Oraefi

by Ófeigur Sigurðsson

  I walked for hours yet found no way forward. The wind kept on blowing from the northeast, blowing, drifting snow, the temperature dropped to 9 degrees frost, but despite the wind's chill I was overheated from walking and had to remind myself not to go fast but to keep a steady pace, ever gaining newer and newer height, what insanity to attempt this journey alone, dragging my beloved creatures with me, lugging my trunk with me in order to be just like Captain Koch, I’m no Captain Koch, I told myself in the snowstorm, I’m just a National Geographic subscriber … I talked to myself and asked the horses several questions, I thought about explorers from the past century, I was hypnotized by the crunch of snow underfoot, now and then there was a little visibility and all at once I saw a peak rise up from the ocean of ice, a bare cliff, at first I thought it a mirage … no, it’s the Mávabyggðir! … then everything went white, the earth disappeared from under me and suddenly I was in open air, eternity, my mind rushed home to Freyvang in Vienna into my mother’s arms, I was broken apart by a sense of guilt, I wanted to beg forgiveness from her for how difficult I had been as a child, how hopeless as a teenager, I wanted to beg forgiveness from her for having once dunked her rubber gloves in the cleaning bucket so they got soaked inside, I knew mom hated that, rubber gloves dunked in cleaning water, I had heard her say so once, and so I did it, perhaps she hadn’t really meant it, I was angry with her, she’d done something to me, I don’t remember what, it seemed to me that the most insignificant things in life are the most important things in life; rubber gloves in cleaning water had in fact been a turning point, not the death of my brother, Tómas, or so I thought during my fall, I’d never recovered from having soaked the rubber gloves in the cleaning water, from this crime against my mother, not ever, while I was floating in the darkness, why had the cleaning bucket been standing all by itself on the tiles and my mother nowhere to be seen? or the cleaning woman, my mother always helped the servants, there’s the pail, I thought as I fell, steaming, fresh cleaning water, yellow rubber gloves on the rim, half resting in lather, and I took the opportunity in my rage and submerged the gloves, I recoiled when my hand went under the boiling water, my guilt was accompanied by a boiling hot whip-crack, it was a jerking, a yanking on the rope I’d bound to the lead horse, I was now hanging in open air upside down above the abyss, I needed to get the horse train to back up and that would lift me up, I started to whistle and call and it was ominous to hear how all my sounds were dampened, my voice quenched, it’s the depths of my guilt, I thought hanging there over the abyss, and I sank still further, memories surfaced of my birth, my mother’s vagina, I was making every effort to wipe this picture away and all the while I was sinking down and lower and the crevasse was narrowing, I looked down past my breast and saw, up at the top of the crevasse, a horse’s head peeking down, it was Fuck, I yelled: FUCK! But then everything went black, the edge of the fissure gave way under the horse, he fell into the ravine, a big overhang falling with him, and we plummeted together deeper into the crevasse, me upside down and the horse above me. The snow was packed around me, hardened like concrete, said Bernharður, interpreted the Interpreter, wrote Dr. Lassi in her report, or so Bernharður wrote to me in his letter that spring of 2003.

  IV.

  THE FOLLOWING

  Bernharður Fingurbjörg was taking a sound and well-deserved nap when I took a break from writing the report, Dr. Lassi wrote, it was 3¾ at night, the sun was rising over the glacier, the sky pale, the air clear; all the able men and farmers from most of the nearby farms had been summoned to Freysnes for deployment in order to apprehend one or more wild sheep on the mountain, as decreed by the State. I wanted to be part of the crowd, so long as I could be more useful than useless, even though I wasn’t being paid by the Nature Conservation Board like the rest, I just wanted to take the opportunity to see this unique species before it was exterminated, as the law mandates. I even hoped to get the species named after me: Ovis Lassi. But it was to be a mournful journey. Three guys had come from the city, one an Öræfing for sure, the other two rather badly prepared, one a dwarf in a dustjacket with a fur cap, the poet Worm Serpent, a notorious outcast and embarrassing person, while the third seemed to me the most wretched, wearing worn-out, tattered clothing from the First World War, he was called The Regular, god only knows where he turned up from, rather sullen in expression and disinterested.

