Be Still the Water

by Karen Emilson

  “Then where do I build my house?” Amma asked.

  “On the same ridge.”

  “The rules say there must be a house on every quarter.”

  “A foolish rule,” Asi said, forking food into his mouth. “Made by people who don’t understand the lake.”

  “I applied for that quarter and so did Bensi,” J.K. said. “I outlined a plan to start clearing the bush but the government refused. If we are going to expand our farms, the homestead rule needs to change.”

  “Trees do not grow on wet land,” Asi said. “Find yourself a hundred-year-old oak to build beside and you’ll never be flooded out.”

  I think this last observation convinced Pabbi what he needed to do.

  Gudrun lifted the coffee sock from the pot then filled everyone’s cup. Each of them poured a bit onto their saucers and waited for it to cool. Gudrun must have noticed how I couldn’t take my eyes off the hálfmánar cookies. They were made in the shape of a half moon and stuffed with sweet prune filling. She passed around the plate. We all took one, except Asi, who took two.

  “You have a lot of work ahead of you,” he said, eating an entire cookie in one bite.

  Pabbi looked at Mother. “I cannot imagine attempting this without Leifur,” he said, draining his saucer.

  Signy’s expression always reflected her thoughts. I saw her hurt and Gudrun, at the end of the table, must have as well.

  J.K. glanced at Finn and his young sons who’d finished eating and were wrestling on the floor.

  “While I cannot imagine what it would be like to have only boys,” Gudrun said. “Not only do they get twice as dirty, but they eat three times as much.”

  “And no help in the kitchen,” Mother added, bringing us children into the conversation.

  Our parents sat back to enjoy the debate that followed as the girls raised their voices against the boys as each made a case in favor of who contributed more.

  “I can work just as hard as Leifur,” Signy said.

  Leifur, who was at least an inch taller, scoffed.

  Signy punched him in the arm and he shoved her back.

  “Everyone is expected to work within their capabilities,” Gudrun said, ending the debate. Mother agreed.

  “We came to America for the girls,” Amma announced. “Here they can achieve their heart’s desire.”

  It would take many years before I understood why Amma said this.

  In Iceland we’d heard stories about the Indians and wondered if what old Ásgeir had said was true. J.K. now broached the subject. Both Asi and J.K. had a solid respect for the people who’d lived here for thousands of years before we came.

  “The buffalo calved here and grazed these meadows on the point, moving further inland during the rut,” J.K. said. “In late harvest, when the Indians needed meat, they would chase the beasts back to where they felt safe, but once surrounded by water, they had no place to go.”

  “Very clever,” Pabbi said.

  “Indeed. The lies about Indians were intended to put fear in our hearts so we would not leave Iceland,” J.K. said. “What we were never told is how they brought meat to the doors of starving settlers.”

  “Despite being cheated by greedy white men,” Gudrun added.

  “I know how that feels,” Mother said, telling how she was still smarting over the fact she’d purchased first class tickets believing it would improve everyone’s chances of surviving the trip. She was eight months pregnant when we left Iceland and her mother was in frail health. The added cost meant leaving her teenaged sister behind. What Mother had not known then was that there was good money to be made tricking emigrants. We ended up in the bottom deck of a cattle barge. Her mother died and was buried at sea, and Mother never forgave the agent for deceiving her.

  “The Indians tell a similar story,” J.K. said as he got up from the table. He opened the cupboard and took out a ceramic jug. “It is to their credit they treat us as well as they do.”

  Mother and Gudrun shared a glance. Neither woman touched alcohol, but allowed the men an occasional drink.

  “Pjetur?” J.K. said to Pabbi, holding up the jug.

  Pabbi nodded.

  “Bring me a glass too,” Amma said.

  Mother tsked but Amma ignored her.

  “We should look at ourselves before speaking ill of the Indians,” Gudrun said. “Truth be told, many of us who came here were lice ridden as well.”

