Paradise Reclaimed Read Online Free PDF

he grew bored with the game he would head straight for the mountains. And that was how it was on the day that Steinar of Hlíðar went out to the pastures with a bridle behind his back to catch the colt unawares on the day before he was due to set off. The pony bolted, tossing his head in all directions as if something had frightened him, then galloped perilously up the steep mountain-slope and disappeared over the ridge. It meant that Steinar now had to comb the mountains with the help of his family to drive all the ponies down so that Krapi could be captured in the corral. When they had chased the pony up over the Brows they saw him standing alone high on a knoll, looking towards the glacier and neighing loudly.
    “Have a good long neigh at the glacier, my lad,” Steinar shouted at him, “for you may be having a change of scenery soon.”
    The dust of the delegation of dignitaries and notables had long since settled on all the tracks of Steinahlíðar, and the sound of their hooves had mingled with that of other notables and royalists from farther west. Government officials were to welcome the king when the royal ship docked at Reykjavík, and sheriffs and members of Parliament were self-appointed guests at the forthcoming royal banquets in the capital. On a peaceful late-summer day, when nothing moved except for an occasional tern drowsing on the track and an oyster-catcher stepping elegantly through the meadows, right in the midst of the hush that falls upon those who remain behind when the great have ridden off to their revelry, the farmer of Hlíðar in Steinahlíðar saddled his pony and rode off by himself. Snati the farm-dog was locked indoors. The wife stood on the paving and wiped away a dutiful tear as she watched her husband ride off down the path, and the children stood on either side of her, having put their arms round the pony’s neck and kissed him on his fragrant muzzle for the last time. They did not move until their daddy had crossed the screes and disappeared to the west behind the shoulder of the hill.

5
    The sacred lava violated
    In Brennugjá (Burning Rift), the place in Þingvellir where people used to be burned at the stake, a small gathering of farmers had collected at dusk that late-summer evening on the day before the king’s arrival. The scree under the cliff was almost hidden by moss, and on one moss-grown block of lava the height of a man someone had clambered up to make a speech to his fellowcountrymen about a matter of no little importance. A few inquisitive souls had drifted up to hear if anything of interest were going on, and among them was Steinar of Hlíðar; he had his riding-crop in his hand.
    As far as he could make out from a distance, it seemed to Steinar that this man was quoting something from the Bible, but he was astonished to note that the pious expressions usually worn by an audience on such occasions were not in evidence now. Indeed, most of the bystanders were looking rather indignant, and there were some who made no secret of their disapproval of what was being said. The speaker was constantly being interrupted, and some of the catcalls were distinctly discourteous; there were other people who just shouted and laughed. But the speaker was never at a loss for an answer and never became confused, although his delivery was by nature a little awkward.
    He seemed to be about Steinar’s age, big-boned and high-shouldered but rather thin, with a gaunt face that was pitted with pockmarks or scored by suffering; his whole appearance bore witness to some exceptional experience. At that time, most Icelanders had rounded cheeks under their whiskers, and their adult tribulations were as natural to them as the sorrows of childhood; even the oldest men had the same expression as children. Many people in Iceland in those days had a sort of pink, transparent skin; their colour varied between a cold blue-red pallor and a deep-blue flush, depending on the weather and the nourishment