“I have the kind of testimonial that he understands.”
“Indeed. I wonder if this might be merely some sort of scheme contrived by that coxcomb and gallows bird Jón Marteinsson to finagle books and money,” said the Icelander Grindvicensis. “Or might I, my master’s famulus in antiquitatibus,* be permitted to have a look at this testimonial?”
Jón Hreggviðsson said: “I’ll give my token to no one but him. I sewed it into my rags up north in Trékyllisvík. And when I was made a soldier I put it into one of my shoes. Thieves looked down on me as scum of the earth and therefore it never crossed any of their minds that I might be carrying such a treasure. You can tell that to your master. I could have bought my own life with this treasure many times over, but I chose instead to suffer starvation and beatings in Holland, the gallows in Germany, and the Spanish Jacket* out in Glückstadt.”
The learned Icelander now stepped out of the house and locked the door behind him, then told Jón Hreggviðsson to follow him around the corner. They entered an orchard behind the house, where the black bare boughs of tall trees drooped with silver frost. Grindvicensis invited the visitor to take a seat upon an icy bench. He himself went and peered around the corner and behind the trees and bushes as if to make sure that the enemy was nowhere near, then finally returned and sat down upon the bench.
“As I was saying: good,” he said, in the same schoolroom tone as before, filled with enthusiasm for his own wisdom. He said it was unfortunate that he hadn’t ever really had the opportunity to examine the world with his own eyes, except as a schoolboy on his trips from Grindavík to Skálholt, when he had tried as far as he was able to observe and record everything astounding, incredible, and incomprehensible, especially in Krýsuvík, Herdísarvík, and Selvogur. On the other hand he had always willingly collected material from well-informed persons of high as well as low standing, with the result that he had a number of books in the making concerning these subjects. Now as he understood Jón Hreggviðsson to be a man well acquainted with Germany, he was eager to hear whether it was true that there still lived in the depths of Germany’s forests those creatures, called elgfróðar in Icelandic, that are half-man and half-horse?
Jón Hreggviðsson replied that he’d never run into such a creature in Germany, but he’d once wrestled a hanged man there. At this the learned Icelander interrupted and said that he was overly vexed by such phenomena, because anyone who mentioned specters was usually reproached for being superstitious and repudiated by the learned popinjays here in Copenhagen, not least among them Jón Marteinsson, since the doings of dead men in this world were not to be ascribed to natural science and hardly to mirabilia* either; it was up to the theologians to forswear such things. He then asked Jón Hreggviðsson whether he’d had any dealings with giants, because he had a tiny Latin text in the works concerning that subject. Did the farmer know whether a troll-bone might have been found in the earth in his highland pasture or on the heaths above Borgarfjörður?—foreigners pay a great deal of heed to documentary evidence written up in books, he said. Jón Hreggviðsson said no to this, because he thought it likely that such a large bone would be quite soft and would disintegrate rather quickly. On the other hand, said the farmer, about a year ago he’d come to grips with a living troll-woman on Tvídægra, and, after having thought about his dealings with the monster as thoroughly as possible, he’d come to the conclusion that she’d been questioning his masculinity. The learned Icelander found this hugely interesting and his opinion of the soldier increased to no small extent at this revelation; he said that he would copy down this information exactly as he’d heard it in his book De Gigantibus Islandiae.*
“By the way,” he said, “I don’t expect that you’ve heard mention of a child, if it could be called a child, having, as it did, a mouth upon its chest, which in the year before last beheld the light of day at Ærlækjarsel in Flói?”
Jón Hreggviðsson wasn’t sure about this; on the other hand, he was familiar with a lamb with a bird’s nose that had been born in Belgsholt in the parish of Melar three years ago. The learned Icelander declared this excellent news and said that he would record it in his book Physica Islandica*—he said that Jón Hreggviðsson was a wise and discerning fellow for a man of the mob, and was most likely an entirely decent chap; “. . . but,” he added, “I don’t think that the lord of this house, my master, would have any interest in conversing with such a lowly man. However, I will attempt to make enquiry on your behalf, if you haven’t already lost interest in the matter.”
