Seal Woman

by Solveig Eggerz

  Henrik sat still. "Who was she?" he asked.

  "Their mother."

  His eyes glistened. "I knew it." He pulled on her arm. "The painting—the one that came alive today—"

  Even in the dim light she saw the red dot Max had made on the canvas so many years ago. A smell of the garden rose from Henrik's scalp as he snuggled against her. "Where did you get it?" he asked.

  She couldn't remember not telling him. He spoke before she could.

  "I know—it's from Max, my first father."

  He was an odd boy, always weaving a web that connected all of them. Looking into his eyes, she saw something new, a longing she hadn't seen before. "I wish we had a sister," he said suddenly.

  She stretched her mouth into a smile, but her cheeks felt rubbery. Ragnar had wanted a daughter. She'd thought it, but never said it. No, it might be a girl. Why had she resisted? Who was she saving a place for? Henrik leaned against her. His body felt fragile, too narrow to contain such a big wish.

  The Plash of Oars

  The rocks that studded the slope above the farmhouse were a favorite spot for the sheep. They nibbled on the sweet heather that nestled among the smaller stones. Charlotte followed them, climbed to the higher ledge, her sketchpad under her arm. She scanned the rocks, saw how the cracks divided the rocks into ragged sections, how a lone dandelion struggled for survival between the rocks. In the dark line that separated the rocks she began to draw, laboring over the flower's many-petaled shadow where it fell on the rock. Finally she drew the bright yellow flower itself.

  She climbed higher until she approached the ridge—the place that looked out over the ocean. Then she saw the yellow mountain saxifrage where it grew out of a cleft in the rock. The dandelion was a pauper by comparison, the drawing of it just a practice session.

  Charlotte made a quick sketch. When she held the drawing at arm's length, she sensed a falseness but couldn't determine the point at which it began. Eyes closed, she went over it again, the cleft in the rock, the emerging flower, its slender red-tinged yellow petals, the thick leaves.

  Back at the farmhouse, she opened the sketchpad and recognized the same old problem. Gisela had put it into words. It was a photograph, botanically correct, like the ones Max had drawn for the textbook, but the flower's essence was missing. How had they smelled and felt? What secret did they contain? Max had always introduced her as an artist. But she wasn't. Not yet.

  In bed that night, Charlotte ran her hand over the space where Ragnar usually slept. Whole nights went by without her touching Ragnar, but she didn't like to lie alone in the bed. When she closed her eyes, the images began. She saw Caspar David Friedrich's painting of moonlit figures sitting on a rock looking out to sea at low tide, surrounded by seaweed-covered rocks. Words from one of the old woman's songs entered her mind.

  A young woman waits by a seaweed-grown inlet

  Listening for the plash of oars.

  How long did she wait for him Charlotte wondered. Longer than was safe, with the ocean gurgling under the seaweed, billowing it higher and higher.

  Her mother's voice from long ago, thirteen years now, rose up from some dark memory pit.

  Your father has done everything for his country. Even earned the Iron Cross. Now he's been working for all these years for the Republic, not advancing. If only we had the Kaiser back. And now you want to be a Bohemian! A painter! The Imperial School for Secretaries is the place for nice girls without means. Bernstein? A Jew! Give the child to the nuns.

  It was a message. She had to put an end to the eternal waiting. In school they'd read about Theseus and how he slew the minotaur. His father King Aegeus thought the minotaur had killed Theseus. He went to the water's edge and leaned forward until he fell into the sea. But Theseus was still alive.

  Splash. She was sinking down, down to the bottom of the sea. Something gripped her arm. She opened her eyes and saw Henrik. No, she wasn't Aegeus.

  "Fire," the boy yelled.

  He was fantasizing again. But she dragged herself from the bed and followed him to the doorstep. Up ahead the sky glowed red. A few years ago the volcano had broken through the ice cap on the glacier. Miles away, the blaze that lit up the sky seemed like something personal, like their own bonfire. The cows lowed under the reek of rotten eggs.

  Charlotte and the old woman climbed to the highest ridge of the hillside. Henrik ran after them. The glacier was surrounded by black smoke.

  "We'll have a flood again," the old woman said.

  Panic marked Henrik's face. "Like Noah's flood? My bones can't swim."

  "Not up here," the old woman said. "Down there." She waved her arm over the countryside to the east, the long stretch of creek-riddled sand that ended in the sea.

  Then she raised her head to the sky, deepened her voice, and spoke in the gloomy tones of a prophet. "The crater in the glacier will overflow, and the glacier's innards will rush over the sand, bust out the bridges, wash away the road, and end up in the ocean."

  Fear crept up Charlotte's spine. The earth's violence always frightened her.

  They walked back toward the farm. At the gate that separated the home field from the meadows beyond, the old woman waved them on. At the steps to the house Charlotte turned and saw her pacing the gravel, head back, nose to the wind. It was as if the sulphur had triggered something in her brain.

