Catching the Current

by Jenny Pattrick

  Clara sits still under his hands. Enok wills her to defy him, but the pressure seems to drain her of animation. She nods slowly and smiles apologetically at Enok.

  ‘Perhaps he is right,’ she says. ‘They are two different matters.’ Seeing Enok draw breath to defend the idea, she gives him a small dismissive sign that wounds him more than sharp words.

  Otto smiles now, pats her shoulders smartly, then walks to the door. ‘Good, then. Perhaps if we are finished I might have a word alone with Enok. A private matter.’

  He holds the door open while the others file out, shrugging into coats and caps as they go. Rain is still falling and the wind has risen. The houses of Tórshavn are obliterated. The dim glow spilling out from the meeting room and a single light down at the jetty are the only signs that a town is here. As Clara leaves, Otto compliments her writing, praises the improvement. Clara blushes proudly, but her last smile — regretful and warm — is for Enok.

  LATER, when Otto has shown his cousin around the brewery and the warehouse, explained the breadth and scope of his business interests, he seats Enok in his cramped office and produces, with a flourish that is meant to impress, a bottle of brandy and two glasses. Enok, already glowing from the beer, accepts a shot and downs it. Otto refills both glasses, then, warming his hands at the meagre glow of the oil-lamp, explains the nature of his ‘private matter’.

  ‘My grandfather left my uncle the marks of land here and in both Vagar and Sandoy. Also his trading ship, Thyra, named after his wife, our grandmother. The same ship you arrived on last week. To me he left these businesses, and also …’ Otto pauses, enjoying the moment, ‘also the three marks of land in Su∂eroy. Now. I have no great interest in farming, and no time to supervise a manager on an island so far south. I propose to make those marks over to your name. You are, after all, of our blood.’

  Enok remains silent, looking down at the large ledger on the desk and waiting for the catch.

  ‘You are not pleased? Your mother and her family are already aware of my plan and are deeply grateful. Their store has not done good business recently.’ Otto fails to mention that he has undercut their prices. ‘And the price of wool is favourable at the moment. There is a good living to be had off those marks.’

  Enok wishes his head were clearer, wishes also that he did not suspect his cousin of some trick. ‘Naturally,’ he says, ‘it seems generous — more than fair. Does my family farm the land now?’

  ‘No, no, no. The transfer is to you. Once we heard you were returning, I had the deed drawn up. If you — personally — do not wish to farm the land it will revert to a more distant cousin on the other side of the island.’

  Enok clears his throat. ‘I am more of a sailor these days —’

  ‘The choice is yours, cousin.’

  ‘If I should have children?’

  ‘They will inherit. Certainly. As long as the mother, also, is from Su∂eroy.’

  Enok frowns. ‘Why? Why should it matter where she was born?’

  Otto smiles easily, ‘Call me a patriot. I would not want Su∂eroy land to fall into other hands. More brandy?’

  Enok drinks. ‘But this is a nonsense! I am from Su∂eroy — that should be enough.’

  ‘As I say, the choice is yours. Take the document: it needs only your signature. Go down to your island and inspect your marks. You are a strong man, Enok, and will make a good farmer. Think carefully.’ Otto’s green eyes are now slightly unfocused as he smiles at his cousin. ‘I mean you well, Enok. All that bad blood in our family is not worthy. A true Faroeman supports those of his blood first. Let us be friends.’

  ‘Does Clara know about this? Do the Haraldsens?’

  Otto stands suddenly and almost loses balance. He is even drunker than Enok, it would seem. ‘This has nothing to do with them. With her.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’ Otto steadies himself against the table. He won’t look at his cousin. ‘No.’

  Enok, befuddled as he is, finally sees that the gift of land has everything to do with Clara. Otto wants him out of the way.

  ‘Cousin,’ he says, grinning, the words coming thick against his tongue, ‘I will not stand in your way with Clara.’

  He moves to clap Otto on the shoulder but the smaller man is quicker. Enok finds himself pushed up against the wall, Otto’s swimming eyes only inches from his own.

  ‘It is nothing to do with her!’ shouts Otto. ‘Nothing! And another thing — she shouldn’t look at you like that. And another thing — keep your eyes off her. She is betrothed to me. Me!’

