Magnús Arnmundsson, Reykjavík, Iceland, 1980
When the first blizzard hit there was nothing we could do. It was the middle of the night, and such a big storm that to go outside was suicide. We all thought Jónas was going to die. Elín panicked. Mother cried. And Father yelled at them both to calm down. I wanted to try to make it to Jónas, but no one would let me leave the house. We sat up all night listening to the howl of the wind, until the sun finally rose and revealed just how severe the storm was. It continued for another two or three hours then passed out to sea. By that stage we held no hope of finding Jónas alive. Father put on his snowshoes and carried a shovel out onto the ice. It was covered with four feet of snow, so he walked towards where he could only assume the body was. He knew Jónas sat about two hundred yards from the pebble beach, but before he had counted one hundred and eighty steps a well appeared in the snow with his son sitting in the middle of it, apparently unharmed. Jónas turned at the sound of his father and waved. The way the snow had refused to settle on him, or near him, was as much of a surprise to Jónas as it was to our father. The well was ten yards in diameter and perfectly round, and Father thought Jónas had somehow built it as a form of protection. But there were no tools. Only a bucket, a bottle of water – still unfrozen – umbrella, and the small wooden box where Jónas stored his toothbrush, flashlight and newspaper. They were all tied to tails that had been cut in a canvas sheet we’d laid under the blankets Jónas sat on. It was a system I’d devised to stop his possessions being blown across the ice, and when I looked down into the well I felt proud at how successfully it had worked. Jónas told me the worst part of the blizzard was boredom. The wind made it impossible to read, and with no one able to visit he quickly grew weary of his own thoughts and lonesome for his view. Jónas said that despite the noise he just went to sleep, and all night felt perfectly warm. Father couldn’t stop smiling, and Mother wouldn’t stop crying, and Elín ran back home to cook her brother’s favourite fish cakes. People from the village with less invested in Jónas’ welfare were shocked by his survival and unable to conceal their disappointment that he was not as dead as they had predicted he would be. It was unnatural. An aberration. No one could survive a blizzard like that. Some mothers told their children not to go near, and men who had even worked with Jónas sat in the tavern that night mumbling how it would bring the village bad luck. Grandmothers recited prayers whenever they saw the tiny figure in the distance, and refused to relinquish their fears of the Devil’s handiwork even after Jónas had eaten the sacrament. The local priest had walked onto the ice expecting to recite prayers for the dead, but instead found Dr Ragnarsson with his stethoscope out, listening to Jónas’ heart.
Ulrik Andrésson, Kópavogur, Iceland, 1979
By the time Hans and I reached Jónas, Hallmar had hold of his shirt and was shouting at him to melt the ice. Spring was already two weeks old, and while the rest of the island had ceased to be locked in, our harbour remained frozen. All through winter we assumed the sea would melt like it always did. It was why we had stopped trying to set Jónas free. No one thought he was going to die of frostbite anymore, so it was easier to just wait for spring than blunt another drill or saw. Everyone was tired of failing, and the men in the village said it wasn’t their fault Jónas had got himself stuck in the ice. He pushed Hallmar away and yelled at the other drunken fishermen that he had watched people hammer all through winter without making a scratch, so what was he supposed to do, break it with his fists? Teitur swayed on his feet and suggested that maybe it wasn’t the ice that needed breaking. That’s when Hans and I stepped in. We wanted the fishing boats back in the water as much as anyone, but would not stand by and watch Jónas be harmed. Teitur and Hallmar sized us up, yet lacked the courage to take on opponents who were not at a disadvantage. The other men grumbled and complained, then slowly began to make their way back across the ice to the village. When they were gone, Hans pulled a bottle out of his coat and declared we all deserved a drink. The next thing I remember I felt a sharp pain in my neck, and Jónas was pestering Hans about whether he still owned his rowboat. The sun had started to rise, and Hans refused to open his eyes or listen to anything about Otom’s Point. Everyone in the village knew there was nothing out there to catch. Something to do with the currents, or the water’s temperature. But Jónas kept insisting he’d give us anything we wanted if only we’d row out there and try. I had always admired his boning knife, and there was nothing else to do that day, so I stood up and kicked Hans awake. It was his boat, and I needed help to drag it across the ice. I reckon it took us three trips to get all the fish back to the village. Hans’ dinghy was so full that if there’d been the slightest swell I’m sure we would have been swamped and drowned. Jónas said it felt like one of the flying dreams he’d had as a boy, but this time he was free of the ice and in a boat, yanking in fish as fast as he could drop a line. You should have seen the tavern that night. The whole village was happy for us. But no one would believe Jónas had anything to do with it. They all thought it was a fluke and we were making up stories to protect our friend from another mob. Only when we came in the next day from Black Bottom with another big haul, and the day after that from the edge of the reef, did the idea of Jónas giving fishing tips start to gain traction.
