Paradise Reclaimed (12 page)

The sheriff’s expression was now poker-faced.

“What do you request of me?” he said.

“I ask that this wretched little parishioner of mine be granted justice and truth for herself and her child,” said the pastor. “I ask leave to make a statement in court.”

“Fetch the court-witnesses from the turbary,” the sheriff told the recorder, and then added: “They don’t need to wash.”

Two of the sheriff’s tenants, authorized for this task, entered the court-room. They were upstanding, self-composed and intelligent to look at, but no one needed to be in any doubt about what they had been working at. They laid their turf-cutters aside at the door.

The court was now convened at the request of the parish pastor of Steinahlíðar. He stated his complaint, which he said he had hoped could have been dealt with out of court; but since his statements and arguments out of court had been doubted and ridiculed by highly-placed personages, he could see no alternative to a formal hearing in order that the truth be brought to light.

The sheriff rapped the table with his mallet and ordered the pastor to stick to the point.

When the pastor had finally presented his case, the girl was interrogated. She said that she had never tried to conceal the fact that she had lain on a bed beside Björn of Leirur. But when she was questioned more closely, she could not understand at all what they were getting at. The court-room euphemisms about intercourse between men and women were as incomprehensible to her as the everyday expressions about the same topic. She was familiar only with the vocabulary and activities of saints and angels. She had never been told how babies were conceived in the womb, except in the case of the Virgin Mary. Nor had she ever been present when ewes were put to the ram. And when she was asked how she thought such things came about, she replied simply with these holy words: “God is almighty.”

“I call upon the pastor to explain to this ignorant creature what she is being questioned about in this court,” said the sheriff.

Pastor Jón took another quid of tobacco and began to expound this remarkable wisdom to the girl in open court with highflown words and phrases, until the girl buried her face in her hands and said, “I want to go.”

“Does the clergy wish to ask the witness any further questions?” asked the sheriff.

The pastor replied that since the girl had now been given this essential instruction in natural history, the time had come for her to answer the question of how much she had taken off, that time last autumn.

“I didn’t take anything off,” said the girl.

“I asked you the other day if it were not possible that you had half-taken off your drawers,” said the pastor. “Eh?”

“I hadn’t any drawers on,” said the girl.

“Oh! That changes everything,” said the pastor. “If I had only known that! Ahem. In that case I am sure you must have been aware at once of anything unusual. Will you not tell us about it?”

“I fell asleep,” said the girl.

“And the man?” asked the pastor.

“He slept,” said the girl.

“Wasn’t it a squeeze?” said the pastor.

“I won’t say it wasn’t a bit of a squeeze,” said the girl.

“But not excessively so?” asked the pastor. “I mean, not so much that it hurt?”

“Perhaps just a little bit, once, after I was asleep,” said the girl. “But I knew it was accidental. And I fell asleep again at once.”

“Ahem,” said the pastor.

“Anything else?” said the sheriff, and looked at the pastor.

“No, thank you,” said the pastor. “I would just like to sum up what has come to light, as I see it from my point of view. She was in a room with a man at night-time. She was sleepy. She accepts his invitation to lie down beside him. She becomes drowsy at once, and in no time at all she falls into the sort of deep slumber which overtakes a weary young creature. Both for this reason, and on account of her exceptional inexperience and ignorance, she is not clear about what happened thereafter. It is now for this court to consider what did in fact take place and assess the results.”

The girl was staring straight ahead, stupefied, and had slumped into a huddle as if all her bones had been removed. Her face began to twitch, and now she said, catching her breath, “I want to go home.”

The tears that began to spill from her eyes were opaque and thick, as if they were excessively salty. They poured down in swift streams and she made no attempt to wipe them away, nor did the sheriff or the clergyman. She went on looking straight ahead of her, the way desperate people do when there is no longer any point in looking around for help.

The sheriff ordered the document signed by Jóhann Geirason, of Drangar, to be read to the girl. In this document, the undersigned confirmed that he was the father of the child born to Steinbjörg Steinarsdóttir, of Hlíðar. They had plighted their troth in childhood and kept full faith with one another until it happened one day last autumn that they had met in the pantry at Hlíðar, when she was scantily clad; and there and then a child had been conceived, which was the child that had now been born and which, under offer of oath, was the child of Jóhann Geirason and no other man. The sheriff now called upon the girl to state her testimony concerning this document. The girl made no reply.

