Wayward Heroes Page 8

  Ingólfur and Þorbrandur had two yearling calves in the cowshed and a lean old draught-horse, while their sheep fended for themselves out in the open, as the land at Sviðinsstaðir was too bleak to yield much hay. The farmer and his son had no other food stores apart from their winter provision of skate in the muckheap. Þorgeir suggested they load the skate on the nag, but Þormóður was reluctant to do so, calling it rather wretched plunder to deliver to so goodly a woman as Kolbrún, and in the end they left behind calves, steed, and skate, and brought back only their renown.

  Mistress Kolbrún and her daughter Geirríður were standing at the door when the two heroes returned from Sviðinsstaðir. The women said that they knew the sworn brothers brought good news, kissed the men, and led them to the hall. Þormóður and Þorgeir immediately recounted the outcome of their journey. The hall at Hrafnsfjörður was none too small – there had been fishing sheds and other such dwellings here in this fjord before it was finally settled. Kolbrún and her daughter had decked the hall’s walls with hangings, particularly where they were near to collapsing, and stout driftwood logs burned on the floor. Mother and daughter washed blood from the hands and faces of their guests, and cleaned their weapons and clothes. They asked for details of the fight, and what deeds the Sviðinsstaðir men had done before they fell. They laughed to hear how those relentlessly amorous men were denied escape and slaughtered like foxes at the mouth of their den. Many a dainty was brought to the sworn brothers to delight and reward them for their work: singed lambs’ heads, blood pudding and broth, cured brisket and rams’ testicles, and finally, warm ale. Kolbrún served Þormóður and Geirríður served Þorgeir.

  The warriors asked Kolbrún what consequences she and her daughter expected, and who might undertake the prosecution for the slaying. They replied that it was the two dead men who had carried the most weight in the innermost fjords, and that no others dwelling there would be eager to test their strength against the sworn brothers. Mistress Kolbrún said that when she saw fit, she would go to meet her old friend Chieftain Vermundur in Vatnsfjörður and compensate him for the slaying of his liegemen, Ingólfur and Þorbrandur, if he would accept it, since they were kinless men. The sworn brothers asked her where her money might be. She said: “I believe that I still have enough under my belt to compensate Vermundur for arranging the deaths of men of his who abused us. And as long as you are in my house, no one will harass you, thanks to your prowess and my friendship with Vermundur.”

  Þorgeir Hávarsson sprang from his seat and said: “I did not sail here from down south in Borgarfjörður for us to use a woman’s undergarments as our breastplate and shield. Where is Vermundur’s kinsman Butraldi at this time, and how is he armed?”

  “It would be news to us here in the north if Butraldi Brúsason were keeping men awake at night,” said Mistress Kolbrún, laughing. “Fill horns for these warriors, Geirríður.”

  Þorgeir Hávarsson was short and rather bandy-legged, like most of his countrymen. He had blue eyes, ruddy skin, light-brown hair, straight teeth, and thick, red gums. He frowned at other folk and sat hunched and dour in lively gatherings, smiling only when murder or other great deeds crossed his mind. Even when the girl Geirríður sat at his feet and held him by the knee, and his horn was full, his thoughts were far from the feast, for it nagged him not to know whether somewhere out there was a champion his equal or better.

  “Why so aloof, Þorgeir? Am I not a beautiful woman?” asked Geirríður Kolbrúnardóttir. “It is rare for men not to pinch me when I serve them a drink. Do you not see how the skald recites verses to my mother, rhapsodizing most manfully? One would think you might be at least as frolicsome with me – younger woman that I am! Now lay your head in my lap, you, and I shall hunt out your lice, and tell me the while how you slew my gallant Þorbrandur, and whether he screamed as the steel cut him.”

  Þorgeir said: “No need to hunt lice on me for that. He and his father met their deaths well and bravely.”

  “Did you not hear Þorbrandur utter any last words to me as your spear pierced his belly?” asked the girl, lifting herself from the dais to Þorgeir’s lap and wrapping her arms round his neck.

  “Both father and son proved to be stouthearted men, eager to defend their possessions, meager as they were, and unsparing of their last breaths in vilifying the women that had betrayed them,” said Þorgeir.

