Catching the Current

by Jenny Pattrick

  Niclas Patursson turns to the teacher. ‘Look at him!’ There’s pride in his voice as if the boy were his son. ‘A leader already. They say Enok of Sumba will be important for our islands one day. Already they say he is the best ballad singer in all Su∂eroy. I can see greatness in him even now.’ Then he frowns as the tall lad shouts an order to the oldest of the oarsmen. ‘But it may be that both you and I will need to teach him a few manners. Enok!’

  The boy turns, quick on his feet for all his size. The fair skin of his face is wind-burned from the long trip and his smile open, ready for whoever calls. He squints up against the pale summer sun, which will set today for only two hours. For a moment he looks at the two men standing on the steps above him, then he comes up to them with his hand outstretched as if he were man greeting friend, not boy meeting, for the first time, his teachers.

  ‘Herr Patursson, is it?’ he says, and when the old man nods, the boy grasps his hand in both of his own and shakes vigorously. ‘Gud signi teg! It is a great honour to meet you. My stepfather sends warmest greetings and my mother has sent something more substantial. Wait!’

  He turns to run back for the parcel his mother has sent but old Niclas speaks sternly.

  ‘Enok, the gifts can wait; is there some reason we are so pressed for time that you ignore the man who stands at my side?’

  The boy stops in mid-flight, turns back with a groan and slaps a hand at his forehead. The dismay is so genuine and so comical that even stern old Niclas cannot keep a straight face.

  ‘The problem is,’ says the boy, grinning now to see he has won them over, ‘that it is all so exciting. So new! So many houses! All these boats! How will I ever get to know them all? I’m sorry. My apologies.’

  Again he holds out a large hand as if greeting a friend. ‘Gud signi teg! I am Enok Rasmussen of Sumba, Su∂eroy.’

  This exchange has all been in Faroese and Müller has had difficulty following, but he understands the introduction.

  ‘And I am Herr Müller, of Sønderborg, Als, Denmark,’ he replies in Danish. ‘Teacher at the realskole here in Tórshavn.’

  ‘Ah. I am pleased to meet you.’ Enok switches to good Danish. His smile, though, becomes uncertain. ‘My mother wishes me to attend the realskole, but perhaps this other study will not allow time … Also,’ and his face brightens as he looks around at the houses, the green fields sloping up this way and that from the shore, the jutting cliffs of Nólsoy across the sound, ‘there will be much to explore and learn in this new place.’

  ‘You will attend to my teaching and to realskole, both,’ says old Niclas firmly, ‘and no doubt find time for exploration as well. The days are long at this time of year. Now, finish your work and then come up for a meal.’ He indicates his house, on a rise a little isolated from the rest, built in the old style: low to the ground, its wide sloping roof covered in grass. ‘There is much to discuss.’

  As the boy runs backs to the boat, waving and shouting again to his friends, Müller turns to the old man. ‘Did I miss something in your conversation? You are to teach him?’

  The old man nods; sighs. ‘Yes. It is ambitious. A Faroese matter. I am to teach him the middle section of a special kvæ∂i — one of our ballads. I have always been known for this one. It is very, very long. His father was famous for the first section.’

  The teacher waits for more, but Niclas is ready to move now, up towards the houses.

  ‘The boy’s own story,’ says Niclas, ‘is also a long one, like the kvæ∂i he is to learn. I will tell you another day. You will need to know it. You will also need to be careful where Otto is concerned. Otto may cause some trouble.’ After uttering this peculiar warning Niclas smiles. ‘But then they are young and perhaps I am fearful only of old ghosts.’

  2.

  ONE WEEK AFTER Enok Rasmussen’s arrival, Johannes Müller realises that his promised talk with Niclas is already overdue. He watches from the window of the schoolroom as his pupils run through the misty village during their midday break. Enok has led them out, shouting and laughing and goading them on. The fifteen boys and one girl have followed him readily, but had never thought of going so far themselves. Müller watches as Enok kicks the ball high, then runs after it, dodging the tiny jumbled plots and gardens of the infield, nimble as a cat at avoiding men and women at work. The others follow, with less success, earning a few shouts and threats. One farmer turns to glare back at the schoolhouse. He shakes a fist when he spots Müller at the window.

