Catching the Current

by Jenny Pattrick

‘Te Awahou,’ said Napoleon, wondering what ‘mostly friendly’ meant. But Reverend Taylor had other business to attend to. He indicated the track leading south along the coast, shook the boy’s hand and strode back towards his house, leaving Napoleon to struggle with the problem of mounting his horse.

  He made slow progress, sometimes walking sometimes riding, unable to impress his will on the fortunately placid horse, which would stop to lower its head and graze at every opportunity.

  On his second day the towering trees gave way to more open country, covered in tall flax and low bush. For some time Napoleon walked his horse along the beach, loving the smell of salt air and the sight of an ocean horizon. His spirits rose again at the first large river he encountered. Two natives were there to ferry him and his horse across on a crude barge. They were indeed friendly, and offered him fresh vegetables and an egg, which he cooked in his skillet over a driftwood fire in the sand dunes, singing aloud with pleasure. He half expected Enok to stroll casually out of the dunes. Enok would be near the sea, surely. Napoleon hoped to find his friend quickly, without having to stay too long in the dark interior of this huge island. Back home, he could walk right across his island of Streymoy in an hour or two; could stand on its highest point and see almost all of it, laid open to the wind and the sky. To Napoleon, this great land, empty of people and crowded with trees, had some kind of menace at its heart, like a muffled drumbeat, scarcely heard.

  On the third day he crossed a small river by ferry. He looked enviously at the river craft drawn up on the bank. Now there was a proper method of transport! He watched the natives pole their narrow dugout canoes upriver through the shallows, admired the way they controlled their craft through the rapids. I could learn that, he thought, but had not the words to ask. Already he was forgetting his English, much less learning any Maori words. Smiling, nodding his thanks for the ferry trip, he headed inland again. Here the bush became more and more dense, the track a thin line between towering trunks. Often the horse plodded up to its hocks in mud. To Napoleon it was as if the world were pressing down on his head. All day he saw no one.

  At one time a large river lay in his path and for half an hour he stood at its edge, unable to decide whether to ride his horse through it or stay dismounted and hold onto the saddle as the Reverend had advised. Finally he mounted and set across. His hands shook with a fear he couldn’t understand. Climbing aloft a ship’s rigging in a storm with the mast heaving this way and that and the roaring sea far below held no fears to him. Yet a muddy river flowing with far less drama terrified him. When the horse stretched its neck and started swimming, Napoleon almost slid from the saddle. He lay across the horse’s back, his legs trailing in the warm water. Moaning like a baby, he clung to the mane until his horse found its feet again with a rearing jolt that toppled Napoleon into the shallows. For some time he sat on the bank, too shaken to remount. Later, tired and saddle-sore, he slept badly on damp moss, both he and the horse twitching and slapping at the whine and sting of mosquitoes.

  At last, on the fourth day, a more familiar landscape emerged. Every few miles through the bush he would hear the ringing sound of axe blows and would emerge into sunlight — a clearing — with sheep grazing among the stumps. Sheep! Strangely white like so many maggots on a great carcass. Nothing like the shaggy, long-legged Faroese sheep, which wore blobs of brown and black and white — every one an individual. But still, these were sheep — as white and out of place as himself, yet seemingly unconcerned by this wild, dark landscape. Napoleon could have hugged the dear placid beasts. One sturdy farmer gave him a wedge of bread and mutton to eat as he travelled, another a letter to take to the bishop. Now the path was easy — straight as a die through the bush, in and out of these clearings, until the larger holding of Bishop Monrad’s came into view, the house on a rise, imposing after the simple log-and-mud cabins he had passed earlier.

  Napoleon presented his letters and gifts, apologised for his muddy clothes. Ladies chattering in familiar Danish crowded around, welcoming him, praising his journey, full of questions about the homeland. His head swam with it all — his voice too loud, his grin too wide — but they didn’t seem to mind. Once he had to turn away to hide foolish tears. Later, washed and well fed, in a clean nightshirt belonging to one of the sons, he fell asleep and dreamed of the wide, windswept hills of Streymoy.

  ‘WELL now, young Rasmussen,’ says the bishop, eyeing Conrad sternly, ‘shall we have a word in my study, mmh?’ This is not really a question; the bishop has already entered the small room, leaving Conrad to follow.

