Seal Woman
SOLVEIG EGGERZ
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Unbridled
Copyright © 2008, 2013 by Solveig Eggerz.
All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be
reproduced in any form without permission.
Originally published in a trade paperback original by Ghost Road
Press.
First Unbridled edition 2013.
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-60953-106-5
Print ISBN: 978-1-60953-105-8
The Library of Congress has given the Ghost Road paperback edition
the following Control Number: 20089203343
To my father, Pétur Eggerz.
I - Ragnar
At the End of the World
Charlotte stood on the black sand. The surf swirled around the toes of her boots. Columns of hardened lava rose from the water like wading trolls. Fulmars quarreled in the cliffs above. Her desire to speak the forbidden names was overwhelming. She raised her head and directed her voice to the leaden line where ocean and sky met.
Max. Lena.
She shouted again. When her throat grew sore, she pulled the hood of her jacket over her head and turned away from the ocean. Beyond the sea grass on the dunes, a dirt road passed alongside cliffs stained white by generations of birds. A black Ford pick-up approached. Ragnar was already back from the village to fetch her. Why did he always rush her?
She'd asked him to see if her oil paints had arrived from Berlin. Her mother wrote that the lids had been screwed on tight. Twelve years and the paints were still good. He walked toward her now, swinging his plowman hands. He didn't like her near the ocean. He'd made her promise two years ago never to go into the water again.
That seaweed in your hair. So horrible.
Why not, she'd asked, wanting more than the obvious answer. He'd described the horrors of drowning. You feel like you're suffocating. When he was a boy, a friend from the neighboring farm had thought he could swim in the North Atlantic. He hadn't returned.
Ragnar had breathed that story into her neck the first time they'd made love after she went into the sea. It wasn't until early morning that he gave her the right answer.
Because I love you.
After ten years of marriage, he'd finally said it.
Now his disapproval made her throat tighten. Easing her voice around that feeling, she addressed him in his native language—farm talk.
"Did they have the grain?" He started to speak, but hesitated, and she grew impatient, hating herself for it. The other farmers didn't wait for him to finish, just gabbled on about wool and prices. But she was his wife. She had to listen.
"Two bags," he said at last.
She took his hand. He pulled away, but then gave in to her. People didn't hold hands, not after they were married, he'd said. People would think they—they what? Inside the truck, the silence thickened between them. The rumble of the motor came as a relief. He ran his hands over his thighs before grasping the steering wheel. His overalls were threadbare from the frequent gesture.
"Any mail?"
He shook his head. She felt sharp disappointment. All these years on the island, she'd used colored pencils or watercolors. Suddenly she'd wanted the paints from her old life. She leaned her head against the dusty leather and sighed. Eventually the paints would emerge from the hold of the ship in Reykjavík, and the bus would bring them to the village, but would she still need them then? A headache crouched at her temples. Dust swirled up through the floor of the car. Bulging sheep eyes watched from both sides of the road. The woolly-barreled bodies bore tiny heads with delicate nostrils and a thin mouth curved into a tentative smile. Charlotte often gagged on farm life. Humans weren't meant to live among moss and heather, climb rocks, and freeze in summer snowstorms. That was for sheep. And men like Ragnar.
Halfway up the hillside, Max would have worn her out with talking. Odd how Ragnar's stolid silence still made her think of Max's restlessness.
In the rear view mirror, the gray sky blurred into the black sea as the tires gripped the rutted road for the last part of the ascent. Suddenly she remembered why he'd gone to the village today.
"Did you get the new blade?" she asked.
"No deliveries this week," he said, his voice furred with disappointment.
Of course not. The blade was in the hold of the same ship that contained the paints from her mother.
"We're at the end of the world," she whispered to the sheep.
His shoulder shifted defensively. "But it's better than Germany—right?"
He was right. The hillside was better, better than the Germany she'd left that summer—no work, nothing to eat, the best people dead or gone. But she didn't like hearing it from him. Sometimes they didn't talk for days. He lived at the center of a world warmed by cows and sheep while she clung to its periphery. She fed the chickens in a daydream of her favorite German painter, David Casper Friedrich. How did he gnarl his trees? How did Rembrandt pock his noses?
Farm chores kept her focused on eggs and milk. Penciled reminders on the calendar dictated their lives—May, manure grinders at the cooperative store. June, grain shipment. July, barbed wire.
But memories often eclipsed the calendar. Last winter, treading the snow rut between house and shed to milk the cows, she'd seen her old life. Max stood beside her in the cold classroom at the academy, pointing at the model, then at her painting.
Her breasts aren't pink. They're really green and yellow. Thighs are purple.
