Grettir the Outlaw 13

Grettir the Outlaw 13

A little way up this valley—not far, and not where it is most gloomy—are

now the scanty ruins of a farm called Thorhall’s-stead. Above this the

valley so contracts and the hills are so steep that it is only with

great difficulty that a horse can be led along. This I know very well;

for in crossing an avalanche slide my horse and I were almost

precipitated into the torrent below. Further up the valley stands a

tongue of high land with a waterfall on one side and the ravine on the

other, and here at one time some robbers had their fortress who were the

terror of the neighbourhood. No trace of their fortress remains at

present, but it was to find this place that I explored the valley.

 

In the farm that is now but a heap of ruins lived a bonder named

Thorhall and his wife. He was not a man of much consideration in the

district, for he was planted on cold, poor land, and his wealth was but

small. Moreover, he had no servants; and the reason was that his

sheep-walks were haunted.

 

Not a herdsman would remain with him. He offered high wages, he

threatened, he entreated, all in vain. One shepherd after another left

his service, and things came to such a pass that he determined to have

the advice of the law-man or chief judge at the next annual assize.

 

He saddled his horses and rode to Thingvalla. Skapti was the name of the

judge then, a man with a long head, and deemed the best of men for

giving counsel. Thorhall told him his trouble.

 

"I can help you," said Skapti. "There is a shepherd who has been with

me, a rude, strange man, but afraid of neither man nor hobgoblin, and

strong as a bull; but he is not very clear in his intellect."

 

"That does not matter," said Thorhall, "so long as he can mind sheep."

 

"You may trust him for that," said Skapti. "He is a Swede, and his name

is Glam."

 

Towards the end of the assize two gray horses belonging to Thorhall

slipped their hobbles and strayed; so, as he had no serving-man, he went

after them himself, and on his way met a strange-looking fellow, driving

before him an ass laden with faggots. The man was tall and stalwart;

his face attracted Torhall’s attention, for the eyes were ashen gray and

staring. The powerful jaw was furnished with white protruding teeth,

and about his low brow hung bunches of coarse wolf-gray hair.

 

"Pray, what are you called?" asked Thorhall, for he suspected that this

was the man Skapti had spoken about.

 

"Glam, at your service."

 

"Do you like your present duties—wood-cutting?" asked the farmer.

 

"No, I do not. I am properly a shepherd."

 

"Then, will you come with me? Skapti has spoken of you and offered you

to me."

 

"What are the drawbacks to your service?" asked Glam cautiously.

 

"None, save that my sheep-walks are haunted."

 

"Oh! is that all? Ghosts won’t scare me. Here is my hand. I will come

to you before winter."

 

They separated, and soon after the farmer found his horses; they had got

into a little wood, and were nibbling the willow tops. He went home,

having thanked Skapti.

 

Summer passed, then autumn, and nothing further was heard of Glam. The

winter storms began to bluster up the valley from the cold Polar Sea,

driving the flying snowflakes and heaping them in drifts at every turn

of the vale. Ice formed in the shallows of the river, and the streams

which in summer trickled down the sides were now turned to icicles. I

was there the very end of June, and then the whole of the mountain flank

to the west was covered with frozen streams spread like a net of icicle

over the black and red striped bare rock.

 

One gusty night a violent blow at the door startled all in the farm. In

another moment Glam, tall and wild, stood in the hall glowering out of

his gray staring eyes, his hair matted with frost, his teeth rattling

and snapping with cold, his face blood-red in the glare of the fire that

glowed in the centre of the hall.

 

He was well received by Thorhall, but the housewife did not like the

man’s looks, and did not welcome him with much heartiness. Time passed,

and the shepherd was on the moors every day with the flock; his loud and

deep-toned voice was often borne down on the wind as he shouted to the

sheep, driving them to fold. His presence always produced a chill in

the house, and when he spoke it sent a thrill through the women, who did

not like him.

 

Christmas-eve was raw and windy; masses of gray vapour rolled up from

the Arctic Ocean, and hung in piles about the mountain tops. Now and

then a scud of frozen fog, covering bar and beam with feathery

hoar-frost, swept up the glen. As the day declined snow began to fall

in large flakes.

 

When the wind lulled there could be heard the shout of Glam high up on

the hillside. Darkness closed in, and with the darkness the snow fell

thicker. There was a church then at Thorhall’s farm; there is none there

now, since the valley has been abandoned from its cold and ill name.

 

The lights were kindled in the church, and every snowflake as it sailed

down past the open door burned like a golden feather in the light.

