When we left Freda and her father, they were sliding along the icy patches that covered Ring Road. Although she was desperately tired, Freda could not sleep. Her eyes were fixed on the road ahead.
They came upon a fork in the road. To the right lie the short path through the highlands towards Durnik. Mr. Samuelsson paused before turning right at the fork.
“What’s the matter?” asked Freda.
“It could be much worse if I take the road through the highlands.”
“Doesn’t Ring Road dead end if you go the other way?”
“It does,” answered her father.
“Then there’s no choice.”
“We could go as far as Siglufjörður. There are some people I know up there who could give us a place to stay for the night.”
“You mean we’re not going home?” groaned Freda.
“It’s the best thing to do, sweetheart.”
Against Freda’s wishes, the Arctic Truck turned left. It was the best solution, because the driving along the coast was relatively safe. However, the roads along the highlands had snows piled more than two meters high, nearly as tall as Mr. Samuelsson.
Freda remade her bed in the front seat and closed her eyes. In what seemed like a snap, her father roused her from sleep.
“Come on, we’re here,” he said.
When Freda rubbed the sleep from her eyes, she saw a white two-story house with a steeply pitched roof.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“Ólafsfjörður,” replied her father.
“Why are we stopping here? It’s only ten more kilometers to our home.”
“It’s just too dangerous. I called an old friend while you were sleeping. He said we could stay here tonight.”
Before Mr. Samuelsson could turn off the engine to his truck, a short and plump man opened the front door.
“Hello, Magnus!”
“It’s good to see you, Obadiah. Is this Freda?”
“It sure is,” replied her father.
“The last time I saw her, she were barely able to walk.”
“Freda, this is Mr. Steinnar. We’ve known each other since we were school boys.”
Freda was too busy looking at the building to notice her father. The row of lights hanging between the first and second floors lit a signboard directly over the front door. The name on the signboard said ‘Steinnar’s Haberdashery’.
“Freda? Did you hear me?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Freda, “Hello, Mr. Steinnar.”
Mr. Steinnar led them into the building. He struck a match and lit two hurricane lamps. The lamps cast a soft yellow glow that flickered as he placed them in different parts of the room.
“Mr. Steinnar, what is a haberdashery?”
“If you look around, you might be able to figure it out,” replied Mr. Steinnar.
A mannequin, partially fitted in a wedding dress, stood in one corner of the room. A length of yellow measuring tape hung over the shoulder of the dress. Swatches of woolen cloth were draped across the backrest of a brown leather chair. An antique sewing table was wedged into the corner.
“Are you a tailor?” she asked.
Mr. Steinnar nodded.
“Then why don’t you just call yourself a tailor?”
“Why call yourself a tailor when you can call yourself a haberdasher?” asked Mr. Steinnar.
“Because it’s easier to pronounce.”
“Yes, I suppose it’s easier,” chuckled Mr. Steinnar, “but a haberdasher is part of Icelandic tradition. Some people say the word comes from ‘hapertas’, which may be a kind of wool made in Iceland long, long ago. A ‘hapertas-er’ was man who worked with this type of fabric.”
Freda nodded thoughtfully.
“What happened to the wool?”
“Nothing happened to the wool. It’s the words that may have changed. Some people think it changed when Icelandic traders went to England.”
“How did that happen?”
“It happened the same way that trading happened. We not only shared our wool with people from England, Ireland, and Scotland, but we shared our words, too.”
“Like ‘hapertas’?”
“Like ‘hapertas’, which became ‘haberdash’, ‘epli’ became ‘apple’, ‘nótt’ became ‘night’, and ‘steinn’ became ‘stone’. They’re all words shared with the English, but first they came from Middle Europe.”
Freda gave Mr. Steinnar a puzzled look. He took Freda by the hand and led her to a globe that sat next to his desk. He spun it around until he found the European continent.
“We are here, halfway between Norway and Greenland.”
“How did the language travel?”
“Language traveled with the people. There’s an old saying about Icelanders: ‘From Raiders, to Invaders, to International Traders.’”
“What does that mean?” asked Freda.
“At first, vikings from Norway pillaged foreign lands, including Iceland. They attacked neighboring countries and returned home with their new treasures.”
“Why didn’t the Icelanders fight back?” asked Freda.
“Archaeologists think that monks from Ireland or Scotland may have been the first people of Iceland, but they’re not sure. There’s no evidence of anyone before the Vikings. Eventually, the Vikings realized that the land was just as valuable as any treasure, so they built settlements here.”
“I’ve heard stories about ancient Icelandic Sailors, but never about Vikings,” replied Freda.
“The Vikings were sailors but they realized it was easier to trade goods than to risk their lives invading other countries. Sailors like Thorvald Asvaldsson, Erik the Red, and Leif Ericsson came over from Norway and settled Iceland, Greenland, and even North America. Everywhere they traveled, they brought their culture with them.”
“Erik the Red was a Viking?”
“Back then, most Icelanders were Vikings. In fact, Erik the Red was banished to Greenland for murdering a man.”
Freda gasped.
“In those days, men were just starting to learn how to trade one good for another. In face, Erik’s father was banished from Norway to Iceland for the murdering two men.”
“My gosh, were they all bad men?”
“Erik’s son, Leif, was a good man. He set sail to Greenland and explored the northeastern islands of Canada. He even created a settlement in Greenland.”
“What happened to him?” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” replied Mr. Steinnar.
“I wonder why people in Canada don’t speak Icelandic,” said Freda thoughtfully, “what do you think, Mr. Steinnar?”
“I think that’s enough questions for one night,” interrupted her father.
“But this is so interesting,” said Freda.
“They’ll be more time to talk about it tomorrow morning. Now, it’s time for bed.”
Freda groaned, but to no avail. Mr. Steinnar set up a bed in the guest room, complete with several heavy blankets. Freda’s father tucked her in and planted a kiss upon her forehead.
“Why haven’t we visited Mr. Steinnar before?” she asked her father.
“I come up here all the time when I’m making deliveries. Maybe you can come with me next time.”
Freda smiled.
“Thank you, daddy. Good night.”
“Good night, my dear.”
Freda curled into a ball and pulled her head beneath the covers. Soon, she was fast asleep, no doubt dreaming about icy ocean waters and ancient Icelandic explorers setting foot on lands far, far away.
No comments:
Post a Comment