Since this was definitely not the case, the learned Icelander took it upon himself to report the visitor’s business, going into the house by the main door, stooping and snorting, puffed up with responsibility. He had not so much as disappeared into the house when Jón Hreggviðsson heard a yawning beside him upon the bench, and when he turned around he was surprised to see a man sitting there. The man must have congealed there like the rime, because he hadn’t been seen coming in through the front gate nor from out of the house nor from over the wall—besides the fact that the learned Grindvicensis had taken a look to make sure that nothing was hiding in the bushes or behind the trees.
They examined each other for a moment. The man was blue from the cold and had his hands pulled up within his sleeves.
“What a crap of a country—now there’s rain as well as frost,” said this surprise visitor, and he sucked at his upper lip with his lower one.
“Who’re you?” asked Jón Hreggviðsson.
“There’s no need to get to that right away,” answered the stranger, and he started poking at the farmer’s boots. “Let’s make a deal for the boots instead. I’ll trade you my knife.”
“These are His Majesty’s boots,” said Jón Hreggviðsson.
“Screw His Majesty,” said the stranger apathetically, almost emptily.
“Screw your own appetite, pal,” said Jón Hreggviðsson.
“Alright then, let’s trade knives, instead of doing nothing at all,” said the other man. “Straight up, sight unseen!”
“I never buy anything without seeing it first,” said Jón Hreggviðsson.
“I’ll show you the hilt,” said the man.
They traded knives. The man’s knife was a fine piece of work, but Jón Hreggviðsson’s had a rusty blade.
“I always lose,” said the stranger. “No one trades fairly with me. But it doesn’t matter. Now let’s get up and go to Doctor Kirsten’s and pay for a tankard of beer with the knife.”
“Which knife?” said Jón Hreggviðsson.
“My knife,” said the man.
“Which happens to be my knife,” said Jón Hreggviðsson. “I won’t drink away my knife. On the other hand, you can drink all the beer you want for the rusty one.”
“Nothing gets past you, Jón Hreggviðsson from Rein. You’re not only a murderer and a thief, you’re also the worst of men. May I ask what you’re doing hanging around outside this miserable house?”
“It doesn’t look to me like you’re much better than a beggar yourself,” said Jón Hreggviðsson. “What’re those on your feet, may I ask? You call those shoes? And why’re you squeezing your hands like that up into your sleeves? And where’s your house?”
“My house is a massive palace compared to this one,” said the man, full of passionless obstinacy, like a hackney.
“In my opinion,” said Jón Hreggviðsson in response, “there’s never been an Icelander, since Iceland was settled, who has owned such a magnificent house as this one—and there were a lot of people who had good houses in the old days.”
The stranger could not be convinced. He seemed to need to say something, then spoke quickly and tenderly and somewhat grumblingly, with a slight drawl, as if he were reading from an old book:
“Many a king lost all that he owned in his quest for a pearl. And many a man’s son was prepared to lose the breath of life for a princess and to undergo trials to take possession of the kingdom. Let them be sea-kings and men of Hrafnista, lying with witches
after landing in perilous storms up north in Gästrikland, or in Jötunheim—such things happened to heroes as famous as Hálfdán Brönufóstri, Illugi Gríðarfóstri, and Örvar-Oddur himself, and they weren’t considered lesser men because of it.* But to sell the pearl and the princess at once, and the kingdom besides, for one witch—such a story is not to be found in all the realm of antiquitatates.”
At that moment the learned Icelander Grindvicensis reemerged from the house. When he cast his eyes upon the latter visitor seated next to the former, he raised his hands halfway in a gesture of despair, then let them fall powerlessly back down as if he no longer knew what to do.
“Oh, as if I couldn’t have seen it coming,” he said. “Jón Marteinsson, I order you to give me back the Historia Literaria* that you stole from me on Sunday. Jón Hreggviðsson, good, you may see my master in his bibliothèque*—but tell me first what sort of tricks this foul knave has been up to.”
“We traded knives,” said Jón Hreggviðsson, showing his knife.
