Heaven and Hell

by Jón Kalman Stefánsson

  Árni, Bárður, and the boy straighten up, but Einar and Gvendur turn the boat around and row hard the short distance to the buoy, because now they shall haul in fish, now they shall haul it up from the depths that keep life in us, improve homes, and amplify dreams. Bárður fastens the spool onto the rowlock, his job is to haul in the line, needed for this work are strength and stamina, of which he has a considerable amount. Pétur leans slightly over the side, looks down into the sea, waits with the gaff in his right hand, they start with his line, the skipper’s line. They quiver with expectation. Bárður pulls, down in the deep the line moves, the cod rise to the surface and receive a rude reception. Pétur gaffs the fish on board, shortly afterward Árni bleeds them with one swift movement and they never swim again through the dark blue depths with wide-open mouths, swallowing everything smaller than themselves, those moments of delight are behind them and death takes over, but we do not know where death takes them, should the eternal sea exist somewhere behind time, full of deceased fish, some long extinct here on Earth? The fish has cold blood and is perhaps not particularly sensitive concerning life and death, thinks the boy, takes the line just as soon as Bárður hauls it in, very heavy with fish, lays it down, carefully, makes sure it does not get tangled, cuts off the bait remaining on the hooks, it’s not always easy and he needs to be quick, sometimes the only way is to use his teeth, pull off the bait and then spit it out ice-cold and extremely salty. There are a lot of fish. Bárður starts to haul in Árni’s line, Pétur aims the gaff, he smiles, this is a beautiful moment. Einar and Gvendur fight the waves, they both smile, Gvendur resembles a huge, gentle dog and morning has arrived. But when Bárður has come a long way in pulling in the fourth line, the boy’s line, it’s as if the sky darkens again, as if night has returned, forgive me, I forgot something. But this is not the night that has returned for its cap, because Pétur looks up and glances around, the world is gone and a dense black cloud where the horizon should be.

  The storm is approaching and will be upon them soon.