  “And I know of many an Icelander who cannot hold his drink,” Asi said, taking a glass from J.K., raising it to his lips. “Fortunately I am not one of them.”

  “But our neighbor Bensi is,” Finn chimed in from where he sat at the far end of the table. “I have seen him tight as a whistle.”

  “Yes, but you will never see him take a drink,” J.K. said. “Claims to be God-fearing.”

  Asi snorted. “Thinks he is above all the Indians and most Icelanders as well.”

  “I take it you disagree?” Mother said.

  “Unfortunately there are men who lie and cheat. The trick is learning who they are.”

  Pabbi opened his mouth to say something but Amma interrupted.

  “Tell us more,” she said, taking a sip from her glass.

  The room fell quiet as Gudrun spoke silently to J.K. with her eyes, warning against too much gossip.

  “I suppose we are all land hungry, but Bensi more than most,” he said. “He will stop at nothing to get what he wants. He was cruel to the bachelors before you, and I question how he treats his own family.”

  More silence except for the creak as Asi shifted in his chair.

  “He holds onto the old ways,” J.K. said. “He follows the rigid strictures of the Norwegian Lutheran Church.”

  We understood what that meant. Our parents had tried to shield us from the reality that not all men indulged children as Pabbi did. The memory was still vivid of the time they left us alone with Uncle Ásgeir.

  Amma had sold her house in Reykjavík in preparation for our journey so she was living with us, and Leifur had thrown a rock and broken a window. Uncle Ásgeir beat him with a rod and it was a terrible thing to see. The very act of beating seemed to make Ásgeir even angrier and, when he was done, he grabbed Leifur by the hair and forced him to kiss the rod, just as Amma came galloping into the yard. She jumped off her pony, picked up a stick and hit Uncle Ásgeir across the back. There was much cursing between them as they circled each other, Ásgeir calling Amma names as she threatened to hit him again. I am sure she would have if our aunt hadn’t intervened.

  “What is a ‘whore’?” I’d asked Father that night. He became so outraged I didn’t ask again.

  Asi was a wonderful gossip so he picked up where J.K. left off.

  “Bensi’s two older girls disappeared,” he said, sipping slowly from his glass.

  “What happened to them?”

  Asi shrugged. “Nobody knows.”

  Pabbi looked perplexed, almost relieved. He and Mother exchanged a quick glance and seemed to be thinking the same thing.

  Gudrun stood to remove her apron. She hung it from a hook on the wall. “When we were living there I did witness Bensi beating the eldest girl for talking to a boy,” she said as she sat back down.

  “I heard one of the bachelors put a curse on his land before he left,” Asi said.

  Amma perked right up. There was nothing she loved more than a good curse. “Good for them, tell us more.”

  Asking a question about the invisible world was unheard of amongst those who considered themselves civilized in Iceland. But our Amma did it all the time. Also she was breaking the rule to never talk about curses, lest the misfortune happen to you.

  With everyone listening, Asi replied carefully. “Hasn’t gone well for him since. First the girls disappeared, then he was nearly killed when a tree fell on him.”

&nb
sp; Though Langamma was nearly blind, her hearing was sharp. She began to tsk and shake her head. She spoke in Icelandic and, with no direct translation, it has taken me this long to put into English what she said. It went something like this: When you do something wrong, it follows you around while fate waits for the chance to even the score.

  “Langamma . . .” J.K. warned.

  “Nei,” she howled, her teeth rattling as she spoke. She concentrated on the wool strand, not allowing the foot pedal to break stride. “I have seen many truths.”

  Signy’s eyes widened and we shared a sisterly moment, each of us knowing there would be much whispering later when we were alone.

  “One thing I do give Bensi credit for,” said J.K., “is how he treats his sheep. He is an excellent farmer who has a fine flock.”

  “His sheep are no better than ours,” Finn said.

  “He has put far more time and expense into his animals than I have,” J.K. argued. “He has fine ewes and two purebred rams that were shipped all the way from Ontario.”