  “I have no idea how stout a heart Þorbrandur had, nor do I particularly care,” said the girl. “What I do know is that he was better than you at laying his head in a woman’s lap, and that you seem more suited to assaulting innocent men by night and murdering them than to satisfying women. You were a poor trade.”

  Þorgeir rose from his seat, letting the girl slip down between his feet. He stepped over her and said:

  “Þorgeir Hávarsson will never have his praise sung in days to come for having been better than other men at groping women. Þormóður and I have been foully duped by this mother and her daughter into killing their lovers only to put us into their shoes – thus proving the old saying that women are always worst to those they love most. My advice is that we cross the mountains to Hornstrandir tonight, and there undertake more needful work.”

  “You mean to tear us away from so noble a feast,” said Þormóður, “without having done our duty to such goodly widows?”

  Þorgeir said: “I am not to be blamed for your choosing an amity deadlier than all discord: a woman’s favor. And no one but you shall pay the price for it.”

  Þorgeir put on his jerkin, girt himself tightly, called to Lúsoddi to follow him, and walked out of the hall. Geirríður stood on the dais and watched the door shut at the hero’s heels – and at this sight, blood rushed to the girl’s head.

  “Þormóður,” said she, “go after him and kill him, if you are not craven.”

  He replied: “My attachment to my sworn brother Þorgeir may be night one moment and day the next, but such an exploit as you urge, I would never once consider. For now, though, I mean to enjoy your favor. Let us be merry!”

  14

  THERE WAS A hard frost and the wind heaped the snow into drifts, but the sky was clear and lit with auroras. Þorgeir Hávarsson hiked up and out of Hrafnsfjörður that night, setting his course beneath Gýgjarsporshamar Crag and over Skorarheiði Heath to Hornstrandir. The going was laborious and Lúsoddi sought bare spots, while Þorgeir called it unmanly to skirt such thin snow – the only thing that suited doughty men was to march directly into what lay ahead, be it a snowdrift or bare ground. When Lúsoddi started to find the path quite steep, Þorgeir asked whether he had never heard of where Hlórriði drove with his he-goats.1

  They reached Hornstrandir around the time that folk rise for the day, and came to a farm where several people were at their chores. Þorgeir asked where the champion Butraldi was. They said that he was preparing to depart for Djúp to visit his kinsman Vermundur, as was his custom when winter arrived in the north.

  “Why should he go there?” asked Þorgeir.

  They said that when winter came to Hornstrandir, thieves and outlaws had little opportunity to drink milk from cows at pasture or to sleep in cowsheds.

  “Where has Butraldi hidden his treasure and other spoils?” asks Þorgeir.

  They said that they had never known him to have any treasure apart from Vermundur’s leave to roam Hornstrandir all summer, to the vexation of most, and that he slaved away at the fishing stations down south in Arnarfjörður during winter.

  Þorgeir said: “I have never heard tell of Butraldi Brúsason wielding fishing gear. You men of Hornstrandir are liars.”

  They burst out laughing and answered: “Whether better-informed folk dwell in other districts, we are not certain, but it is clear that more powerful men than us here in Hornstrandir will be needed to fell Butraldi Brúsason.”

  Þorgeir asked what made them laugh so hard. “What weapons does Butraldi have?”

  They said that he was known to have one weapon that made peopl
e give him whatever he demanded. “But you,” they said, “need not fear this weapon, should you two meet.”

  Þorgeir bade them have food and a bed ready, and then left to seek out Butraldi. He and Lúsoddi traversed steep heaths and passes, or shoals at the feet of massive cliffs, for here the land rises sheerest from the sea of almost all places on Earth. At every habitation they encountered, they inquired of Butraldi.

  That evening they came to a small farm at the foot of a mountain. Three wayfarers stood at its door, demanding shelter of the farmer. It was Butraldi Brúsason, and with him two rogues. Butraldi scowled and grimaced at the farmer, and then ordered him to slaughter a fattened calf and hold a feast for him and his comrades, with women to do their bidding, if any were on the farm. The farmer, who was a rather paltry fellow and somewhat advanced in years, said that they certainly did not have the provisions to grant such great men fitting welcome – he had no living calves, and the women were doddering with age.

  “Would you rather that I piss in your well, then?” said Butraldi.

