The Shape of Fear [26]
and another from Winnipeg? Not even Ingeborg can deny that Mother Urda tells true things. "To-day," says Urda, standing by the little window and watching the dance of the shadows, "a child breathed thrice on a farm at the West, and then it died." The next week at the church gathering, when all the sledges stopped at the house of Urda's granddaughter, they said it was so -- that John Christianson's wife Margaret never heard the voice of her son, but that he breathed thrice in his nurse's arms and died. "Three sledges run over the snow toward Milton," says Urda; "all are laden with wheat, and in one is a stranger. He has with him a strange engine, but its purpose I do not know." Six hours later the drivers of three empty sledges stop at the house. "We have been to Milton with wheat," they say, "and Christian Johnson here, carried a photographer from St. Paul." Now it stands to reason that the farmers like to amuse themselves through the silent and white winters. And they prefer above all things to talk or to listen, as has been the fashion of their race for a thousand years. Among all the story-tellers there is none like Urda, for she is the daughter and the grand- daughter and the great-granddaughter of story- tellers. It is given to her to talk, as it is given to John Thorlaksson to sing -- he who sings so as his sledge flies over the snow at night, that the people come out in the bitter air from their doors to listen, and the dogs put up their noses and howl, not liking music. In the little cabin of Peter Christianson, the husband of Urda's granddaughter, it some- times happens that twenty men will gather about the stove. They hang their bear-skin coats on the wall, put their fur gauntlets underneath the stove, where they will keep warm, and then stretch their stout, felt-covered legs to the wood fire. The room is fetid; the coffee steams eternally on the stove; and from her chair in the warmest corner Urda speaks out to the listening men, who shake their heads with joy as they hear the pure old Icelandic flow in sweet rhythm from between her lips. Among the many, many tales she tells is that of the dead weaver, and she tells it in the simplest language in all the world -- language so simple that even great scholars could find no simpler, and the children crawling on the floor can understand. "Jon and Loa lived with their father and mother far to the north of the Island of Fire, and when the children looked from their win- dows they saw only wild scaurs and jagged lava rocks, and a distant, deep gleam of the sea. They caught the shine of the sea through an eye-shaped opening in the rocks, and all the long night of winter it gleamed up at them, like the eye of a dead witch. But when it sparkled and began to laugh, the children danced about the hut and sang, for they knew the bright summer time was at hand. Then their father fished, and their mother was gay. But it is true that even in the winter and the darkness they were happy, for they made fish- ing nets and baskets and cloth together, -- Jon and Loa and their father and mother, -- and the children were taught to read in the books, and were told the sagas, and given instruction in the part singing. "They did not know there was such a thing as sorrow in the world, for no one had ever mentioned it to them. But one day their mother died. Then they had to learn how to keep the fire on the hearth, and to smoke the fish, and make the black coffee. And also they had to learn how to live when there is sorrow at the heart. "They wept together at night for lack of their mother's kisses, and in the morning they were loath to rise because they could not see her face. The dead cold eye of the sea watching them from among the lava rocks made them afraid, so they hung a shawl over the window to keep it out. And the house, try as they would, did not look clean and cheerful as it had used to do when their mother sang and worked about it. "One day, when a mist rested over the eye of the sea, like that which one beholds on the eyes of the blind, a greater sorrow came to them, for