  With a Man's Heart

  The smell of last year's eggs thundered up from the earth's bowels. Icebergs rolled out on glacier water. The band of gray filth poured into the ocean, separating the sea into two glassy green parts. For days, the water ran over the sand, sending streams into new channels, changing the flow of rivers from north to south. Charlotte felt the tug of the ocean. Just a little peek from up close couldn't hurt.

  When she told the old woman, her mother-in-law looked startled. "You can see it better from here," she said. Charlotte was already pulling on her boots.

  The old woman suddenly stood behind her. "I'll go with you—collect seaweed for rheumatism season."

  She disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a bucket, knife, and gloves. Charlotte rarely drove the truck. Now she got in quickly, with Henrik squeezed in next to her and the old woman with her braids pressed against the window. Charlotte put the vehicle in gear and bit her tongue while she eased it down the hillside, tapping the brake all the way. Henrik gripped her thigh with both hands as if to anchor her to the seat. She drove east for a while, beyond their usual place, then parked at the edge of the sand, now a swamp, studded with rocks and icebergs.

  The old woman stepped into rubber boots and tucked her skirt into her underpants. The sea gurgled languidly in the shelter of the inlet. Green seaweed and shiny brown kelp undulated between the rocks. Tiny snails dotted the plants.

  "Brown one's for lungs. Green for rheumatism," she said wading into the slurping water. She cut seaweed and dropped it into her bucket. Later she would wash it, dry it on the field like hay, then pack it tightly into a wooden container until it formed a sweet-tasting, pearly coating.

  Water dripped from the green kelp in the old woman's hands. "Perfect for arthritis compresses." Charlotte cut green and brown strips of seaweed and piled them onto the back of the flatbed.

  Henrik scurried along the sand, calling "I need shells."

  "I'll pick the snails off. You go find shells with the boy," the old woman said, climbing onto the back of the truck. Charlotte sensed she wanted to be alone.

  She found Henrik crouched in the sand, dusting off a seashell. Seeing her, he stood and pointed to the murky strip of glacier water that invaded the ocean and colored it brown.

  "How can the fish swim in that?"

  "They can't," she said.

  Up ahead, the rocks formed an arch. She longed to swim through it, out into the open sea. Henrik tugged on her skirt.

  "Look. Look."

  He splashed into the water up to his knees, pointing at something. She ran after him into the freezing surf. Then she saw what he saw.
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br />   A child in a white dress was caught in the surf. It struggled towards the shore, but the waves kept pulling it out, farther and farther each time. She ran towards the small figure and plunged in. The icy black water gripped her body. Somewhere behind her Henrik screamed.

  The waves crashed over her, but each time they receded she glimpsed the child. At last she grasped its arm, then held its small body under her arm and thrashed at the ocean with the other. But it slipped out of her grasp and disappeared below the surface. She'd seen its eyes, the embroidery on its dress, called its name.

  "Lena, Lena."

  Water filled her mouth. She found the child again, gripped her this time with both arms. Together they sank into the black water. It no longer felt cold. She and Lena floated down dark hallways, seeking the exit. People talked in shrill tones. Faces floated. Their noses seemed flush with their cheeks.

  Where were her hands?

  At last she found them, palms down on the sand. Empty. Where was the baby?

  Hands—not hers—went under her body.

  Steady now.

  And she was airborne, weightless, skimming the shore—a godwit, her red neck gleaming in the sun. She flew into a leather cave. Nonni sat in the driver's seat, his wife next to him, Henrik somewhere between them.

  She felt the old woman's familiar dry hands on her legs. "The child?" she asked. But nobody answered.

  The old woman's hand smelled of seaweed. It touched her cheek. The car stopped in front of the farmhouse. Charlotte was glad they hadn't taken her to the hospital like last time.

  Hands helped her into the bed, pulled off her wet clothes. The lavender scent of her nightgown curled around the wild odor of the sea. A hot water bottle glugged under the blanket.

  She was central to a death vigil, her own body lying in the coffin. But she wasn't dead. A dull knife was mincing her skin into tiny pieces. From somewhere came the aroma of valerian and grass of Parnassus. All hammer and nails now, the old woman brought her tea.

  "For the nerves and liver."

  But she still hadn't answered the question.

  "The child?" Charlotte asked.

  The old woman sat on the chair next to the bed and fixed her with icy blue eyes. "Henrik screamed. Then I saw you in the water." Skin against papery skin, she crossed her legs, folded her hands on a knee. "You were swimming after a baby," she said at last.

  Charlotte stared up at the ceiling. The baby had been in the ocean, in her arms.

  "You called it Lena."

  The sound of the name in someone else's mouth felt good. The old woman did not avert her gaze when tears warmed Charlotte's cheeks.

  She wasn't sure when Henrik had entered the room. She reached for his hand, but he pulled back, turned to his grandmother.

  "It was my fault she went into the water."

  "No, boy," the old woman said.