  At these words, Þorgeir Hávarsson walked up with his follower, Lúsoddi. Þorgeir halted in the farmyard, hoisted his ax to his shoulder in warrior fashion, edge upward, and said:

  “It is I, Þorgeir Hávarsson – and it is good, Butraldi, that we finally meet. I have come here to challenge you to a fight and kill you.”

  Butraldi Brúsason was unimposing in appearance, but very bandy-legged. He was past his youth and had thin, gray down on his jowls, shallow bug-eyes, a broad jaw and a wide mouth. For a weapon he had an old spear, as rusty as if it had been dug from the ground, while his fellow travelers bore only iron-tipped staves. Butraldi was wearing a poor lambskin pelt, and his companions wore frayed homespun jerkins. They had all wrapped their feet in shreds of cloth and scraps of hide. Þorgeir Hávarsson, it is said, expected a gruffer response to his hurled taunt, but not what now happened, and which we here tell.

  When Butraldi Brúsason realizes that others have joined them there in the farmyard, and that the newcomers are keen to fight straightaway with earlier arrivals, his heart does not quiver mouselike at their challenge. Instead, he stops making faces at the farmer, and in the failing light thrusts out his chin toward Þorgeir Hávarsson. With his turned-up, big-nostriled snout, he sniffs and snuffles at the newcomer, lips curling like a cloven-hooved grass-grazer scenting ewes in heat, then lets loose with an ear-splitting, salacious, shrill bray, like a studhorse at the peak of arousal, followed by hideous laughter, with such monstrous snorts and facial distortions that none have seen the like.

  Þorgeir Hávarsson cannot be said to have been unstartled to hear such grotesque sounds erupting from a human being. Butraldi’s vagabond henchmen stood a little way off, leaning on their staves in the snow, but when Lúsoddi heard the noise, he took off round the corner of the farmhouse and hid, keeping himself as far as he could from danger.

  The farmer was so overjoyed at Þorgeir Hávarsson’s arrival that he dashed up and embraced him, without letting the fighter’s sword and shield slow him down. He declared it evident that Óðinn wished to protect him, having sent him, old and useless, on one and the same evening, not just one but two great men and eminent warriors to gladden him, and he invited them both into his home, if they would deign to put up with his poverty. “But,” said he, “I would ask one thing of you, good sires, in return for my hospitality: that you do no heroic deeds in my house, nor perform any other exploits worthy of praise while the world lasts, for I am fainthearted, as are my womenfolk. We cannot bear to see men’s blood.”

  The heroes and their men were shown to seats in the hall and a lamp was lit for them, the day being done. Þorgeir Hávarsson sat at the innermost end of the bench, his ax on his shoulder. It was cold in the house, and Butraldi and his men tried to keep themselves warm by playing at hand-pulling and hank-tugging – and, since no fires had been lit on the floor, he joined them in dolphin-leaping or somersaulting, or hanging in skin-the-cat from a beam. Occasionally he went over to Þorgeir, plucked at his clothing and howled. The old women brought in two plates – the warriors were to eat from one, and all of their followers from the other. Served on the warriors’ plate was a piece of cheese, not overly soft in texture, and a short rib from a horse. The farmer stood in the doorway and bade them eat heartily. It was an ancient custom for folk in Iceland to make the sign of Þórr over their food, or else that of the cross if they esteemed Christ higher. Butraldi spent no time on either, and instead seized the rib straightaway with both hands and began devouring it, leaving Þorgeir to deal with the cheese. This is attested in the old books. When they had eaten, Þorgeir wrapped himself in his cloak and settled back down in the corner with his ax. The farmer brought them sheepskins to lie on, before going to extinguish the lamp. Þorgeir insisted that a light be left burning in the hall all night. Butraldi took a skin and made his bed near where Þorgeir was sitting, lying face up across the bench, with his head hanging over its edge – making it very easy to chop off with one stroke. Þorgeir was astonished that Butraldi seemed not to fear him one whit. The warrior fell asleep at once and began snoring up a staggering storm, as though the Midgard Serpent were on the loose. His spear, that most wretched of weapons, lay on the floor. Þorgeir was incredulous, and kept an eye on the man.