  Tears are rolling down his face now. He lurches back to his desk, sits with a crash and flicks the pages of his ledger as if searching for something. He dashes a hand across his face and seems surprised to find it wet. At last he finds the paper he wants and rattles it in the air.

  ‘An important letter from the king’s bailiff here to the sheriff in Su∂eroy,’ he says, his voice and manner back under control. ‘Come from Denmark on the same boat that brought you. The skyds will be running it down tomorrow. You could go too, if you can keep up.’

  Enok leans against the wall, unable to control his foolish grin.

  ‘Your mother will be pleased to see you,’ says Otto.

  ‘Oh Jesus, you are keen to get rid of me,’ says Enok, shaking his big shaggy head. ‘I can’t think straight.’

  ‘You’re drunk.’

  ‘We’re both drunk, friend, and best out of each other’s company. I’ll go down if I can clear my head quickly enough.’

  ‘First skyd will leave seven in the morning. God speed.’

  3.

  THE TIME-HONOURED manner in which the official letter is delivered to Su∂eroy (Enok travelling on its coat-tails) — indeed the only postal service the islands knew — is this:

  First the skydskaffer in Tórshavn makes out the roster, choosing, on every island, runners and boat-owners who have not been called upon recently. No one enjoys giving up a day for skyd duty but fortunately official letters are rare, and so are travelling priests or sheriffs, who also have the right of skyd transport. Enok certainly has no such right and will be expected to put his back to an oar. The skydskaffer, a pompous fellow and a relative of Otto’s (a fact that has Enok wondering if the letter is a fabrication), hands the sealed leather pouch containing the letter and the roster-card to young Lars Larsen, runner for the Streymoy leg.

  ‘Make sure that lazy man in Kirkjubøur sets out smartly,’ says the skydskaffer, ‘and signs the paper before he hands it on. Off with you, then. If the big man can’t keep up, leave him behind. This is king’s business.’

  Lars loves the duty and would run it every time if asked. He runs into the low mist on the tops, sure-footed even in this icy dark, leaping small streams and rocky outcrops, scattering the few shaggy sheep still in the outfield. Here and there patches of snow glow eerily. It will not be light until mid-morning, well after they have arrived in Kirkjubøur. At the brow he turns south, shouting to the labouring Enok to hurry, then disappears into the mist as he runs the five kilometres along the cliffs and down the steep southern slopes to Kirkjubøur, on the coast. Enok, strong as he is, cannot keep up. He arrives, puffing and coughing, just as the farmer whose turn it is, prepares to row out.

  ‘Excellent,’ says the farmer, eyeing Enok’s size. ‘You can take an oar and save my youngest son half the distance. He hasn’t the strength yet for the return trip. And a sail will be no use to us in this weather.’

  While the crew waits for the last rower to don his woollen coat and sheepskin boots, Enok speaks quietly to Lars. ‘Take a message to Clara. Tell her I will come back at Christmas to sing the kvæ∂i. Ask her to find a house for it.’

  Lars grins. ‘The old man’s house, of course. Niclas Patursson.’

  ‘No, perhaps not. He does not approve.’

  ‘Well, he is old. I will approve! And Clara will be happy. Is she your sweetheart now?’

  ‘Enough of sweethearts!’ Enok’s words come out sharper
than he intended and he gives the boy a friendly pat. ‘Thanks, friend. Tell Clara I’m sorry to leave so suddenly.’

  The boy scuffs his boots against the pebbles of the beach. ‘I wish I was coming. Never seen Su∂eroy. Nor even the northern islands. You have clapped eyes on the whole world.’

  Enok laughs, his spirits restored. ‘Well, a good chunk. And you will too, is my guess. God speed, friend.’

  The six oarsmen set out across the sound to Skopun on the island of Sandoy, while Lars waves them off. No doubt he will run all the way back just for the fun of it.

  At Skopun the new skyd takes charge of the letter (Enok is not a notified skyd and will not do) and the two run steeply up the hill, into mist again, past the lake, then beside the stream for two hours, thankfully downhill, over to Sandur on the south coast. Three hours of running. Enok is tired. And wet. A spiritless kind of daylight has finally arrived, and with it a soaking rain. Two more islands to go.