  Árni, says Pétur, and he says nothing else because Árni sees where the skipper is looking, lays aside his knife and starts to help Bárður pull, the sea has grown restless, its lenience toward this boat, these men, is at an end. The waves grow larger, higher, the wind blows cold, Bárður’s movements are slower, the cold has started to take away his power, the joy over a good catch is warming to some extent, but is still not much and is certainly not enough. Joy, happiness, burning-hot love form the trinity that makes us people, which justifies life and makes it larger than death, and still it grants no more shelter from the arctic wind than this. My love for a waterproof, my joy and happiness for another sweater. The wind blows over the Polar Sea, strengthening every minute and spitting out snowflakes. Gvendur and Einar now need to use all their strength to hold the boat reasonably steady, the waves rise around them, the land is long gone, the horizon gone, there is nothing in the world any longer but six men in a cockleshell, pulling fish and dreams from the cold deep. Pétur holds firm, hooks the fish aboard, looks first at Bárður and then at the weather around them, Árni and Bárður have started to haul in the fifth line, Gvendur’s, he holds tightly to his oar, so huge next to Einar but small and frightened inside because it must be awful to drown, and the Polar Sea no longer cares for this boat, about this piece of wood with its men, and now the storm breaks. The snowfall thickens. Yet it was hardly possible to call this a snowfall. The wind whips the snowflakes into the men’s faces, forcing them to squint, or rather to look away. The waves break around the boat, seawater dashes over them, not much but it only takes a little to drench a man who leaves his waterproof on land, Bárður gasps for breath. And at almost the same moment Árni looks at Pétur, who nods, throws the gaff into the pile of fish, just under two hundred fish, Árni reaches for the knife, cuts Gvendur’s line, much of which they had already hauled in, partly bent over the work, neither sitting nor standing, it’s high time, sighs the boy, who has vomited twice, vomited the whey, vomited the rye bread he ate in the night, some into the boat, some into the sea, the rest taken by the wind. The snowfall thickens around them and diminishes the world, their visibility is limited to just a few meters, and the only thing they see are rising waves, deepening troughs. The boat is lifted, it plunges, Bárður’s sweater has turned into a byrnie of ice, he sits down on a thwart, plunks himself down, punches himself furiously. The boy tries to tear himself away from his seasickness, which continues to grow stronger despite the Chinese Vital Elixir that is a world-famous and highly scientific product, hangs rather than sits on the thwart and rubs his friend weakly, offers to loan him his waterproof but Bárður shakes his head, the boy’s waterproof is far too small, nor would it improve matters to have them both soaked. Damn, damn, damn, mutters Bárður. What about my line?! Einar shouts, looking madly at Pétur and Árni. We can’t wait any longer! Pétur shouts back, a space of only three meters between them, but if one wants to be heard here on the Polar Sea, one must shout, scream, yet it’s not certain that this will suffice. Einar shouts, he twists his head as if in torment, as if to calm the violence that threatens to explode his head, then clenches his teeth with all his might and manages to hold back the words that howl inside him. Pétur is skipper, his words are law, whoever disagrees can go elsewhere, but it’s still a damned shame, makes Einar so angry that he literally sees blood when all of the lines but his are hauled in, heavy with fish, this is the blackest injustice, this is pitch-black Hell. More than three hours of intense rowing, another three hours pushing against the wind and tide and what does one get, nothing, the fish left behind down in the sea, hanging on their hooks. Einar looks with murderous eyes at Bárður trying to punch away the cold, and at the deathly pale boy rubbing his friend, it isn’t the weather that robs Einar of fish, it’s Bárður. The sail! croaks Pétur into the wind and the ceaseless snow, one word and Einar and Gvendur pull in the oars, Bárður and the boy straighten up, the men move quickly but cautiously, an inattentive movement, ill-considered, and the boat could lose the balance that separates life from death. The two masts rise, the sail stretched between them, Pétur has set out the rudder, has had to crawl toward it, and the wind seems to attack the sail, dive violently over it, finally some resistance, finally something other than the empty air, the boat lies nearly on its side. They look straight down into the surging sea. The sky above them disappeared long ago, here there is no longer a sky, no horizon. The boat regains its balance, there are practiced hand movements and Pétur steers skillfully. The sea has started to heave, it gushes and sprays over the men, they all gasp for breath except for Bárður, who is silent and tries to bail out the boat but has difficulty holding onto the bail because of the cold that slips through his byrnie of ice, the wind whips them on, they sail with the arctic wind at their heels, the snowstorm pursues them, snow piles up on the boat and the sails and freezes there. The men try to punch the snow off, their task is to live and they all work like mad except for Pétur, who steers doubled over by cold, numb in the face, nothing ahead but the raging sea and the snow, but Pétur doesn’t need to see anything, the directions dwell deep within him and he tries to steer them on the right course, as far as the wind permits. They work like mad. Punch snow and frost off the boat. They try to punch death away and need to use all their strength and it is entirely unsure whether that will suffice, Bárður’s condition decreases the likelihood, but it would be a death sentence for them all if one of them loaned him his waterproof, even for a moment, then two of them would be unable to work, not just one. A man without a waterproof is drenched, thoroughly drenched, in the briefest space of time, the cold gets a firm grasp on him and does not let go, not out here on the open sea. Try to fight, shouts the boy at Bárður, who punches frost and snow feebly from the sail above him, stops suddenly and looks at his friend. It’s almost as if Bárður is smiling, he draws nearer, so close that there are just a few centimeters between them, one pale and weak from seasickness, the other blue-white from cold
. Bárður moves his head right up next to the boy’s, his brown eyes filled with something the boy does not understand, Bárður’s lips pucker, he struggles to form words, conquer the cold, and he manages to do so, the words come, distorted of course but comprehensible to those who know whence they arise, and this the boy does know: sweet is the breath of morn, sweet the coming of day, accompanied by notes, charmed, of early-rising birds, a delight to the ears. The boy tries to smile through the seasickness and cold, through the fear. Bárður comes even closer, the brim of his sou’wester bends and their foreheads touch, nothing is sweet to me, without thee, mumbles Bárður, the line of poetry written in the letter Bárður finished last evening, addressed to Sigríður, who perhaps is standing at the butter churn in the countryside somewhere behind the storm, if something exists besides this storm, this yawl, and this snowfall that the wind tears apart and throws into their faces. The boy continues to punch the frost off the sail and the boat, it’s easier for him to breathe. The certainty that Bárður will not let the frost defeat him gives him increased strength, sweet is the breath of morn, and for a time he forgets everything but the effort to punch frost and snow from the sail, except for the fight for life, but when he next looks over, Bárður has crawled into the bow and lain down there. The boy totters, half-crawls, and pushes Einar to one side so he can get to Bárður, Einar shouts in his ear, do you want us all to be killed, you damned piss-pup! Because the man who doesn’t do his job puts everyone in danger, but so what, there lies Bárður, has drawn his knees up to his chest and hooked his arms around them. The boy crouches next to him and calls out, Bárður! He calls the name that means more than all the other names in the world combined, more than a boat with two hundred fish, comes so close that he breathes on Bárður’s brown eyes. Bárður looks back at him, completely expressionless because the cold has paralyzed the muscles in his face, but still he looks. The boy’s collar is grabbed. Einar pulls him up roughly, the boy looks across the boat, Pétur and Árni shout at them but he hears nothing, the only thing that can be heard is the din of the wind. The boy looks at Einar and then strikes at him with ice-cold fury, hits him on the chin. Einar jerks back at the blow, but no less at the fury that makes the boy unrecognizable, he falls to his knees, rips off his waterproof, tries futilely to put it on Bárður, rubs Bárður’s face, punches his shoulders and breathes on his eyes because life is there, he shouts, he punches more, and he rubs harder but it makes no difference, it is useless, Bárður has stopped looking, there is no longer any expression in his eyes. The boy has taken off his mittens and rubs the cold face of his friend, stares into his eyes, breathes on them, whispers, says something, strokes his cheeks, he slaps them and he shouts and waits and whispers but nothing happens, the connection between them has broken, the cold has claimed Bárður. The boy looks over his shoulder, at the four men fighting for their lives, fighting united, looks back at Bárður who is alone, nothing can touch him anymore, except the cold. Nothing is sweet to me, without thee.