“What else happened in the pantry?”

“I was churning butter,” said the girl.

“What then?” asked the sheriff.

“I took the butter from the churn and put it in the trough,” said the girl.

“One could scarcely have a baby from that,” said the sheriff. “And what then?”

“A little buttermilk dripped from it,” said the girl, with her hands to her face.

“And then he spread you out on the butter-box and began to talk affectionately to you, wasn’t that it?”

“We don’t have a butter-box,” said the girl.

“But he pushed your skirt a little up above your knees?” said the sheriff.

The girl went on crying.

“Don’t you understand I’m trying to help you, girl?” said the sheriff. “And now I’m going to make one last attempt: were you wearing anything underneath? If you weren’t, I adjudge the boy to be the father. Otherwise the whole business is futile.”

The girl slumped over the little table she was sitting at and mumbled into her elbow these words, shredded by the sobs that racked her:

“I want to go to my daddy.”

17

Water in Denmark

The pristine spring which has its source right here
By Kirsten Piil was first created clear;
And later, for the benefit of all,
Was channelled by the Count von Reventlau.

This poem has been incised for many generations on a stone slab beside the Kirsten Piil Spring in Denmark, where the good water wells up. If there has been any other spot, since Moses struck the rock with his staff, where such an excellent mineral spring is to be found, it is not recorded in any books I know. This water has a gentle refreshing quality that spreads from the tongue to every part of the body. World-famous poets who have written about it call it not only the healthiest water there is but also the noblest drink to be found in Denmark. Whosoever sips this water and looks sunwards at the same time is granted at that moment a glimpse of celestial life, more particularly a blissful foretaste of the nirvana which is described in the books of the East. It is beyond the scope of earthly science to analyse the elements of this water or to define whence its healing properties arise; one can only praise Nature and bless her creator for the taste of the refreshing drink that gushes from the rock. Have I mentioned that the sick and the sore gain marvellous relief from this water? Even the prisoner in his dungeon finds release in it, for this pure drink gives a man strength, greater than any medicine can provide, to bear his fate; and for that reason a cupful of this water that wells up gently from its rock is offered at night to the person who is to be executed at dawn. Whoever drinks of it dies happy and at peace in Denmark. This water costs two aurar a cup.

Now we return to Steinar of Hlíðar at the point where he had taken leave of the king after visiting his pony, which had achieved greater worldly success than any other animal born of a mare in Iceland. He had made the greatest emperors and kings on earth bow down over a little casket, and all their power and wisdom put together had not sufficed to open it; there was no help to be gained from God’s grace, which all such folk include in their titles; and besides, they had lost the poem.

Outside the palace gates, Steinar said to the student, “I am thirsty. I have heard that not far away from here is the finest watering hole in Denmark; its name is the Kirsten Piil Spring. I have resolved to go there for a drink.”

The student replied that it was rather a novel experience to hear farmers from Steinahlíðar giving lessons about drink to students in Copenhagen. He confessed that he himself had never heard of this drink that Steinar mentioned, despite the fact that Icelandic students had been hanging around the place for nearly three centuries. According to him they had never bothered to get to know any other entertainment or pastime there in Denmark than drinking; and students thought it a bit hard for peasants to arrive from Iceland and start to teach them about drinking in Denmark. Here in the forest, said this student, there were many good taverns which were great fun to visit and which served the most excellent drinks. He thought it opportune to celebrate this new era in Iceland’s history, when a clodhopper could make fools of emperors and kings, just as in the old Legendary Sagas, and have his hack fattened up and set above the king’s counsellors in Denmark. He said that Icelandic students would drink for a long time in Denmark before another such day arrived.

Steinar said he would be glad to celebrate the day by tasting the best and most famous drink in Denmark. They now asked the way to the grove where the Kirsten Piil Spring flowed from its rock, as was said before. But when the student saw the water he lost interest in the celebration. He hastily bade Steinar farewell and disappeared.

Steinar walked over to a group of people who sat pensively in a glade in the wood; there did not seem to be many estate-owners among them. They had tired themselves with roaming through the woods and had decided to buy some of the water that was eulogized in the old inscription. There was a light breeze blowing from the Sound. Some were sitting on metal chairs at little tables, and were drinking the excellent water with every sign of satisfaction in the sunshine. Many others were standing in a queue at the counter waiting their turn to be served. Steinar spent a long time spelling out the poem inscribed on the stone in Danish, and the words underneath: “Two aurar per glass, six aurar per jug.” When he had read enough he joined the queue to await his turn to buy some water.

