[6 minutes reading time]

 

On Ichi Shu [The Sound of One Hand]

This is a tale of transformation, about the crossings from one place to the next, from one stage of life to another. It tells of the grand-daughter of a famed Iceland settler, he was called Ingimund from Norway. He crossed to lovely Vatnsdal, wide and green, and built a longhouse one hundred strides in length.

In summer it seemed the days were always cloudless, there were fish in nearby lakes and river, the livestock fed themselves in winter. Yet there came too the family member Hrolleif, he broke their hearts in half.

Days and years passed, and the rest of the clan of Ingimund grew settled. He was wise and voted speaker of the Hunavatn assembly. Yet a sense of menace grew. Hrolleif wore a wine-red cloak, was nimble with a sword, he walked through other farms as if he owned them, calling insults at the daughters. The valley people soon suspected there must be robbers on the pass, for travellers never came back safely.

One day Ingimund’s younger brother Odd and three fellow farmers were found beaten and bleeding by the river. Hrolleif and Kör his wife were outlawed. They fled west to the windswept isles, where by then lived the girl called Skaði. From an early age, she had lovely eyes, a fair complexion, hair more shiny than a silken scarf. Her mother’s name was Fenja, she had countless skills. She could heal the ills, dispatch disease and sores. Egil was her husband, the youngest son of Ingimund.

Skaði was a skilful swimmer, living by the shore, as were many men who carried oars and rowed for pay on the sea-going long ships. She won countless challenges, when many a man would first push her underwater, and try to hold her there. And then she’d press them down, stronger than their struggles, till bubbles ceased appearing.

And then she set them free. If any ship was wrecked on the skerries round the isle, Skaði led the swim into the wreckage, towing sailors back to shore.

But Hrolleif too was growing stronger. He built his fire-hall longer than any on the isle. The son of Hrolleif and wicked Kör was believed to be a troll. He grew wide as well as tall, and now the local people feared their worlds would overturn. No man with axe or pike could find a way to challenge any of the men at Hrolleif’s house.

So they turned to Fenja, pleaded that she call on spirits to cleanse their isle, to rid them of this tribe of trouble.

Egil had a fine herd of horses, bred with coloured manes. One late day in spring, when a thick fall of snow had covered fields and fell, he and Skaði were stranded at a distant farm. And Fenja was left alone, to fight the evil Kör.

One clear night local shepherds heard thunder crashes from the hall of Hrolleif. When the storm had cleared, the people found a rock fall had crushed the hall. They searched and found no bodies. At Egil’s house too, the fire grate was cold.

Yet not all had died, for they found the hulking boy stunned upon the shore. On their return, Skaði’s spell fixed a leash invisible to all. She then released all of Kör’s cats from bonds and they fled into the fields. Egil was bent and broken, Skaði too, but her father said it was for her to take him to the law rock. You will find, he said, a hundred flags will be flying on the plain beneath the rocky row of pillars. This is your calling.

 

The Saga of Skaði continued like this.

This day the sun was hot, though shadows served another season,

Hare’s tail bobbed on cotton meadows, banked at marshes filled with sky,

At bilberry slope a whimbrel burbled, the goggled plover,

Sang insistent warnings, snow lay on the taller ridges,

Skaði whistled out a call, a gloss black raven cawed,

And perched upon her shoulder, in her basket,

She had stowed her potions, in her mind she held more charms,

Now they bent their steps, past sulphured banks of bedstraw.

 

The polar light was brilliant blue, water glistening over riffles,

At the pass it still was summer, bright were the bee-ship towns of flowers,

From a cliff a fan of shale, spread a thousand steps below,

It was the month for cutting hay, and distant men and women,

Swung their scythes, singing to the vernal grass,

Every farmer aided every neighbour, as wind and rain awaited,

They hurried now in sunshine, for it could be winter in an hour,

Skaði knew this troll, had never helped with hay at any time.

 

They crossed a plain of steam, heated water gushing into sky,

And stood upon a rocky hill, ahead was the plain of snapping flags,

At booths of stone and turf, were waiting goðar farmers and their thingmen,

Cod dried in polar wind, on stokks of wood,

A herald blew his horn, the lowing echoed,

Off the rocks, rolled across the flats,

An eagle flew to her eyrie, perched and looked below,

To see the throng was opening up, for this single girl.

 

She knew the path, their plot was by the Lögberg Rock,

Where the Lawspeaker would be calling, from memory one third of laws,

At the Althing, to succeed you needed charm,

Skill with words to manage feuds, this she’d learned,

Her tent was pitched, before the colour riot,

Yet servants bowed their heads, for in former years,

Here had stood Fenja, helping each in queue,

Skaði stepped inside, looked around and clapped her hands.

 

The men and women cheered, called out Skaði’s name,

She was keeper of the magic apple, spoke to Oðinn’s dark seagull,

The flags on spears were wind-fed, snapping in those warriors’ hands,

Swords were thumped on shields, they pointed to their ill,

She smiled and nodded, soon would walk from booth to booth,

She would leave to them the task, of serving justice on the killer,

Who was fixed to a post, the roped man’s final crossing made,

Now would start a saga, of celebrated curer Skaði.

 

Jules Pretty

On Ichi Shu [The Sound of One Hand]

{Excerpted and edited from Crossings in Sea Sagas of the North (2022, Hawthorn Press)]

 

 

 

 

Commentary: On Ichi Shu [What is the Sound of One Hand?]

This is a famed koan partly because it seems so odd. It doesn’t seem to have an answer, particularly if we find ourselves thinking of koans as riddles.

The use of a koan here is to open up space. It is a dark forest of a question, a high cliff, something that looks impossible to navigate. One hand, after all, produces no sound.

Yet we might think of sound as a call. Nothing in nature should need to call out in vain. There is always someone, some path or way, waiting and listening. What does the world look like if it becomes filled with unheard calls?

One hand can only be silent, and so we could enter into vast stillness, holding ourselves closer to life itself. One hand opens a path into this world. It moves air. We could look behind, or underneath. We could let the one hand open a way into a new life. Not good, not bad, just as it is.

Fortunately, Skaði was a listener and attentive. At a low ebb, she walked to the Althing, the great democratic gathering in the open air at Thingvellir.

A new life awaited. That was the sound of one hand.