At the foot of the bed was a loop-hole in the wall, closed with a wooden shutter. Olav lay tormented by thirst and shortness of breath and thought he would get up and open it. Two or three times he raised himself slightly, but as soon as he moved he felt that the pains were making ready to rush upon him.
Then he did it in spite of them—one wrench and he was on his knees at the foot of the bed. Flung forward over the bedstead he lay waiting till the excruciating throes aroused by the sudden movement had raged their fill.
A fresh whirl of pain sparkled over him as he took hold of the pin of the shutter and pulled it toward him. It was stiff—Olav clenched his teeth, swallowed his cries, as the red-hot devils raged within him, but then he sank back against the horse’s head of the bedpost with the pin in his hand; it seemed the hardest pull he had given in his life, and the tears poured down over his ravaged face as he breathed the morning air that blew in upon him. Outside it was light, a white morning, and the birds were awakening.
He swung himself out of bed and staggered to his clothes. In a way he was himself aware that he was only a mortally sick old man struggling with a hand and a half to hitch on some wraps in a dark room, and it hurt him so much when he moved that tears and sweat ran off him, and he ground his teeth lest he might howl aloud and wake them in the outer room. But at the same time he felt that within him was himself, engaged in breaking through a ring of foes, trying to ride them down—memories of all the fights in which he had borne arms loomed before him as presaging dreams—but now it was earnest, and he struggled furiously to force his quaking limbs into obedience.
Groping along the wall, he came out into the great room, found his way to the door of the anteroom, and opened it. From there he reached the outer door and accomplished that. Then he stood on the icy doorstone, barefoot in cloak and kirtle. The morning air blew into him and filled his aching chest; it hurt, but more than that, it did him good.
He looked up at the cliff that rose behind the roofs of the outhouses, with green grass and bushes clinging to its crevices, and every leaf was still and waiting; the fir forest above waited motionless against the white morning sky.
The fiord he could not see, but he heard it moving gently at the foot of the rocks, and the murmur of the wavelets over the shingle. He must see the water once more.
Supporting himself with his hand on the logs of the wall, he made his way along the line of houses and stood leaning against the corner of the last in the row. The path leading to the waterside wound lonely and deserted by the side of the “good acre’s” brown carpet, which crept into the shelter of the lookout rock; the corn was sprouting thickly with green needles. Down below, where the path came to an end, the sheds leaned listening over the sea, which swirled with a faint splash about their piles.
Olav let go his hold of the corner of the men’s house. Swaying, he walked on without support. A little way up the lookout rock he climbed, but then sank down and lay in a little hollow, where the dry, sun-scorched turf made him a bed.
The immense bright vault above him and the fiord far below and the woods of the shore began to warm as the day breathed forth its colours. Birds were awake in woods and groves. From where he lay he saw a bird sitting on a young spruce on the ridge, a black dot against the yellow dawn; he could see it swelling and contracting like the beats of a little heart; the clear flute-like notes welled out of it like a living source above all the little sleepy twitterings round about, but it was answered from the darkness of the wood. The troops of clouds up in the sky were flushing, and he began to grow impatient of his waiting.
He saw that all about him waited with him. The sea that splashed against the rocks, rowan and birch that had found foothold in the crevices and stood there with leaves still half curled up—now and again they quivered impatiently, but then they grew calm. The stone to which his face was turned waited, gazing at the light from sky and sea.
From the depths of his memory words floated up—the morning song that he had once known. All the trees of the forest shall rejoice before the face of the Lord, for He comes to judge the world with righteousness, the waves shall clap their hands.—He saw that now they were waiting, the trees that grew upon the rocks of his manor, all that sprouted and grew on the land of his fathers, the waves that followed one another into the bay—all were waiting to see judgment passed upon their faithless and unprofitable master. It was as though the earth were waiting every hour of the day, but it was in the quiver of dawn that the fair and defrauded earth breathed out so that one heard it—sorrowful and merciless as a deflowered maid it waited to be given justice against men, who went in, one by one, to be judged. Every hour and every moment judgment was given; it was the watchword that one day cried to another and one night whispered to the next. All else that God had created sang the hymn of praise—Benedicite omnia opera domini Domino—he too had known it when he was young. But those whom He had set to be captains and lords of the earth forsook God and fought with one another, betraying God and betraying their fellows.
The bird in the tree-top on the ridge still poured out its stream of notes—and he too had been given his life in fief, and authority had been his, the rich Christ had placed the standard in his hand and hung the sword over his shoulder and set the ring upon his hand.—And he had not defended the standard and had stained the sword with dishonour and forgotten what the ring should have called to mind—he must stand forth and could not declare one deed that he had performed from full and unbroken loyalty, nor could he point to one work that he could call well done.—Lord, rebuke me not in thine anger, neither condemn me in thy justice.
Above him he saw the whole vault of heaven full of white clouds, they stood thick as an immense flock of lambs, but they were folk. They were white and shone with a light that was within them and filled them as sunshine fills the clouds. Slowly gliding, they moved high above him, looking down on him—he recognized his mother and certain of the others too, Ingunn was there—
It was the sunrise, he knew that—but it was like a writing. Thus he had stared at the fine pattern of letters on smooth white vellum, until all at once he knew a word—that time when Arnvid tried to teach him to read writing.
