The Story of Jorkel Hayforks

by George Mackay Brown

THE week before midsummer Jorkel and six others took ship at Bergen in Norway and sailed west two days with a good wind behind them. They made land at Whalsey in Shetland and were well entertained at a farm there by a man called Veig. After they had had supper, one of Jorkel’s men played the harp and recited some verses. The name of this poet was Finn.

As soon as Finn had sat down, Brenda, the daughter of Veig the Shetlander, came to her father and said, “Offer Finn a horse and a piece of land so that he will be pleased to stay here.”

Veig made the offer to Finn, but Finn said, “We are sailing to Orkney on a certain urgent matter in the morning. I can’t stay.”

Veig repeated Finn’s remark to Brenda.

At midnight when the men were drinking around the fire, Brenda rose out of bed and said to her father, “I can’t sleep. Offer Finn a gold armband and a silver ring to stay here in Shetland.”

Veig called Finn aside and made this offer. Finn said, “I am a poor man and a happy man, and gold and women would distract me from the making of verses. Besides, we have an appointment to keep in Orkney on midsummer day.”

Veig told Brenda what Finn had said.

At dawn, though the ale keg was empty, the men were still sitting at the fire. Some of them were lying under the benches drunk, but Finn was discussing meters with the Shetlanders. “I would argue better,” said Finn, “if I were not so dry.”

Soon after that Brenda came in and offered Finn a cup of ale.

With the froth still wet on his beard, Finn turned to Brenda and said, “Did you brew this ale, woman?” Brenda said that she alone had made it. Then Finn said, “On account of this ale I will stay for a while with you here in Shetland.”

Then the sun got up and the Norwegians stirred themselves and went on board their ship. But Finn was nowhere to be found, and the door of Brenda’s room was barred. Jorkel was very angry about that.

They say that Finn made no more poems after that day. Brenda bore him twelve children. He died there in Shetland before there was a gray hair in his beard. He was drunk most days till his death, and he would drink from no cup but Brenda’s. He was totally dependent on her always. It was thought rather a pity that such a promising poet should make such an ordinary end.

“She bewitched him, that bitch,” said Jorkel.

In the afternoon of the same day, Jorkel’s ship reached Fair Isle. They saw some sheep on a hillside there. Flan, who was a blacksmith back in Norway, said they were fine sheep. “And my wife,” said he, “will be looking for a present from the west. I will bring her a fleece from Fair Isle.”

Before they could stop Flan, he leapt overboard and swam ashore. The sheep were grazing at the edge of a high cliff. Flan climbed up this face, disturbing the seabirds that were there, and laid hands on the first sheep he saw. He was raising his ax to dispatch the ewe when another sheep ran terrified between his legs and toppled him over the edge of the crag, so that the seabirds were wildly agitated for the second time that day.

“Flan’s descent is much quicker than his going up,” said Jorkel. “What does a blacksmith know about shepherding?”

They anchored that night under the cliffs of Fair Isle.

They left Fair Isle at dawn and had a rough crossing to the Orkneys. There was a strong wind from the east, and the sea fell into the ship in cold gray lumps, so that they were kept busy with the bailing pans.

Then Mund, who had a farm east in Sweden, laid down his bailing pan.

He said, “I have made deep furrows in the land with my plow, but I did not believe there could be furrows in the world like this.”

The men went on bailing.

Later Mund said, “When Grettir lay dying in his bed at Göteborg last summer, his face was like milk. Is my face that color?”

Jorkel said his face was more of a green color, and urged the men to bail all the harder, since now Mund was taking no part in the game.

At noon Mund said, “I was always a gay man at midsummer, but I do not expect to be dancinground a Johnsmas fire this year.”

The men went on bailing, until presently the wind shifted into the north and moderated, so that they were able to cook a meal of stewed rabbit and to open a keg of ale.

But when they brought the meat and ale to Mund, they found him lying very still and cold against a thwart.

“Mund will not be needing dinner anymore,” said Jorkel.

They reached Papa Westray soon after that. There were some decent farms in the island, and an alehouse near the shore, and a small monastery with a dozen bald-headed brothers beside a loch.