“I should have expected it: the knife my master lost this morning”—and he snatched the knife away from Jón Hreggviðsson.
Jón Marteinsson yawned discourteously, as if this did not concern him. As he entered the house, Jón Hreggviðsson heard him ask the learned Grindvicensis to loan him some money for a tankard of beer.
17
“Greetings, Jón Hreggviðsson, you are welcome here after your long journey,” said Arnas Arnæus, slowly, deeply, and calmly, his voice like that of an omniscient being speaking from somewhere within a black crag on a bright summer day, telling the wanderer the story of his adventures from the beginning. It was not quite clear to the farmer whether ridicule or friendship dwelled in the depths of this voice.
This was a huge chamber, with vaulted ceilings and stone walls set with bookshelves from the floor to the rafters so that one had to climb a ladder to reach the highest shelves, just as one did to get to the highest bales in the hayshed. Set high in the walls were windows with small leaden panes, which did not let in enough light to allow one to work there without the aid of a desk lamp. In one shadowy corner tall armchairs were arrayed around a thick oaken table, upon which stood a pitcher and several stone tankards. A statue of a man or a god stood in another corner and a lit stove in a third.
The master of the house showed his guest to a chair, then he screwed open a small barrel resting upon a trunk in one alcove. He poured foaming Rostocker beer into a tankard and placed it before the farmer:
“Have a drink, Jón Hreggviðsson.”
Jón Hreggviðsson thanked him and drank. He was desperately thirsty. After emptying the tankard he heaved an extremely contented sigh of relief at the taste of the beer in his mouth, and he sucked at his beard. Arnas Arnæus watched him. Finally, after waiting for some time for his guest to begin explaining his business, he asked:
“What do you want from me, Jón Hreggviðsson?”
Jón Hreggviðsson bent forward and started to take off one of his boots.
“Are your feet wet?” asked Arnæus.
“No,” said Jón Hreggviðsson.
As he pulled off the boot he revealed his foot wrapped in rags, and when he finished unwinding the rags it came to light that he had a golden ring on one of his toes. He slipped the ring off, rubbed it on his trouser leg, and gave it to Arnæus.
Arnæus looked coolly at the ring, and when he asked his guest where he had gotten this object his voice knitted to a small extent, as if he were suddenly far removed.
“The fair maiden,” said Jón Hreggviðsson, “the fair maiden asked me to say—”
“That’s enough,” said Arnas Arnæus, and he placed the ring on the table in front of his guest.
“The fair maiden asked me to say—” repeated the guest, but the master of the house interrupted him again:
“No more.”
Jón Hreggviðsson looked at Arnas Arnæus and for perhaps the first time in his life felt a twinge of fear. One thing is certain: although he had finally reached his destination, he didn’t dare to deliver the message that he’d stored in his heart the entire long way, the words that he’d been entrusted to say.
He said nothing.
“I hear that you’ve killed a man, Jón Hreggviðsson,” said Arnas Arnæus. “Is this correct?”
Jón Hreggviðsson raised himself in his seat and answered:
“Have I killed a man or haven’t I killed a man? Who has killed a man and who hasn’t killed a man? When does a man kill a man and when doesn’t a man kill a man? To Hell with it if I killed a man. And yet . . .”
“There now, that was a strange jingle,” said Arnas Arnæus, but he did not smile. Neither did he look at the ring again, but instead continued watching Jón Hreggviðsson.
“Do you think that you’re a killer?” he asked finally.
Jón Hreggviðsson answered: “No—but things go worse for me when I say that, sometimes.”
“I don’t understand,” said Arnas Arnæus. “I read in the documents from Iceland that you were accused of murder and convicted last year at the Öxará Assembly, but that you escaped from your detention by some unknown means. Now I ask you what the truth is in your case—and I’m not trying to trap you.”
