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FABULOUS BOOKS Ófeigur Sigurðsson A Novel of Jón

Novel

ÓFEIGUR SIGURÐSSON / A NOVEL OF JÓN

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Poet and author Ófeigur Sigurðsson (b.1975) has published six books of poetry and two novels.

Ófeigur is at the forefront of a poetic movement of dynamic young creative people, who have recently had a hand in reshaping the form of Icelandic poetry. He has translated literature and written for radio on writers including Louis-Ferdinand Céline and Michel Houellebecq.

Ófeigur´s poetic debut, Skál fyrir skammdeginu (Cheers to the Winter Darkness) was published by Nykur in 2001 and garnered attention for its dark undertones. In 2005 his first novel, Áferð (Texture), was published to critical acclaim.

AWARDS

Ófeigur was awarded the 2011 EU Prize for Literature (EUPL) for A Novel of Jon. The EUPL recognises the best new or emerging authors in the participating countries, according to a panel of judges in each country.

TRANSLATIONS

Translation rights of A Novel of Jón have been sold to Denmark (Gyldendal), Hungary (Libri Könyvkiadó), Bulgaria (Balkani Publishing House) and Czech Republic (Nakladatelství Dauphin).

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Novels:

Skáldsaga um Jón, 2010: Mál og menning

Áferð, 2005: Bjartur

Poetry:

Biscayne Blvd., 2009: Apaflasa

Provence í endursýningu, 2008: Apaflasa

Tvítólaveizlan, 2008: Nýhil

Roði, 2006: Nýhil

Handlöngun, 2003: Nýhil

Skál fyrir skammdeginu, 2001: Nykur

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A NOVEL OF JÓN (2011)

In 1755 Reverend Jón Steingrímsson from Skagafjörður travels south to Mýrdalur to look after his wife’s farm. He lies under suspicion of having murdered her former husband and has been expelled from his position at Reynisstaður Monastery. The South, however, is not a desirable place in which to dwell: Katla is erupting and Mýrdalur is shrouded in a cloud of ash, but Jón goes to live in a cave along with his brother and a farmhand.

In letters to his wife he describes the many things that happen to him that winter. He then receives a visit from the travelling companions Eggert and Bjarni, as well as Sheriff Skúli. He also reflects in his letters on the story of the love between him and Þórunn, which turned out to be so fateful.

Jón Steingrímsson is one of the most well-known clerics in the history of Iceland, the famous “fire priest” of the Skaftá eruptions. In this unique novel we meet him long before those renowned events.

214 pp.

REVIEWS

* * * * (four stars out of five)

“The style is masterful … Incredibly witty, sometimes hilarious, at times lyrical and always lucid, always fresh, a true reading experience… an artfully drafted text to an extraordinarily well-conceived story that mirrors reality, both then and now. Undoubtedly one of the best novels of the year.” (Fréttablaðið Newspaper)

“...extremely interesting novel, original and flawless. With the description of the character of the historical period, the author blends flight of fancy.” (Morgunblaðið Daily)

“So entirely well-composed that it gives us not only an excellent novel to read, but also insight into the ideas and movements that still leave their mark on our lives. At the same time it reminds us of nature, which giveseverything and spares nothing.” (Víðsjá, National Broadcasting Service)

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SAMPLE TRANSLATION (chapters 1-4)

“In the morning I went off to cut a tumor from a man.” (Autobiography of Jón Steingrímsson)

My precious wife, God’s dearest gift

It is only by God’s ample mercy that we brothers have reached the cave safely following our trip south over the highlands and hither into the darkness. That we should have survived is a blessing and a miracle; in the mountains we were caught in the most violent of storms. Beloved Þórunn, I will soon place these scribbled words of mine in the hands of a man who stopped here in Hellar; he says that he will be going to Skagafjörður sooner or later. The man is large and wears an enormous red woolen cassock, he carries an infant on his shoulders, sells books but is illiterate himself. These are his traits. His name is Kristófer and he promised to bring these pages to you. I gave him a rixdollar for his trouble. In other words, if you receive these trifles, it is proof that we survived the murderous snowstorm on Kjölur; we brothers have made it to Hellar.

