It was odd that Knud had not been the one to take to fishing, leaving either Niels or Gustave to handle the farm. As a boy of fourteen he had been the most attracted to the sea; the oldest and biggest of the three brothers, the best swimmer, the best diver, the one most at home in or on the water. But as he grew older, Knud Christensen realized he preferred the quiet, almost stolid life connected with bringing things slowly from the earth. Sailing, as well as fishing, required the making of instant decisions at times, and Knud would have been the first to admit he was ill-equipped for this. Now, at twenty-eight, he knew he had made the right choice. Farming permitted a man time to think, to ponder, to consider problems in depth; either the middle brother, Niels, or Gustave, the youngest and the family favorite, were quicker and far better in general for the life at sea they had chosen.
But now his two brothers were out in a storm and Knud was worried. For once he wished he had gone with them; the sea held no fear for him. He might not have been the quickest-witted, but he was by far the strongest, and muscle was needed as well as brains in a storm of that magnitude. But here he was, chained to the land, warm and safe in a house, helpless to do anything but wait.
The snow ceased as suddenly as it had come, but the winds, if anything, seemed to intensify, whipping about the old house, raising the waves even higher. The light of the lighthouse could be seen once again; under its probing eye the huge waves twisted and lashed at each other, battering their way to fall with fury on the shore. Christensen strained his eyes. In the dim light cast from the dull sky he could see a boat, and then another, heaving on the waves, trying to beat their way into the harbor and safety, but it was impossible to distinguish or identify any particular boat at that distance. He stood there until darkness finally blocked everything from the sea, and only the eye of the lighthouse, revolving endlessly, could be seen high in the dark sky, the beam it threw lost in the night. Then, at last, he left the window and went through the house turning up the lights.
There was the possibility, he suddenly realized, that they had managed to reach another haven, another harbor, but in that case surely they would have telephoned. A thought came; he went to the telephone and raised it. There was no sound. The storm had interrupted service. Christensen felt a sudden wave of relief. That was it. They had put into another harbor and had been unable to get in touch with him. He was beginning to act like an old mother hen with his two chicks. They were fine and could take care of themselves. Hadn’t he himself taught them to sail? Pleased with his solution to the problem he went into the kitchen to start supper. The two would be starved when they got back. It would have been impossible to have managed anything in the small galley in that storm.
A sudden knock on the door and Christensen mentally kicked himself for having waited so long to start cooking. Then he paused, frowning. His brothers never knocked, why should they? He hurried to the front room, swinging the door wide, stepping back against the wind that rushed in. Jens Krag, a neighbor and a fisherman, came in, shaking drops from his sou’wester, standing on the entrance mat, dripping, his face wreathed in misery. Knud stared at him blankly, wondering at the visit. Then, slowly, the other’s silence, his expression, brought understanding.
“Gustave … Niels …”
Krag stared at the floor, unable to look into Christensen’s gaunt face. He swallowed. “The storm came up so suddenly …”
Christensen grabbed the man by the front of his slicker, shaking him savagely. “Where are they? What happened?”
Krag allowed himself to be shaken. He seemed to feel that anything that could relieve the other man’s agony was permissible. Christensen suddenly seemed to realize what he was doing, but there was no thought of apology. He released the other man and pointed abruptly to the sofa. “Sit down. I’ll get something to drink. You will tell me what happened.”
He shoved Krag onto the sofa and walked into the kitchen. It seemed to him he was walking in a dream, or standing to one side watching someone else walk into the kitchen and cross to the cupboard to take down a bottle. He stopped and stared at the wall without seeing it. No. No! Jens Krag was a liar! He wouldn’t give the bastard a drink. Instead he would beat the truth out of him! It was impossible that Gustave was dead, that Niels was gone! He would make the miserable liar admit the truth—it was a vicious joke, and Knud Christensen was not one to be joked with!
But Jens Krag had told him the truth, or would when he gave him a chance to say anything at all. Krag was not a liar, and he knew it. He walked back into the front room with a bottle and two glasses, fighting the tears that stung his eyes. He filled the two glasses, threw his own drink down his throat without waiting for the other. It might have been water for any effect he felt. He refilled his glass and stood over Krag, a menacing figure.
“Now—what happened?”
Krag took his drink down gratefully. It brought color to his face and made the telling of the tragedy, while not easy, easier. He was relieved that Knud Christensen had not gone completely berserk at the news. He had known Knud since the Christensen child had been the only one. He had seen him grow and knew the boy who was now a man, while slow to temper, could be frightening when finally aroused. He looked up into Knud’s white face and then looked down at the carpet, his heavy veined hands slowly twisting the empty glass, speaking hesitantly.
“The storm came up so suddenly … It had looked threatening, but we were sure we would be back before anything serious. The herring were running, we were netting them like mad, our lockers were almost full, and nobody wanted to leave until we had filled them completely. It hasn’t been so good lately, the fishing I mean, and—” He seemed to feel Christensen’s increasing impatience and hurriedly went back to his story. “When the storm really struck, we all pulled our nets and headed in. We were off the lighthouse when it really hit. We were within sight of each other when the snow came, but in that blizzard we couldn’t see a thing. I was afraid we’d run into each other, but we had to keep moving. Without the engines we would have been swamped in a minute. Then, suddenly, the snow stopped and I saw we were almost on top of your boat. I veered away and then I saw they were in trouble. The engine must have failed. They were losing way and bouncing around completely out of control. There was nothing we could do to help them in that sea. Then—” He paused.