Bryndís Einarsdóttir, Elmey Island, Iceland, 1978
Jónas believed the ice was as alive as the sea it had come from. He understood that to everyone else it appeared as just a slab of frozen water, because that’s how he used to see it as well. But after his legs became stuck he realised the ice was always changing, always evolving. Jónas used to say that even if he lived two lifetimes he would never be able to discover all its secrets. I’m sure you and I can imagine it shimmering like a jewel when the sun came up, but to Jónas it was also like a fountain, and a tortoise, and a tin can. I know, it sounds silly, doesn’t it? But remember when you were a kid and you tied a piece of string between two cans to pretend it was a telephone? Well, that’s what Jónas said the ice was like for him. The frozen harbour was one can, and the ocean was the string that connected him to everywhere else in the world. He would tell me about what he sensed through the ice whenever we lay next to each other. It was a little ritual that had started the first night we were together. Jónas must have been in the ice for three years by then, as it was the night of his twenty-sixth birthday. I was so late I think I woke him up. My grandmother had been unable to get to sleep, and I couldn’t let her hear me leave the house. She was in no position to judge people, but it was hard for her not to be a little superstitious about Jónas … it was just her generation. I had only recently come back to Elmey to take care of her. There was no one else, and she had raised me from when I was six. Anyway, it was better I visited Jónas after everyone had left. Five years on the mainland meant I was still a worthy topic of gossip. He was shy when I sat next to him. We knew each other from school, but Jónas had been stuck in the ice while his friends were out gaining experience with girls, so he couldn’t help but feel nervous. He offered me a drink. And pickled herring, of all things. Then said if I closed my eyes he would show me a trick. I told him I didn’t really like surprises, but Jónas insisted so sweetly, and looked so unthreatening, that in the end I agreed to play along. When I opened my eyes I found myself sitting in the middle of a circle of light glowing up from beneath the ice. I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen something so beautiful, and when the light finally faded I gave a small shiver of loss. Jónas offered me his coat. He said he didn’t feel the cold anymore. That he’d almost forgotten what it was like. He only wore heavy clothes to stop people accusing him of being possessed by the Devil. I pretended to doubt such a claim and dared him to take off his shirt. I might have been the first woman Jónas slept with but he was not naïve enough to think my visit was an accident. He realised Hans and Ulrik had something to do with it, and as he got dressed he said he was too happy to care. It’s what I liked about Jónas. He was calmer than most men. Ma
ybe because he knew he couldn’t go anywhere or do anything else, and had accepted his life. Don’t get me wrong, he was still ambitious. Jónas had set up a business with the fishermen, and he was determined to see me again. It wasn’t the first time a virgin had fallen in love with me, but I was newly retired and told Jónas on the night of his birthday that it was just a favour I had done for Ulrik and Hans. So instead he sent me food. My grandmother lived on a tiny pension, and the cannery would only give me shifts when someone was off sick, so Jónas arranged for boxes of groceries to be delivered to our door. Each time a different friend would do the buying, but I knew where they were coming from and ran down to the ice to tell him I wasn’t for sale, not to him or anyone else. So, Jónas being Jónas, he apologised and asked if I would come work for him. He wanted someone to tell him all they knew about the world beyond Elmey Island. Explain how loud aeroplanes were; what a city smelled like; if the theatre was really as wonderful as it sounded in the books he had read. I agreed to do it thinking I was calling his bluff, but for the next two years I visited the ice every day and answered his questions about the mainland. I suppose it’s no surprise we eventually fell in love and married, but that wasn’t until my grandmother was dead and the war was over.