  “But you dislike him,” Finn said.

  “I do. But it is important to know that even the most disagreeable man is agreeable in some ways. Also he was kind to us initially and I cannot forget that. It is only fair to give credit when it is due.”

  Finn’s cheeks flushed a bit. “He is a terrible man.”

  J.K. smiled. “His sheep would disagree.”

  “It troubles me that he always carries that gun,” Gudrun said. “He says it is to kill wolves but I’m not convinced.”

  “The challenge with a wolf,” J.K. said, lifting the jug to splash a bit more in everyone’s glass, “is that you never see him, only evidence of where he’s been. There is one that eludes me, has taken a few sheep—even killed Finn’s dog—but I have not seen him once.”

  His words sent a shudder through all of us.

  “Are you talking about Bensi or the wolf?” Leifur asked.

  We all laughed at that, everyone except Finn, whose eyes went inward to a faraway place.

  “Well he won’t kill our dog,” Freyja piped up, lifting the mood in the room. “We don’t have one!”

  Relaxing under the influence of J.K.’s brew, the adults let the subject of Bensi rest and began discussing the lake and the land.

  Our family slept in the room at the back of the house. My parents never would have spoken so freely had they known I was still awake.

  “He cannot be the same Bensi,” Mother whispered into the dark.

  “I believe you are correct,” Pabbi whispered back. “The Bensi I knew had only sons.”

  The room was quiet for a moment. I was starting to doze when Pabbi spoke again.

  “I pray to God they don’t find out. What would they think of me then?”

  “How will they?” Mother asked. “We did not come here as refugees. It is obvious you are an educated man.”

  “I know,” he said, letting his thoughts trail off.

  “Stop worrying,” she said. “God is watching over us. You said so yourself.”

  Young men nowadays would shake their heads if they saw how Pabbi and Leifur set off the next morning, leading the oxen, carrying only two axes, a handsaw and steel bars. Mother and I stood on the verandah watching them leave.

  “Your father decided to build on the ridge,” she said, face tight with concern. “I hope he knows what he is doing.”

  All afternoon as we washed clothes and helped Gudrun bake and cook, Mother stole quick, worried glances out the window at the trail that led to our land.

  With a dinner sack over my shoulder I ran along the bush trail with imaginary ghosts nipping at my heels. I arrived breathless and relieved to see their smiling faces as they wiped sweat from their brows.

  Pabbi and Leifur had stepped out a blettur, the area they planned to clear. Young poplars surrounded a giant oak that towered 50 feet overhead. It was perfectly shaped, limbs growing out in all directions. Pabbi tried to wrap his arms around it but his hands did not touch.

  “We will leave it until last,” he said.

  It was muggy and hot and the oxen stood grazing, their muscles shivering away the flies, tails swatting the mosquitoes that swarmed up from the damp grass.

  Legs apart, Pabbi braced himself, swung the axe back taking out the first chunk of a mature poplar. Standing opposite, it was Leifur’s turn. Then Pabbi, Leifur, Pabbi, and they continued like this until the tree toppled, and then we sat under the giant oak to eat dinner, enjoying the cool breeze.

  “This will be a peaceful home when we are done,” Pabbi said, relaxing only long enough to finish a sandwich and drink coffee directly from the jar I pulled out of the sack. Leifur took a deep breath and steeled himself as they went back to work while I ran back to Vinðheimar.

  That evening darkness rolled in from the bush, drawing in around the house. Through the kitchen window we saw their shadows as they led the oxen home, and we hurried out to greet them.

  “Supper is ready,” Mother said. “Go inside, I’ll put the oxen in the barn.”

  Pabbi protested but Mother already had the reins slipped from his tired hands.

  “Thora and I picked a pail of Saskatoons,” I said. The berries grew thick at the edge of the bush and already were our new, preferred fruit.

  “Gudrun showed me how to make a pie,” Signy said.

  “Good girls,” Pabbi said, slowly lifting a hand to rest it heavily on my shoulder.

