IS

The farm is nestled in eastern Norway, a half-hour from the
border into Sweden. It's the closest thing you'll find to open
range in Norway, rolling green farms, woodlands, silence but
for the cry of a magpie, wind hissing in 80-foot-high poplars.
They used to have a variety of animals here, Magne tells me,
but it became a farm for breeding race horses. At one time
there were 18 to 20 of these majestic horses, but times changed,
and when I arrived there were just three horses left in the stable.

Magne and Kristine, his wife, had a farm hand, Lena, who lived
here and helped with the horses. But, right out of a Knut Hamsun
novel, Lena walked over to the next farm one day, met a farmer
named Tim and, before long, Lena moved in with Tim. The next
farm hand, Hedda, was a disaster, Magne says. So bad was she that
when I asked him her name, it took him an hour to remember
because, he said, "I had erased her from my memory." They got
rid of Hedda.

They'd had foster children, too, but the last one had gone on a
hunger strike and then tried to burn their farmhouse down in the
middle of the night, so they decided not to have farm hands or
foster kids anymore. By this time their own children, Markus,
Marius and Kaisa, were enough to handle. This all combined to
mean a reduction in the number of horses, to a more manageable
number which would afford Magne enough time outside the barn
to apply to more important pursuits, such as listening to his
favourite music - Dylan, Townes and Mickey Newbury. A man
has to have his priorities straight.

One of the three remaining horses was named Is, which means
"ice," though I liked the idea of it being called the opposite of isn't.
Is was not in good health when I arrived. Red-eyed, weeping, thin
and not in good temper, she was an eight year old horse who'd
begun to pass the point of enjoying life. This morning, early, Magne
and I drove into Sarpsborg with Is in the trailer behind the van.
He had made an appointment at the slakterfjøs. The vet came out
to inspect the horse, then a young man wearing earplugs came out.
Magne led Is toward the gate into the cement-floored stable. She
was stubborn, but once inside, the fellow with the earplugs tied her
tightly to a post while Magne stroked her to comfort her. I stood
back a little, knowing what was coming.

As I came from my bedroom in the barn this morning at first light
- the farmhand's old apartment with some of Mike Beck's horse
whisperer gear still hanging on nails on the wall - I saw Magne in
the stable grooming Is for her last long ride, brushing her to a shine,
daubing her crusted eyes clean, Magne's face creased in the brow.

I spent time on a farm as a boy, and I have seen some death, but
never a horse. One rifle shot, and this majestic creature collapsed,
dead in an instant, emptying itself. Last week, while fishing, I was
around death in a boat on the Atlantic. I had been fishing before,
and there is only a little blood and crap. With horses, there is a lot.
Magne and I walked back to the van in a few minutes, not talking,
the empty leather halter in his big hands.

When men are involved in such an action, it is difficult to bear the
seriousness of it without using a little humour as release before too
much time has passed. Black humour, typically. It was raining on
the drive back to Hemnes, the mists thickening, the empty trailer
bouncing as we got on to the unpaved section of road near Magne's
farm. It was light now, where before it was heavy. When we came
into the house, the kids had left the television on. There were music
videos playing.

I said to Magne, "I can just see Is arriving in horse heaven now. She
is shaking her head to the others, saying 'Jeez, this guy was so good
to me, fed me, groomed me, raced me, petted and comforted me, and
then today he drives me into town and has me shot...'"

Forgive us, we started laughing. In the background on the television,
ol' Possum himself, George Jones, was on the video track singing He
Stopped Loving Her Today. Just as I'd finished my vision of Is talking
to the other horses in heaven, George reached the crescendo, and I
sang over his voice, in the voice of Is, "He stopped loving me today..."

We both broke up.

We tried, but we couldn't stop. We laughed until we were buckled
over, on the floor, our bellies hurting, eyes red, tears rolling down
our cheeks.

It's a hard thing, having a horse put down. A hard, violent thing.
Magne loves his horses and I could tell, watching him prepare her
this morning that he was with his feelings, expressing tenderness
for Is. Having her slaughtered was a difficult judgment, an act of
mercy. My humour was the response of a friend, a way to get at
a few tears that we might not otherwise have cried.