Hallmar Bergsson, Mosfellsbær, Iceland, 1980
In the beginning, before everyone got greedy, it was a terrific system. Someone was always struggling to make repayments on their boat, or had too much credit owing at Tumi’s, but when Jónas started giving tips on where to fish we all began to earn enough to pay off our debts. There were only six boats then, so every morning one of the captains would go down to Jónas and be told where to drop his nets. I don’t know how he did it. Some people said he felt the fish through the ice, but I couldn’t say for certain. He just always led us to a good catch. Better than good. A fantastic catch, every time. The captain with the day’s tip was always given an hour’s lead. That way no one could follow him to the fishing spot. Jónas came up with the system himself. Said he wanted it to be fair to everyone, which was pretty generous considering how we’d treated him when the ice didn’t melt that first spring. I don’t know if I could have done the same. I’d probably have just kept giving tips to my friends. But when we all walked onto the ice Jónas pretended like he had never been threatened, and said that if we wanted to fish like Ulrik and Hans we had to work together. First to get the boats across the ice, because Jónas doubted if it was going to melt any time soon, and then to build a temporary pier. At that stage not even Jónas believed the ice was going to last through the summer. But it did. It lasted for years and years, and eventually we had to make the pier at the mouth of the harbour permanent. Jónas helped pay for it. He was always fair with money. All he ever asked for was two per cent of the profit each captain made on the day he received a tip. And a further three per cent to be deposited into a pension and accident fund. No one liked it at first. You’ve got to understand that we were used to taking what we wanted from the sea and not paying anyone for it. Even after Jónas explained the savings we’d make on fuel if we didn’t have to search from one fishing spot to the next, it still wasn’t popular. Of course, no one was forcing us to join. But Jónas made a good point that the men in the village who worked as crew would probably favour boats that were guaranteed at least one big catch a week. I knew there were captains already thinking of ways to cheat Jónas’ system, but he warned us that anyone caught following the first boat of the morning, or lying about the size of their catch, was stealing from the entire village, not just him, and if it happened he would give them no more advice. We all agreed, and asked Jónas about the last day of the week. There were seven days and only six captains. But Jónas said Sunday was a day of rest, for us as well as the fish. There were no rules about where we dropped our nets on the days we didn’t receive a tip, but I can tell you I looked forward to the mornings it was my turn to visit Jónas on the ice. I’d never had hauls like it before, and certainly never have since. I paid off my boat in five years, and so did pretty much everyone else. Even the cannery started to make a profit. And all the while Jónas just kept taking his two per cent. I don’t know what he spent it on. He didn’t have a house. And didn’t buy any more clothes than what he could wear because he had nowhere to put them. I guess he supported his wife, but they weren’t married straight away. And even his food was free. As part of the deal about telling us where to fish, Jónas said it was the responsibility of the captain he spoke with each morning to provide his meals for that day. Breakfast, lunch and dinner. My wife didn’t mind taking him a plate of whatever we were eating, and I know the other captains, when they realised how much Jónas’ advice was worth, didn’t think twice about it. Some would get the village restaurant to deliver to him, while others asked their mother or sister to help.
Teitur Dagfinnsson, Elmey Island, Iceland, 1979
And another thing. His wife was a whore. Everyone knew it. I don’t care what people say now. Once a whore, always a whore.