  Everywhere the rank smell of burnt tobacco leaves hangs in the air, but perhaps the Monrads are used to it. Conrad can hear them banging pots in the kitchen and the rattle of cutlery, someone tapping out a tune on the piano. He would like Anahuia to slip into the room behind him, but of course she is not invited.

  This tiny study is full of books. On a small table a folio of etchings lies open. Other paintings and drawings hang on the walls. Shelves, some beautifully crafted, others simple rough-sawn planks, hold more books and papers than Conrad has seen in his whole life.

  The bishop sits heavily on the only chair and plants his hands on his knees. He leans back and gazes at Conrad. The expression is not unkind — quizzical rather, and penetrating. Conrad can imagine the great man sitting in Parliament in Copenhagen dealing with grave matters of state.

  ‘I seem to recall,’ says Monrad at last, ‘that when you first came here seeking employment, you mentioned the Knud Rasmussens of northern Jutland? Relatives, you said, of the late King Frederik’s wife, who, as we all know, was a Rasmussen?’

  Conrad looks out the window and says nothing.

  ‘The ring you wear: did you not suggest it connected you with an ancient line of noble Rasmussens from that area?’

  Conrad covers the ring with his other hand and remains silent.

  ‘Perhaps I remember incorrectly? Did you not mention that your accent was on account of your mother, who is Icelandic and descended from Vikings?’

  Conrad shrugs his wide shoulders. He is too big for this room. ‘Herr Biskop, is it a crime to invent colourful stories? Surely I am not the only one who arrives in this country with a past he would rather forget?’

  A cheeky answer that does not help matters. The bishop frowns. A silence develops. Then he sighs and nods.

  ‘Forgive me. I should not tease you. But you have misled me, have you not?’

  Conrad tries to smile, but there is too much anxiety behind it. His face twists.

  ‘In God’s name, sir, I have worked well for you. You would not turn me over to the officials? A man’s past —’

  ‘Rasmussen, take heart, I will do no such thing. Nor will your visitor. You are in fact from the Faroe Islands?’

  Conrad takes a slow breath. ‘I am,’ he says. ‘I am a Faroeman.’ He grins and this time the pleasure is clear. ‘By God, it is good to say that again.’

  ‘I have received a letter from Haraldsen of Streymoy. The name means something to you?’

  Conrad is amazed. ‘Haraldsen is your visitor?’

  ‘He is not.’ The bishop stands. He is a big man, though shorter than Conrad. His hairline has receded — or perhaps it has always left his great forehead bare. He is wiry and sunburned from his months breaking in his land, but still there is a gravity about him — the mark of a scholar. He looks tired — or is it discouraged? The voice is pleasant but reserved, a little remote. ‘I think our man is awake,’ he says now. ‘That will be his step on the stair. Shall we …’

  In the hallway, Conrad looks up. Someone is descending but his face is in shadow. The visitor has no such problem, as an oil-lamp glows in the hall. ‘Enok!’ he shouts. ‘Enok!’ And clatters down the stairs to trip at the bottom and fall headlong into his friend’s arms. ‘Gud signi teg! Enok!’

  For a moment Conrad cannot recognise him. Something sad and tired in the eyes. A bitterness, perhaps. Then Conrad lets out a roar of astonishment. ‘Napoleon? How is this
possible?’ He holds the boy at arm’s length to make sure, then folds him in a bear hug that knocks all the wind out of the smaller man. ‘Napoleon Haraldsen, what in the name of Thor are you doing here? Jesus and Mary, man, you could knock me down with a blade of grass!’

  The bishop shepherds the two men into the front room, where the women are gathered. Anahuia stands in the doorway, smiling. The two young men, though, have eyes only for each other. They shout questions and answers in their native Faroese, then break into laughter. Conrad drapes an arm over Napoleon’s shoulder and the two dance a few steps together, smiling at some shared memory.

  ‘No, no,’ laughs Napoleon, ‘I am not on the run. I came to find you! Clara sends her love, by the way.’ He winks.

  Conrad casts an eye sideways to see if Anahuia has heard. He cannot tell.

