Independent People by Halldor Laxness

THE GOING was slow over the ridge, for it was often impossible to find a clear path however far they deviated from their route. They sank repeatedly into deep snowdrifts on the hillsides and had to be on the watch all the time lest the coffin roll off the saddle. The body did not arrive at Rauthsmyri till late in the afternoon. Dusk was beginning to fall. The minister had arrived some time beforehand; though his face was completely inscrutable, he was obviously pressed for time. A few other visitors were also waiting for this funeral and the coffee that would follow it. The coffin was carried straight into the church in compliance with the minister's request and the bells were rung. Feeble was the sound they made, feeble their intrusion on frozen nature's winter omnipotence, their peal reminiscent of nothing so much as the jingle of a child's toy. And the folk came trailing out of the drifting snow and into the church, timid in the face of death, which never seems so irrevocable as when bells of such a kind tinkle so helplessly in the cold, white spaces of declining day. The Bailiff's wife had not come to the funeral, not even as a mere spectator. On such a winter day not even she felt very well; she had caught a chill apparently and was sitting at home in her room snuffing hot water and salt up her nose, guaranteed to kill any cold. The Bailiff himself, however, had turned up, and if he was wearing his old trousers that were giving way round the patches, he had at least thrown on another jacket in recognition of the occasion, and took his seat in the chancel as usual and was careful not to open his mouth throughout the service. Blesi had been tied to the gate, and as the dog was not allowed inside because of the rites, it waited outside on the threshold, shivering.

The minister entered, wearing his crumpled parish-of-ease cassock and a pair of white bands round his neck because the occasion was not important enough for a ruff. Some of the crofters began singing: "I live and know," each to a tune of his own. The old man was sitting at the back, no longer weeping, as if his emotions had dried up. During the music the minister pulled his watch out twice in front of the coffin, as if he had no time for this sort of thing. When the music was over, he put on his spectacles and read the prayer from his tattered old book. It was an old prayer, as was only to be expected in such weather, and besides, the man was hoarse. Then, instead of the long one he had threatened, he delivered a short sermon, in which, after declaring that evil spirits lay in ambush for mankind, he proceeded to discuss unbelief in terms that were none too complimentary. He said that many people had neglected their Creator while they were chasing stupid sheep over the mountains. "What are sheep? " he asked. He said that sheep had been a greater curse to the Icelandic nation than foxes and tapeworms put together. "Sheep's clothing disguises a ferocious wolf that has sometimes been referred to in this district as the Albogastathir Fiend, whom others name Kolumkilli. People run after sheep all their lives long and never find them. Such is the lesson we may learn from the parting that oppresses us today."