The people of the island gave them a hospitable welcome, and sold them fish and mutton, and showed them where the best wells were.

The twelve brothers trooped into the church for vespers.

After the necessary business of victualing had been transacted, the Norwegians went into the alehouse to drink.

They played draughts and sang choruses so long as there was ale in the barrel. Then, when the keeper of the alehouse was opening a new barrel, Jorkel noticed that Thord was missing.

“He will have gone after the women of Papa Westray,” said Sweyn. Thord was known to be a great lecher back home in Norway.

The church bell rang for compline.

There was some fighting in the alehouse when they were midway through the second barrel, but by that time they were too drunk to hurt each other much. When things had quieted down, Jorkel remarked that Thord was still absent.

“No doubt he is stealing eggs and cheese so that we can vary our diet on the ship,” said Valt. Thord was a famous thief on the hills of southern Norway when it was night and everyone was sitting round the fires inside and there was no moon.

They went on drinking till the lights of yesterday and tomorrow met in a brief twilight and their senses were reeling with ale and fatigue.

“This is a strange voyage,” said Jorkel. “It seems we are to lose a man at every station of the way.”

They heard the bell of the church ringing. Jorkcl went to the door of the alehouse. Thirteen hooded figures passed under the arch to sing matins.

Jorkel returned to the ale barrel and said, “It seems that Thord has repented of his drinking and whoring and thieving. Yesterday there were twelve holy men in Papa Westray. This morning I counted thirteen.”

He lay down beside his companions, and they slept late into the morning.

Now there were only three men on the ship, Jorkel and Sweyn and Valt.

“We will not stop until we reach Hoy,” said Jorkcl. “Every time we stop, there is one kind of trouble or another.”

They were among the northern Orkneys now, sailing through a wide firth with islands all around.

It turned out that none of the three knew where exactly Hoy was.

Sweyn said, “There is a man in that low island over there. He has a mask on, and he is taking honey from his hives. I will go ashore and ask him where Hoy is.”

“Be careful,” said Jorkel. “We will have difficulty in getting to Hoy if there are only two of us left to work the ship.”

Sweyn waded ashore and said to the beekeeper, “Be good enough to tell us how we can recognize the island of Hoy.”

The man took off his mask and replied courteously that they would have to sail west between the islands until they reached the open ocean, and then keeping the coast of Hrossey on the port side and sailing south, they would see in the distance two blue hills rising out of the sea. These blue hills were Hoy.

Sweyn thanked him and asked if he was getting plenty of honey.

The man replied that it was a bad year for honey. The bees had been as dull as the weather.

“Still,” the beekeeper said, “the next comb I take from the hive will be a gift for you.”

Sweyn was deeply touched by the courtesy and kindness of the beekeeper.

It happened that as the man was bending over the hive, a bee came on the wind and settled on his neck and stung him. The beekeeper gave a cry of annoyance and shook off the bee.

Sweyn was angry at the way the insects repaid with ingratitude the gentleness of the Orkney beekeeper. He suddenly brought his ax down on the hive and clove it in two.

Jorkel and Valt were watching from the ship, and they saw Sweyn run screaming around the island with a cloud of bees after him. It was as if he were being pelted with hot sharp sonorous hailstones.

Sweyn ran down into the ebb and covered himself with seaweed.

When Jorkel and Valt reached him, he told them where Hoy was. Then his face turned blind and blue and swollen, and he died.

Jorkel and Valt got horses at a farm called the Bu in Hoy and rode between the two hills till they came to a place called Rackwick. There was a farm there, and five men were working in the hayfield. It was a warm bright day, and the faces of the laborers shone with sweat.

Jorkel asked them if a man called Arkol lived nearby.

“Arkol is the grieve at this farm,” said one of the laborers, “but he often sleeps late.”

“We work in the daytime,” said another, “but Arkol does most of his laboring at night.”

“Arkol is a great man for the women,” said a third, and winked.

Jorkel said he thought that would be the man they were looking for.