  Over the stone wall and free to run on the sloping grass of the outfield, the young men kick the ball back and forth, setting the sheep running this way and that. There will be more complaints, no doubt. But Müller is pleased to see his pupils active. He has been trained by the modern techniques recently set in place by the new Danish education minister, D. G. Monrad; he believes the mind works more quickly if the bloodstream is well oxygenated from time to time. If there is no flat land for a school field, then the stony, lumpy outfield, farmed jointly by all the landowners, will have to serve.

  This strange land still surprises Müller, who is used to the flat farms of his native Denmark. Here the smooth grassy fields tilt this way and that, like giant choppy waves. Dark cliffs rise from the sea to meet, abruptly, the sweeps and crags of the fields; not a tree to break the line: sea, cliffs, fields, crags repeated and repeated. Then the slash of a fjord and another island, with choppy fields and towering cliffs and a small village or two set wherever the land swoops low enough to provide access to the sea. Villagers must augment the poor results of farming with the riches that sea and cliffs provide, so it is important to live near the sea, and to own a boat.

  This small footprint in the Atlantic Ocean, nearer in distance to the Shetland Islands, and in language to Iceland, but traditionally part of Denmark, is interesting to Müller, but only up to a point. He finds the people too resistant to new ideas, too conservative in all their ways. He will be ready enough to leave when he has served his two years. Meantime, he will encourage some of these pupils to break away, to continue their studies back in Denmark and perhaps bring back some fresh ways of thinking. In his view the minds of the Faroese are as clammed up as the foggy weather.

  The girl, Clara, could well be one to escape, he thinks, though her father is unlikely to consider a girl’s education as a priority. Clara has not joined in the antics of the boys. She sits on the stone wall, looking back to the village and the sea. In Müller’s opinion she is the best scholar in the school — much brighter than her brother, Napoleon, and more open to new ideas than Otto, who is also clever. But Enok? The teacher sighs. The boy’s mind is like quicksilver — always on the move, and rarely on the subject at hand. In discussions he will contribute — dominate, even — presenting views that are challenging and occasionally pertinent. He loves to talk and the others enjoy listening to this engaging newcomer. Old Niclas is right — the boy is a natural leader. But pinning him down to his bookwork is another matter. After two minutes of copying or writing his essay Enok will be fidgeting. His fair head will rise, his blue eyes searching the room for a soulmate. If all the other heads are down he will throw a smile at the frowning Herr Müller, shrug and try again. But a minute later his head is up again to address the quiet classroom with some provocative idea or other.

  ‘Why do they write it like this in Danish? It doesn’t look like it sounds.’ Or ‘Frederik, Christian, Christian Frederik — what about a new name for a king? How can we remember all this? What about Olaf? Or Sjúr∂ur? They should choose heroes.’

  He can usually provoke a discussion, the wretch, and Müller himself is often drawn in against his better judgement. But the boy will not pass his exams — and the work of the others may suffer — if the situation is allowed to continue.

  Müller steps outside to ring the ship’s bell, salvaged by a fisherman, gifted to the school and set in a painted frame outside the door. Enok leads the charge back down the hill, grinning and whooping, and the teacher finds himself smiling in re
sponse. When the boy trips leaping the steps up to the classroom, and comes crashing down in a heap, Müller is among the crowd of concerned pupils who pick him up and dust him off and gently probe the scraped skin for deeper bruises.

  Otto is the only one who stands back. He watches the scene quietly, and the teacher, moving away now that no disaster is apparent, notices the boy’s agitation. With forefinger and thumb Otto plucks at his knitted jersey just above his heart. Pick pick pick, the fingers pinch the wool as if a burr is caught there. Otto is slightly built and tall — not as tall as Enok, but still taller than his teacher. He leans against the wall of the schoolhouse, one knee bent. The stance is casual but the look in his green eyes is intent. Pick pick, go the fingers as Otto watches. Enok, the centre of attention, laughs ruefully and rubs the spot where the skin is now beginning to ooze blood.

