The sty was made of wood and tarred like the houserooms of noblemen, and at one end lay the man who tended the animals, Jes Ló by name, an occasional warehouseman, Túre Narvesen’s friend and companion from Bremerholm. The general public distrusted the man who raised such animals in the land where humans and their children gave up and died of emaciation by the hundreds and thousands in the spring. Túre Narvesen knocked on the door using a special code his friend recognized and was let in, but the squire had to wait outside. They chatted together in the sty for a considerable amount of time and the squire started to get restless, but the shutters were well-drawn, so he had no choice but to start shouting and cursing again, and to threaten them with murder and fire. Túre Narvesen finally came out. He was incredibly downcast and said that the deputy clerk Jes Ló had turned a deaf ear to his case; everything here was shut and sealed according to the king’s command and there was no brennivín to be had for gold—Jes Ló’s message to him was that it would be best for the Icelanders to go to their countryman Arnesen and get from him whatever brennivín they felt they needed. The squire asked Túre to tell the swineherd he would receive land in Selvogur. Túre said that the swineherd could care less about owning land. The squire said that the swineherd should name his price. Túre Narvesen reluctantly agreed to try to pit himself once more against the swineherd, and the squire seized his opportunity and pushed his way into the pigsty after him.
The condition of Jes Ló’s flesh was not unlike that of the animals he tended and he smelled about the same as they did. He lay on a bunk in a corner of a platform, the creatures behind a grate close by: the boar in one corner, the sow in another with twelve piglets, several young swine in the third. The thriving livestock were awake and grunting. No Icelander could stand their stench, but since the squire could smell nothing he grabbed the swineherd and kissed him. The door stood open; outside were sea and moon. The swineherd said that even the most cunning thief couldn’t get into the warehouse, since that devil’s Iceland-dog Arnesen had put the king’s seal, doubtless falsified, on all the doors except for the secret door from the booth-cellar, and no one had the key to that except for the merchant, and he slept with it. Squire Magnús Sigurðsson continued to offer property and privileges, but this had no effect: no one put any stock in his possessions and no one knew exactly who owned his property, he himself, or brennivín-dealers in various parts of the land, or maybe even the magistrate his father-in-law. The squire said it would be most appropriate if he were to kill them both. Túre Narvesen gave Jes Ló a collusive look and said shrilly, with false, fricative humility:
“My brother has heard that his benevolent lord has one possession that is still said to be in his custody, unsold and unpledged, and that this would be, namely, his praiseworthy and virtue-bedecked wedded wife—”
At the mention of this woman things changed—without any further discussion, the squire jammed his fist into Túre Narvesen’s nose. Túre Narvesen abandoned courtesy and struck back. Then they started to fight. Magnús Sigurðsson took no precautions and tried his best to mutilate the man. Jes Ló crawled out of his bunk, hitched up his breeches, and joined in punching the squire. They flew at it for quite some time, and in the end they managed to bring down the squire, but he was so enraged that it was out of the question to try to talk sense into him without tying him down. They uncoiled a rope and after some effort were able to bind the man’s hands and feet, then they pushed him through the grating to join the pigs. The cavalier shouted and rolled over several times in the dung-trough, but couldn’t get himself loose. The swineherd handed the murderer Túre Narvesen a butcher’s knife and ordered him to guard the ruffian while he stepped out. Túre stood at the railing and engaged in pulling hair from the scoundrel, drawing the hair along the edge of the blade, or whetting the knife blade carefully on the palm of his hand. Once again he became his old courteous self, singing the praises of the squire and his wife for their probity and virtue and excellent lineage, but the captive squire continued shouting in the dung-trough; the pigs were stricken with terror and flocked together and entangled themselves one on top of the other in the corner of the sty. Finally the swinekeeper returned. He had returned with an eight-pot cask of brennivín, along with a flask. He set the cask down on the platform next to the grating, and he and Túre took turns drinking from the flask. The squire received nothing.
When the two companions had finished amusing themselves to their hearts’ content, Túre said to the squire:
“Our friend Jes Ló is eager to sell his venerable lord this cask, but regarding this matter papers must first be written, for brennivín is at the present time dearer than gold and whoever trades in it does so under the threat of losing his skin or being sentenced to prison at Bremerholm.”
“Give me a drink,” said the squire softly, when he finished shouting—“and after that you can cut off my head.”
“Oh, we would never stoop to such a trade, even if the times were tough. And we would certainly never venture to cut a nobleman’s head from him, unless we were forced. What a stroke!” said Túre Narvesen. “On the other hand, I shall here scratch out a little contract upon paper which we shall afterward validate with our signatures.”
Jes Ló brought forth the writing implements that he had fetched along with the brennivín, and Túre Narvesen sat writing for a long time with a plank upon his knees for a desk. Jes Ló sat by in the meantime and sipped on brennivín. After prolonged exertion the document was completed and Túre Narvesen stood up and started to read, while behind him the incredibly fat swineherd stood grinning sarcastically.
The letter began with the words “In nomine domini amen salutem et officia,”* witnessing to the fact that its writer had at one time served the bishop, and continued afterward in the solemn, refined, and devout style characteristic of this particular murderer. It stated, as follows, after having specified the exact number of years that had passed since the birth of God, that there had, out in the country named Iceland, in the merchant’s pigsty at the trading station Ørebakke, come together three worthies, the honorable Monsieur Magnes Sívertsen, cavalier and squire at Brødretunge, the august and cultivated gentlemen Jens Loy, tradesman, clerk, and supervisor of the station’s especial Danish stock, and the widely traveled artisan and erudite poet Túre Narvesen, former subdeacon to Schalholt, now royal cooper and polity-master for the Handel company, who had arranged to execute the following authoritative and authorized missive and charter, which they, postulating the grace of the Holy Spirit as guarantor, have sworn to adhere to in all points and articles and which by no man shall be violated excepting His Most Gracious Sire the King, with the full consent of his kingdom, and containing the matter given as follows: The cask of brennivín that stands on the platform between the parties shall be the lawful and inviolate possession of the aforementioned cavalier and squire M. Sívertsen, in exchange for which the same respectfully mentioned shall immediately upon the signing of this deed fulfill for the aforementioned gentlemen the following articulated proviso, being as such: that he readily and graciously lend and relinquish to the repeatedly and respectfully mentioned upright and cultivated gentlemen Jens Loy and Túre Narvesen, for complete and matrimonial coition for three nights item* three days his, Squire Sívertsen’s, in virtue of her beauty, artistry, and pedigree, and renowned as the finest match throughout the land, most dearly beloved, his own probity-loving and virtue-bedecked wedded wife, spouse, and housemistress, Snæfríður Björnsdóttir Eydalín, and shall the cavalier Monsieur M. Sívertsen simultaneous to this deed issue therewith his own missive and attestation styled according to this his own afore- and respectfully mentioned etcetera—
When the recitation reached this point the cavalier was heard to say:
“In those eyes heaven itself has descended. I know I lie bound in filth.”
—maintaining the understanding, the missive continued, that just as the brennivín in the heretofore named cask is hereby proclaimed to be a singularly genuine and pure brennivín, at precisely the correct degree of strength though not watered down in the least, so also shall Squire M. Sívertsen’s wife exhibit to the missive’s deliverers, perfectly and completely, a generous and Christian reception, refraining from riot and unquiet, extending to them absolute tractability, benevolence, and determined optimism, and therewith granting to them all that belongs to the household, especially soured tripe, ram’s testicles, and butter from the churns, no less than if they were each in his own right, and both at once, her probity-loving honor’s true and affectionate wedded husbands—
“The stars shine wreathlike about her brow,” said the cavalier. “I know that I am leprous, lice-ridden Iceland.”