The land is a single living creature. A body. And Þórunn, how painful it is to have had to part from you, with our blessed little one in your own body; may our good Lord be with you and the good midwife when the child wishes to come forth into our dreary earthly habitation. We must content ourselves with written messages for the time being and trust to those who travel the country despite the perilousness and cold of the weather and the harsh conditions in the North. Did not Sheriff Skúli mention some bearers/ couriers/ postmen/ letter carriers?… It may be that no one wishes to be a postman here in this country but for certain eccentrics and vagrants. It would be most pleasing if this were rectified, and I understand that Skúli is working on this matter somewhat with the counts in Copenhagen. There the postmen enjoy great respect and wear uniforms provided by the king’s tailor, with brass buttons and silk ribbons/ stiff caps/ a horse and a trumpet! These individuals are paid a good shilling for their journeys. And then there are the Taxis in Hamburg, who rush all over Germany!

Here in the South Katla pours fire and embers over Mýrdalur and so much sand and ash fall from the sky that it is totally dark at midday. In addition, the weather is wet and windy and heavy with snow and when this is all combined it is as if thick ink rains from the ashen cloud. Then the slushy skin hardens on the earth in the frost and dryness of the air, making the entire countryside appear as if cast in copper. The sands are spread evenly as they most often are during winters of heavy snow and the large black drifts turn the land into a glinting green desert. The ash blows and slips in through every crack and spoils the victuals. The livestock endures the mist poorly and all eyes sting. With God’s justice all of this will cease and blow away and be washed clean by rain and we will once again find ourselves in gentle spring pastures. Then I will put a dandelion in my hat and kiss you!

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Second Letter Kristófer is somewhere on his way over the highlands to Skagafjörður with my letter to you. This gigantic, kind man was a farmer at Litlaey on the Mýrdalur sands, but now his household has been broken up and he driven off. When he came here I wrote down his story, because he was then on his way out of the ashen cloud.

The farmer is working high on the slope of his island on the sands, repairing fences and looking after the sheep and has come a long way in composing a verse, it is precious and he expects it to be excellent, and then the earth starts hopping and hardening and softening by turns and the whole slope moves in waves, the ungathered mown grass turns over of its own accord and dries, he finds this a convenient arrangement and feels that God is rewarding him for his efforts in versifying, since in the poem he praises the Lord Jesus Christmus. Then he hears a horrendous booming and explosions as if from hundreds of cannons firing all at once; at first he thinks that the Turks have come, then that Doomsday has arrived, but it is in fact that damned Katla! From beneath the hem of the dress of her wrath she has started spewing gobs of mud and muddy water, and breaking forth from her crown is a cloud of fire that ascends to the heavens and there spreads itself out with thunder and lightning while the sky turns black as a coal pit and darkens the sun; then a violent flood gushes forth over the sands and rushes past both sides of Hafursey, splits the isle in two with a tumult and turmoil, an ominous rattle and clatter, and all the Mýrdalur sands become one bellowing river of tumbling ice floes; he hears a great crackle as if a huge page is being torn in two, then a booming and an intense rumbling, all is one giant clamor, the flood bursts forth and he sees this all from the slope on Litlaey, furthest south there on the sands, he sees the debacle heading toward him, tumbling hideously with a fearsome stench; Katla is going to kill them all, he thinks, and shouts: “You’re out for revenge now, you damned girl!” and he shakes his fist at theglacier, now it is do or die; in all of this Kristófer forgets his verse and tries with all his might to recall it so that he can die happily with it on his lips, but it sinks into oblivion; first Múlakvísl River sweeps away all the churches in the district, then the barns, then the farmhouses; the renowned old estate of Dyrskógar goes with a mighty roar into the flood, it had 50 doors of decorated iron and great handworks, and then the entire area north of Litlaey, immediately replaced by huge buildings of ice, transparent to the eye, an entire mirror-city casting from it strange and dizzying shapes and confusing all of nature; the poem is gone, Kristófer says his prayers, rushing from one to the next, then the flood wave hits Litlaey and the island shudders at the blow/ the water rises suddenly and digs itself ravenously up the slope/ tearing apart everything it meets/ the farmer says his prayers at double speed/ three at once/ jumping on both feet/ but the water rises faster and faster; then he looks to the houses, sees the water rushing around them, it snatches away the outbuildings at the same moment, 150 sheep are in the pasture and all the lambs, they are all swept away at one moment, the cattle sink bellowing into the glacial stream and it is an entirely pathetic sight, the debacle swallows everything it meets and then belches terribly, the farmer is shocked at this, and then the ice floes tumble in the turmoil, stuck in them are rocks and boulders, and in some places stand ancient trees, rotten and frozen hard as stone, on bare branches sit crows croaking old funeral hymns, now the debacle is on its way to the sitting room that Kristófer considered secure, inside it are all of his people and his mind turns quickly to the child, it sleeps in its cradle, the baby girl that his wife gave birth to the day before/ in the great earthquake/ it leapt out like a cork from a bottle/ landed on its feet/ then sat down and started to cry/ it hurts to enter the world / the woman feeds it with breast milk as Bjarni the Physicus General says should be