  V

  It is ridiculously good to have solid ground beneath one’s feet. Then you haven’t drowned and can have something to eat after twelve hours on the Polar Sea within the gales and ragged snowfall. Eat many slices of rye bread with a mound of butter and pâté and drink pitch-black coffee with brown sugar. It doesn’t get much better than that. The hunger having started to gnaw at the men’s insides, the exhaustion quivering in their muscles, at such a moment coffee and rye bread are Heaven itself. And then, when the catch has been worked, fresh-boiled fish with suet gravy. Happiness is having something to eat, to have escaped the storm, come through the breakers that roar just beyond the land, to hit them at precisely the right second required to sail through them, otherwise the surf topples the boat or fills it and then six men who cannot swim are in the sea with two hundred dead fish, the catch destroyed and a considerable likelihood that the men are drowned, but Pétur is a genius, he knows the moment, they slide through and have escaped.

  Gvendur and Einar jump overboard, land in the knee-deep sea, Guðmundur and one of his crew splash out to meet them. They did not row, Guðmundur decided not to go at the last minute, the very last, two of his crew sat in their waterproofs in the boat, the others had started to push when Guðmundur called it off, there was a play of colors out on the horizon that he did not like. And those on shore do not passively watch the boats land but instead lend a hand, there is a law beyond man-made laws because here it is a question of life and death, and most choose the former. Life also has an advantage over death in the way you have some idea of what you’re dealing with, death on the other hand is the great uncertainty, and there is little more antipathetic to human beings than uncertainty; it is the worst of all.