  The visitor’s eyes are shining with excitement. He has travelled to the other side of the world and found this friend whom he has idolised since he first set eyes on him. ‘Enok, I have come to take you home, you dolt!’ he cries. For a moment he tries to look solemn. It seems as if he will salute. ‘You are needed.’

  Conrad frowns. ‘Home? No, it’s not possible. There are things you don’t know. The navy —’

  Napoleon laughs. ‘Yes, we heard. Whatever possessed you, you idiot? But my father has had a word with the authorities. The officer … well, the officer now realises it would be more … suitable … if the matter were buried. Ha! At any rate, Enok, things are different now. A new government …’ He glances quickly at Monrad, who is listening with interest, trying to catch the half-familiar words.

  ‘It seems,’ says the bishop, ‘that we have some interesting stories hidden away here. Perhaps after the meal we may hear them?’

  Conrad blushes and switches quickly to Danish. ‘That story is not one for the ladies. Nor anyone, sir. I’m not too proud of it.’ He turns back to Napoleon. ‘But how can I come home? How am I needed?’

  ‘Magnus is dead.’

  Conrad releases a long sigh. ‘Ahh … but Otto?’

  ‘What about Otto?’

  ‘I damaged him. Badly.’

  Napoleon shakes his head impatiently. ‘Otto is fine. Too fine. Didn’t you read your mother’s letters?’

  ‘What letters?’

  ‘No, no, no!’ Monrad interrupts. ‘This is too much! The ladies have no idea what is going on and nor have I. We need not forget manners just because we are in this wild place. Louise, bring Karen from wherever she is and we will have our Bible reading. There are fresh eels and a pukeko in the pot, and our own potatoes. After a good meal (and some general news from Denmark, please, young man), perhaps we will forgo our Shakespeare and hear young … Enok’s … story. If not the navy incident, your earlier life. Haraldsen suggested it was of interest.’

  ‘Get him to sing!’ cries Napoleon. ‘He is famous!’

  The bishop’s wife, Emilie, who has sat, tired and pale, through all the excitement, looks up with interest as Napoleon mentions music, but the Bible is now in Monrad’s hands. He takes them all in with a stern look. Here is someone who expects to be listened to.

  ‘I will read from Genesis, Chapter 22. God’s testing of Abraham …’

  As they sit quietly listening to the familiar words read in the bishop’s beautiful, strong voice, Enok and Napoleon exchange frequent looks. There is so much to say! But while Napoleon’s face beams with pride and excitement, Enok’s smile is troubled. He never imagined returning home would be possible. There is Anahuia to be considered. No, a return is not possible. He looks for her but she has gone from the doorway.

  The bishop’s voice rises and falls. ‘“… and Abraham built an altar there, and laid the wood in order, and bound Isaac his son and laid him on the altar …”’

  Images from Enok’s youth crowd into his head. His island. His family. The time spent studying at Tórshavn. Memories that he has not dared to dwell on now creep back, warm and insidious. The rolling lines of the great sagas he has learned swell in his ears until he is lost in their ocean.

  2.

  Feuds and Ballads

  THE FAROE ISLANDS

  1862–64

  1.

  OLD NICLAS PATURSSON scratches his head and says the sight of that boy being rowed in brings ancient heroes to mind, and the teacher Johannes Müller has to agree. What a sight! The lad comes into the harbour this long summer day, standing up in the bow as if he were spearman at a whale kill. Pale hair shining, grin splitting his face. Is he singing — or shouting, perhaps? Something with excitement and pleasure about it, certainly.

  ‘He’s going to upset the boat,’ says the teacher, ‘flinging his arms around like that. Silly boy.’

  Old Niclas laughs. ‘Not he. That’s young Enok of Sumba. From Su∂eroy.’ As if that explains everything.