Thanks to Max, today she still measured everything, even the distance from then to now. But she didn't want to be like Lot's wife, looking back over her shoulder. She hated how memory ate the edges off her real life, how images of then were brighter than scooping out the gutters in the cowshed. She'd be listening to Henrik, her island child, when Lena's voice from years ago would break in. Mamma. It was Henrik pulling her ear. But she heard only Lena talking to her bear under the kitchen table. Sometimes she'd stop work and fight it. She'd chant the days of the week in Icelandic—sunnudagur, mánudagur—until the memories broke into little pieces.
In the ray of light that streaked through the dirty shed window, she would hold up thumb and forefinger and, once again, measure the fateful distance from point to point, until she would decide to give her child away. This mental geometry often caused her to drop her rake, to cut the sheep she was shearing, to miss the last drop in a cow's teat.
The child might not be dead.
Just last week she'd perched on the greasy stool, stroked Skjalda's warm udder, and told the cow about Lena, the story that Ragnar didn't want to hear. The cow had turned to look at her with round brown eyes, extending her rough purple tongue toward Charlotte's cheek.
Mornings when Ragnar heard the chickens cackle, he placed his feet on the cold floor. No other world existed. A courageous man, he would walk into a blinding storm to find his sheep or climb the mountain path while the gravel rolled downhill under his horse's feet. He often rode along the glacier rim, where a misstep meant certain death on jagged rocks in a crevice.
But he feared Charlotte's past.
Talking was also not his strength. When she first arrived at the farm, he'd scattered words at her, and she'd pecked at them. Later, she'd learned to enjoy his stroking at night, his murmuring about new milk filters and fence posts.
Back then she hardly understood him. Picking her way among the tussocks behind a cow's swinging udder, she'd moved her lips searching for phrases. Ragnar had named things and made her repeat the words. But
once he'd established her basic farm vocabulary, he'd gone quiet. Back then, it hadn't mattered so much. She'd been moving forwards into a new life. That was before she realized how time looped back on you and knocked you down with things you'd rather forget.
Charlotte had been without a man for a long time that summer when she met Ragnar. Their solemn promises in the shadow of the minister's ruff gave them rights to one another. And during that fall and winter their bodies slid together hungrily at night. The nighttime heat left a residual warmth that drew them to one another during the day. Furtively, she stroked his arm, his thigh when the old woman, his mother, wasn't nearby.
But soon the touching wasn't enough. The novelty of his quick couplings wore off. The less they talked, the more uncomfortable she felt as her memories backed up inside her. One night, the silence between them felt heavier than his long leg lying across hers.
"I want to tell you—" she started.
He pulled back his leg.
"About Berlin—"
"Don't like big cities."
"During the war, a lot of people—"
He placed his finger on her lips, shushing a noisy child. Afraid to upset him, she kept quiet, focused on breathing in a calm, even manner.
At last he spoke.
"We need a new outhouse."
"Of course, but—"
She placed her hand on his chest, felt it rumble under her palm, knew he was preparing to speak again. He rose up on his elbow.
"A husband needs his wife in the fields, not just at night," he said, then rolled onto his back, apparently exhausted by his own rhetoric.
She welcomed the pledge of friendship. Its restrictions dawned on her later.
The night Ragnar imposed the talking ban, her memories formed a knot inside her. What she'd lived long ago felt like a creature—perhaps a dragon—that slumbered uneasily within her. A light sleeper, the dragon sometimes woke up suddenly. On those nights, Ragnar found her shivering outdoors, talking through blue lips. Why? He asked. She didn't know why.
She and Max had been so sensual together. Her fingertips,
the sides of her feet, the backs of her knees—every part of her—had desired him. They'd lingered over one another, languidly naming things—colors, painters, landscapes, sunsets. She had relished the slow build-up of desire, the sudden explosion of pleasure.
Ragnar never wasted time. In the village, he bought his grain quickly. In bed, he was efficient. Slower, she'd pleaded with him those first nights in bed, placing her hand on his, guiding his stroking of her. His face in the midsummer light had been contorted with embarrassment. Later, he'd spoken.
"She—"
He rarely mentioned his first wife, a woman who had grown up on the hillside. His mother had given her consumptive daughter-in-law lichen milk three times a day to clear her lungs, and still she'd died. He'd made a bad choice.
During the day, Ragnar helped Charlotte with such words as dog—hundur. Sheep—kind. Phrases like pass the fat—réttu mér flotið. He never labeled what you couldn't see and knew little of what she saw. He especially disliked the Berlin ghost who crept under her blanket while he slept.
Sometimes when the cold air from the outside wall touched every vertebra in her back, he appeared and warmed her. But after he was gone, questions arose. How many flour bag aprons, strung together through the years like paper dolls holding hands, would she wear out in this place?