Then the very rays from the source of light broke out and poured down over him. For an instant he stared with open eyes straight into the eye of the sun, tried even, wild with love and longing, to gaze yet deeper into God. He sank back in red fire, all about him was a living blaze, and he knew that now the prison tower that he had built around him was burning. But salved by the glance that surrounded him, he would walk out unharmed over the glowing embers of his burned house, into the Vision that is eternal bliss, and the fire that burned him was not so ardent as his longing.
Eirik found his father lying in a swoon far up the hill when he went out in the morning, alarmed at the old man’s absence. He carried him in and put him to bed.
Death could not be far away, he saw. Olav’s hair was parted in strands, his cheeks had fallen in, and he was white about the nose, but he seemed free from pain. Eirik sent messages—for the priest, for the old people at Rynjul, and to Saltviken. The messenger was to tell his sister that this time she must come—Cecilia had not set foot in Hestviken since she moved out with Aslak a year and a half ago, and whenever Eirik had asked her to come and see her father she had excused herself.
They were gathered about him within the closet, his kinsfolk and household, when Sira Magne entered in alb and stole and recited:
“Pax huic domui,”
and the acolyte who bore the crucifix gave the response:
“Et omnibus habitantibus in ea.”
Kolbein and Torgils were allowed to hold the candles. They stood looking intently at their grandfather, who was about to die. The children had always known that there was something sombre and mysterious about the old man who dragged himself around on the outskirts of their life, crooked and shrunken and speechless, but at ordinary times they had not thought much about him. Now they took no notice
of the molten wax that ran down on their fingers as they stared at him; in the soft light of the candles the waves of smooth white hair showed brightly against the brown pillows, Eldrid had combed him so finely. The grey face with its scarred cheek, one eyelid half closed and the mouth drawn awry, but clear and unmarred on the other side, was like the head of one of the statues in the doorway of St. Mary’s Church, for that too was shattered on the left side.
Quivering with excitement, the boys watched to see if anything would happen, if any change would come over the old man’s ruined face when the priest absolved him of his sins in God’s name. Beside the standing figure of the priest knelt Uncle Eirik, motionless as a statue; he kept his grizzled head bent, and in his hands, which were hidden by a cloth of fine linen, he held the manor’s best silver cup with six little tufts of snow-white wool. In a clear voice he said the responses together with the acolyte; the boys understood nothing of the prayers, but remembered to bow their heads whenever they heard the name of Jesus or Gloria Patri.
Then came the questions in Norse to the dying man, who had not been able to make any confession; at each act of repentance, faith, hope, and love the dying man smote his breast and made a bowing motion with his head. In his one living eye, which reflected the flame of the candle, the boys looked into a world of which they could form no idea, but the shattered half of the face was not made whole, as they had almost expected. Afterwards the priest and their uncle said the Kyrie, and Sira Magne read out of his book a long, long prayer and called their grandfather by name, Olavus, while Eirik lowered his head yet deeper, and behind them they were weeping, Una loudest of all.
Eirik’s forehead nearly touched the floor as the acolyte said the Confiteor—they knew that, and then came the absolution, misereatur and indulgentiam.
They had never before seen a dying person anointed, and their eyes followed the priest’s fingers as he took the tufts of wool one by one out of the cup in Eirik’s hands, moistened with oil and smeared the sign of the cross over their grandfather’s eyes and ears, nose and mouth, and the backs of his hands. Last of all Eirik, otherwise remaining motionless, raised with one hand the blanket from the dying man’s feet; thus with the chrism of mercy were blotted out all the sins he had committed with sight and senses, with word and hand, and every step he had taken from the right way.
And now the children waited with a sore longing for it to be over, for they were tired of standing still and holding the candles, and Eirik’s back and shoulders kept moving as though he wept, and his voice was husky as he said the responses.
In the afternoon they were out in the courtyard; they knew they must not play any game, for Sira Magne was to come back at evening and bring corpus Domini for their grandfather. But after a while they forgot themselves and made a good deal of noise—it was not so often that Kolbein and Audun saw their brother Torgils, and then they had to discuss with the foreman’s children the wonderful thing they had seen that morning. Reidun had been in the closet with the rest, and she had seen that the black hand of Olav turned white when the priest anointed it, and Kolbein and Torgils agreed—they saw it turn lighter, at any rate.
Then they were sent for to the women’s house; the old people from Rynjul were resting there, and their little red-haired brother, Gunnar, had learned to walk since the big children had last been at Saltviken. Audun remembered that this was the first time Gunnar had been here, so they took him out into the yard. Till Aslak came and told them to be quiet.
Eirik and Cecilia sat alone in the old house. The smoke-vent was open, and the evening sun shone down and gave colour to the thin column of smoke that rose from the last dying embers. Higher up, the trailing smoke began to curl and wave, then it spread out under the roof in a light cloud. The two sat watching the play of the smoke, and from outside came the sound of boys’ shrill voices and little feet running on the rock.