  For three hours Niclas Patursson has been sitting here on the stone bench at Tinganes, partly sheltered by the bulk of Parliament House, most famous building in all the Faroe Islands. Sooner or later the boat would come in and he wanted to be the first to greet the boy. As it turned out, the wind had blown up from the north. A small boat beating up the sound would always find the north wind heavy going, so the arrival was delayed. Niclas lit his pipe, pulled his woollen cap down over his ears and waited. They would come around the headland from the south. He watched the expanse of white-capped sea between the island Nólsoy and this small town where he had lived all the seventy-two years of his life. Not so small a town now, in fact. When he was born, Tórshavn housed forty families; now there were nearly two hundred. The place was bursting at the seams! Old Niclas shook his head, thinking of the speed of it. The land wouldn’t cope — any fool could work that out. Faroese soil was poor, the warmth of the sun in short supply. You couldn’t just say to the barley or the potatoes, ‘Grow faster and richer this year — there are more mouths to feed.’ The young ones and the foreigners believed fish would be the shining future for the Faroes, but how many people would the fish support? And for how long? Old Niclas knew in his bones that the old rules were sensible. A man shouldn’t be allowed to marry and set up house and have children just when he felt like it. The population had to be kept in balance with the land.

  Johannes Müller, walking down to the stone landing dock at the end of the school day, saw the old man there, shaking his head and muttering. For a while the teacher breathed in the fresh salty air, enjoying the rare sunlight, the sea-birds wheeling and crying in the wind. Then he approached the old man, as was expected, and greeted him with respect.

  ‘Good evening, Niclas Patursson. I have watched you sitting here and shaking your head. Does something trouble you?’

  The old man looked up sharply, but then grinned and wagged a finger. ‘Now then, teacher, would you make fun of an old man who has gained much wisdom over many years? Years during which this teacher was neither on these islands nor even born?’

  Müller laughed and the old man joined in. Foreign teachers were acceptable, in the old man’s strict view of matters. Niclas Patursson was a famous and argumentative conservative, for many years a powerful speaker in the Løgting, though no longer a representative on that council. He had led the resistance to every change of policy, had deplored the influx of Danish fishermen, had given a memorable and entertaining speech ridiculing the proposal, by some Danish farming expert, to introduce — ‘yet again!’ — the use of the plough on Faroese soil. But a Danish teacher, like a Danish priest, was traditional, so Niclas had no quarrel with Herr Müller. This serious young man, with his brown hair and brown eyes, his quiet voice and polite manners, would stay for another year, perhaps two, until the Danish government sent another teacher just like him. That was the way it had always been, and Niclas felt comfortable with it.

  But now he narrows his old eyes and stands for a better view. Here comes the boat around the headland, tossing and yawing in the choppy sea.

  ‘They should take down the sail,’ says Niclas, and at that moment down comes the sail, leaving the wor
k to the ten sets of oars. ‘A Su∂eroy boat,’ he explains to the teacher. ‘They build them bigger for crossing open sea. You don’t see them so often these days, now the Monopoly is disbanded and any sort of person may set up a shop. Even a landless man!’ He shakes his head to rid it of such gloomy thoughts. ‘Yes, this will be our boy. Your pupil and mine.’

  Müller has not caught up with this news. How information travels around the eighteen islands is a mystery to him. The fishermen seem to be fiercely self-contained and secretive when rowing in and out, and yet how else could the Faroese learn all the minute details of everyone’s life almost before it happens? An extra pupil will be welcome, though, in his new — the first — high school. Families from the outer islands have been slow to accept that a high-school education might benefit a son who is destined for farming or fishing.

  ‘Is that him?’ asks Müller. ‘The boy in the bow?’

  That’s when old Niclas makes his remark about ancient heroes, and the teacher, watching that upright spirited lad, feels an excitement coming from both the old man and the boy. An excitement that he would like to contain.

  ‘Silly boy,’ he says.

  But now old Niclas is walking slowly down to the dock. Müller follows. The eight rowers heave the beautiful white boat through the water. Its prow juts clean and square above the curving sweep of the overlapping planks. Even the oars are painted a brilliant white. The man at the tiller shouts an order and one bank of oars flicks upright as the other bank brings the boat around to touch, with scarcely a bump, against the dock. The boy — he is a man, surely, given his height and the breadth of his shoulders — leaps ashore, shouting something the teacher cannot understand, to tie ropes fore and aft. As he helps to unload barrels of train-oil and salted klipfish and canvas-wrapped parcels — knitted goods and feathers, no doubt — he is talking all the time, joking with the oarsmen, shouting instructions, though he is surely the youngest aboard.