  None of the farmers was concerned with firearms licenses; rather, they all carried shotguns and rifles baldly over their shoulders, following the laws of nature. They were mostly old bachelors with rusty fox-hunting rifles, sheep guns, and blunderbusses. Jakob from Jökulfell was unusual because he was carrying a camera, but he is an artist.

  I, Dr. Lassi, a regional veterinarian in the south of Iceland, set off from the location at sunrise on Easter Sunday, April 20th, 2003, leaving from Freysnes along with farmers from the region, trying to find wild sheep in the mountains. The intention was to get there ahead of the helicopter someone had caught wind was being sent on behalf of the Ministry of Justice—the State, that is—in order to eliminate the wild livestock in the National Park. There was a slight frost and it was tranquil, ideal weather for implementing such laws, men had brought ropes so they could descend cliffs onto the icy surfaces or traverse the crevasse regions in the glacier; each of them had his Skaftafell staff in his hand, what’s usually called a pole; without one, it’s tantamount to going about naked in the mountains, a pole is an indispensable tool for running at speed and managing steep slopes, doing pole vaults over streams and fissures that are otherwise totally impassable for humans, poles like these have been used ever since Settlement, some even say for settlement because the land-spirit Járngrímur in Lómagnúpur holds a staff, at least in our coat of arms. Men arranged themselves by the hotel, each with his pole, and you could hear the sound of the group appreciating how long the poles were, how thick, heavy and so on, some had poles that were new this year. Beech is good for a pole, said Muggur, it’s a durable wood yet lightweight, or you could use oak or birch, larch, pine. Muggur melted down iron from car suspensions and from springs, from rotisseries and other circular bits of iron, the spike is inserted into the underside of the pole and consists of four teeth or springs called weathers, Muggur told me, they reach out to the spike to hold it in place, there’s a nick in the spike where it forks like a snake’s tongue, inside it there’s molten hard metal; finally, three bands are bound around the bottom of the pole to prevent it from splitting. As it grips the scree, the spike gets sharpened and thus maintains itself with use, and so the spiked pole is sustainable, lasts a lifetime, like good smithing used to, Dr. Lassi wrote, today everything’s disposable trash, not good for shit.

  I showed up that morning to the round-up with a broomstick I’d found in a closet at the hotel, reckoning I’d done well to remember to bring a stick. Not only did they laugh at me, the broomstick was disappeared, a worn-down pole set in my hand, so thick my hand barely fit around the stick. I drew their attention to that, and discovered it’s a big no-no to call a staff a stick, a staff is not a stick, I was told, but a pole. I was greatly amazed how poorly-dressed everyone was, in light jackets and old jogging outfits, jeans and sneakers. In their eyes, I looked wishy-washy, wearing my wax raincoat and my large fisherman’s hat on my head in case it started to snow. Little Interpreter showed up energetic, sturdy and animated. Edda the ranger was there, standing with the so-called The Regular, who seemed preoccupied with getting to meet Sigurður from Tvísker, even as he was trying to divert attention away from himself, tripping over his own feet to introduce the poet Worm Serpent. In ancient times, a Worm lived in Svínafell, said Sigurður, which emboldened the poet. The Regular smiled a distant smile, as though he had grown old along the way. One of the greatest Icelandic chieftains was named Worm and he was a poet, a peacekeeper during an era of great violence, Sigurður was saying, the worst Iceland has ever plunged into, a time everyone fought against everyone and civil war erupted, that was no further back than the 13th
century. Worm Serpent gleamed; emotional, he took off his fur hat and put it to his heart, as though he felt Sigurður was talking about him or his spirit. According to Svínafellsaga, for example, said Sigurður, it seems Worm had a heart attack at Þingvellir: the story says he experienced a pain in his arm and died soon after. Worm Serpent fondled and squeezed the cap, terrified and in shock, he felt he would suffer the same fate, he felt a pain in his breast, it ran down his arm, he was done for, he would have a heart attack and Sigurður here had set it off, I’m never going back to Þingvellir, Worm Serpent said to The Regular. Then Worm’s wife got with child, Svínafellsaga says, Sigurður said; she gave birth to a boy named after his father, Worm Wormsson, he became a goði—a chieftain—as his father’s heir, and traveled as the last Icelandic chieftain on behalf of the King of Norway in 1264, Worm Wormsson was the last bastion of independence of this free nation, the king gave him authority over half the country, but he drowned shortly after, along with his whole ship and its crew, in Norway, just 29 years old, and with his death the ancient chieftain’s lineage in Svínafell vanished into the darkness of history … I’m 29 years old! said Worm Serpent; he immediately fainted in the hotel lobby. The poet was carried over to a couch; he was left there awhile as the rest of us went out to search for the sheep.