Her union with Ragnar had grown from need, not love. Too many women had left the hillside, he'd explained—gone to work as maids in Reykjavík. For money. For running water. Germany had women. He'd advertised. And she'd been a woman without a man. Funny. She'd always thought of herself as an artist, one who could live without a man.
As the truck ascended the hillside, she stared straight ahead, determined to match his silence.
A Gift
The boys stood on the steps waving, reclaiming their parents at last. Eleven-year old Tryggvi, named for Ragnar's father, strode toward the car on long, lean legs. His unwashed brown hair stood up stiff as a crow's feather. Henrik, five years old, ran down the steps towards her. Trails of earlier tears marked his cheeks. Pale-skinned and small-boned, he looked as if the cool summer breeze would break him in two.
When the midwife—a heavy-hipped woman from the foot of the hillside—had laid the squalling infant on Charlotte's chest, her father's name, Heinrich, had come into her head. But even as she rolled her shoulders in pain under the baby's hard gums on her nipple, she'd changed his name to Henrik. It would sound better on the hillside. Being the son of the foreign woman would be hard enough for the child.
Henrik's eyes held an accusation.
"Why didn't you tell me you were going?"
She stepped out of the car and caressed his fragile shoulders. Every time she went on an errand, he behaved as if she'd left him forever. Secretly she liked his fear of losing her. It tied her to the farm in a way that Ragnar never could. It matched her own fear for the safety of these pups born to her in middle age. Tryggvi bristled under her caution, but Henrik absorbed her fears, made them his own.
Now he hung on her leg.
"Silly," she said, tweaking his nose.
She must discourage this nervous hugging, help him grow up. Three years old the day they found her on the shore, he'd seen the waves washing over her. After that, she'd promised them. No more climbing on the rocks. Just a little whispering into the waves.
"We'll make pancakes," she said.
Henrik released her and ran into the house.
Tryggvi's features curled into indifference. She wanted to kiss him, but he wouldn't allow that, not since he'd begun to swing a scythe with his father. He rolled up his sleeves, reached into the back seat, and pulled out the bag of grain. Watching him struggle with it across the driveway, she felt a rush of pride.
Before entering the house, she glanced towards the sea. It was her favorite time, that moment of indecision in the ocean when the tide turned.
The old woman sat in the living room, knitting. Above her hung the three oil paintings Charlotte had brought with her. An old man looked tenderly into the eyes of his young son. The boy returned the gaze. The old man held a metallic glint in his hand, indistinguishable as a knife unless you knew how Abraham had hesitated to kill Isaac.
Before their first Christmas together, Charlotte had hung up the painting of Lena as a baby, her face merging with vinca and violets. In a certain light, her eyes sparkled with laughter. But when you stood in the door and looked at the painting sideways, you glimpsed a sadness. Charlotte always faced the painting straight on.
The third painting had stayed longer in Charlotte's suitcase. She was already pregnant with Tryggvi when she hung it in the corner, away from the sun's rays. It depicted a market place crowded with carts and peddlers. A figure ran toward the viewer. On its white cloak was a red dot. Each painting was signed. Max.
The old woman plucked a loop of wool from her needle. She gestured with
her chin to a small table covered with an embroidered doily. On it was a glass of water that contained two scarlet, whitespotted mushrooms. The stalks of the umbrella-like heads were snow white.
"Berserker mushroom—found it this morning," she said.
Charlotte saw the gleam in her eye and wondered if she'd sliced a bit of it into her chamomile tea. Hadn't the mushrooms' muskarin and atropin inspired a hallucinatory courage in the Vikings, helped them rip out the hearts of their enemies? Trying occasionally to dose down her own dreams with the mushroom, Charlotte had created bloody nightmares instead. In the kitchen she reached for her apron and tied it so that the threadbare section was on her side, not over her belly.
Clicking her needles, the old woman sang.
Covered with old and gray moss
Grass and green heather grow into our wound.
The Deepest Landscape Painting
That summer Charlotte had wanted to get back on the boat and return to the ruins of Berlin. But she'd smiled tig
htly at the other women, then boarded the dusty little bus.
The bus ascended hills, crossed heaths, then ground its gears descending back onto the sands. Charlotte saw how the rain transformed the moss from gray to green. All around her the women chattered in German.
Farmers in Iceland seek strong women who can cook and do farm work.
Like meat needs salt, she'd told her mother. It had to be better than Berlin.
As the bus rattled along the gravel road, she looked for faces in the moss and in the wildflower clusters. The tundra painter had taught her to look for human beings in the grazing land that fingered its way up the side of the mountain, to imagine the shape of bodies in the brown and gold lichens, to see profiles carved in the rock. In her suitcase, she had his book, picked up at a bookstall on the Potsdamer Platz. His wildflowers, lichens, rocks, moss-covered lava made her hungry for this place.
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