DL

THE BRIGHT SEA

Disa´s cousin, Brjánn, shares a fishing boat with a group of friends.
Named Bjartmar, "Bright Sea," it was this boat that we took to sea
in yesterday, a last minute opportunity first heard about the night
before. Disa had been hoping this would happen, but hadn´t
mentioned it to me in case Brjánn´s turn with the boat didn´t come
around in time. When he called Tuesday night just before midnight
to invite us along on the fishing trip, Disa let out a sing-song sigh of
joy. I knew something good was happening. Disa had paid daily
visits to take care of Brjánn´s ill father while Brjánn and his sister
were away for a week in early July, and the offer to join the fishing
trip was an expression of appreciation.

Five of us headed out together - Brjánn, Siggi, Svafnar, Disaand me
- on yet another cloudless, sunny day in Iceland. The temperature,
as Disa was only too happy to point out, was to reach 20 Celsius,
beyond the predicted highs in Scandinavia. We´d stopped in at
Sverrir´s, Disa´s brother´s place, in the early dawn to pick up the
high boots, rubber gloves and fisherman´s clothes we needed. In
our packsack were a thermos of coffee, a loaf of bread, cheese, apple
slices, and a skyrr drink, along with some folded plastic bags for the
fish we hoped to catch. Once aboard, Brjánn guided the Bright Sea
out into the North Atlantic.

First we went to a spot where there´d been success in recent days,
but after fifteen minutes of inaction, we moved a little farther out.
Svafnar had the first catch, haddock, but too young to keep. After
a few more small ones, the Bright Sea was moving again, out to
where we could see one of the glaciers gleaming white off in the
distance and the town of Akranes to the north of Reykjavík. Here
the waves grew in size, and my body reminded me that I´m from
the prairies.

We found where the cod were biting. Siggi brought in a good one,
then Brjánn hauled in two, then Disa caught her first. Svafnar
hauled in a good-sized haddock, dropped his line in again and
before he´d touched bottom with his lure, he had the biggest cod
of the day so far. It came up fighting, and wasn´t hooked very
well. He called out for someone to grab the small harpoon to
hook it when he brought it alongside the boat. Disa, daughter
of a proud fisherman, grabbed the harpoon and, without a flinch,
speared the big cod, lifted it, and tossed it into the bottom of the
boat as easily as she´d toss a loaf of bread into a shopping cart.
Damn! I would be telling her pabbi about this!

The action in that spot dried up, and we moved farther out to
where the waters were heaving a little. Siggi was the first to
pack it in and go lie down in the cabin, grabbing the first-aid
kit for some pills to ease his sea sickness. I admit that I was
beginning to hold on myself. No luck when we stopped, so
Brjánn took us out to where Hallgrimskirkja, the church that
keeps watch high over Reykjavík, was no longer in view. Oh,
lord. He found some serious bottom movement on his cool
whatchamacallit screen, and we got to it. I caught my first, a
good-sized haddock, and for a while there it was haul them in
as fast as we could, taking turns helping free each other´s hooks
from the fishes´ mouths, blood everywhere, including my own
as I´d hooked one of my fingers, too.

Brjánn, Disa and Svafnar were the hardcore experts, for sure,
but I was getting the hang of it. Disa then felt something a little
stronger than usual and her line went zinging. Everyone stopped
to steady the boat as she fought to bring this baby in. Squeals
accompanied the first sight of the biggest fish of the trip. She
was all business, winding, lifting, reeling again, until Svafnar
doubled up with the small harpoon and they landed it in the boat.
Everyone let out a big WHOAH!, so loud that even Siggi, holding
his belly and looking a little green, came out of the cabin to have
a look-see. We didn´t have a scale, but Brjánn said it was a good
12 kg, around 26 lbs. If you´ve ever seen Disa´s smile, just add
an inch to each corner...

We were out for seven hours, took in around 100 kg of fish, which
was later cleaned, filleted and divided among - by rough count -
about 20 families. I caught 17 fish, but nothing to compare with
isa´s winning cod. Once ashore again, barely able to walk without
tilting as though still on the sea, we took our bloodied, fish-smelling
boots and duds off and, tired though we were, went driving off to
deliver fresh catch-of-the-day to every member of Disa´s family.

It is a day I´ll always remember.

Tonight, my last in Reykjavík, the families and friends of the
Bright Sea fishing crew will all be dining on fresh cod, haddock
and ocean perch. I´ll be sitting down with the lovely fisherman´s
daughter, raising a glass of white wine to her many kindnesses.

What a grand time I´ve had in Iceland.

DL