  “Did you eat it all?” Leifur asked.

  “No, we were waiting for you,” Signy said.

  “Are you going to give me your piece?”

  A quarrel brewed between them even in exhaustion.

  “You can have mine,” I offered, hoping to keep their banter from escalating into a full-blown fight.

  Gudrun’s family was already fed so they sat in the front room. J.K. looked up from his book as we came inside.

  Pabbi shook his head. “To think we longed for trees in Iceland.”

  “I am sorry,” J.K. said. “Finn and I cannot help you until we finish building the fence. It is the only way to keep Bensi’s sheep out of my field.”

  Father waved it off, but Leifur shot Finn a jealous look. Building a split rail fence was far easier than felling trees.

  Amma stood at the kitchen table holding a pot. “Come eat,” she said, scooping food onto their plates. “I told Ella that dinner she packed for you today would never be enough.”

  Mother came in wiping her hands on her apron.

  “Well now at least we have firewood,” Pabbi said. “We would have chopped down more, but prying out those roots took most of the day.”

  Leifur said nothing as he dug into the stew. Pabbi explained again that if they didn’t get the roots out the poplars would grow back.

  “I don’t see how,” Leifur argued.

  “They will find a way.”

  Leifur shook his head. “We are wasting our time. It isn’t going to flood again.”

  “Asi would not have recommended it without reason,” Pabbi said. “I trust that man. His family has lived here a long time.”

  “Easy for him to say,” Leifur grumbled.

  Mother scolded him, but Pabbi didn’t say another word.

  Leifur sighed as he reached for the pie. “I know one thing for certain. No matter how much they pay me, I will never work at the mill,” he said, digging in his fork, sliding a piece onto his plate. “I am never cutting down trees again. Please, Pabbi, can’t we just build by the barn?”

  Pabbi answered with his silence.

  Everyone saw how annoying Leifur’s complaining had become.

  “Being a ship’s captain, that is what I’ll do,” he said. “It is easy work.”

  Amma snorted, having heard enough. She lifted his plate into the air. “You sound just like Soli. He had the same attitude.
Never made anything of himself.”

  We all fell silent. You see none of us had ever heard our grandfather’s name before. All we knew is that he was a drunken scoundrel.

  “I never met a lazy man who wasn’t a coward also,” Amma said, digging her fork into the pie.

  J.K. and Gudrun, who’d been pretending they weren’t listening, looked up.

  “I’m not a coward.” Leifur sniffed, cheeks growing pink as he glanced at Finn whose eyes sparkled with delight. “And I’m not lazy.”

  Amma laughed and shook her head in a most sorrowful way. “I didn’t think you were either,” she said, finishing his pie.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Every man must plough his own furrow.

  —Vápnfirðinga Saga

  The next morning Amma came into Gudrun’s kitchen wearing an old shirt and a pair of Pabbi’s pants. She sat down humming to herself as if she wore his clothes every day.

  J.K. raised his eyebrows while Gudrun stifled her laughter, turning her back as she reached for the coffee pot.

  “Amma, why are you wearing pants?” Freyja asked.

  Amma looked surprised. “What do you mean?”

  “Those pants,” she said. “They are Pabbi’s.”

  “No, they are mine.”

  Freyja shrank a bit in her chair. “No they’re not.”

  “Yes they are,” she said, reaching for a piece of bread. She slathered butter on top as if nothing at all strange was going on.

  “I gave those to you to mend,” Pabbi said.

  “I did,” she said, pointing at a patch on the knee. “See?”

  He leaned around the edge of the table to look. Taking a bite of bread, he chewed thoughtfully. “Is Ella behind in the laundry?”

  “Probably.”

  “I am not,” Mother chimed in. “Her dresses were washed yesterday.”

  “Then why is she wearing my pants?”

  “She is your mother. Ask her.”

  Pabbi cocked his head in Amma’s direction.

  “Because I want to. I am an old woman and I will do what I want.”