Grettir and Glámur

Once there was a man named Grettir. He was strong, stronger than most men, but not always a lucky one. He had dark eyes, a heavy temper, and a heart that could be both hard and good, depending on what the day brought. Few men wished to have him as an enemy, but not everyone knew how to have him as a friend.

At that time there was a farm in the north where people had not slept soundly for a long while. There was a byre, and in the byre a darkness that seemed never to lift even when a light was lit. The animals grew restless at night. Horses sweated in their stalls. Dogs lay down and would not bark.

A man had died on the farm. His name was Glámur. He had been big and grim in life, stubborn and hard, and men said he had shown little respect for holy days or good counsel. After he died, he did not lie still.

At first men heard footsteps in the yard when no one was there. Then doors were flung open. Sheep were found dead, as if something had frightened them to death. At last no one dared keep watch alone, and no one would go out after dark.

When the story reached Grettir, some laughed and said: "There's a task for you, if you're as brave as you claim." Grettir said little. But he went.

He arrived at the farm late in the day, when the sun was low and the shadows long. The farmer met him with weariness in his face. "I won't deceive you," said the farmer. "Whoever keeps watch here at night does not watch for long."

"Then the night will have to hurry," Grettir answered.

He asked for food, ate well, and walked around the farm. He checked doors, windows, byre, and outbuilding. In every corner he found an uneasy cold, but worst of all was the byre. There the cows stood pressed together, and when Grettir walked in, they all turned their heads toward the same empty corner.

That evening Grettir sat in the hall with his weapons beside him. The household tried to keep watch, but fear and weariness settled over them like a heavy quilt. One by one they fell asleep.

Grettir sat alone. Outside the wind did not howl. That was the worst of it. Had there been wind, men could have said the sounds came from it. But the night was still.

Long after midnight, Grettir heard footsteps. First far away. Then nearer. Then in the yard. Each step was heavy, as though a stone fell on frozen earth. The dog beneath the bench whined softly and hid its muzzle in its paws.

The door shook. Once. Twice. Then it tore open.

In the doorway stood Glámur. He was larger than a living man should be. The face was blue and swollen, the eyes open and cold, and it was as though the darkness followed him into the room. He stooped beneath the doorframe and looked at Grettir.

Grettir rose slowly. "You come late," he said.

Glámur answered nothing. He reached out his hands and seized Grettir.

They crashed together like two boulders. Benches broke, the table overturned, and the household woke at the din but dared not move. Grettir got a grip on Glámur but felt at once this was no human strength he fought. Glámur was cold, heavy, unyielding. He drove Grettir back, out the door and into the night.

There they wrestled on the yard. The moon had come from behind a cloud, and the snow gave a faint light. Grettir felt his feet slide on the ice. Glámur pressed him, and in his eyes was an empty darkness, as if everything living was hateful to him.

Grettir set his teeth. He had fought men, beasts, and the sea, but never anything like this.

They spun around the yard, struck the wall, and fell. Grettir lay beneath, and Glámur bent over him. Then Grettir saw his face so near that the cold breath settled over him like a grave.

In that moment Grettir felt fear — not ordinary fear, but a deep, old fear that reached into the bone.

He cried out, gathered all his strength, and threw Glámur off him. Then he seized his weapon and struck.

Glámur fell. The night grew suddenly still.

But before the body grew quiet, the eyes opened once more. Glámur looked at Grettir and spoke, in a voice no longer human: "Strong you are, Grettir. But from this night you shall carry the darkness with you. You will see what others do not see, and you will never again be unafraid alone in the dark."

Then he fell silent.

The next morning men burned Glámur's body where the sun could reach it. The farm grew quiet again. The animals stopped trembling, and children could sleep without their mothers sitting awake at the bedside.

The people thanked Grettir. They said he had saved the farm.

Grettir accepted the thanks, but he did not smile. When he left, he looked back once. The farm stood in the morning light, peaceful and small beneath the mountain. But behind the brightness, at the edge of his eye, something always seemed to move.

From that night Grettir remained strong. But when darkness came and other men saw only shadow, Grettir sometimes saw Glámur's eyes.

And then he understood that not every victory is easy to carry.