  We, this little armed band, had not gone far into the mountains when Runki from Destrikt caught sight of the silhouette of a sheep high up on a mountainside, a shadow image standing there gravely still and puffed up and bare against the morning sky; for a good while, no one saw anything else except Runki, I can’t see a thing, I said, some thought it was just the image of a sheep on the cliff, we stood there watching for an eternity, no creature could hold still this long, Hálfdán from Tvísker grabbed the binoculars he had around his neck. Isn’t it a sheep? I asked. For sure, naturally, of course, said Hálfdán, a sheep with a thin neck, long haired, white with a dark nose, from the looks of it, possibly horned, a badger-faced moorit, a white back and a moorit belly … no one dared dispute that, everyone knows that Hálfdán can detect a winter wren from a mile away with one eye while the other finds an insect behind a stone, Runki from Destrikt did not dare dispute the color analysis made by the natural scientist from Tvísker, although I could see he longed to, his mouth itching, vibrating, Runki urged everyone from their spots and he himself started running with his dog up a narrow gully over loose scree, we did not follow on foot but leaned forward on our poles to watch him tear up the rocky slopes, climbing the cliff, running along ledges and jumping over lavafields across the ravine. Runki was adept with his pole but the white-yet-dark sheep stood still as a headstone, the morning sun frowning behind him, casting his silhouette sharp against the sky, an awesome sight. Runki approached quickly, the dog sniffing at his heels; Runki was wearing brand new sneakers he’d got at the Cooperative in Fagurhólsmýri and he moved surely and swiftly, he had already reached the white-dark sheep and it seemed to us he was going to stumble headlong into it, we heard a screech echo across the morning calm, Runki had sent the dog ahead, Get up! Runki shouted to the bitch, Get up! Jasmine! echoed in the mountains, Right! Jasmine! No! Come-bye! Right! …The farmer from Destrikt deftly commanded his bitch, waving his hand like an air traffic controller, and she immediately ran up the cliffs like a trout in a stream, much to the amazement of we on the ground below hearing the commands. But then the sheep disappeared, nowhere to be seen, and now the bitch Jasmine was standing on the ledge, confused and uncertain against the sky, far more disheveled than the sheep who had stood there only a moment before. Then Runki reached the edge of the mountain and also stood silhouetted against the sky, looking around him with his baseball cap, the least still of the three, he ran in circles, to no end, the white-dark sheep had evaporated, wild sheep are famous for their disappearing act, Dr. Lassi wrote, they re-appear somewhere else, utterly unexpected, behind a person, like a guard in an art gallery, scaring the person out of their wits, Runki came back along the cliff slopes, somewhat dejected, and the sheep appeared on the ledge again, again standing out against the sky, it was like he blinked, I was convinced the sky and the sheep were light and shadow alternately, all of us down below on the ground hollered and called out, Runki whirled back to the place and now tried to come upon the sheep from above but it disappeared again just before Runki appeared on the ledge, Runki stood there for a long time and scratched his head under his deer hat. Finally, he returned empty-handed, in a foul temper, deeply ashamed, blustering at his bitch who was the target of both her master’s embarrassment and caresses.