Presently the son got up, went into the closet, and looked at the sick man.
“He is asleep now,” he said as he came back. And after a moment: “When he wakes, you would speak with him alone awhile, I doubt not?”
“Speak with him is more than any can do now, Eirik.”
“Say to him what you have on your mind—”
“We have already bidden him farewell, all of us. What more is there to say?”
“Cecilia,” said Eirik, dropping his voice, “can you think that Father has not noticed it?—in all these four years you tried not to see him. If he came into the room where you were, you left it if you could.—Nay, I have not forgotten that he did you grave injury that time—”
“That I forgave him long ago,” said Cecilia quickly. “’Tis not that. But can you not understand, brother—if it was gruesome for you and Eldrid to have him before you here neither alive nor dead, then it must have been worse yet for me, when you remember all that happened before his life came to such a close.”
“Do you remember I raised the axe against him?—and God knows ’twas not my fault I did not kill my father. Judge, then, if it has been a light matter for me to see him in this state for four years—I who remember how he was of old—the noblest man I have set eyes on, the goodliest and the most generous.”
“So you say now, Eirik. I remember naught else but enmity between you—in all the years since you were a little lad, until the day you turned your back on home and took a wife without asking his counsel. Never could you endure to live here with us; as often as you came home you went away again almost at once—and for that you blamed Father; you said he was the most unreasonable of men. And in that I thought you were not so far wrong—unreasonable he often was with you, and hard to live with for all of us. But I tell you—I have forgiven him with all my heart, as a Christian woman should.”
“It is well that you have forgiven him as a Christian woman should”—Eirik could not help smiling faintly—“but do you not think that is little enough between daughter and father?”
All at once Cecilia’s eyes filled with tears. “I have been a good, obedient daughter, Eirik. None of you knew Jörund rightly. God rest his soul—but I have wondered many a time that I did not do what Father believed I had done. I think it was no sin in me that I was not minded to stay here and have him before my eyes as he haunted this place like a ghost of all the torment that was worse than being broken on the wheel—when at last it had been given me to share my lot with Aslak and I could say, I too, I am glad to be alive! Above all, since I do not believe Father has longed to see me more than I have longed for him!”
“That you cannot tell! ’Tis true that Father was harsh and silent at times—but judge him by his deeds, Cecilia. I warrant you never saw a man who acted more nobly and as becomes a Christian in all he did. The first to hold out two full hands to the poor, the first to open his door to widows and whosoever craved his protection—methinks your Aslak could bear witness to that: ’twas not so safe then, in the days of old King Haakon’s power, to harbour an outlawed manslayer. You have no right, you and he, to bear a grudge because Father did not give him you as well, as soon as the boy cried for you! Have you heard that Father ever won a penny of goods or a foot of land by dishonest dealing or oppression of an even Christian? Not the veriest scoundrel in the countryside has ever dared to utter a word that could stain Father’s fame or honour. But if any, man or woman, were in such case that his name and fame were cast as carrion to the birds of prey—then, if Father could say nothing to silence evil tongues, he held his peace. An ill word fell ever to the ground if it came to Father’s door—unless one of us others took it up and flew with it. Have you forgotten that Father was the first man to take up arms and rouse the yeomen to resistance when the Duke’s army scoured the country, and the last to come home to a plundered manor, wounded and unrewarded by his King?
“God help me, Cecilia—I have no right to chide you; you have been a better daughter than I a son—I rendered him naught but disobedience and a fool’s defiance. I had no more wisdom than to be vexed when I thought we were aggrieve
d by his silence and severity. Though not many times did he chastise me as I deserved—on you he can never have laid a correcting hand. I ought to have known better—”
Eirik raised his left hand a little, looked down at the stump of the little finger.
“I remember when Father had to cut it off. I was so small, I did not see that my life was in danger if it were not taken off at once. When I saw the red-hot iron I was so beside myself with fear that I ran hither and thither about the room, bellowing and kicking in my struggles, so Father had to seize me forcibly. Do you think he tried to soothe me with sweet words? He spoke harshly to me, did Father, but when that was of no use he took the red-hot iron and pressed it into his own flesh to put heart into me.”
The son hid his face in his hands, uttering stifled sobs. But presently he looked up again:
“God forgive us both, sister mine—never did we recognize what a man our father was. But you will find it true, as you grow older: the best inheritance he leaves your sons is the memory of his good name—that is God’s reward to the descendants of an upright man.”
Cecilia sat with bent head; her cheeks had reddened and her expression was unusually mild.
“You are right, brother—Father was more of a man than we guessed. And yet,” she whispered after a moment, “for half his lifetime he bore the guilt of an unshriven slaying—and when he would make amends for it at last, God took judgment into his own hand.”
“We may not inquire into such things,” replied Eirik in an earnest whisper—“God’s hidden counsels. But never will I believe it fell upon him because Father’s sin was worse than most men’s. Mayhap it was done to show forth an example—the rest of us take so little heed of our misdeeds. And God made choice of father to do full penance, since He knew his heart—stronger and more faithful than we poor wretches who would not be able to swallow one drop of His justice.”
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