Read Online World Light by Halldór Laxness - Free Book Online
Authors: Halldór Laxness
Tags: nonfiction
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gaped at the battle and clapped her hands every time one of them seemed about to get the better of the other, squealing with delight and alarm rather like a wild mare. But she moved farther and farther down the stairs the lower the breeches slipped down the brothers’ buttocks; her eyes became wilder and wilder, and now instead of screaming she gasped. Finally she had disappeared down the hatchway entirely except for her eyes.
The boy, Ólafur Kárason, had been sitting at the far end of the loft, swallowing his pickled tripe after his morning work in the barn. But when he realized that the fighting was in deadly earnest, he stopped looking at what was going on, for fear that he might somehow be involved in the struggle and punished. He sat in the corner of his bed, quivering with neutrality, and concentrated on his food with all his might.
Finally the younger brother, Júst, lay on the floor and could not get up again, with the elder brother, Jónas, on top of him, his backside in the air.
“I could do with a knife for this damned skirt-lifter,” the elder brother hissed between his teeth, not forgetting to mention the rather special use to which he wanted to put the knife under these particular circumstances.
Ó. Kárason drew his legs in and shrank into a huddle, and forgot to chew his black-pudding or to close his eyes. And just at that moment, Jónas commanded, “Ólafur, get me that knife under the rafters there, or I’ll kill you!”
The boy had no time for any moral or other reflections. The reflex of obedience overwhelmed everything else. With a convulsive start he pushed away his bowl, reached up, and drew the knife out from under the rafters. It was a butcher knife.
But as he was handing Jónas the butcher knife the maiden Kristjána, who had almost disappeared down the hatchway a short time ago, suddenly leapt back into the loft again, this time with real terror in her face as if she had fully understood, despite her youth, the questionable side of the particular operation that the elder brother felt himself constrained to perform upon his younger brother. With the maiden’s understanding of this central point, the Judgment of Solomon was given. The tears welled up in her eyes. She threw herself down on her knees in front of the brothers and put her arms around the neck of the victor.
“Dearest darling Jónas,” she begged, “I beseech you by all that is most sacred, do it to me instead!”
At that, Jónas released his younger brother, dropped the butcher knife on the floor, fastened his underpants, took the girl into bed and embraced her, and drew the bedclothes up over them.
What would now have been more natural and obvious than for the younger brother, Júst, to pick up the knife from the floor and turn with single-minded purpose on his brother and the girl in the bed? But no, that is not what he did. Certainly, he stood up and reached for the knife, but he paid no attention to what was going on in the bed. Instead he turned toward Ólafur Kárason of Ljósavík. He took his time; he hitched his trousers up with great care, and then walked with magnificent restraint to the far end of the loft, and stopped in front of the boy.
“And now we’ll just chop your head off, my friend,” he said, in that warm, loving tone that people use when they have an enemy at their mercy.
The ice-cold anguish of death pierced through Ólafur Kárason of Ljósavík: first through his spine, then through all his nerves, into all his limbs and out to his fingertips, for now he knew that his last moment had come and that he would never again be able to stand at his bay and look at the waves breaking as they came in. Almighty God had forsaken him—that is all one gets for being neutral. Brother Júst took hold of him calmly with one hand, laid his head on the edge of the bed, and made ready to cut his throat there and then.
But by God’s grace, just as these momentous events were about to take place, the foster
The boy, Ólafur Kárason, had been sitting at the far end of the loft, swallowing his pickled tripe after his morning work in the barn. But when he realized that the fighting was in deadly earnest, he stopped looking at what was going on, for fear that he might somehow be involved in the struggle and punished. He sat in the corner of his bed, quivering with neutrality, and concentrated on his food with all his might.
Finally the younger brother, Júst, lay on the floor and could not get up again, with the elder brother, Jónas, on top of him, his backside in the air.
“I could do with a knife for this damned skirt-lifter,” the elder brother hissed between his teeth, not forgetting to mention the rather special use to which he wanted to put the knife under these particular circumstances.
Ó. Kárason drew his legs in and shrank into a huddle, and forgot to chew his black-pudding or to close his eyes. And just at that moment, Jónas commanded, “Ólafur, get me that knife under the rafters there, or I’ll kill you!”
The boy had no time for any moral or other reflections. The reflex of obedience overwhelmed everything else. With a convulsive start he pushed away his bowl, reached up, and drew the knife out from under the rafters. It was a butcher knife.
But as he was handing Jónas the butcher knife the maiden Kristjána, who had almost disappeared down the hatchway a short time ago, suddenly leapt back into the loft again, this time with real terror in her face as if she had fully understood, despite her youth, the questionable side of the particular operation that the elder brother felt himself constrained to perform upon his younger brother. With the maiden’s understanding of this central point, the Judgment of Solomon was given. The tears welled up in her eyes. She threw herself down on her knees in front of the brothers and put her arms around the neck of the victor.
“Dearest darling Jónas,” she begged, “I beseech you by all that is most sacred, do it to me instead!”
At that, Jónas released his younger brother, dropped the butcher knife on the floor, fastened his underpants, took the girl into bed and embraced her, and drew the bedclothes up over them.
What would now have been more natural and obvious than for the younger brother, Júst, to pick up the knife from the floor and turn with single-minded purpose on his brother and the girl in the bed? But no, that is not what he did. Certainly, he stood up and reached for the knife, but he paid no attention to what was going on in the bed. Instead he turned toward Ólafur Kárason of Ljósavík. He took his time; he hitched his trousers up with great care, and then walked with magnificent restraint to the far end of the loft, and stopped in front of the boy.
“And now we’ll just chop your head off, my friend,” he said, in that warm, loving tone that people use when they have an enemy at their mercy.
The ice-cold anguish of death pierced through Ólafur Kárason of Ljósavík: first through his spine, then through all his nerves, into all his limbs and out to his fingertips, for now he knew that his last moment had come and that he would never again be able to stand at his bay and look at the waves breaking as they came in. Almighty God had forsaken him—that is all one gets for being neutral. Brother Júst took hold of him calmly with one hand, laid his head on the edge of the bed, and made ready to cut his throat there and then.
But by God’s grace, just as these momentous events were about to take place, the foster
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