Iceland's Bell by Halldór Laxness Read Free Book Online Page A

corpse in the stream, they had found its eyes, nostrils, and mouth closed. Monsieur Sívert Magnússen, who had been dragged up from the peat-pit, swore that they, the hangman and Jón Hreggviðsson, had ridden away from the other men out into the darkness of the night. Not a single oath worked in Jón Hreggviðsson’s favor. After a two-day trial he was sentenced to execution for the murder of Sigurður Snorrason. He would be allowed to appeal the district court’s judgment before the magistrate at the Alþingi.
    It was well into fall and travel was good due to the hard-frozen snow, and everyone had come on foot except for the bailiff and his secretary. On the way home to Skagi the bailiff rode out to Rein and left the prisoner standing shackled and guarded outside his own homefield wall while he went into the house.
    When the inhabitants got wind of who had arrived, Jón Hreggviðsson’s mother milked the cow and brought a bowl of its lukewarm milk to the farmer. When he finished drinking she stroked the hair back from his eyes. The girl, his daughter, came out to the wall and stood near the man and looked at him.
    The bailiff walked straight into the sitting room at Rein without knocking upon the door.
    “Your husband has been convicted of murder,” said the bailiff.
    “Yes, he’s the worst sort of man,” said the wife. “I’ve always said that.”
    “Where’s his gun?” said the bailiff. “You can do without implements of death in this household.”
    “Yes—it’s a wonder that he shouldn’t have already killed us all with this gun,” said the wife, and she brought him the gun.
    Next she took a new, tidily folded wadmal shirt and extended it to the bailiff, saying:
    “I am, as all can see, well into my pregnancy, and besides that, am a weak individual—I’m not much of a sight to behold; at any rate he certainly doesn’t like to look at me much. But I’d like to ask the bailiff to bring this clothing to him; it’s warm, in case he’s going to be gone for a while.”
    The bailiff grabbed the shirt, struck the woman with it, and said as he flung it away:
    “I’m not your servant, Rein-rabble.”
    The boy laughed uncontrollably since he always found it horribly funny when his mother was treated badly, no matter by whom. The two lepers, the one nodous, the other ulcerous, sat together upon the bed, holding tremblingly on to each other’s fingerbones and praising God.
    Because winter had set in and there would be no further litigation in Jón Hreggviðsson’s case prior to the Alþingi, it was decided that the prisoner should be transferred to Bessastaðir, which was better equipped than other places to house prisoners for long periods of time. Some men were sent by boat south to Álftanes, with the prisoner in the stern. The weather was cold and the waves sprayed over the boat, but the men kept themselves warm by rowing and bailing. Jón Hreggviðsson sang the
Elder Ballad of Pontus.
When they looked at him he stopped for a moment, and a gleam appeared in his eyes as he laughed at them defiantly, his white teeth flashing in his black beard—then he started singing again.
    At Bessastaðir the regent’s steward, a secretary, and two Danish servants took charge of the prisoner. This time the farmer wasn’t lodged in the Þrælakista, but instead was taken directly to the dungeon. Bolted to the top of a heap of stones shaped like a well-shed were heavy shutters, barred and set with unbreakable locks; below these was a deep and vast opening with limed brick walls. A rope ladder was run down this hole and Jón was forced to climb down to the bottom, then the regent’s servants climbed down to shackle him. There were no conveniences in this dungeon other than a narrow plank covered with a sheepskin, a chamber pot, and a chopping block. A hefty ax lay on the chopping block and next to it was an earthen jug of water. The steward’s lantern momentarily illuminated the scene: chopping block, ax, and