Jón Hreggviðsson started telling him the entire story of his dealings with God and the king, beginning with the time that he stole the cord to use as fishing line during the famine three years ago, and how he’d gone to the Þrælakista; then how he had, the year before last, helped to demolish Iceland’s bell for our Most Gracious Majesty; then how his jaws had worked against him in his conversation with the king’s hangman and how he’d reaped a flogging, as his lord already knew, since he’d paid him a visit in his ramshackle cottage at Rein the day after the punishment was carried out; then about the untimely death of Sigurður Snorrason and his, Jón Hreggviðsson’s, waking in the suspicious vicinity of the deceased flesh; next about his life at Bessastaðir in endless deathly darkness, without having seen the light of God except for a peek at Yule and Easter; about his sentencing at Þingvellir by Öxará, the place where poor men in Iceland have had to endure untold amounts of pain and disgrace; and about the night before his beheading when his chains were unlocked and he was given gold and told to go to his lord and beg him to redeem his head; and about his travels, how he’d left Iceland sinking under the swell of the sea and how he’d cursed it, and how finally, after all sorts of adventures out in the wide world, he’d arrived at this chamber, an ignorant, insignificant individual from Skagi, wishing and pleading that he might make peace with His Most Gracious Majesty, just so that he might go on looking after his own little house—
Arnas Arnæus listened to the story. When it was finished he walked down the length of his hall, cleared his throat, and walked back.
“Quite correct,” he began somewhat dreamily, looking past his guest as if he had already started to think about something else. “In the fall I took a look, out of curiosity, at a copy of the court documents in your case that I found lying here in the Chancery. It was difficult for me to see how they could have convicted you according to the testimony that was used as the basis for the verdict. I could see no clear link between the verdict and the investigations that had been made into the matter. It seemed, in other words, to be one of those outstanding verdicts that our wise fathers and pillars of the land there at home feel themselves compelled to hand down for some more valid reason than the satisfaction of the demands of justice.”
Jón Hreggviðsson asked whether the king’s friend and table-companion of counts couldn’t somehow arrange to have his case retried and concluded with a new and better verdict here in Copenhagen.
Arnas Arnæus walked through the hall, just as before.
“Unfortunately,” he said, “you are in the wrong house, Jón Hreggviðsson. I am not the keeper of law and justice in this kingdom, neither by calling nor office. I am a poor bookman.”
He gestured with an open hand at the book-covered walls of his hall and, l
ooking at the farmer with a peculiar gleam in his eyes, added:
“I have bought all of these books.”
Jón Hreggviðsson stared openmouthed at the books.
“When a man has bought so many precious books it shouldn’t be such a great matter for him to speak the words that can buy Jón Hreggviðsson mercy,” he said finally.
“In your case, Jón Hreggviðsson may not matter,” said Arnas Arnæus, and he smiled.
“What?” said Jón Hreggviðsson.
“Your case is not so important as far as you are concerned, Jón Hreggviðsson. It is a much more serious matter. What good will it do anyone even if the head of one beggar is saved? A nation does not survive by mercy.”
“The fire’s hottest for the one who burns himself,” said Jón Hreggviðsson. “I know that it wasn’t considered manly in the old days to beg for mercy, but what power does one desolate beggar have to fight for his life against the entire world?”
Arnas Arnæus took a few moments and carefully considered this man who had been flogged in Kjalardalur, placed in chains at Bessastaðir, sentenced at Öxará, beaten on the highways of Holland, sent to the gallows by the Germans, put in a Spanish Jacket in Glückstadt, and who now sat here as his guest with one of his boots at his side, one of the king’s boots—and who wanted to live.
“If your case has taken a wrong turn,” said Arnas Arnæus, “then it would be easiest if you yourself went to the king and brought to him in your own words your supplication concerning an appeal, a reopening of the case. The king is not opposed to looking into the faces of his servants, and he will solve their problems eagerly and benevolently if he can find good reason to do so. But do not entangle me in this case, because nothing would be saved even if I were to save you. And it would only make matters worse if I were to intercede for you in such a small matter in this place.”
“So that’s it,” said Jón Hreggviðsson, drably. “All of this must have been for something. Otherwise it was only bad luck that sat me down beneath the hanged man. And here’s the token lying in front of me. I hope it’s not too much if I ask you to fill up my tankard.”
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