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done, he has prevented high numbers of infant deaths in Iceland and Bjarni the Physicus General is a true Icelandic saint! Then Kristófer runs down the slope and rushes into the house, the water floods in and sweeps away all the furnishings, there is a huge commotion, then he takes the infant in his arms and pushes against the stream to the exit, the mud streams over the father and his child and swiftly fills the rooms, it is viscous, heavy mud, all others are left there inside, including his most dearly beloved, immensely beautiful and magnificent wife, he calls to her from the passageway: “We shall meet in Heaven, my treasure, I love you with all my heart as God is my witness and all of the verses in my chest!…” She blows him a tearful kiss and vanishes into the flood, and Kristófer climbs furiously up onto the house, the baby in his arms, he sees that the house will soon sink and be flattened, then he dashes up to the highest point of the island and looks out over the sands and all of Mýrdalur and Katla appears on the verge of bursting and a black column of smoke ascends from it to Heaven: “Fair it is in the mountain hall, fair it is in Mýrdal!…” that’s my verse! it scratches at the surface, wants to be rescued, it’s God’s thanks, Kristófer takes half his joy and kisses the infant, the sands are all as one turbulent sea and then the verse sinks, he cannot remember what comes next, and then Litlaey is about to vanish in the water/ Kristófer stands with the child at the peak of the cliff/ on his big toe/ a long diseased nail that bends/ cracks open/ the abyss appears/ then he jumps onto an ice floe and father and daughter float aboard it out into the sea/ it happens quickly and they are immediately far from land/ they drift about the sea with nowhere to land/ first they sail with many other ice floes and then alone/ it turns dark as night and the sky dusty, Kristófer knows nothing of the time but it does pass by, then the baby grows hungry and shrieks as shrilly as a seabird, it has nothing to drink on the floe, so the farmer tries to get it to lick the ice, but the baby does not want to lick the ice, which contains sand and filth, one can’t simply offer infants anything and now things look desperate, he then rips off his nipple and suckles the infant, it rather cheers up at that, lives on blood over the next days, but they catch no sight of land, it is still dark and cold, the swell and desperation alone, Kristófer then cuts off his other nipple and continues to let the infant suckle from him and in that way keeps it alive, he licks the ice himself, they drift about the sea for many days and nights until the floe comes ashore at Meðalland, and then Kristófer walks with the child on his shoulders to Kirkjubæjarklaustur and gives it milk from the breast of someone there, the farmer’s chest is bandaged and many are amazed to see the nippleless man, he then takes a large mountaineer’s staff and walks with the infant on his shoulder over the Mýrdalur sands, the waters are subsiding after the flood and there are numerous huge ice floes on the sand, the size of boulders and lofty crags, it looks to him as if roads lay between them, then he feels as if there is a swarm of people there, a hustle and bustle and shops, horse-drawn carts and wagons drive around there noisily in such colors and shapes as the farmer from Litlaey has never seen: there is one a coppery green, another a glittering turquoise, a third indigo, a fourth ochre-colored and the fifth pink as frosting, the horses there are black and white and giant, on the squares the people are dressed genteelly, both women and men wearing ruffled dresses that creak and snap so loudly that no one can hear what the other is saying, the hats are all wide-brimmed and feathered while the boots are polished and set with gems, all of this gleams; the people adore life, converse among the fountains and all sorts of jets and gushes of water, there are angels and statues of all the gods of the world, there is a bombastic church the size of Litlaey, extending from it are spits of land and promontories and flying about it are large groups of ornamental pigeons, there is a dome the size of an ogress’ breast and towers like the Reynisdrangar sea stacks and beneath them children begging and dogs sniffing, thieves prowl the area in the midst of honest men, Kristófer

