The funeral was held in a small Lutheran church in Hvammstangi. As we arrived, I knew it was a special occasion for the people of this area; there were a lot of townspeople standing outside. Inside, the church was packed with Icelanders dressed in black suits and dresses, waiting silently for us to arrive. I’d had no idea how important Grandpa Thursten had been to all the Icelanders here. A few friends had even flown all the way from Gimli. The front pews had been left empty for us, and we were guided to them by a young altar boy.
The minister who led the service said only a few words here and there; it was mostly songs sung one after another. I didn’t know what they were about, though a few sounded familiar. There was something absolutely beautiful about the voices echoing in the rafters of the church, something that was, well, heavenly.
Near the end of the service, Uncle Robert, Michael and Sarah’s dad, stood and spoke. He told the story of Grandpa Thursten’s life, of his marriage, and of how there had been no one like him and that truly this was a sad day on earth, but a bright day in heaven for he would be reunited with his wife. He ended the eulogy by reading a passage from the myth about how the world reacted when the god Baldur died: “All things wept. Fire wept. Steel wept. The mountains wept. The sky, the stones, the earth wept, the trees wept, all the animals wept for him.” By the time Uncle Robert was done, most everyone in the church wept too.
After the ceremony, they carried Grandpa’s coffin outdoors and into a long hearse. It was late in the afternoon and the sun had slipped below the horizon, giving us only the slightest bit of light. I would never get used to the way the sun worked here. We stood by the hearse as people came up and hugged our parents or shook their hands. Then the mourners either walked home or got into their cars and drove away, leaving us to our grief.
It was a lot different than a funeral at home. Normally everyone would come to the gravesite. Maybe they did it differently here, just let the family look after their own. We climbed into our vehicles and followed the hearse out past Hvammstangi. We stopped along the edge of the ocean. My uncles and my mother carried Grandpa’s coffin and set it on a boat piled high with kindling and smelling of gas. A fishing boat, the Akraborg, was waiting nearby in the water.
This wasn’t a normal burial, my parents had explained to me. In fact, no one did this anymore, but it was what Grandpa had wanted. Then it dawned on me that this was why the people had gone on their way. Our business was ours alone. If no one from Hvammstangi saw it, then no one would have to report anything to the authorities.
My mother and Uncle Robert lit a torch and together walked through the snow to the side of the boat and touched an edge of the kindling. It burst into flames, circling Grandpa’s coffin. The Akraborg pulled the funeral boat out onto the water, towards the horizon, then let it go. The flames grew higher and brighter and began to fade as the boat drifted into the distance.
We stood for a long time, watching. My mother and father held me between them and we wept.
Later, the family went to Uncle Thordy’s and drank a lot of coffee, and people talked and sang and told stories about Grandpa, celebrating his life. Even we grandchildren threw in a few of the tall tales he had told us.
My mother gave me what Afi had left for me. It was a book he had carried with him his whole life, old and faded and written in Icelandic.
It was called Grettir’s Saga.