The Sorrow of Angels by Jón Kalman Stefánsson

Author:Jón Kalman Stefánsson [Stefánsson, Jón Kalman]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Quercus Publishing
Published: 2013-09-17T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter VI

A man can stand upright a long time if it’s a question of life and death; the will to live is almost immeasurable and Jens has been on his feet this entire trip, seven hundred metres upward, up into snow and frost, heavy wind, towards a threatening sky and then down again, sinking into the whiteness at every step, pulling the mare up from depressions, as thirsty as if in the desert, weary after the long postal journey from Dalir, the gentle countryside where his father is bowing to time and his sister is a bright summer day; when is Jens coming? she asks thirty times a day, forty times a day, and her father looks apprehensively out into the storm that’s swallowed bigger bites than one postman; this entire way Jens has stood on his feet, unbowed, only supported himself on the mare the final kilometre, when the cold of the sea inside him stripped him of all his strength. But they’ve come to a house; not to their final destination, of course, existence isn’t so generous, but to a place to rest, and for this reason it’s not entirely vital that he stand upright, it won’t be certain death to relax for a brief moment. Jens lets go of the horse, strokes it, thanks it, goes up to the house, slowly but perfectly straight-backed, steps into the stillness and then it’s as if both legs have been shot out from under him and he is nothing but a shapeless heap on the floor. Damn it, where’s your dignity; aren’t I more of a man than this? he thinks. The boy has entered and knelt down by Jens before Kjartan realises what’s happened; he’d been so sincerely relieved and grateful to the night for sending him company, but then one of the men is lying as if dead on the floor; in no way fit for conversation. Kjartan grows suddenly angry, but then regains his composure and feels responsible; these men have in all likelihood brought the post over the heath, and done so in this weather. God help us all, says Reverend Kjartan out loud, yet involuntarily; the days have unfortunately passed and lie far distant when he believed sincerely and with pure faith that man could expect help from God. Jens tries to curse, but it turns out to be little other than an indistinct murmur; yet he does manage to mutter, see to The Grey, loud enough for the boy to hear, before falling silent. The storm pummels the house and a bit of it is sucked in through the doorway. Kjartan looks down at the men. He hadn’t been able to sleep, which is nothing new; sleep eludes him far too often; it seems not to matter how tired he is when he lies down, as soon as he shuts his eyes he’s wide awake. He tosses and turns, reels off prayers and old rhymes, tries to calm his mind and entice sleep to

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