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feels that this most resembles being in Eyrarbakki, although he has never been there, nor read about it, has only heard it mentioned, but that is how the reflections deceive a weary traveler. At the end of the sands he fords Múlakvísl, which reaches up to his nostrils, its current heavy, the child’s toes are wetted as it sits on the farmer’s head and holds onto his thick locks, he is amazed at the baby’s weight and is on the verge of giving up, yet finally reaches firm ground after a difficult struggle and there catches his breath.

Kristófer then came to us in Hellar with the baby on his shoulder and received porridge and refreshments. After concluding his story the verse came out perfectly on his lips. I gave father and daughter woolen garments, pâté and whey, the letter to you and a salutary biscuit upon parting. I then sang a hymn and watched as they crossed the moors.

Third Letter

I think of you constantly, Þórunn, and you are with me in all that I do. It feels so very long to me since I left your embrace at Frostastaðir to come here to the south, although only a little over a month has passed.

Here in Hellar we brothers dwell in a small cave that was cut in the rock a thousand years ago by popish monks, Irish hermits who made caves throughout the South and lived here well and peacefully in the earth, before the settlement of the land by the Vikings; in evidence of this is a recess for a figurine facing the sea. The cave is comfortable, or I must convince you and my mother and all my womenfolk that it is, since it is hardly customary nowadays to live in caves. We find it rather amusing, my brother Þorsteinn and I, and my enemies in the north will find it a windfall of material by which to slander and defame me, when they hear of it, so I ask you, that if we brothers come up in conversation, be certain to tell them all that we scrape by in cramped quartersin a cave in the South, so that they have their fill in the anguish of their souls.

Or have the voices fallen silent? This winter Þorsteinn and I will put our all into constructing buildings, building up the

farm, preparing for your arrival here in Mýrdalur in the spring. In the meantime, the cave shelters us. The din of the surf is carried herein, Katla regularly shakes the floor and walls, over us towers the cloud of smoke, the instability constantly reminding us of the Creator, his power and will. I am able to do some writing here; we are plagued by no need, but enjoy privacy. We feel well, but miss your presence here sorely, making any effort at scholarship somewhat useless and empty.

The Reynir District is wild and violent. This I have heard and seen written. Yet most of the people of Mýrdalur have been tolerant of my stammer. My old leg injury flared up again on Kjölur, when a sharp earthquake cast me off my horse, and I still walk with a limp after the fall, especially in the morning. On occasion I need to support myself with my walking-stick. We began immediately to deepen the cave; it is located in a long, low hill of tuff that extends into a lagoon, the work was simple and easily completed with a crowbar. Þorsteinn cut ledges along the walls, giving us a convenient place to put things. I cut a little arched vault in Roman style at the back of the cave where I’ve set up a bed, bench, and little table. There I sit now, writing you my tristia melancolica, so to speak. Þorsteinn is sitting near the mouth of the cave, where we have built a wall and provided it with a door and window. The view from the cave is the Reynir beach and the wide sea.

When I, in the Lord’s humility, deprived of my benefice and my honor, lay a kind of blessing on the habitation, it was as if the lagoon lit up the darkness that every day hovers over us/ from below/ a sea-green light came to us/ from the water/ into the cave/ bright waves played on all the walls. Þorsteinn beheld this as well, although he seldom trusts his

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own senses, yet was now forced to do so. It became clear to us that “our sustenance this sixth winter of hardship will not be taken from the earth, but rather pulled from the sea,” as Þorsteinn, like an ancient sage, said, before reminding me that Jesus had been a fisherman and a carpenter. Þórunn, are those not the most noble occupations, and a perfect example?