 

When the service was over, and the farmer and his party returned to the

house, Glam had not come home. This was strange; as he could not live

abroad in the cold, and the sheep would also require shelter. Thorhall

was uneasy and proposed a search, but no one would go with him; and no

wonder, it was not a night for a dog to be out in, and the tracks would

all be buried in snow. So the family sat up all night listening,

trembling and anxious.

 

Day broke at last faintly in the south over the great white masses of

mountains. Now a party was formed to search for the missing man. A

sharp climb brought them to the top of the moor above Tongue. Here and

there a sheep was found shivering under a rock or half buried in a

snowdrift, but of Glam—not a sign.

 

Presently the whole party was called together about a spot on the

hilltop where the snow was trampled and kicked about, and it was clear

that some desperate struggle had taken place there. There the snow was

also dabbled with frozen blood. A red track led further up the mountain

side, and the searchers were following it when a boy uttered a shriek of

fear. In looking behind a rock he had come on the corpse of the

shepherd lying on its back with the arms extended. The body was taken

up and carried to the edge of the gorge, and was there buried under a

pile of stones, heaped over it to the height of about six feet. _How_

Glam had died, _by whom_ killed, no one knew, nor could they make a

guess.

 

Two nights after this one of the thralls who had gone for the cows burst

into the hall with a face blank from terror; he staggered to a seat and

fainted. On recovering his senses, in a broken voice he assured those

who were round him that he had seen Glam walking past him, with huge

strides, as he left the stable door. The shepherd had turned his head

and looked at him fixedly from his great gray staring eyes. On the

following day a stable lad was found in a fit under a wall, and he never

after recovered his senses. It was thought he must have seen something

that had scared him. Next, some of the women, declared that they had

seen Glam looking in on them through a window of the dairy. In the dusk

Thorhall himself met the dead man, who stood and glowered at him, but

made no attempt to injure his master, and uttered not a word. The

haunting did not end thus. Nightly a heavy tread was heard round the

house, and a hand groping along the walls, and sometimes a hand came in

at the windows, a great coarse hand, that in the red light from the fire

seemed as though steeped in blood.

 

When the spring came round the disturbances lessened, and as the sun

obtained full power, ceased altogether.

 

During the course of the summer a Norwegian vessel came into the fiord;

Thorhall went on board and found there a man named Thorgaut, who had

come out in search of work. Thorhall engaged him as a shepherd, but not

without honestly telling him his trouble, and what there was uncanny

about his sheep-walks, and how Glam had fared. The man did not regard

this, he laughed, and promised to be with Thorhall at the appointed

season.

 

Accordingly he arrived in autumn, and he soon established himself as a

favourite in the house; he romped with the children, helped his

fellow-servants, and was as much liked as his predecessor had been

detested. He was such a merry careless fellow that he did not think

anything of the risks that lay before him, and joked about them.

 

When winter set in strange sights and sounds began to alarm the folk at

the farm, but Thorgaut was not troubled; he slept too soundly at night

to be disturbed by the heavy tread round the house.

 

On the day before Yule, as was his wont, Thorgaut drove out the sheep to

pasture. Thorhall was uneasy. He said to him: "I pray you be careful,

and do not go near the barrow under which Glam was laid."

 

"Don’t fear for me," laughed Thorgaut, "I shall be back in time for

supper, and shall attend you to church."

 

Night settled in, but no Thorgaut arrived. There was little mirth at

table when the supper was brought in. All were anxious and fearful.

 

The wind was cold and wetting. Blocks of ice were driving about in the

bay, grinding against each other, and the sound could be heard far up

the valley. Aloft, the aurora flames were lighting up the heavens with

an arch of fire. Again this Christmas night the dwellers in the farm

sat up and did not go to bed, waiting for the return of Thorgaut, but he

did not arrive.

 

Next morning he was sought, and was found lying dead across the barrow

of Glam, with his spine and one leg and one arm broken. He was brought

home and laid in the churchyard.

 

Matters now rapidly became worse. Outbuildings were broken into of a

night, and their woodwork was rent and shattered; the house door was

violently shaken, and great pieces of it were torn away; the gables of

the house were also pulled furiously to and fro.

 

Now it fell out that one morning the only man who remained in the

service of the family went out early. Not another servant dared to

remain in the place, and this man remained because he had been with

Thorhall and with his father, and he could not make up his mind to

desert his master in his need. About an hour after he had gone out

Thorhall’s wife took her milking cans and went to the cow-house that she

might milk the cows, as she had now not a maid in the house, and had to

do everything herself. On reaching the door of the cow-house she heard

a terrible sound from within, the bellowing of the cattle, and the deep

bell-notes of an unearthly voice. She was so frightened that she

dropped her pails and ran back to the house and called her husband.

Thorhall was in bed, but he rose instantly, caught up a weapon, and hastened to the cow-house.