Seven Icelandic Short Stories Part 12

Arni started. His face turned red and his eyes protruded.

You would say that! You don't let me forget what a superior woman I married! Found it dead!--And Arni plumped down on the woodbox.

His wife laughed.

I'll wager I hit the nail on the head that time!

Arni jumped to his feet. That confounded old witch should not spoil his pleasure.

You're as stark, raving mad as you always have been. But I don't care what you say. Kids, come and look at the fox your father has shot.

Three days later they had a visitor. Arni stood outside and stared at him. For a wonder, somebody had at last found his way to Arni's.

Days and nights had pa.s.sed, but n.o.body had come. They always came when they weren't wanted. And now came Jon of Lon, that overbearing fellow! But now he could see that Arni of Bali was also a man among men.

Howdy, Arni, you poor fish! said Jon, fixing his steely gray eyes on Arni.

How are you, you old snake! answered Arni, smiling contemptuously.

What monstrous eyes Jon had when he looked at a person!

Has something special happened? You're somehow so puffed up today, said Jon with a sarcastic smile.

Darn him! muttered Arni. Was he going to act just like Groa? In that case, Arni had at least a trump card in reserve.

Did you say something? inquired Jon, sticking a quid of tobacco into his mouth. Or wasn't it meant for my ears? Oh, well, I don't care for your mutterings, you poor wretch. But now, go ask your wife to give me a little drink of sour whey.

Arni turned round slowly and lazily. Wasn't the old fellow going to notice the skin? It wasn't so small that it couldn't be seen. There it hung on the wall, right in the sunlight, combed and beautifully glossy.

That's quite a nice fox skin. Whose is it? asked Jon, walking over to the wall.

Arni turned round. He could feel his heart beating fast.

Mine, he said, with what calm he could muster.

What is the idea of you buying a fox skin, you poor beggar?

Buying? Arni sighed. You think I can't shoot me a fox?

You! Jon laughed. That's a downright lie, my dear Arni.

A lie! You'd best not tell people they lie unless you know more about it. A scoundrel like you, I say, a scoundrel like you! replied Arni, swelling. I think you'd better be getting in and see her. You know her pretty well, I believe.

Jon looked at the farmer of Bali with his steely eyes.

For whom are you keeping the skin, Arni?

No one, said Arni, crossly; then after some hesitation: The Lord gave it to me.

All right, Arni. Miracles never cease. That is plain enough after this, and no question about it. That's an eighty-crown skin, however you came by it. But now let's go in and see Groa. As you say, I know her pretty well. She was a smart girl, you poor wretch. Too bad I was married and had to throw her to a creature like you.

Arni grinned and, trotting to the door of the house, called: Groa, a visitor to see you.

The woman came to the door. A smile played about her lips, smouldering embers glowed in her blue eyes, and the sunlight lighted up the unkempt braids of golden hair which fell down about her pale cheeks.

But Arni for once was satisfied. At last Jon was properly impressed.

The affair between Groa and Jon was something that could not be helped. Jon surely regretted having lost that girl! Yes, indeed! And she had her good points. She was smart, and a hundred crowns a year, besides everything else that was brought them from Lon, was pretty good compensation. Yes, many a man had married less well than Arni of Bali. And the children were his, most of them, anyway. n.o.body need tell him anything else.

The fox skin became Arni of Bali's most cherished possession. Every day, when the weather was clear, he would hang it, well smoothed and combed, on the outside wall, and when he left home he carefully put it away in a safe place. The skin became famous throughout the district, and many of the younger men made special trips to Bali to examine it. Arni would beam with joy and strut around with a knowing, self-satisfied expression on his face, and would tell of the patience, the agility, and the marksmanship he had to put into killing this monstrously clever fox. It certainly wasn't hard to kill all you wanted of these devils, if you just had the powder and shot and were willing to give your time to it, he would say, as he turned the skin so that the sunlight shone full on the glossy pelt.

Then one day that fall, Arni came home from tending the sheep, which had just been brought down from the mountain pastures. He hung the skin out and went into the kitchen, where Groa was busy washing, sat down on a box by the wall on the other side of the room, let his head rest on his hands, and looked wise. For a while there was silence. At last Groa looked up from her washtub and gave Arni a piercing glance.

Have you got your eye on a cow to replace the greyspotted one we killed last spring?

Cow? asked Arni, scratching his head. Cow? Yes, so you say, my good woman.

So I say? Do you think the milk from Dumba alone goes very far in feeding such a flock of children as we have? You haven't gone and squandered the money we got for Skjalda? asked Groa, looking harder still at her husband.

Don't be foolish, woman! The money lies untouched at the factor's.

But he wouldn't pay much for the meat and hide of Skjalda, not anywhere near enough to buy a good milking cow. He said the English on the trawlers don't set much store by cow's meat. The summer has been only so-so, and I'm sure we'll have plenty of uses for what money I've been able to sc.r.a.pe together. Of course, a cow is a good thing to buy, an enjoyable luxury, if only you have plenty of money.

If you can't sc.r.a.pe together the money for a cow, we must cut expenses somehow. Perhaps you could stop stuffing your nostrils with that dirty snuff? And you ought at any rate to be able to sell that fancy fox skin you play with so childishly.

Is that so!

Yes, you play with that wretched fox skin just exactly like any crazy youngster.

Wretched is it? Take care what you say, woman! Wretched skin! A fine judge of such matters you are!--And standing up, Arni paced the kitchen floor.--An eighty-crown skin! And you call it wretched! Jon of Lon didn't call it any names. You'll believe at least what he says.

Now, don't get puffed up. You ought to be thankful to get what you can for the skin. It will help in buying the cow.

The cow? Let me tell you, woman, that I am not going to buy a cow for the skin. You can take it from me that you will never get a cow for that skin. Or anything else, in fact. The farmer at Lon can sh.e.l.l out whatever is needed for buying the cow. That's the least he can do for you.

Groa stopped her washing, stared for a few seconds at Arni, and then with a quick movement walked up to him, brandishing a bit of wet linen.

Will you tell me what you're going to do with the skin? she asked, almost in a whisper.

Arni shrank back. The way to the door was cut off. He raised his arm in self-defence and retreated as far as possible into the corner.

I'm going to sell it. Now be reasonable, Groa. I'm going to sell it.

And what are you going to buy for it? his wife hissed, boring into him with her eyes.

A cow. I'm going to buy a cow for it.

You lie! You know you're not going to sell it. You're going to play with it. Know your children hungering for milk and play with the skin!

My children?