Ketil’s wife was standing in the doorway when the two came back from Klávus’s house. She had tears in her eyes and a handkerchief in her hand. ‘Lord have mercy on us,’ she said, ‘you didn’t bring him back dead?’
‘No, thank the Lord, he’s not dead … he was just so greedy to lay his hands on other folk’s property, that his shanks gave way under him … and so he became a burden to others.’
When she saw they were laughing, she recovered her voice, and her face broadened into laughter. ‘Good for you!’ she said. She gave Ketil a dig in the ribs. ‘Klávus’s wife was ever so hoity-toity with me this morning – wrinkled her nose, and stuck it in the air. “Well, well, how empty your house is this morning!” she said, and laughed in a scornful way.’
Kálvur was desperately hungry now he had got home, and he began to bellow for food.
‘Don’t you think you ought to change into dry things before you eat?’ asked his mother.
‘No, I’m not bothered about that, but I’m so hungry I could die!’ And he twisted up his face and whimpered.
The old woman went to fetch the pot. ‘Lord preserve us,’ she said, ‘are you going to let the whole lane hear how hungry you are, now you have got home?’
‘I’ll slip across and see the lads,’ said Ketil. ‘I might be able to get them to go over to West Bay to fetch in our catch.’
A little afterwards, he came back and sat himself heavily down by the fire to dry his feet. He sat there frowning and breathing hard into his beard.
His wife took a pair of stockings from the fireplace and gave them to him. ‘Oh dear, I remember now, there are holes in the heels – I’ll darn them right away,’ she said.
‘No, let me.’
‘Come here, let me do it.’
They both pulled at the stockings, but Ketil won.
By this time, Kálvur was well fed, and was lying along the bench on his back, asleep.
Ketil’s darning came to nothing, for he was in such a bad mood that his wool broke.
His wife walked away, a little shamefaced, and rooted around in the kitchen. Then she came back to him, laid her hand on his knee, and said very gently, ‘It was a shame, my dear, to give you stockings with holes in when you’ve been so hard at work in the open. Now you’re ruining the darning wool, while you sit there puffing and blowing.’
Ketil turned his head and spat under the bench. ‘A pair of stockings out of heel? – that’s not the damn trouble. There’s far worse than that. We’ve got five great oafs of sons living around us, and here I am in my seventieth year, but I have to reckon myself the only man among the lot.’
‘What did the lads say?’
‘What did they say? Scorn was all I got – they laughed at me for going out and gathering all that rubbish together.’
‘Did you tell them about the seal?’
‘Yes. They said it was just like me to go and shoot a poxy old seal.’
‘Wouldn’t they go over to West Bay and fetch it in for you?’
‘No. They would come for a bit in the morning to help me with it for part of the way, but they weren’t going to make themselves a laughing-stock by hauling such a thing through the village.’
‘Well, I don’t know!’ said his wife haughtily. ‘There’s no limit to their airs and graces since they left this house! Now they’re too proud to fetch a bit of fish home! No, I’ve said it a hundred times before: it’s those wives of theirs, the hussies, that are ruining them. I don’t know what daft notions they’ve got hold of – the sort of nonsense they grew up with in the big villages. Now they’re married, they’re all wanting to ape the wealthy folk, running to the shops, and sitting around in their Sunday best, thinking they can make a living by wrapping themselves up in their rags all day long. And never are they more self-important than when they haven’t got a chemmy to cover their bottoms with.’
Ketil ate his supper in silence, without looking up. When he had finished, he went into the byre, and came back with a handful of hay. Then he sat down by the fire to dry the inside of his shoes.
‘Are you putting your shoes on again?’ asked his wife. ‘Aren’t you ready for a bit of rest yet?’
‘I think my first rest will be in the churchyard. I must try and struggle back to West Bay, now that I’ve had something to eat. It’s no good getting something unless you fetch it home.’
The old woman stared at him. ‘You must be out of your mind. Do you think an old fellow like you can stand being out at West Bay for a second night in succession?’
‘It’s no use talking about what I can stand. Do you suppose that the District Sheriff will ask what I can stand, when he comes to demand payment of that bill for the whale meat? All my life I’ve had to do more than I could stand, and I’ll do it tonight as well. But I don’t know what the world’s coming to. Those who do least, live best.’
His wife made no answer, but sat down and changed her shoes, put on a clean pair of pattens, and bound her head with a shawl. ‘Now I’m going over to the pastor’s, to borrow a horse and a crook-saddle. You hang those shoes of yours up again, now, and go and lie down. You can go fetch your kill at first light tomorrow morning. This time, it’s going to be the way I say it.’
