The Blue Fox

IV (23 March 1883)

Brekka in the Dale, 23 March 1883

My dear friend,

Forgive me for replying so late to your last letter, but various things have happened in this part of the world since New Year. They would not be thought particularly newsworthy in your world, but they are considered quite something here: a woman died, and a man was lost.

Yes, my Abba is dead. It happened on the fourth day of the New Year; she had a peaceful passing and was composed in her death. I have missed her a great deal, which is not to be wondered at, since I have had her by me all these years. She was not old, maybe thirty, which I gather is common with people of her sort. It was as if she aged more rapidly than I myself; she had turned grey and was becoming a little forgetful lately. Now, of course, you will ask yourself whether she received your feather. She did so, and it gave her much joy. She thought it quite something to possess the feather of a Danish cygnet, indeed she knew Herr Andersen’s stories well — and she put it in her book straightaway on Christmas night.

I thank you also for my part. You are well versed in the French poets, though you are of the opinion that they cannot write, n’est-ce pas? Mallarmé affects me like a flowering cherry tree reflected in an eye, a scented handkerchief, or a dragonfly settling on the shoulder of a swimmer in a smooth river. Well, well, there you can see in black and white what a great inspiration he is!

A man was lost, I wrote, and I shall not keep you any longer in suspense over that news. It is the Parson of Botn who has vanished, Reverend Baldur Skuggason, brother of Valdimar ‘Bollocks’ who danced with the lamp-post at The Leather Trousers. He was seized by the wild notion, foolish man, of rushing off on a fox hunt in the mountains, although it was the depths of winter and everyone knew that a great blizzard was in the offing. (An old cat scratched itself on New Year’s Eve, and that means fearsome gales; this is the sort of ‘meteorologia’ we practise here.) That is to say, he has not been seen since and it does not take a lively imagination to guess what has become of him.

People believe that this will result in a review of the living conditions of country priests. Reverend Baldur monopolised all foxhole work here in the parish to eke out his income, as the skins fetch a high price. Certainly things have come to a pretty pass if priests have begun to throw away their lives on foxhunting, from purest penury.

‘Good riddance’ is all I have to say concerning the disappearance of Reverend Baldur; I thought him a terrible stupidus.

Abba means: Hafdis.

Itza means: God.

Itza ha-am means: God wills.

Itza um means: God may not.

Itz-umba uba-hara means: God’s light,

the sun or soul.

Ufa-hara ho-fakk means: the moon.

Ut-da-da ho-fakk means: the stars.

Iff-itz means: light.

Fuffa huya means: angels.

Iffa ku-ku means: heaven.

Itza i-addiga means: God knows all.

Otzina-maeya means: Christmas.

Itza ro-ro means: Jesus.

Otzina-huya means: Easter.

Otzina-mortha means: Sunday.

Avv-avv means: talk.

Ko-ko means: sing.

Andha ha-am ko-ko means: let us sing.

Umm avv-avv means: doesn’t want to talk.

Umra means: don’t know.

Amh-amh means: beautiful, good.

Offo-ker means: ugly.

Futzu means: man.

Hall-hall means: girl.

Fuffa-ro means: child.

Furru means: person.

Mamba means: bird.

Morthana-huya means: day.

Ho-fakk means: night.

Sa-odo means: the sea.

Fadi-fad means: rain.

Huyera means: snow.

Mah-mah means: summer.

Mah-mah huyera means: winter.

Ka means: fire.

Faff-faff means: priest.

Kondura means: king.

Tampa means: clothes.

Umph Abba’s means: Hafdis’s box.

Fifi-pupu means: hymn.

Pupu means: darkness.

Ibo means: sleep.

Here you have ‘Abba’s Dictionary’; this is how she spoke when I found her. As you see, there are a number of biblical terms there, which supports my belief about who she was… no, I won’t be silent about what I know with certainty of Hafdis’s origins. I have no secrets from you; you will keep them to yourself. I can always trust you, my good friend and master.

So it was that in late February we Dale folk were afflicted with one of the unluckiest men in Iceland; Solvi Helgason, vagabond and jack-of-all-trades. He slid on his skis from farm to farm, scrounging food in return for drawing people’s likenesses, mending woodwork or passing on gossip from other districts. This four-eyes knocked on my door too, and stayed here a week. I found out that he is clever with his paints and full of common sense. He did not bore me; but Solvi is damaged in mind and body, and this was the work of men.

Then one evening it so happened that he began to talk about Abba, calling her Laufey — it was I who gave her the name of Hafdis, saying she was Jon’s daughter, which means no more than ‘Icelander’s daughter’ — but I could tell from his speech that he was sincere. He said he had found her abandoned on the Kjolur mountain track; she was seven years old at the time, he thought. She spent three seasons on the road with him, until he traced her family and was able to return her to her father’s house. During the time that Abba was travelling with Solvi, he made her a coffin from precious driftwood that he had found by the Horn. When he mentioned this I knew he was telling the truth, because he could even describe two Latin inscriptions found in Abba’s coffin; indeed, it was he who had written them.

Many years later Solvi came back to the farm where Laufey lived. Everything was in a fearful state: the mother had killed herself with poison and the father had sold the girl to some foreign sailors, while he himself was on his way to study for the priesthood. This wretched man was Baldur Skuggason, then deacon of Hofdi parish; in exchange for his twelve-year-old daughter he had received a front-loading rifle and a bag of shot.

Now you see why I speak so coldly of him above. But, dear me, how full of grief and sorrow this letter of mine has become; indeed, please forgive my tediousness.

Apropos! If you happen to pass down Kronprinsessegade, would you be so kind as to look in on Auntie Perch and order two pounds of Breakfast Blend, item eight ounces of Darjeeling? I have an account and they send it to me. No, I don’t intend to drink it alone. I ‘inherited’ one of the priest’s servants. His name is Halfdan Atlason; he is simple-minded but hardworking, and ships enough tea to compete with the English House of Lords.

Please send my regards to your mother. I hope she likes the blend: thyme, dropwort, lady’s bedstraw and birch leaf. Let me know if you require more, there’s plenty of choice in Iceland’s natural pharmacy.

Farewell for now, my dearest Brynjulfsson, may good luck follow you — ad urnam.

Your affectionate friend and confidant on the limits of ‘the habitable world’,

Fridrik B.

Post scriptum: again, please forgive me for such a dreary letter. I promise to do better next time, when I shall make sure to have a drop first! (The enclosed picture is by Solvi; it apparently shows the Devil shoving the highly esteemed Governor up his a-e.)

Au revoir!

F.