Presently the laborers stopped to rest, and they invited Jorkel and Valt to share their bread and ale. They sat under a wall where there was shadow, and Valt told all that had happened to them from the time they left Bergen. But Jorkel sat quietly and seemed preoccupied. They noticed too that he did not eat or drink much.

“Who is the owner of this farm?” said Valt when he had finished his story of the voyage.

The laborers said the farmer in Rackwick was a man called John. They spoke highly of him. He was a good master to them.

Just then a man with a dark beard crossed the field. He ordered the laborers to resume their work, and then looked suspiciously at Jorkel and Valt. They were rather scruffy and dirty after their voyage.

Jorkel asked him if his name was Arkol Dagson.

The man yawned once or twice and said that it was.

“In that case,” said Jorkel, “I must tell you that my sister Ingirid in Bergen bore you a son at the beginning of June.”

Arkol made no answer but yawned again. Then he laughed.

“And I want to know,” said Jorkel, “if you will pay for the fostering of the child.”

Arkol said he would not discuss so intimate a matter with two tramps. So far he had not been in the habit of paying for the fostering of any child that he had fathered, and he doubted whether it was wise to begin now, especially as Norway was so far away. Furthermore, he could hardly be expected to believe the unsupported testimony of two tramps, one of whom claimed to be Ingirid’s brother. Ingirid had been a most lovely and gently reared girl, and Arkol did not think the scarecrow standing before him could really be the brother of such a delightful bedmate. Besides, he had been busy all night in another sweet bed, and now he was very tired, and he begged the two gentlemen of the roads to excuse him.

Jorkel said, “Will you pay now for the fostering of your son?”

Arkol turned away and yawned.

Jorkel drove his dagger into Arkol’s throat, so that he fell dead at once on the field.

The laborers jumped down from the haystack and ran at Jorkel and Valt with their forks.

“I wish the others were here now,” said Jorkel as he turned to face them. “Now I would be glad to have Finn and Flan and Mund and Thord and Sweyn at my side.”

Valt was quickly pronged to death there, and though Jorkel defended himself well and was still on his feet when John of Rackwick appeared on the scene, he was so severely lacerated that he lay between life and death in the farm for more than a week.

The three farm girls looked after him well till he recovered. They hovered around him day and night with oil and sweet water and beeswax.

On the day they took the last bandages from Jorkel’s arm, John of Rackwick came to him and said mildly, “Arkol, my grieve, was in many ways an evil lecherous man, and for that he must answer to a higher lord than the Earl of Orkney or the King of Norway. But also he was a loyal servant of mine, and because of that you must pay me as compensation your ship that is anchored off Selwick. You are welcome to stay here in Hoy, Jorkel, for as long as you like. There is a small vacant croft on the side of the hill that will support a cow and an ox and a few sheep. It will be a tame life for a young man, but now you are disabled because of the hayforks, and if you till your field carefully, nothing could be more pleasing to God.”

Jorkel accepted that offer. He lived there at Upland for the rest of his life. In Orkney he was nicknamed “Hayforks.” He put by a little money each harvest so that one day he would be able to return to Norway, but the years passed and he could never get a passage.

The summer before his death Jorkel went to Papa Westray in a fishing boat. At the church there he inquired for Thord, and presently Thord came out to meet him. They were two old men now, bald and toothless. They embraced each other under the arch. They were like two boys laughing to each other over an immense distance, thin affectionate lost voices.

Jorkel took a purse from his belt and counted five pieces of silver into Thord’s hand. “I have been saving this money for forty years,” he said, “so that someday I could go home to Norway. But it is too late. Who would know me in Bergen now? I should prepare, instead, for the last, longest journey. Will you arrange for Masses to be said in your church for Finn and Flan and Mund and Sweyn and Valt?”

Thord said that Masses would certainly be offered for those dead men and for Jorkel himself, too. Then he embraced Jorkel and blessed him. Jorkel turned around. He was at peace. The long silver scars of the hayforks troubled his body no longer.

Halfway to the boat he turned back. He gave Thord another silver coin. “Say a Mass for Arkol Dagson also,” he said.

They smiled at each other, crinkling their old eyes.