There is excellent driftage here on the beach. Þorsteinn is an artisan and craftsman who teaches me something new every day. He made various improvements to the cave: for instance, over an opening in the eastern wall he put a frame that is possible to raise and lower at will. This piece of work is a combination of both a window and a chimney, with bellies stretched over the frame and softened with fish oil. He has riveted staves together to make one long one, reaching all the way to him in his bed; this staff he uses to raise and lower the window, and another to open and close the hatch up front. Þorsteinn can thus lie flat and with his staff regulate the strength of the fire and the heat and purity of the air and the humidity in the cave. This is so like him. By this, which appears to me to be his natural ability, we are able to maintain a decent fire in the fireplace day and night. We have enough fuel in driftwood, but Þorsteinn sometimes wants to burn seaweed and other debris from the beach as they do in Eyrarbakki; he finds the fragrance from it to be good and Christian: “…such smoke clears away devils and dirtbags,” he says.

We have plenty of books, even if we were to have had only one, because the word of God can never be read enough or known completely, or rather two, should I say, because I cannot get by without my Vídalín’s Sermons. Books are always a specific part of the luggage on my trips and it’s handy for me to have a special horse for them, my Book-Blaze, as he’s called. From the fire we receive sufficient light, in addition to each of us having his own lamp, and there is plenty of oil here in the area. Loads of whales are often seen from up here in the cave and the Netherlanders hunt them in their beautiful doggers. These hunts provide an enormous quantity of meat and oil. If only we could undertake whale hunting once more and sell the produce to the nations and spare them the trip hither to this country. But then we would lose the sight of the foreign ships. Ships also come from the West, no less grand and perfect. The whaling stations there are called New York, New Jersey and New Bedford; everything is new in the New World. The oil is of great use in the darkness of the world, or the double darkness that Katla pours out over us in God’s punishment. This would doubtless be a good place for storing up whale oil, not for profit or fame but rather to light the world; the need was often great, but now it is a necessity in this reminder of our wretchedness and God’s rebuke of man’s banality. I scarcely mentioned this idea of mine before I became the butt of humorous stories in the Reynir District and its clown; the spirit of the countryside is in the pitchblack

of the ash here in Mýrdalur, Þórunn, and we shall see what God wills. On bright days the view from the cave-spit to the sea is beautiful and well suited for

reading from the clouds whether the time is right for fishing. The cave-spit juts out westward into Dyrhólar Lagoon and is thus surrounded by water on three sides. There we brothers have a boat under construction, built from the driftwood that washes up on shore here. We have already completed a little seal-boat that has become our most necessary asset for fishing. We had the idea of piling stones in a ditch around the estuary, into the lagoon, but there appears to be little hope in this project; here the surf is more powerful than anywhere else in the country, constantly shaping the land according to itswhims. Yet there are two harbors nearby, Reynir Harbor and Dyrhólar Harbor, although boats capsize too often there upon landing and men drown at the water’s edge.

Our neighbors’ eyes open wide when they inquire of our situation in the cave and see the pile of driftwood that we’ve made, arranged neatly and sawed down and planed. Some

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of it is used for housebuilding and some for shipbuilding, so we don’t sit by idly. And there is plenty to do. My theological studies must not dwindle though I lost my deaconate in the north; I am going to perfect my essay On God’s Holy Laws, since many days it is not possible to be outside due to ash-fall from Katla excrementum, it farts its foul inner flora into the air, forcing us to wrap cloths around our noses and mouths.

Yet you need not fear coming hither to your country. God’s punishment will subside although it is substantial and the corruption of decadence is spread throughout the districts of the land, mainly here in Mýrdalur; often the punishing wand stings sharper than wrongdoers feel their crimes deserve, in order to purify the conscience and pave the way to the kingdom of God. I will therefore send for you when winter is at an end, a farm has been established, the earnings secure, God permitting: when the child has stepped into the world and you are all healthy enough for the journey; Katla silenced, the weather bearable. We have us and love conquers privation and hardship. Love conquers all!

Hopefully Þorsteinn will find himself a woman, although it would be painful to lose him. He is not very satisfied with the selection here in Reynir District. I ask him about it. He says he has his eye on Guðríður, the daughter of the magistrate, and another to the east of the sands, Freykatla… he’s been looking around!… Þorsteinn is mad for these mademoiselles, as for everything else.