  Müller admires Otto; he is a striking lad, athletic and confident, reserved and polite to his teacher, but open enough with the other pupils. He is fair, like most Faroese, though his hair is more honey-gold than ash-blond, and his skin a little more deeply coloured. There is an odd alertness in those green eyes now, as Otto watches Enok. It’s as if the boy is waiting for something, Müller thinks. He is on edge, expecting — what? — and is puzzled, perhaps, that nothing happens. Müller remembers again old Niclas’s warning and resolves to invite the old farmer to the schoolhouse for a drink.

  ‘Well then, my pupils,’ says Müller. ‘It seems no one is going to die around here, so perhaps we can resume our studies?’

  Serious Napoleon offers Enok an arm and Clara quickly steps to his other side. The wounded scholar leans more dramatically than is necessary, especially on Clara’s arm. His smile of thanks would melt solid granite, which Clara most certainly is not. The teacher is not the only person to notice that Otto draws in his breath softly as if he is the one in pain.

  THE lesson this afternoon is modern Danish history — the vexed Slesvig/Holsten problem. Should the Danish kingdom allow the more German duchy of Holsten to separate and become part of Germany? Some Danes think so, says Müller, but none believe that the Germans should claim any of Slesvig, even though the majority there now, it seems, are German-speaking. Müller, who was born on the island of Als, which is generally considered part of North Slesvig, becomes more and more animated as the afternoon progresses. He is adamantly of the belief that not one inch of either duchy should be ceded to Germany.

  ‘Where is the precedent? What do the past statutes say? The duchies have always been Danish, ruled by Danish kings since ancient times. And so it should stay!’

  Even Enok is captured by the teacher’s rhetoric. Müller can feel that the class is with him, which is not always the case. He marches over to the map of Denmark that hangs on the wall, beside the framed portrait of King Frederik VII. He stabs with his ruler at the more northern of the two duchies, Slesvig, whose boundary adjoins Danish Jutland.

  ‘Here I myself grew up, a Danish boy, speaking my native tongue, honouring our Danish customs and heroes. Those Holsteners from the south wanted to make us all speak German as first language in all the schools of Slesvig! True, there are many German-speakers in Slesvig, but since time immemorial that land has been governed by Denmark. It is hallowed Danish soil. Imagine our anger at such a proposal! I saw, with a boy’s frightened eyes, my father march out to join with the Danish army. I waited with my mother, anxious for news. Those Holsteners have powerful allies. Who?’

  ‘Prussia,’ says Otto.

  ‘And our brave Danes marched to repulse them. Date?’

  ‘1848 Holsten invaded Slesvig,’ says Otto, before anyone else has time to take breath.

  ‘Tried to invade, Otto. We repulsed them. And again, gloriously and against the odds, two years later. Name of battle? Not you, Otto.’

  Another lad finally comes up with Isted Heath. But now Enok is on his feet, hands sketching new theories in the air.

  ‘But sir, you are surely inconsistent!’

  Müller frowns. He does not expect to be challenged on this, of all subjects. As usual Enok’s thoughts have taken him on a tangent.

  ‘The language, sir. You are saying that everyone in Slesvig should learn Danish in schools, even if Danes are fewer in number than the German-speakers?’

  ‘It is their right, Enok. Think, think, boy! If you lose your language, you lose your culture, your identity with your past.’

  Enok smiles broadly. His enthusiasm for his argument carries him to the front of the classroom, where he towers over the teacher. ‘Ah, then. What about me?’ He indicates his fellow students. ‘All of us? We are Faroemen, every one. We have grown up speaking Faroese. Our language is at the heart of our culture, yet all we learn is Danish history and everything we learn is in the Danish language. Where have our rights disappeared to, then? There is your inconsistency.’

  He looks in triumph to the rest of the class. Most of them, however, have their eyes lowered, embarrassed by such a bold outburst against a respected teacher. Enok, puzzled and hurt by their lack of support, rails at them in Faroese.

  ‘You know I’m right! We have our own stories and songs in our own language.’

  Otto, however, meets his eye and, as usual, is ready with an answer, before Müller can gather his own defence.