When he had bought himself some water he lifted it carefully to his lips where he stood. He was very thirsty by now, and was refreshed in body and soul with every sip. And while he was smacking his lips and thinking to himself what a great and good woman she must have been who discovered this water in days gone by, and how her name would forever be remembered with gratitude by the Danes, he happened to notice a man sitting alone at a small round table under a tall tree, with his back turned towards him. There was something potent about the back of his head; it was no longer young and vigorous—indeed, there were hollows between the sinews, and the wrinkles on the back of his neck made an intricate pattern; but it was still remarkably erect, and sat well on the shoulders. He had taken off his hat, and indeed his bristling tufts of hair made his head rather unsuitable for wearing one. His whole head was deeply sun-tanned. This man was having a drink of water from the Kirsten Piil Spring. Now he pulled from his pocket a small package wrapped in newspaper, which turned out to contain tough rye-bread. He started to chew it, using this good water to wash it down. On a chair beside him lay a fine hat as good as new, wrapped in grease-proof paper. Steinar walked over to him and greeted him:

“It is a small world, I must say. It is good to see you again, my old friend.”

“Same to you, my fellow-countryman,” said Bishop Þjóðrekur; he always broadened his vowels, like most people who have modelled their speech on English. “Have a pew, friend. Yes indeed, it’s a small world, especially at this particular end of it. May I not buy you some water?”

“Thanks for the offer, but there is really no need,” said Steinar. “I was just finishing a cup.”

But Bishop Þjóðrekur insisted on going over and buying a full jug of Kirsten Piil water in Denmark for himself and his compatriot. When they had started sipping it, Bishop Þjóðrekur said, “Who are you again, friend?”

“My name is Steinar Steinsson of Hlíðar in Steinahlíðar. Quite so. We first met by the Öxará, at Þingvellir, when the king came; and then we met outside a church in the south.”

“Well, hallo again, friend,” said Bishop Þjóðrekur, standing up and kissing him. “Thanks for the last time. How are things?”

“Oh, not so bad on the whole,” said Steinar of Hlíðar. “After we parted the year before last it was remarkably fine up until Christmas, but after Christmas it was pretty cold, with a lot of snow, and stormy weather right through the spring, with snow-showers at midsummer. The summer was a bit wet . . .”

The Mormon interrupted him: “It’s because Icelanders don’t have any overcoats,” he said. “I never owned an overcoat until I went to Utah. But in Utah, of course, there is no need for overcoats. I don’t care in the slightest what the weather was like in Iceland the year before last. How are you yourself, my friend?”

“Oh, this old fellow from Hlíðar just happens to be in Copenhagen and is drinking Kirsten Piil water,” said Steinar.

“Yeah, you’ve said it, every person is a vessel,” said the Mormon, “and it matters a lot that good water should be put in this vessel. Mrs. Peel was a remarkable woman. I come out here by steam-tram twice a week to have a drink. It is like Utah water.”

“That reminds me, when you mention water—are you still immersing?” asked Steinar.

“What do you think, man?” said Bishop Þjóðrekur. “Do you think the Saviour let himself be sprinkled while he was an infant in Bethlehem? What happens when a child is sprinkled with water? It’s only the pastor’s hand that gets baptised, and the poor child is still as unbaptised as ever. There can be no doubt about that. Didn’t I tell you that long ago? It’s not much good telling people things just the once. I’ve been sitting here in Copenhagen all summer preparing a pamphlet on it in Icelandic which I shall print and take over with me to replace the ones they stole off me. Yes sirree.”

“Was that not just the authorities?” said Steinar.

“There have never been any thieves in Iceland except the authorities,” said the Mormon. “They stole everything from my mother, including her good name, even though she was a saintly woman. They had already stolen everything from me before I was born—except the sack on which the dog slept; I was finally allowed to put that on as my Sunday best. No sirree. It was Joseph Smith who raised me up and gave me a country. And now tell me something about yourself, my boy. What are you doing here?”

Steinar replied, “I don’t remember whether I told you, when I untied you that time with God’s help, that I had just been giving the Danish king a horse. I’m a little like the fellow who rode off to market one morning to buy something for his children. He was a white horse, slightly dappled. In actual fact, he belonged to my children. Anyway, the king invited me home to visit this horse. I have just been there. The biggest emperors in the world and their ladies were all gathered there, and I brought them a little casket. Here are their pictures I was given in return. Quite so. But the poor bridle the king owed me is probably lost.”