Fourth Letter Sometimes God needs to bombard the earth with his cannons as he did in September. At that time the people had strayed from their path and God refreshes their memories to allow them to find their way. The question is: Where were you 11th September, 1755 years from the birth of the Redeemer in this world?… And folk can say precisely where they were, what they were doing, what they were thinking at that time, what they were looking at, how the weather was, whether the wind blew from the south or the north, whether it was sunny or cloudy, hot or cold, whether the birds were singing, what they heard, shouts of children, how they were dressed, what they were thinking, the smell, the spirit, the atmosphere... all as God stamped as a print of that moment in men’s mental libraries. It is an admonition.

Now two months have passed. It was the day after my 27th birthday, around 9 am, I was at home at Frostastaðir, inside with my books, and chatting with you— you doubtless remember it better than I, but this is how I see the image of God: we stood by the bookshelf in my study, you wearing a red skirt and an old rust-colored monastic cassock that you call your dress-cloak, I in a wide gray outfit and a blue cloak, because it was cold in there; we stood there and discussed whether we could tolerate staying in the North, the voices that whispered that we’d killed the convent steward had become more raucous and thoroughly oppressive. And when you told me about your farm out east here in Mýrdalur, Arngrímur the Learned sprang up with a blood-curdling howl; he had curled up beneath the table and slept there quietly at my feet as usual, but he burst forth and started barking into the air and whining and running along the walls. I asked Arngrímur what was wrong with him but he was beside himself and wanted out; you asked him whether he liked Mýrdalur so much that he wanted to go there immediately… we laughed and embraced each other/ I remember well the tingling that passed through my body/ your warmth/ we made our way to the bed/ then we heard in the other doorway/ a bellow/ a bleat/ a whinny/ a cackle/ one little snort/ all in this order/ you immediately drag me out of the farm and I become terribly frightened that a monster has come to the farm to rob us of

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our reason, that a phantom has been sent to us, but then: zomm! zomm! zomm! The earth started trotting like an old nag… When we saw how poorly everything was treated, the buildings and more, which I remember precisely, we understood the answer, that it was not for us to fight against surly voices in the North, but instead to move away. It is a great hand that moves us here to the south when the earth shakes, buildings collapse, snow does not melt, pack ice prevents provisions from reaching us, seabirds blow inland, the ice-flecked sea floods valuable land, destroying it, people start slandering me and you and my mother and our families— then no tenacity is so powerful that it predominates the voice of God: we must yield our independence; it is impossible for us to live in Skagafjörður; we are needed elsewhere.

It is so unbearably sad for me to have left you behind, pregnant, in the North, but it was our mutual decision. How I miss her, little Sigríður and all of the children, to be so far from your warmth. I hope that we have prepared sufficiently for the winter. In September, when Þorsteinn and I left, deadly cold, wet winter had already arrived, bringing destitution of the worst sort. The sixth winter of hardship has arrived, with sea ice blocking the autumn ships that splinter to pieces along with their cargo: rotten, maggoty grain, one more winter without fish and vagrant folk throughout the countryside, many in their need resorting to robbery and evildoing; farms go to waste, thieves and bandits multiply, I hope that it will not be like the last one, named Freezing Tempest; one is chilled to the bone just hearing its name. Freezing Tempest killed 50 thousand sheep with its intense storms and heaps of snow up until summer: when the hay failed the sheep chewed the wool off each other and horses ate their dead; thousands of people die of hunger and misery under these terrible conditions; these are bitter times, Þórunn, you at Frostastaðir, I in Hellar, between us all the highlands, Katla spews the guts of this desert high into the sky, so that God himself must join us across this over-expanse of land and pollution of the air. All of this stings me.

When I think of you, Þórunn, I think of God; it is my prayer that he bring my thoughts to you, and at the same time I feel as if I hear your voice, sweetest to me of all, coming from God. Will you send me some lines so that I know whether my letters were delivered? Kristófer must be able to make it to Skagafjörður; he planned to walk northward over Kjölur, under these conditions and with an infant in his care. The giant takes long strides and is good-hearted. There is some bustle here in Mýrdalur due to the volcanic eruption and glacial flood, mostly destitute folk on the move, in no position to be sent with letters over the highlands. Most go south to Eyrarbakki. There is one reason.

