headboard; and above the headboard there was a window with a pane of glass about the size of a man’s palm cut into the turf roof, and through this window could be seen one blade of grass and one star. Under the eaves on the other side was the trap-door to the loft, which gave a little additional floor space when it was closed, and a tiny partitioned-off cubicle or closet beside the stair-head, with a rickety door which seldom stayed on the latch. This cubicle had a bed, a bench, and a three-legged stool; it was sometimes used to accommodate married couples, or men who were particularly stout, as well as sick or mentally ill people, or else women who were giving birth or dying, or any others who for one reason or another needed to be alone. I was one of those brought into the world in that little cubicle, so I have been told.

I shall now tell you a little about the three resident guests, my companions there in the mid-loft. We mention first the celebrated Captain Hogensen, now deceased, otherwise known as Jón Hákonarson of Helgafell, a Brei
afjör
ur man. Captain Hogensen was up in years by then; the light of the world had more or less taken leave of this man, for he was almost blind. Like many others, he had heard away out west in Brei
afjör
ur what a popular and excellent place Brekkukot was to stay at; and when old age began to creep up on him, he came east with the sole purpose of taking a berth there. He was not only failing in sight but he suffered from rheumatism as well and no doubt many other ailments besides – which he never talked about, however. I am
told that he surrendered a plot of land in return for becoming a pensioner in the mid-loft at Brekkukot.

Captain Hogensen was one of the most genuine saga-men I have ever known. He was descended from pastors, sheriffs, and poets. We shared a bed for as long as I can remember. He was grandiloquent in conversation; he never talked to me other than as one saga-man to another, and all the topics he discussed were above everyday trifles and incidents.

Captain Hogensen would sit on his bed and spin horsehair, which he used to procure for himself by all sorts of tricks and dodges. He teased the hair in his hands, combed it into a hank, fastened the hank with an awl to the post at the foot of the bed and then spun the hank on a spindle, and finally plaited ropes and girths from it by fastening the end round the bed-post. I had the job of collecting all the hairs that he let fall to the floor because of his failing sight.

This Jón Hákonarson was called Captain Hogensen because many many years ago it had been his job to pilot Danish survey ships in Brei
afjör
ur, where the navigational channels are difficult and hazardous for those who do not know the area.