Unnar Eyjólfsdóttir, Paris, France, 1982
I usually went back to Elmey during the summer months. People aren’t interested in ice-skating when it’s warm, I can understand that. And after so much touring I enjoyed the chance to spend time with my parents and friends. When the taxi brought me over the hill and the harbour came into view, I would see Jónas’ tiny figure among that great expanse of white and know at last I was home. It was always a relief to see he had survived another year. Because I was the one who had found him in the ice I felt we had a special bond. Nothing romantic, just good friends. And I made sure I always brought him back a gift. He didn’t have anywhere to store trinkets or postcards, so it would either be a delicacy he could eat or some unusual liqueur. Jonas insisted I tell him about the places I had played that year. Most people in the village didn’t ask about my travels in case I’d seen somewhere better than their island, but Jónas wanted to learn how things were different in Russia and America and Canada. He couldn’t believe what I told him about China, and made me repeat the same stories over and over until they were clear in his imagination. That’s not to say the people in the village didn’t treat me well. They did. Of course they did. I was famous, and they’d insist I give them a show. It would have been impossible without Jónas’ ice, so I always thought of us as a team, and that together we helped start the tradition of a summer festival. Every year the village would set up food stalls and a beer tent on the ice, and organise games for the children. One time there was even a merry-go-round. Jónas never admitted that he paid for it to be brought over, but everyone knew he had. He loved the festival because it was the only day of the year he was surrounded by the entire village. He even devised a game of strength where everyone had a turn at swinging a large wooden mallet against the ice to try and break him free. Sometimes Jónas said he felt something, especially if a child was trying their hardest, but I can assure you there was never a scratch on that ice. Dirt didn’t even seem to stain it. If you’re having a festival there’s going to be drinks spilled and food dropped, and somebody always has too much beer. I would sometimes look at the ice after everything was packed away and think, oh my goodness, look how dirty it is. But the next morning it would be back to its brilliant self. I don’t know if the wind blew away the litter and birds ate the scraps, or Jónas’ family came down to clean it for him, but it was always so perfectly white that it was hard to believe it was made from the same stuff that turned grey and slushy in every other town I visited. I was so proud of that. But not everything stayed the same. Things did gradually change in the village. Some summers I’d spend performing in Australia and New Zealand, after which I’d go straight into my winter tour, so I would be away from home for almost two years, and when I came back I’d notice girls wearing finely made clothes or restaurants charging mainland prices. I was never around long enough to get to the bottom of it, but there were rumours Jónas was helping the men find more fish. I thought somebody was just making it up to play a trick on me;
to see if they could get the worldly traveller to believe a silly story. People in small communities sometimes do things like that, and I’ve learnt not to take it personally. It reveals more about their own insecurities than anything about me.
Elín Arnmundsdóttir, Elmey Island, Iceland, 1978
Jónas got bored just like everyone else. Who wouldn’t looking at the same view day after day? But the only time I remember him being sad was when our father died. It might seem strange, but Mother and Father grew to like having Jónas stuck in the ice. Every parent worries about where their children are, no matter how old they grow, so the fact they always knew where Jónas was gave them a sort of comfort. I don’t think a day went by when Father and Jónas didn’t talk. Even during the coldest weeks of winter he would walk down for a visit. And every time he would give Jónas a kiss. We all did. It was a family tradition that had started the day he had been found in the ice, and we kept it up so Jónas knew that even though he wasn’t with us in the house, we were always thinking of him. Jónas and Father could talk about anything. The newspaper; how the fish were running; whether there was a chance of snow; or what they were going to eat for lunch. Father never said what he thought about Jónas’ fate. I don’t think he cared just so long as his son was alive and happy. That type of unconditional love doesn’t appear often in anyone’s life, and I could see that Jónas was devastated when Father’s coffin was carried down to the ice. He leaned in to whisper a private farewell, touched Father’s cheek, then nodded for the pallbearers to carry the coffin away. I think our mother drove Jónas a little crazy with all the time she started to spend on the ice. He never complained, but in the end it was probably why he proposed to Bryndís. I don’t mean he didn’t love her, but there was no reason for them to get married. They couldn’t live together, and everyone already knew they were lovers. We didn’t care what the rest of the village thought of Bryndís. We had long ago stopped paying attention to what people said about our family. But in the end the whole village turned out for the wedding. I remember it was the clearest day of the year. No wind. And Bryndís looked beautiful as she walked onto the ice. Everyone said so. We spread out rugs and cushions, and because it was summer it stayed light for most of the night. I don’t think I ever saw Jónas more happy, except maybe when Kjartan was born. And he was right, it did help Mother realise there was still plenty for her to enjoy in life. She already had two grandchildren by then. Tumi and I were married a few years before, and we’d had twins. Eydís and Vagn. We lived a little outside of the village so Jónas could see us without needing to turn his head too far. It was only fair considering he had bought us the house as a wedding present. When Eydís and Vagn were older they rode their sleds across the ice to say hello, or to show Jónas their school reports. Whenever they did well he’d send them to the village to buy a reward. All the businesses gave Jónas credit. They knew he had money to pay his bills. But none of us had any idea how rich he was. If it hadn’t been for what Jónas left us in his will, I don’t think we would have been able to stay on the island. I’m glad he did, because it meant Eydís and Vagn could grow up away from the city. And I wouldn’t have liked to leave. Just being near the harbour makes me feel closer to Jónas.
The Best Australian Stories 2012 Page 22