Read Online Heaven and Hell by Jón Kalman Stefánsson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jón Kalman Stefánsson
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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
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
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