  The Sandur skyd, whose turn it is to row to the next island, remembers Enok. ‘Ho, Enok Rasmussen av Su∂eroy!’ he shouts. ‘I would recognise that frame any day of the week! Here is our ballad singer returned. Take an oar, man. This skyd duty is a bloody curse, for I have important work on the farm.’

  ‘Jesus, man, I am far cut,’ pants Enok.

  ‘Then stay behind — there’s no room for passengers. I have a cousin on Skúvoy will row back.’

  Clearly there is ample room for a passenger, but Enok is in no position to argue. He climbs aboard, happy enough at least to sit down for a while. Once out in the channel they set a sail, which helps, but the oars are needed. The current is against them. Another three hours and they reach Skúvoy in pitch dark. Enok climbs wearily up the icy stone steps to the village, sinks onto a pile of hay in the farmer’s shed and falls asleep without eating.

  Next morning the clouds run high and grey across the sky behind a stiff breeze from the north. On this tiny island there is only one farmer of any note, so the skyd duty always falls to him. He grumps his way down the stone steps to the tiny jetty, where Enok, chewing on a strip of dried fish, is throwing stones at the diving skua. Down fly the screaming birds, undeterred by the stones, beaks and talons ready to rake the intruders.

  ‘Jesus, man,’ muttered Enok, ‘let us get under way before I am torn to ribbons! How do you live with these demons?’

  The farmer is not inclined to talk. He jerks his head at the boat, indicating that Enok should get aboard and prepare the sail. Mercifully, the wind will allow them to scud down under sail — just the two of them manning the small craft, with a minimum of rowing. The sea runs with them — choppy, but no big swell. Enok sits amidships ready to luff the sail, and closes his eyes against the stinging spray. He remembers the story of Sigmund Bresterson, the ancient hero of the island they have just left, who was perpetually in scrapes with the church and the law and who had to escape across to Su∂eroy by swimming this very sea. When he crawled ashore, Thórgrim the Evil killed him for the jewelled treasures he carried. Enok has always loved the saga, which his stepfather recounted with great style. As a child he imagined that the jewelled ring his father had found in the sea, and which hung even now on a thong around his neck, had come from that treasure, dropped by the hero as he waded ashore.

  Enok thinks about swimming and how neither he nor Napoleon — nor any Faroese he can think of — have ever learned. And how the gods in the old stories could always swim prodigiously, and many of the heroes too. And how his own father walked into the sea on the very coast they are now approaching, knowing that he could not save himself if suddenly he changed his mind. Enok trails his hand in the cold grey water and shivers. He loves the sea — is never happier than when sailing on it — but the thought of swimming through it, of letting that deep expanse hold him up, fills him with dread.

  His chance to learn the skill comes more quickly than he imagined. Enok, unable to keep up a silence for long, begins to expound one theory after another to the dour farmer. First a new way to secure the sail so it will respond more readily to the wind, and then a different kind of knot. The farmer eyes him sourly and says new theories are invented by the devil. Enok smiles and shakes his head, which seems to enrage the farmer further. Next it is the fishing tackle.

  ‘But you should surely use a long-line in these waters,’ says Enok. ‘You would catch many more.’

  The farmer grunts. ‘What was good enough for our fathers is good enough for me.’

  ‘You won’t even try?’

  ‘If you can’t show respect, shut your mouth.’

  The farmer’s response should be warning enough, but Enok has to pursue the matter.

  ‘We use a long-line in Sumba. Would you let Su∂eroy go ahead of Skúvoy?’

  The farmer spits into the sea and then changes tack abruptly. The swinging boom knocks Enok clean out of the boat. For a moment the farmer watches the thrashing boy, then he throws him a rope.

  ‘See if your famous new theories can get you back aboard,’ he growls, making no attempt to slow the boat or change its direction. Enok clings desperately to the trailing rope, half submerged, his fingers slowly numbing and losing their strength in the icy water. He has never felt such fear, the black sea closing over him. There is no way he can haul himself aboard. In that darkest moment it is Anahuia he thinks of, and his two unseen boys. He would call to them if he had breath to do so.

  At the moment when he feels his fingers loosening and the sea about to claim him, the farmer pulls in the rope and helps to heave him over the stern. ‘Now perhaps you will learn to trust your elders and your betters,’ he says with some satisfaction. That is the last word he speaks to the shivering Enok. They run ashore at Hvalba and Enok, wet and exhausted, starts walking south to Sumba.