  From the other side of some mysterious divide, Charlotte watched them, Henrik toeing the floor, the old woman talking to him in a soothing voice.

  Henrik approached the bed. "Were you trying to save it?"

  Charlotte nodded obediently, wondering at the word it.

  He turned to the old woman. "Tell her about it."

  The old woman placed her palms on her thighs and stroked her hands down her skirt. At last she opened her mouth.

  "He's about a week old, still has his umbilical cord and his birth hair. Must've lost his mother in that mucky glacier water."

  Charlotte glared at her. How cruel. This animal fantasy. Closing her eyes, she returned to the moment when she glimpsed the embroidery on the white dress. How she'd struggled to sew the tiny cherries onto the collar.

  "You nearly drowned," the old woman said.

  Charlotte smiled, reliving the moment when she'd held the child in her arms, just before she lost her. Half dozing, she heard the old woman's voice.

  "Chew this. Calms your liver."

  It seemed like weeks later when Charlotte discovered something special. It appeared behind the old woman, framed by the window. A new day. She sat up and accepted the warm boiled birch bark and began to chew.

  The old woman perched at the foot of her bed. "Were you really seeking a child?"

  Charlotte nodded.

  "I have something to tell you."

  Charlotte held up her hand. She didn't want to hear it.

  But the old woman took a piece of seaweed from her pocket, gave some to Charlotte and put some in her own mouth. For a long moment there was silence but for their chewing. At last the old woman spoke. "You know my favorite warrior is Egill Skallagrímsson?"

  Charlotte turned her head to the wall.

  "Egill lost his son, Böðvar, to the ocean. He went into his bed closet and shut the door. Why? Because he couldn't avenge his death against the sea. He wouldn't eat or drink, was trying to starve himself. His daughter, Þorgerður, went to him. He let her in but nobody else. She lay down on the other bed. Egill told her he wanted to die. The sorrow was too much. They just lay side by side. Þorgerður was chewing seaweed. Egill took some too. They both chewed. Didn't talk. Suddenly they were both very thirsty. Þorgerður offered her father a drink from her horn. He drank long and deep. But it was milk. Egill immediately felt better. He wouldn't die yet.

  "'Now write a poem for Böðvar,' she said. He composed a long poem, begins like this:

  My mouth strains to move the tongue

  To weigh and wing the choice word

  "When he'd finished the poem, he didn't want to die anymore."

  Henrik climbed onto the foot of the bed and crept under the blanket. Charlotte felt his small leg warm against her shin, but his eyes were fixed on the old woman. He clutched her big toe and squeezed it. "Mamma, would you miss me if I drowned?" She nodded. He climbed down from the bed.

  "Egill ended his poem like this," the old woman said. "Not in misery and mourning, but with a man's heart."

  When Charlotte opened her eyes, Ragnar was sitting next to the bed. Tryggvi was talking in the hall. Back from the roundup, he had not tumbled down the mountain and cracked his head on a rock. She struggled to rejoice over his safety. But her sense of loss was stronger.

  Ragnar's eyes looked kind. He took her hand.

  "You promised me."

  "But I saw her in the water," she said and was immediately sorry for her words.

  He looked sympathetic in the way of people who nod their heads over the strange customs of others without ever understanding. The baby in the water had been more real to her than the tiny nostril of a lamb or the soft lip of a cow— even more than putting your arm into a cow's birth canal up to the elbow and turning a calf.

  "I'm sorry," she said at last.

  "No, I am."

  She nodded, sensing he had more to say but knowing also that he wouldn't say it.

  The last time in the hospital, she'd heard screams. Her own. Running feet. The rustle of starched fabric. Large hands on her arm. Steady now. A needle plunging into her arm. Darkness. Peace. But she wouldn't need that now.

  He stood up carefully, as if he was afraid to break something that had come loose. She watched him walk out the door. Her hair felt greasy, and she smelled her own sweat on the sheets. Turning toward the wall, she closed her eyes.

  The next morning, she pulled herself up and tottered into the kitchen.

  The old woman was boiling birch bark, steaming the windows. Both hands on the saucepan handle, the old woman carried the hot broth to Charlotte and placed it under her nose so that the woodsy fragrance rose in her nostrils.

  "It'll clear your head," the old woman said.

  But the briny smell that blew in off the ocean was stronger. It drew Charlotte to the open window. She breathed deeply, felt the power of the sea in her lungs.

  A wailing sound came from far out on the ocean. Turning, Charlotte met the old woman's gaze and realized she'd heard it too.

  Phantom Lover

  They sat in the kitchen, listening to Ragnar tell the story.

  "
The seal wouldn't go back into the ocean. Poor thing, all covered with baby fur. Fishermen carried it along the shore, wriggled the whole time, tried to get back on land. They brought it to the place where they found it, put it in the water and pushed on it."

  Henrik stood at her side, turning her hand over, weaving his fingers between hers.