  Around midnight, Butraldi woke and began squirming and scratching and rubbing his legs with his feet, yawning vigorously at the same time. He said:

  “A cow is lowing behind the wall, making me antsy in the dark. It must be evil.”

  Þorgeir said nothing.

  “Shall we not,” said Butraldi, “have some fun and games? The nights here on Hornstrandir are long and dull. I suggest we hunt and kill fleas. It would be most merry, I think, to bet on who can kill the most fleas in my sheepskin in between the cow’s lowings.”

  Butraldi laid his sheepskin between them, took a shiny silver coin from his pouch and placed it on the sill above them. “Here I have good English silver – this coin is worth half a mark. What will you wager against it?”

  Þorgeir had resolved not to speak a word to this man beyond the truths found in point and edge, and therefore still said nothing. Nonetheless, he could not take his eyes off the coin that the fighter drew forth – it was the first time that Þorgeir Hávarsson had ever seen struck silver. Butraldi began running his paws over the fleece, to his own great amusement, but both because the light in the hall was on the faint side and the creatures were quick to escape, it took him a long time to kill any fleas – yet he did manage to dispatch two or three by the time the cow lowed next.

  “How many did you get?” asked Butraldi.

  Since Þorgeir had not been playing, Butraldi retrieved his silver coin from the sill, and, sniggering, declared that he had won it in the game. He then drew forth another coin, twice as big as the first, and wagered it in a new bet. Þorgeir Hávarsson’s eyes widened at the sight of this coin. Several moments passed before the cow lowed again, and Butraldi snatched up this coin as well, with immense peals of laughter and other monstrous noises. For a third time, Butraldi laid a wager, pulling a gold ring from his pouch and placing it up on the shelf. Yet whether it was because Þorgeir found the man and his game more wearisome the more fleas that he killed, or because the cow had stopped lowing altogether, he became so drowsy that he could no longer fend off sleep – and nothing more of that night shall we tell.

  Next morning, Þorgeir Hávarsson wakes and opens his eyes. He is alone in the hall, and his ax is lying between his legs, having slipped from his hands as he slept. His traveling companion Lúsoddi is gone, along with the others. It is milking-time there on Hornstrandir, and Þorgeir calls the farmer out of the cowshed and asks where his night-guests are. The farmer says that they left before the Star was at midmorning.2

  Þorgeir says that he is thirsty and would like a drink of milk before he goes after Butraldi and the others. “They have,” says he, “taken my servant Lúsoddi with them.”

  The farmer says: �
��I fear I must tell you that this morning, Butraldi and his comrades drank my cow dry.”

  Þorgeir says, “Then bring me a jug of water.”

  “Worse luck there,” says the farmer, “because Butraldi and his mates pissed in my well in payment for their lodging, and now the water is undrinkable. It confounds me that a tramp such as Lúsoddi should stick himself under Butraldi’s wing – as if he will have more shelter there. To abandon such a great hero as Þorgeir Hávarsson, for an udder-sucking well-pisser!”

  15

  IT WAS LATE in the evening when Kolbrún led Skald Þormóður to his bed. He tried laying his hand on her knee. She said:

  “I have heard that a maiden in Djúp lies alone in her loft, and that you turned the youthful lay you made for me into a song of praise for her. It hardly beseems a little girl to give ear to a poem made for a mature woman, or for her to presume to appreciate something suited to a self-reliant widow. You can be absolutely certain of this, Þormóður: I will never lift this mantle of mine high enough for you to take hold of my knee, unless you swear an oath to me that you will never lavish your attention on another woman. First, though, you must rework the lay that you composed for me of old – making it mine once more – and then deliver it to me tonight, properly.”

  Þormóður replied that she truly had a just claim against him in this matter, and that it took little trouble to transform a poem – before launching into the Lay of Kolbrún in its original form. The mistress was better contented.

  Now the night passed, and the next day, and the skald was indulged there in Hrafnsfjörður. He was free to choose to loll in bed, if he wished, and have his meals brought to him, or to warm himself by the fire in the hall. As day turned to evening and he lay dozing, Mistress Kolbrún donned her mantle and went to the guest room. Silently she opened her guest’s bed-closet, then laid her hand on his leg and woke him. She said: