Independent People by Halldor Laxness

THAT spring, at about the same time Bjartur finished rebuilding the ruined farmhouse at Urtharsel-it was the same sort of farmhouse he had built once before, the sort of farmhouse that is built by instinct-the Bailiff of Utirauthsmyri bought back his winter sheep-cotes for the price of the mortgages with which they were encumbered. Most people considered that he had made a good bargain. His intention was to turn Summerhouses into a huge fox-farm, because it was growing daily more and more obvious that the country's worst enemy was no longer the fox, the country's worst enemy was the sheep. Bjartur in the meantime had moved his stock and his household goods away up north into Sandgils-heath, and there was now nothing of his left on the place except the old woman, whom he proposed to convey to Urtharsel on his return from town. He was making his first trip to town under the name Bjartur of Urtharsel, his son in company with him. This man was now so deeply in debt to the co-operative stores that he wasn't allowed even a handful of rye meal on his own account. He was allowed a horse-load of goods in the name of Hallbera Jonsdottir, widow, after producing written authority. It was useless to indulge in threatening language, useless to revile anyone, for no one had time to listen to threats or to hurl back abuse, unless indeed some pack-horse boy told one to keep one's mouth shut. And there was no point in punching anyone on the nose, because somehow or other it was always the wrong nose that got punched. He had sold his two better horses to buy timber for the new living-room at Urtharsel, and now all he had left was a twenty-six-year-old wreck called Blesi, whom we have met before. We remember him from the old days, when we attended a funeral at Summerhouses, yes, a long time ago; he stood tied to the doorpost on a winter's day and gazed in while old Thorthur of Nithurkot sang. Many are the things that can befall a horse. This horse had lived in Summerhouses for as long as Bjartur had farmed it, the only horse in the lean years, one of several when times were good, but now once more the only horse, bony, drooping, mangy, bald, and with a cataract in one eye; poor old nag; but he had a stout heart like Bjartur.

They were late in reaching Fjord, and the crofter felt that it would be too much of a strain on Blesi to make him do the return journey the same evening. They had put him out to graze, but his teeth were few and he was slow in eating his fill, so they had no other choice than to wait for early morning, when he might be presumed to have eaten what he needed. It was late in the evening, the stores shut, their errands finished, and nothing to do but wait for dawn; they walked off down the street. They were both hungry, for they had eaten nothing all day, and as neither had any money, they could not spend the night in lodgings. The sky grew overcast and a cold breeze blew in from the sea, but the rain kept off; they were both longing for coffee, neither mentioned it.