Christensen’s eyes were cold on Krag, as if accusing the man of the crime of surviving when his two brothers had not. “Then?”
“Then I saw Niels starting to raise sail—”
“Raise sail? In that sea?”
“There was no choice! He had to try something, didn’t he? Without power he wouldn’t have lasted a minute—” Krag suddenly seemed to realize they still hadn’t lasted. He swallowed. “Anyway, he had barely started when the wind caught the sail and—and the mast snapped.” He spoke hurriedly now, anxious to finish and be done with it. “It threw Niels overboard. He was swept away in an instant. There was no chance to do anything to save him. He was gone almost at once—”
Christensen’s voice was like doom. “And Gustave?”
Krag swallowed once again; he knew Knud Christensen’s feeling for his youngest brother. But it had to be said. “The wind took the boat into a trough, swinging it, tangling Gustave in the shrouds, and then—then it seemed the boat just seemed to open where the mast had split the deck, and—and the next thing she was gone, just like that.” He seemed to be relieved to have finished the painful and thankless job of telling Knud Christensen the story. He sighed and filled his glass, drank gratefully, and then set the glass down carefully on the floor. He came to his feet, still avoiding Christensen’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Knud. Everyone’s sorry.”
“Sorry …” Christensen was staring past Krag through the window at the blackness beyond. The storm seemed to have abated. The sound of the wind had died down. “Everyone is sorry …” It was all his fault if they foundered because the engine failed. They had discussed the need for the new engine, but he had felt the farm requiremen
ts came first. His one vote against their two, and he had won. A great victory … He spoke, still staring through the empty window. “They were the only boat lost?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.” Krag retrieved his sou’wester, pulling it on, moving to the door. “I have to be going …”
“Wait.” Christensen brought his attention from the window to the man at the door. His face was expressionless, carved in granite. “Do you know where the boat went down?”
“Fairly close,” Krag said, pleased to be on more familiar ground. He was sure he understood the reason for the question. “We could see both the light and the harbor entrance. She wouldn’t drift much with her lockers full the way they were, and it’s too deep there for much undersea movement from the waves. As soon as it’s calm I can locate the place well enough for Father Rasmussen to hold a proper service.”
“A proper service,” Knud repeated. “A proper service …” he said once more, and turned without another word to climb the steps toward the bedroom. Krag sighed and went out into the windy night, closing the door softly behind him.
It was not the first service of its kind that Father Rasmussen had held nor, as he sadly knew, would it probably be the last. He stood in his own small dory, bobbing lightly on the calm sea; about him the boats of the other villagers were grouped. The air was bitter cold, but calm. Above, the sky was a deep blue, as if the heavens were compensating, this fine Sunday morning, for the two lives that had been taken in fury a few days before. Everyone standing silent at the rails of their boats was bundled in sweaters. Father Rasmussen wore a heavy pea jacket over a turtleneck sweater. Some of the villagers had managed to get some hothouse flowers; others had brought small wreaths woven from fir boughs in their own homes. As the final sad words of Father Rasmussen’s all-too familiar service ended, they leaned from the rails of their boats and tossed their offerings from gloved fingers into the pulsing sea. There were a few moments’ silence, all eyes following the drifting flowers, the men all aware that but for the grace of God it could be they, themselves, under the sea and the floating wreaths above them; the women thinking how fortunate it was, in a way, that the Christensen boys never did marry, for at least now there were no grieving widows to suffer loneliness and loss. Then there was the sound of Father Rasmussen’s outboard being started, and the other boats followed suit, slowly pulling away, heading back to the village.
Krag moved to his boat’s controls, happy to no longer be standing beside the silent and somehow frightening Knud Christensen. He pressed the starter, revved the boat’s engine, and swung the wheel in the direction of the harbor. And then became aware that Christensen had moved silently to stand at his elbow.
“Jens—”
“Yes?”
“Pull into my dock. I have to get something. Then I want you to take me out again.”
“Of course, Knud.” A personal gift to the dead, Krag thought; something too personal to be offered to the sea before the audience of the villagers. He wondered how long Christensen intended to grieve. “What is it you want to get?”
“My diving gear.”
“What!” Jens Krag took his eyes from his boat’s way a moment to stare incredulously at the man at his side. “That’s crazy! What do you think you’ll find?”
“My brother.”
“But that’s mad! You couldn’t live five minutes in that water! This is January, for God’s sake!”
Christensen calmly reached over and changed the position of the wheel. The boat obediently changed course, chugging evenly toward the Christensen dock. “When we get there,” Knud said conversationally, quite as if Jens Krag had not spoken at all, “you will wait for me and take me back out to where the boat went down. Do you hear?”
“But—not only is it too cold, but the water’s at least eighty feet deep there!” Jens was almost frantic. “It’s insane, don’t you understand?”