  ‘You are not right, Enok Rasmussen,’ Otto says quietly, in Danish, from his seat. ‘Perhaps you should wait at least a few weeks before you bring down the education system.’ This earns him a laugh from everyone. ‘Over the centuries Denmark has supplied us food and bought our goods. Without her support the Faroes would surely wither and perish.’

  ‘Yes, but —’

  Enok is ready to argue. To him the exchange is an entertainment. But Otto is deadly serious and overrides him easily.

  ‘If we do not speak the language of the Danes, trade with her, learn her culture and history, we will be shutting ourselves in a box labelled Extinct. We have no written history, no tradition of writing down our songs and stories, no books. How can we learn in Faroese if there are no books to learn from? You should sit down, Enok, and show some respect to your teacher.’

  The words are innocuous enough, but the heavy tone carries more than a hint of a threat.

  Enok is suddenly angry. He takes a step towards Otto, fists clenched, breathing hard through his nose. Otto stands quietly to face him but makes no sound, shows no sign of anger or fear. For a moment the two boys eye each other. Then Clara reaches up from her seat at the front of the room and plucks at the sleeve of Enok’s beautiful knitted jersey. Enok looks down at her, then around at the other pupils, and the mood is broken. He clears his throat, looks at Müller, then back at Otto. He shrugs.

  ‘Well, there is something in that, certainly. I am only putting forward a view.’ He grins. ‘Something in both sides of the argument, eh? Sorry to interrupt, teacher. I am not used to being always on the listening side!’

  Enok walks to his seat at the back of the room and makes a rather exaggerated performance of sitting and listening attentively.

  The lesson continues. The rights of the Danes living in Slesvig are revisited and this time Enok is silent. But a new atmosphere has entered the room. It is as if Otto and Enok have grown in size and the others have shrunk. The pupils listen quietly but Müller feels that only half their attention is on him. They are also listening to silent vibrations bouncing back and forth between Otto and Enok.

  3.

  The story of Róland of Su∂eroy and the whale kill

  OLD NICLAS WEARS his knitted cap and his thick jersey inside the schoolhouse. The air is chilly, even though it is near midsummer, but Niclas does not expect a warm room. The fire smouldering quietly in the firebox is tiny — a large fire at this time of year would be considered wasteful. Dried peat is a hard-won and therefore valued commodity. The old man’s cheeks, though, are on fire from the teacher’s imported brandy and he is ready now to tell his story. He has declined the offer of a meal, saying he knows his own stomach and will prepare his o
wn food. In fact he chose to eat in his own home because of Enok. Niclas likes to coach the boy while the two eat their meal. He has found that Enok’s memory works best on a full stomach, and is reluctant to lose a precious minute of the task in hand.

  Now old Niclas is seated on the bench nearest to the fireplace in a room which, like most on these islands, is practical — severe, you might say: stone and timber walls, the bare necessities of furniture fashioned from the timber of shipwrecks and driftwood, the one softening effect a woven wool rug dyed in the muted colours of the landscape. The teacher sits against the wall on the other side of the firebox. Niclas considers this a modern room — there is a table and a chair in the corner, and an iron stand above the firebox for cooking. Müller occupies the upper storey of this house; below live the primary school teacher, his wife and three children. The windows are small and lack curtains. The pale night sun casts an eerie light into the room, almost as silver as moonlight. Outside a single guillemot rides the wind for a moment, then slants abruptly west, heading for the cliffs.

  The old man rolls the wine glass in his hands and brandy tips this way and that, catching the low sunlight and shooting golden flecks across the room. He looks across at Müller.

  ‘Enok of Sumba,’ he says, ‘is the son of a famous ballad singer. In our hearts, you must understand, the ballad singers — those who can perform the best and oldest of our kvæ∂i — are held in the highest esteem in these islands. Those who hold power are Danish, usually, and of course we honour them …’ Old Niclas is not being diplomatic; he believes in this order of things, ‘… but among our own people the ballad singers carry our stories in their heads. We have no way to write them down, as you know.’

  Johannes Müller nods and smiles to himself. Where has he heard this recently?

  Old Niclas takes a small sip of his brandy, shakes his head as if arguing with himself over something, then places the glass carefully on the floor beside him. He is ready, at last, to tell the story. He closes his eyes and begins.