  Four men from Guðmundur’s crew stand at the winch along with Gvendur and Einar and haul the boat up the landing, the others push, out beyond them crashes the fuming surf, even further out rages the storm. The weather is considerably better here, although there is a whine in the mountains above the huts and the wind is so strong that Andrea has to stand with her legs spread and sometimes to lean into it. The coffee is ready inside the hut and she stands there, leans into the wind, doesn’t understand what’s going on inside her, should have gone down to the boats, pushed the final meters, picked two fish from the catch to boil, then gone with the men up to the hut where they would sit happily over the aroma of coffee and old bread from their boxes, happiness can be found in small things. Those are good times, sitting among the men, asking about the voyage, sensing the smell of the ocean filling the loft, yet she stands there, unmoving. She squints, tries to protect her eyes from the ragged snowfall. Something is wrong. She feels it. And the same sense of foreboding she felt that morning, when her eyes fell on Bárður’s waterproof, swells up inside her. It’s as if she dare not move, as if the slightest movement would confirm her worst fear.

  A living body is amazing. But at the same time as the heart ceases to beat, no longer pumps blood, and memories and thoughts no longer sparkle within the skull, it ceases to be amazing and turns into something for which we would prefer not to have to find words. Best let science do that. And then the ground. Andrea squints, turns her head away from the obtrusive snowflakes, finally comes up with the idea of counting the men. There are Gvendur and Einar at the winch, Pétur holds onto the prow, there is Árni, there is the boy, and now she sees that their movements are heavy, not from fatigue but from something entirely different, and Bárður is nowhere to be seen. Where is Bárður, she says involuntarily, asks the wind, asks the snowflakes, but neither replies, they do not need to, the wind just blows, it comes and is as quickly gone and the snowflakes are born of the heavens, that is why they are white and shaped like angels’ wings. The heavens have never needed to explain anything, they arch high over our heads, over our lives, and are always as distant, we never come close to them whether we are standing on the roof of a house or on a mountain, try to chase them down with words or in vehicles. Andrea gives a start, as if she were going to take her first step, and then another, start walking, start striding, run down to the boat, down to the men who have finished dragging the boat ashore, the weather quite nasty but still not so bad that they need to secure the boat any further, not yet, because the storm is out at sea, two elements that drown the humans who risk them. Now they should set off for the hut, find happiness in the coffee, pleasure in the rye bread, the pâté, the butter, delight in the short rest, and Guðmundur should be plodding off to his own hut so as not to remain any longer than necessary under the same sky as his brother, dammit, someone should at least be moving, someone other than the continual wind, the snowflakes from the heavens. The men at the winch straighten up and look down into the boat. Those who pushed or pulled stand motionless, awkward, hands at their sides, stand like that for a long time, surely many minutes or hours, Andrea feels, but it is scarcely more than a few seconds. The hours are numerous and the clock seldom measures the time that passes inside us, the real lifetime, and because of this
many days can fit into a few hours, and vice versa, and numbers of years can be an imprecise measure of a man’s lifetime, he who dies at forty has perhaps actually lived much longer than he who dies at ninety. A few seconds or hours; the boy has heaved himself into the boat. He crouches down in the bow, then he rises slowly and has something large in his arms, something larger than a cod, even larger than a king cod, since this is not a cod but a man, the boy screams something and finally the lethargy falls away from the others. Árni is aboard in one movement, Gvendur and Einar come down the landing, and they take hold of Bárður and head toward the hut. It’s almost as if the ground bends beneath the weight, yet it is hard with frost, rocks, and millions of years, but a dead man is so much heavier than one who lives, the sparkling memories have become dark, heavy metal. No one says anything. Guðmundur and his men stand motionless. They have taken off their woolen caps. Guðrún comes out the door, sees and then looks as if someone has punched her with a hard fist. Andrea has come into the hut, rushes up and then down again with brennivín, sweeps everything off the baiting table, they come in, lay Bárður on the table and the mountains above the huts whine. He lies with open eyes, stares upward, ice-cold, and yet does not want brennivín, wants nothing at all because he no longer is anything. Except for uncertainty. The cold had reached his heart, entered it, and then everything that had made him who he was vanished. The body that was strong, supple, and invincible in its youth is now ice-cold and, to be honest, problematic. Now it is necessary to bring him away, to his home, if in fact the dead, or their bodies, have some sort of home. Death changes everything. Selfishness was something no one could connect with Bárður while he lived with such brown eyes, but now his body lies on a baiting table and expects to be cared for, expects to be carried here or there, and besides that seems to blame his former shipmates and Andrea for living.