Iceland's Bell by Halldór Laxness Read Free Book Online

“They cannot be used to patch breeches or mend shoes, anyway, and there is little chance that such a famine will come over Iceland that you would consider using them for food. But you shall have a silver coin from me for your inconvenience, good woman.”
    He wrapped the pieces of parchment in the silken handkerchief and thrust it under his cloak, then turned to Reverend Þorsteinn and addressed him in the kind of glad and carefree tone a man uses when he engages in lighthearted banter with a companion to whom he is bound by no other duty than the pursuit of pleasure:
    “It has now come down to this, my dear Reverend Þorsteinn: these people, who have since antiqui* possessed the most distinguished litteras* in the northern part of the world, choose now to walk upon calfskin or to eat calfskin rather than to read the old words written upon calfskin.”
    The bishop finished granting the inhabitants his blessing.
    The noblewomen who had been awaiting their cavaliers outside in the red glow of evening approached them now with smiles. More than a dozen horses on the loose, vigorous and whinnying, gnawed at the grass at the outskirts of the homefield. The grooms led four of the horses into the yard. The eminent folk mounted, and the horses galloped off along the stony path, fire flying from under their hooves.

4
    A few days later Jón Hreggviðsson rode out to Skagi to collect the foxhunting fee that he received for destroying fox lairs for the inhabitants in the district. The fee was customarily paid to him in fish, but, as usual, there was a shortage of cord, so he thought he’d ride out to the bailiff’s farm to borrow a small piece of cord to bind the fish. The bailiff was standing out in front of his door, along with several other farmers from Skagi, when Jón Hreggviðsson rode into the yard with his fish.
    “Good day,” said Jón Hreggviðsson.
    The men received his greeting stolidly.
    “I was thinking of asking your authority to loan me a tiny piece of cord,” said Jón Hreggviðsson.
    “You shall indeed have a piece of cord, Jón Hreggviðsson,” said the bailiff, and turning to his men, he said: “Seize him now, in Jesus’ name!”
    There were three others there besides the bailiff, all close acquaintances of Jón. Two of them grabbed him, but one stood by and watched. Jón fought back immediately. He flew at the farmers alternately, punching them and jostling with them and tumbling them into the mud, giving them all they were worth, until the bailiff, who was a strong man, joined forces with them. In a short time they finally got the better of the farmer, whose fish had been trampled down into the mud beneath their feet during the encounter. The bailiff then fetched chains and shackled the farmer, telling him at the same time that he would never again rest his head beneath his own roof. The prisoner was taken to the vestibule between the servants’ quarters and the main house at the bailiff’s residence, where people came and went all day long, and there he was confined, fettered, and placed under guard for two weeks. He was made to tease horsehair or grind grain, and the servants were ordered to take turns guarding him. At night he had to sleep on a storage chest. The knaves and wenches made fun of him as they passed through the vestibule and one old woman ladled refuse over him from the chamber pot because he sang the
Ballad of Pontus
at night and prevented people from sleeping. A poor widow and her two children, however, took pity on him and gave him warm grease and greaves.
    Finally they rode out with the farmer to Kjalardalur and an assembly was held to discuss his case. The bailiff there decreed that he had been lawfully arrested on the charge of murdering the hangman Sigurður Snorrason, and stipulated that his abjurement of the charges would require twelve compurgators, whom he himself would have to provide. The six churchgoers from Saurbær swore that when they had reached Sigurður Snorrason’s