Ketil’s troubled face cleared, and he slapped his wife on the shoulder. ‘Old girl, you’re a brick,’ he said. ‘Damn me if I’d swap you for any of the younger lot, prettier though they may be.’
The pastor lent them the horse very willingly. He was both kindly and courteous, and asked how things had gone.
‘God be praised, very well,’ said Ketil’s wife, and with the eloquence of Ecclesiasticus, she told him what they had got.
‘So, you’ve shot a seal, have you?’ said the pastor. ‘I should be very glad to buy the skin.’
This was indeed good news to carry home.
Before first light the following morning, the old couple began to squabble in bed. She wanted to get up and make a cup of coffee for them before they went off.
‘You just lie there, my dear, it’s better for the men to get up first,’ said Ketil.
She would not hear of this. She stuck her feet out from under the bedclothes and tried to get up. But then he took hold of her and put her back again. ‘This time, it’s going to be the way I say it,’ he said. Then he went to get the fire ablaze.
They could not get Kálvur to wake up. They talked kindly to him, shook him, shouted at him and pinched him, but with no result. Kálvur merely grumbled ill-humouredly, and rolled himself up in the bedclothes in a deep and noisy sleep. ‘Blast the fellow!’ burst out Ketil, and he took a wet cloth and wiped it across his son’s face.
Then Kálvur cried, and the old woman swept out of bed like a whirlwind. ‘Let my poor boy alone!’ she said. ‘If you bully him any more, you’ll be sorry for it.’ And she picked up her loom stick. ‘I thought all the time that you’d create trouble when you got up this morning.’
‘All right, all right,’ muttered Ketil, giving up the struggle, and starting to put on his shoes.
His wife did the same – put on her shoes. She dressed herself, and wound a shawl around her head. Then she set about preparing food.
Ketil stared at her. ‘Where are you off to so early?’ he asked.
Then she laughed at him, almost with the tone of a young girl. ‘I’m coming with you,’ she said. ‘Do you suppose I’m going to let you go off by yourself in the middle of the night?’
‘You can’t mean it. Are you getting up this early to go over to West Bay with me?’
‘Of course. Does it surprise you if I want to slip out and get a breath of fresh air?’ She came with half a loaf of ember-baked bread for him. ‘What do you want with this?’ she asked.
‘Give me a lump of mutton dripping.’
So they ate bread and dripping, drank milk-and-water with it, and when they had finished, they folded their hands together and gave thanks to God for their meal.
‘There’s no harm in leaving Kálvur lying here by himself, is there?’ said the old woman.
‘No, he’ll surely want to sleep on until it’s fully light. And he isn’t a babe in arms.’
So they harnessed the horse and set off in fine weather. The ground was firm and frozen. All the stars were twinkling, and in the middle of the sky, an aurora was hanging in great long folds. The heavens seemed immense. The streams seemed to ring out like bells, so still it was at this hour. The horse stamped impatiently.
The old folk steeled themselves to their task, and felt young again in spirit. Ketil wanted his wife to get up and ride, but she refused until they were past the infield wall. ‘I wouldn’t dare to sit astride a horse anywhere where folks might see me,’ she said.
‘Don’t be so silly, talking like that. Your legs are no uglier than anyone else’s, and these days, every woman’s skirt shows half her thigh.’
When Kálvur woke again, as it was beginning to get light, he started to shout for breakfast. He was really hungry, he said. When he got no answer, he bellowed and thumped on the panel. But everything was quiet, except that the hens sitting on the crossbeam began to cackle. So he leapt out of bed and flung open the kitchen door, and shouted, ‘Why can’t you answer me?’ But he retreated and stiffened himself when he found that the house lay dark and empty. As nimbly as a trout he sprang back into bed and wrapped himself up in the bedclothes. He stared into the dark room, and every time he heard the slightest noise, he would shiver to the roots of his hair, and vow to sin no more.
As he lay there, the door opened and someone came in. Then he got his courage back again. ‘Come in!’ he shouted.
‘What did you say?’ was the reply.
‘Come in here,’ he called out again.
It was Klávus’s daughter.
‘Oh, it’s you. I thought it was Mother,’ stammered Kálvur, disappointed, from the semi-darkness.
‘Yes, I came to beg a kindling. Our fire has burned right out.’
‘Nobody’s in but me. I don’t know where the others are.’
‘They went off somewhere. I saw them going up the lane with a horse.’
‘With a horse? … Can’t you stay here until it’s full daylight? I get so nervous.’
Yes, she could do that right enough. ‘I’ll go and sit by the kitchen fire, while you get dressed.’
When Kálvur was dressed, he went into the kitchen and sat at the other side of the fireplace. For a long time they sat in silence, giggling quietly and looking down at the floor.
Then Kálvur said, ‘Isn’t it funny, our being alone in the house; don’t you think so?’
Yes, she thought so too. Then they sat silent again, stroking the corners of the fireplace.
Then Kálvur asked, ‘How’s your father doing?’
‘Fairly well, but he has to lie there so long. And now we’ve nobody who can get any food for the household. I don’t know what we shall do – there isn’t enough for a supper left in the house now.’
‘That’s a real shame for you,’ stuttered Kálvur, and he went around to the other side of the fire-place. ‘Come and have a cuddle,’ he said.
He tried to take hold of her around the waist, but she slipped free. ‘Not unless you give me a potful of whale meat,’ she said.
‘That won’t stand in our way!’ said Kálvur, and he made for the larder.
She sat down again, shocked at herself. What she had done was a shame and a sin. But no one would ever know. Kálvur was not so daft that he would tell anyone. And whale meat was good to have; besides, there were many ways of getting a meal that were more trouble than cuddling Kálvur for a bit. Moreover, he would not be excessively demanding. She began to laugh.
Klávus lay humbly on his bed, thinking most of the time about God, and about the seal. Life was a burden to him now, he felt exhausted, and he heaved great sighs.
His wife came in and asked how things were going.
‘Oh, don’t talk about it,’ he answered. ‘I’m stranded on an ebb tide, my dear, and I’m no use for anything. But leave my room, wife, and shut my door, for I want to be alone in God’s presence for this hour.’ And he turned his face to the wall, for he was weeping.
‘If only I had enough to live on,’ he moaned, ‘I wouldn’t have any need to go around stealing, and everyone’s food supplies would be safe as far as I was concerned. For when have I ever done these things by evil intent? Never. But bowed down with troubles, and crushed in spirit, I have wandered among the storehouses at night, and every night I have prayed that this should be the last time I did this thing. And every time I have tasted what was another man’s, I have remembered faithfully to pray to Heaven to restore him tenfold. What I have borne home has little benefited me, for I lie here, worn out, old before my time. But what was there to do? That unendurable hunger! And never did any help come to me. Some men had sons, and others had sons-in-law. Those are the ones they can thank that they are able to tread in lawful paths. We have only one miserable daughter, and how can she help us, poor thing?’
He wept, and bade the Lord take him from the world. He had nothing to live for, he was guided by Mammon. But then he noticed the smell of his supper – whale meat! – and the will to live returned to him. ‘The soil’s produce is good, and God be thanked for it,’ he said, ‘but to eat it always – there’s no strength in it.’
But where could the supper have come from? ‘Come in here, my girl!’ he called to his daughter.
She came.
‘Where did you get the supper from, my child?’
‘We … we got it … Ketil gave it to us.’
‘I see.’ He stared at the girl. She blushed, and slipped away. ‘Ah, Christ have mercy on me,’ he said, ‘are you now doing the same? … you, a mere child? The lucky ones are those who escape from this vale of misery, and safe and sound reach the gates of Heaven.’
Quite early in the morning, the infield wall was alive with grandchildren, sitting and waiting for the old folk coming back with the catch. As soon as they came in sight, the whole swarm rushed up toward them, yelling and shouting. ‘Hurrah, here they come!’ ‘Grandad, give me a bit of wood to make some pattens!’ ‘Grandad, give me a bit of wood for a boat!’ ‘Grandma, give me a fish!’ The youngest ones came tottering behind, as bow-legged as water beetles, calling out, ‘Ah, Grandad, give us some seal, give us some seal!’ They crowded up so much that the old woman had to pick up a stick to drive them away from the load.
When they came to the infield wall, the children ran on ahead towards the village, calling out that Grandad and Grandma had come back from West Bay with all sorts of delightful things. Folk swarmed to the windows and on to the stairways to look at them and laugh. ‘Ketil’s wife doesn’t relish the children shouting her arrival all around the place,’ they said. ‘Look at the way she’s trying to hide her face!’
When the old folk got back to their house, all their daughters-in-law were sitting on the bench. Some had pails with them, and others had baskets. They’d just been to the shop, and had dropped in as they passed. ‘Thought it would be very nice to have a fish, now that the men were not at sea.’
Their sons strolled along the lane, hands in pockets. They stuck their heads in at the door. ‘Fine load of muck you’ve gathered together there, Father,’ they said. Then they spat and went.
The old folk were speechless, and as grim as an avalanche. But their daughters-in-law still sat there. When Ketil had carried everything in and heaped it on the floor, they devoured it with their eyes, while the children fell to grovelling among the things.
Ketil said to them, ‘Yes, you can have a few heads and suchlike, but we intend to sell the fish.’
Their faces fell, and they started whispering to one another about cods’ heads. They sat erect and fuming.
Ketil’s wife weakened. It was the poor children she was sorry for. ‘Yes, yes, maybe you can take a fish along, so you’ve something to put in the pot,’ she said.
When they left, there was no more than a single good cooking left on the floor. There was nothing to sell.
‘So much for that,’ snorted Ketil. Dead tired, he sat back by the fireplace and took his shoes off.
‘Yes,’ hissed his wife, ‘those painted baggages came fast enough. When food comes so near to them they can goggle at it, they can do that; but go and get some for themselves – they’re too delicately reared for such a thing.’
They got 12 kroner from the priest for the seal-skin.
In the evening, Ketil went over to see Klávus. ‘He could easily let me have that plank he found. And I could give him a little something in return,’ he said. ‘They aren’t so very well off, I shouldn’t think.’
Klávus looked well enough. ‘But I have to lie here so long, and I’m no good for anything as long as I’m on my back.’
‘Too true, too true,’ said Ketil, ‘but there was one thing I wanted to ask you. Would you let me have that plank of yours? And in exchange, we could let you have a bit of good stuff for your supper.’
Klávus thought this was all very well. ‘But it’s a bit rash to let a plank like that one pass out of your hands, when you might have good use for it later on.’
‘Very true, very true. I just thought I’d ask,’ said Ketil.
‘Yes, I shan’t want to part with that,’ answered Klávus.
As Ketil was leaving, Klávus’s wife said to him, ‘I should like to thank you for what you gave our daughter this morning. It came in very handy.’
‘What was that?’ asked Ketil.
‘Oh, didn’t you know about it? It was a potful of whale meat and blubber.’
‘No, I didn’t know about it, but there’s nothing to thank us for. You’re very welcome.’ And then he went home again.
‘Well, did you get the plank?’ asked his wife.
‘Did I as hell get the plank! He’s lying there fat and happy in his bed, and eating our whale meat, so he’s got no pressing need to part with his plank. But what do you think you’re doing, flinging whale meat all around the village? Am I such a brisk old chap that I’m likely to fetch home another lot?’
‘What’s that you say? Have they had some of our meat?’ said his wife, astonished. ‘Kálvur, did you take some up to them?’
‘Me? No,’ said Kálvur. ‘I haven’t taken them any meat.’
‘Yes, you must have. They said themselves that they got it this morning. Unless they stole it, the scum.’
Then it came out that Kálvur had given them the meat.
‘Are you in your right mind, lad? Why did you do a thing like that?’ demanded Ketil.
Then Kálvur straightened himself up, and put a bold face on the matter. ‘Yes, I am in my right mind. I gave Klávus’s daughter some whale meat – because she’s my girl.’
‘Well, well, lad, so she’s your girl, is she?’ laughed Ketil. ‘And what do you do with her, may I venture to ask?’
‘I shan’t tell you,’ said Kálvur, drawing himself up and turning obstinate. ‘You’re not going to laugh at me – I’m not a little boy any longer.’ He took a pipe out of his pocket and lit up. ‘I’m a grown man now.’
The evening ended in high merriment at Ketil’s house.
The third day after this, Ketil again went over to Klávus’s house and talked about the plank. But it was no use. Klávus mumbled about having the whole seal, or a couple of hundredweight of whale meat in exchange, and that was sheer robbery.
When Ketil got home again, the old folk told Kálvur in the strictest terms that he was not to give any more meat away until they had got the plank.
‘For as long as he’s got a mouthful left, he won’t let it go, you see.’
The seventh day Klávus again refused.
‘Well, well, I just thought I’d ask,’ said Ketil.
‘Yes, I shan’t want to part with that,’ answered Klávus.
But on the twelfth day, Ketil succeeded. ‘Don’t talk to me about whale meat,’ begged Klávus. ‘You’ll drive me out of my mind. I’ve not tasted any good red meat for nine days now. Give me a hundredweight of whale meat, and you can have the plank right away.’
So Ketil settled down to carve an oar.