  4.

  Else Rasmussen tells the story of her son’s return

  I SAW A tall man walking along the shore from the direction of Lopra and knew it was him. A mother knows. He leapt, reckless as ever, from one rock to another, and then onto the path, shading his eyes against the low sun. I watched from the house, afraid to move in case he disappeared by some trick of light and water and I was left with a dream of my own making. But oh, it was him all right, my great first-born son, greeting the fishermen down on the shore, clapping them on the shoulder as if he’d never been away, then striding up through the village, a bundle slung over his shoulder. By his walk alone I would have known him: that swinging gait, head high, looking side to side, open to anything or anyone that might come his way. Inviting the world in.

  I should not let myself be seen when fishermen are setting out, nor is it proper for a woman of my status to stand in the doorway and shout for everyone to hear, but that day I surprised even myself. ‘Enok!’ I called, and then again, louder, ‘Enok!’

  He looked up and saw me. Broke into a run and near mashed my ribs, hugging me on the doorstep in front of the whole village! But you had to laugh. That was Enok all over — never one for the rules.

  Safely inside, away from prying eyes, I could look my fill at this boy who had come back a man. Such a size! I am no slip of a thing but my head came only to his shoulder. His clothes, a sailor’s canvas trousers and wool jacket, were in poor shape — I could see my needle would be busy — his hair every which way and a good few days’ growth on his chin. But for all that, my son filled the room — the house! — with his — what is the word I search for? — with a kind of high spirit that is hard to resist. My good solid Hans laughed when I told him that. But I felt quite sure, on that first day, that here was a good man come back to bring his family joy. I was wrong, yes, but only partly wrong.

  I set out dried whale meat that night, and boiled us each a stuffed puffin. We had potatoes and a kind of seaweed pickle I make and sheep’s cheese with barley bread and honey. A feast! Hanna was there, of course — she had been slow to find a husband. She trotted in from the drying shed and greeted Enok calmly, as if he had never been away. Times enough I would like to put pins in that girl, e
ven if she is my own daughter. The two boys and Hans came in late from the outfield, where the men had been working to get the last pluck of wool finished. A fine day is not to be wasted. They had already heard the news but still the boys were jumping and shouting, full of questions, until Hans had to settle them for prayers with a sharp word. Dorthe promised to come over later and bring the children to meet their lost uncle.

  I was so happy that night, all the family around the fire. I know well enough the saying that the hearth-fire is the heart of the house, but unless the whole family is around that fire, the heart, for me, does not beat strongly. After dinner and the Bible (Enok fidgeting like a small boy — he was always better at talking than listening) we finally heard his story. Stories I should say: they were wonderful tales, full of sights and happenings you would never dream of. Can you imagine that he worked for the prime minister of Denmark, Bishop Monrad himself? Enok was his right-hand man, and sat often at his table and talked to his daughters and sons. That is something, even if the prime minister is no longer so important. Also Enok saved the bishop’s little grandson from drowning in a lake full of eels and other strange creatures.

  And the things he had made! Such beautiful scenes scratched into the surface of whale bone like the sailors do. One for me of a native house and a native woman sitting outside it and a native bird with no wings beside her. Enok swore it was all as he had carved it, smiling at me from eyes so blue and open; I was sure he was making half of it up.

  Hans gave special prayers of thanks for the return of our son, and then allowed everyone to stay up late. Enok sang to us and played a wonderful instrument, pulling it out and in like breathing until it made sounds like a choir singing. He said there was no word in our language for it. We all sang along with him — a new tune he taught us but with old words that we knew. But the languages he could sing in! The boys were agog. Enok loved every minute: a blind woman could see that. Late in the evening he rummaged in his sailor’s sack and brought out a wonderful scarlet coat, embroidered in gold and with a silver star on the chest. He put it on and struck nautical poses while the grandchildren screamed and wanted to touch. Then he told a story about how he got it. There were icebergs and sea battles and mysterious women of the sea; I remember Odin and Thor themselves had a hand in the adventure. All nonsense, of course. The jacket was far too small for my boy so you had to wonder, but the tale was a masterpiece. Even Hans, who prefers the truth of Bible stories, was caught up. Oh yes, Enok was happy to be home that night, I am sure of it.