“If you say so. I’ll try to get my gear from the house as quickly as I can,” Christensen said, and moved away from the wheel, walking stolidly to the stern of the boat, hands deep in pockets, staring back at the spot he had marked during the somber ceremony. That service was for you, Niels, he said silently to the waves. Somewhere in this vast sea you are resting, and that service was for you. But Gustave shall rest in Gedser cemetery, beside our mother and father. I know you would both want that. I shall recover his body and see he has a proper burial, that I promise all of you. One brother for the sea is enough. Gustave shall be properly buried on land with the Christensens, in a place where I can go and mourn when I want …
The boat tacked, the engine was cut, the boat coasted with practiced precision into the dock, nudging it quietly. Christensen stepped to the dock, warped the ship’s rope to the bollard there, turned and walked quickly toward the house. Jens Krag stared after him, frowning. The man was patently mad, totally insane! Should he go off and leave him? Go and get men from the village to subdue him, get the doctor to give him a hypodermic, put him in hospital, maybe in restraint, until he regained his senses? Or maybe the man simply wanted to commit suicide, to join his two brothers in the sea. That, of course, was his prerogative, but making Jens Krag his accessory, his accomplice, was vastly unfair!
On the other hand, if Krag should take his boat and leave, he had no doubt that Knud Christensen would find him and make him sorry he had not waited. And his far greater age would not prevent the younger man from beating him unmercifully. There was nothing to do but to obey and wait. But it was truly insane! In that freezing water? My God, they had ice in parts of the Baltic farther north! And at that depth? And he, Krag, could have been a hundred yards or more off in his estimate of where the Kirsten Christensen had gone down! How would he ever explain that when Knud came up empty-handed? If he ever came up …
He watched with a feeling of dread as Knud Christensen came tramping down the path, heavily laden with his gear. He dumped it over the rail, untied the boat, and jumped in. Krag hesitated in starting the engine, trying desperately to think of some further argument that might dissuade the other from the dive. Christensen seemed to read the other’s mind. He took partial pity on Krag.
“Jens, I’m not committing suicide,” he said quietly. “I have compressed-air equipment, not oxygen. It’s good for well below a hundred feet. I’ve worked deeper with it myself. And I’ve worked in cold water. I’ve got a wet suit and a good lamp. I’ll be all right.”
“But, Knud—”
“Get moving.” There was no longer any understanding in the big man’s voice, only implacable command. Jens Krag sighed and started the engine. The best thing to do was to get the affair over with. If Knud Christensen didn’t come up, he refused to take the slightest blame. He started the engine and headed out to sea, aware that he was probably being watched with curiosity by villagers along the shore, and possibly from the tower itself. At the approximate location he slowed and allowed the boat to drift, checking the position of the lighthouse tower and the harbor entrance, trying to picture their relative locations as they had appeared the night of the storm. The truth was he was far from sure, but would Knud Christensen accept that statement if he dove and failed to locate the Kirsten Christensen? Undoubtedly not. The man had gone completely crazy! He sighed and became aware of Knud’s harsh voice.
“Well? This is where we held the service.” The large man had climbed into his wet suit; he was strapping on the compressed-air equipment.
“I think—I think it was about here …”
“You think?” He glared at a subdued Krag. “You think?”
Krag swallowed. “It was a storm, a bad one, don’t you understand?” he said helplessly. “One minute we were halfway up to the sky, the next down in a trough like a mine! We were bouncing all over. Who could try and see—?”
Knud Christensen took a deep breath and held back his temper. There was only one solution to the problem. He pulled on his flippers, picked up his lamp and walked to the railing, putting his back to it.
“Be here when I
come back,” he said quietly, and put the breathing tube in his mouth. One enigmatic look at Krag’s unhappy face, and he leaned over backwards, falling into the water.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The water was cold, shocking, numbing, deadly cold, and despite his wet suit, and despite his great strength, his iron resolution, and his almost fanatical stubbornness, Knud Christensen realized he had only minutes in that icy water in which to locate his brother’s body. He sank like a plummet, brought to the bottom by the heavy weights he had attached to his belt, front and back. They would have to be jettisoned for him to rise quickly when his search was finished, but they were there to enable him to reach the bottom as rapidly as possible, and give him that much more time underwater for the job he had given himself.
The beam from his electric lamp cut weakly through the dark waters as he sank, and when at last he was on the bottom it illuminated only a small patch before him as he began a circular search, widening the arc of his path with each succeeding circuit. He had never before explored this particular section of sea bottom, but he was not surprised to find it a mass of broken rock, in sharp contrast to the chalk, sand, and marl so common elsewhere in the area. His brothers and the other fishermen had always avoided deep trawling here; a history of torn nets lay in the past experience of the older men.
Knud pushed ahead, hoping that by the very effort needed to propel himself through the freezing waters he might generate enough body heat to keep him going a few extra minutes, give him that much more time before he would be forced to abandon the search. The rocky bottom displayed only the normal detritus of an area within sight of land; discarded food tins, the remains of broken and discarded fish crates, an abandoned skiff, its torn bottom the reason for its being there. Christensen forced himself on.
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