  The following dogs had come along on the journey with us to find the wild sheep on the mountains: Sámur, named after the most famous dog in Icelandic history, the dog owned by Gunnar from Hlíðarenda, the hero’s most trusted friend: when Gunnar was buried, Sámur sat day and night on the mound and howled until he died of sorrow, the mound was then opened up so Sámur could be with Gunnar, it’s said Gunnar opened his arms in the mound when Sámur arrived, and threw out all the possessions so that the mound would never be robbed by the country’s rabble-rousers, and thus the two friends would remain undisturbed by archaeologists and desecrators and grave robbers; among other things a halberd flew out, killing two men along the way, everyone wanted to own the halberd and thus began Iceland’s karmic journey, right down to its seabed, the poet Eggert Ólafsson last had the halberd, it was on the boat when he sailed across Breiðafjörður with his bride and their household possessions, because they were moving after the wedding, on board there were ancient manuscripts and ancient gems, and then the woman fell overboard, and Eggert jumped away from the steering wheel to go after her, and the boat tipped on its side and sank, Iceland sank there, and with Eggert Ólafsson went the last hope of our god-forsaken land, and Gunnar’s halberd was lost forever, but Gunnar and Sámur enjoyed their peace in their mound, Dr. Lassi wrote. Two place names are associated with Gunnar’s Sámur: Sámsból and Sámsreitur. Sámur has been the most popular dog name ever since. Gunnar’s Sámur came from Ireland, a wonderful dog, a companion as good as any zealous man, he had human intelligence, it says that in Njál’s Saga, Dr. Lassi wrote, Sámur was loyal to Gunnar, their lives intertwined, Sámur was probably an Irish wolfhound, they are indeed gigantic, slender hounds, perhaps from Ancient Egyptian stock, and were used to protect sheep herds against wolves, but then fences took over from dogs, fences took over from both shepherds and dogs, fences have destroyed a lot of culture. Men treated the dog poorly in their attack on Gunnar, and it is an ugly and sad chapter in Njála, writes Dr. Lassi, you’re hard done by Sámur, my foster-brother, Gunnar said, awaking to his howling, Sámur’s howls seemed so intense and loud, the like of which people had never heard before, the dog had been struck in the head with an axe after biting the crotch of one of the attackers, and ripping off his genitals, all to defend his master; I must confess the terrible fact that I’ve always enjoyed reading that part.

  Our Sámur, heading the pursuit, is heavy-built and hairy, black on top but light brown underneath, he seems to be a mix of Icelandic and German sheepdogs, he has light eyebrows similar to the dog Kafka, although he is a Shäfer; Sámur is the senior member of the dog pack, the leader in the search for wild sheep, the alpha animal, intelligent and resolute. The next in the hierarchy is Kátur, who is gray all over and mottled, a somewhat diligent, efficient dog, a workman, obedient and gentle and childfriendly, a dog who enjoys little better than shepherding. Kátur is from an inscrutable breed and so is a true Icelander. Lubbi is a careless, inferior herder and not everyone was happy he had got to come along, some said he didn’t serve any purpose, that he got underfoot and was no use, he got an ugly reception from Runki, who thought the world of his own Jasmine, a Border Collie bitch, extremely obedient and gentle and the best shepherd, but fearful of her master; I don’t blame her, everyone was a bit afraid of Runki, men and animals alike. He had learned dog training from some videotape, which seemed outrageous. Dog training? … Dog training by video tape? … you can ge
t anything these days! said Muggur from Bölti. It’s a certain fact that no dog in the Icelandic countryside had ever before received training, all the way back to the Settlement, Dr. Lassi wrote, hitherto the rule has been that good herders are obedient by chance alone, farmers will repeatedly kill their dogs until they get an obedient and good-tempered dog and then keep them; dogs have always been worthless, it’s chance that dictates whether one has a good herd-dog in Iceland. Runki from Destrikt’s bitch understands language fluently and has a big vocabulary, he stumbled upon a honey-pot with this bitch, the other farmers said, but Runki had broken his back training this dog, watching the videotape every single day for weeks, his wife got to choose the name Jasmine, which feels modern, but he always feels ashamed when he calls the dog … Jasmine! Come-bye! Runki shouts all day long to his dog, Come-bye! Jasmine! he calls and looks around embarrassed, scratching his butt frantically, grinding out old lumps from his arse-hairs and shaking them down his pants legs; Destrikt-Runki can send his bitch in whichever direction he orders and he stands up on a hill with a little pennant and an umpire’s whistle, flapping his hands like a traffic cop and blowing the whistle and Jasmine translates from across the ridge and gravel, she crawls up the cliff and down into a lava tube, Runki comes running after her, shouting: Right! Right! … Jasmine! Come-bye! Left! … stop! Jasmine! Stop! No! … you devil! … the two of them do the work of many men and have been a breath of fresh air within the shepherding world. Flosi from Svínafell remarked to old Muggur: Runki has a most excellent dog. I thought it was a cat, said Muggur, snorting a pile of snuff from the back of his hand, I was really surprised what good control he had of his cat.