The two gentlemen paid no heed to the squire’s interjection, and Túre continued reading until the missive stated, in conclusion, that this contract should be as confidential as it was clear according to the agreements of great men, so that neither the common mob nor begging-creatures could get hold of the three partners between their teeth, and on the other hand so that none of them would find himself molested or demoralized by having his reputation come under the attack of indefensible prosecutors, and that this single copy of the missive should by its writer be housed, stored, and protected. Affixing here below our signatures as testimonial and thorough attestation to all the aforewritten—
The captive was no longer crying, shouting, or tossing about. Instead he lay calmly and silently on the floor of the sty, the cask no more than an arm’s length away beyond the bars. Finally he rose halfway, still bound, and looked straight up at the ceiling of the sty. His face was twisted in a grimace and the nape of his neck arched over onto his back as he addressed the one who dwells above:
“God, even if I were to spit in your face in the doorway of your church on Good Friday, still I know: it is you.”
Then he fell back down to the floor and said, low-voiced, to the men:
“Give me the cask.”
They said that the one and only condition was that his name be affixed to the bottom of the contract. He said it should be so. Then they released him. He signed his name to the missive in several quick strokes as the pen spurted ink. Túre Narvesen signed his own name next, in a staid hand quite unsuited to his large fists, but the swineherd Jes Ló made a cross, since he was illiterate, like most Danes; afterward Túre attested his name beneath the cross. In the end they handed the cask to the cavalier, and he immediately set it to his lips.
He drank for some time, then looked around and discovered that his business partners were gone. He had now become perchance like many others who finally acquire their most desired treasure of treasures: he was disappointed. He stood up stiffly. He sauntered dizzily from the swinehouse out into the trading station, cask in hand. There was a smell of kelp and a white light from the moon. He called out for the others, but they were nowhere near. He tried to run, without knowing which way to go, but his legs were sluggish and the earth stood on end; in the next instant he found himself lying horizontal, his cheek in the dirt, without having felt himself fall. Then the earth tilted away from him again. He tried to walk steadily, but the earth continued to surge. Finally he sat down beneath a house-gable, leaned his back against the wall, and waited until the earth settled back in its place. He drooped his head and mumbled about the chief courtiers, knights, bailiffs, poets, pilgrims to Jerusalem, and notaries who were his verifiable forefathers. He did not resemble a man, even less a beast. He called himself the lowest thing a mortal creature could be and the greatest aristocrat in Iceland. In the end all he could do was start to sing the sad passion-hymns and death-prayers his mother had taught him in his youth.
Now the story turns to the other party, the two lucky men who had bought the man’s wife. They ran off with the papers in their hands. The night was completely still. A thousand little turf-roofed farms cowered down upon the earth—not, however, out of irreconciliation with the sky. One by one the dogs howled. The swineherd had concealed the flask of brennivín under his jacket, in case the men needed to lift their spirits now that there was such important work at hand. They had determined to rush to Bræðratunga straightaway that night with the contract, since the Dane said that women were hottest in the morning. They were both in the grips of that blessed condition of the soul when the realization of a plan seems as simple as its formulation. Horses were the only things they lacked, but luckily there were enough of them in the pastures and they set off to choose their mounts. Here there were both hobbled cargo-nags from faraway places and studhorses grazing alongside the creek, but the horses didn’t take well to the men, especially the Dane, and sauntered away, refusing to acquiesce. Finally Narvesen was able to catch two horses and get ropes around them, but since there was no riding gear handy they had no other choice but to ride bareback. Of course the Icelander, like most others, had mastered this art, but the Dane had never once been on a horse, neither bareback nor in a saddle, and since he was a corpulent man and past his best years, and quite drunk besides, it was difficult for him to climb up onto the animal’s back, but he finally succeeded by stepping up off a high hillock. When he found himself up so high, however, he began to swoon, and subsequently became almost completely sober. He was sure the horse would either fall sideways or head-over-heels, and then he, its rider, would vault off at a horrific speed and thus lose his life. Every movement the horse made put the man in mortal danger. He implored his companion to go slowly, stretched himself forward along the horse’s back, and grabbed its neck with a death-grip. Túre Narvesen said they had a long way to go and had to ride hard, and that they would also have to wade the horses across great rivers to shorten their journey if they expected to reach Bræðratunga by morning, when their wedded wife, whom they jointly owned, would still be warm in bed.