The ghost of Jón, the convent steward, hounds us: Satan’s envoys are here in the South as in the North; many here are nourished on the lie that grows ever fatter and juicier, the Devil is strewn about and settles like ash in the souls of men, making them thirst for the poison/ there he sits at the wheel/ amuses himself by wreaking havoc/ keeping the lies afloat/ creating discord between people/ and the miserable human soul/ the possessed wretch/ he has difficulty escaping the shadows/ in desperation is drawn to him/ gets some painful pleasure from it/ peace from self-pity/ with the pain of others/ because that is the only nourishment/ the slander/ and then the Devil besieges his rotten heart and snacks on it well and long…

Now I take my hand from the tablet, put down my pen and go out to do woodwork. The air boomed and the earth shook and jerked. Our dwelling was shaken so hard that

all the books fell to the floor, except for Jón Vídalín; he continued to stand there, cocky and constant, the fellow never moved, everything else left its place, household items, the beds came out of their frames, crawled away and the planks skipped around, it was as if my walking-stick went automatically around the room, practicing the rules of courtesy,

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doffed its hat, had a cup of tea, until it fell at my feet, thinking it could get my boots off me… such theatrics! Þorsteinn and I laughed and clapped our hands like children at the walking-stick’s art. But not everyone was as lucky as we brothers. The parish administrator, Jón Þorvarðarson, from Svínadalur in Skaftártunga, who was standing outside with a woman in the ashen darkness, was struck on the head by lightning, knocking him immediately dead to the ground, which was singed for one fathom around him. It astonished everyone who came there that the administrator’s garments were all whole, except that his vest was scorched, as well as his shirt, causing many people to suspect that it was stolen, yet it was not, because everything that burned was made of foreign material, while his outer garments that were untouched by the fire were made of Icelandic wool. When his clothing was removed fire shot out and nothing was left of the man but his powdered skeleton. Half of the face of the woman with him was burnt and all of her hair, as well as her clothing, she stood there half-naked and humiliated, while corposant or snowblink arose from her head like a powerful thermal at a bird-cliff; she survived it, very damaged, lying in her bunk and out of her mind. These tiny creatures could not tolerate the touch of God’s little finger, because their minds were stuck miserably in a cesspit. This was the strictest punishment for whoredom.

This day was dark and the air was stirred with thunderous flashes. I spoke to the farmhand when I was called for to bring ointment for the woman. Then a blaze of fire killed eleven horses in one fell swoop out by the farm, another lightning bolt crashed through a crag, bursting it and raining gravel and rocks over the farm, with such a huge boom that the house shook, the farmhand ran out to check on the beasts but was blinded by the light that shot down along the glacier from Katla Ravine, steaming straight toward him, then he noticed the parish administrator trying to take advantage of the dark to kiss the milkmaid, whom they were both fond of, but a thunderbolt suddenly struck the parish administrator on the head and knocked him to the ground, the farmhand was deafened momentarily by the rumbles that accompanied the light, but he saw the woman burning and screaming, enshrouded in sea-green ghost-light. The farmhand says that then he had been lifted up by a hand, which tossed him into the air and he beheld faint glimmers of light throughout the land in his night-flight and admired creation, until he landed upsidedown in a canal that he’d dug the day before and from which he had removed much of the sharp rock, making it difficult for him to know whether he should be thankful for his handiwork or berate himself. I said that he should be ashamed like Petrarch of old when he was astonished by nature, tend to your heart and virtue in regard to creation and count yourself blessed to experience such an omen and touch. On the other hand, before us lay the dead man like wood burned to ash and the disfigured, deranged woman. To her wounds I applied ointment from Bjarni the Physicus General; it eased her suffering and after two weeks she was fully recovered, but then she gave a start and and died. May they be preserved.

Translation: Phil Roughton

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RIGHTS Forlagið Publishing Bræðraborgarstíg 7 101 Reykjavík Iceland Tel: +354 / 575 5600 Fax: +354 / 575 5601 [email protected], [email protected] www.forlagid.is

CONTACT The Icelandic Literature Fund Austurstræti 18 101 Reykjavik Island [email protected] www.bok.is

Sagenhaftes Island Ministry of Science, Education and Culture Sölvhólsgötu 4 150 Reykjavík Iceland Tel: +354 / 545 9451 www.sagenhaftes-island.is

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