Steinar dipped into an inside pocket for these pictures which the emperors and kings, empresses and queens had given him of themselves, and put them on the table. The Mormon wordlessly unwrapped his hat from the grease-proof paper and put it on; and it was undeniable that this smooth, split-new hat blended ill with the wrinkled, dust-grimed, weather-beaten face of the Mormon, rather as if a foreign visitor had forgotten this contraption somewhere and left it on top of a lava-outcrop.

“We Mormons only put on a hat for protection against the sun,” said Bishop Þjóðrekur. “Did I hear you correctly?”

He put on his spectacles with great ceremony, tilted them on the tip of his nose, and drew down the corners of his mouth as far as possible; but he still had to hold the pictures at arm’s length in order to see them. For a long time they both studied these snaps of gold-braided gentlemen and queens with enormous frills and flounces. There was no human virtue, no exploit and no heroic deed which had not left its mark in some decoration on these people’s breasts. Steinar gave a ghost of a titter.

When the Mormon had studied them enough he wrapped up his hat again in grease-proof paper, glanced sidelong at Steinar, and took off his spectacles with as much ceremony as he had put them on.

“What are you doing with all this useless trash?” he asked.

“Forgive me if I stand up for my kings, friend,” said Steinar of Hlíðar. “And no less for the poor emperors. Even if it were only King George of Greece, who is the least important of all the people in these pictures and is said to be on the dole in Greece (what the Danes call not having two pennies to rub together)— he is at least by rank and title high above every Icelander there is, even if one includes the Mormons too, I should think. Heeheehee. And he has a well-built wife, besides. These men are much closer to God than we are, insofar as they play a greater part in ruling the world.”

“Yes, if they are not just damned robbers,” said the bishop. “And now I’m saying more than my prayers. But let me ask you one question before I shut up for good. You say you gave them your casket. Before that you said you had given them your horse. What are you expecting from these people?”

But Steinar was now totally absorbed in contemplation of some beautiful flowers which were growing there in Denmark in a small bed just across from them.

“How lovely the blessed flowers are in this country. And to think that it is autumn,” said Steinar.

“Yes, it’s all one vast vegetable-garden,” said Bishop Þjóðrekur.

Then Steinar of Hlíðar said, “When I looked at my little Steina sleeping so peacefully in the midst of this appalling world—she was about three years old then, I think—I suddenly realised that the craftsman who fashioned this world, if such a person exists, what a matchless person he must be! My God, my God, I was saying to myself: to think that such beauty and delight must soon pass away. Later I had a son, who was like Egill Skallagrímsson and Gunnarr of Hlíðarendi and the Norse kings all rolled into one. He slept with a wooden home-made axe under his cheek at nights, because he was going to conquer the world. Hmmm. Incidentally, what is it again that lies on the far side of the wilderness you were mentioning that other time?”

“I should think it is a casket,” said the Mormon.

“Quite so,” said Steinar. “And what sort of a casket would it be?”

“A tabernacle,” said the Mormon.

“Exactly,” said Steinar. “Well I never. You don’t say so? Excuse me, what sort of a container is that?”

“Do have a little more cold water,” said the Mormon.

“You ought to describe this container you mentioned to me a little,” said Steinar, “so that I have something to think about on the way home to Iceland instead of my own little casket; but especially to be able to tell the children about it.”

“My friend Brigham Young, Joseph Smith’s heir, staked out the ground for it the year after I crossed the wilderness. Then we started building. It is two hundred and fifty feet long, a hundred and fifty feet wide, and eighty feet high. The lid rests on forty-four pillars of sandstone. When we built it, there was a thousand-mile trackless trek to the nearest settlement to the east to buy nails, and eight hundred miles to the west down to the sea where one could also have bought some perhaps. So we decided not to buy any nails.”

“It would be interesting to know what holds this huge container together,” said Steinar. “Is it jointed?”

“Joseph Smith was never at a loss how to hold together even bigger things, my friend,” said the Mormon.

“And what do you keep in such a large vessel, if I may ask?” said Steinar.

“The Holy Spirit,” said the Mormon.

“Exactly,” said Steinar. “Just as I thought. I am beginning to see just how much my own little casket was worth! But how did you go about getting the Godhead in?”