“You have always done what you wanted,” Pabbi quipped.
“Yes, but I never enjoyed it before.”
J.K. crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair as if watching a play.
“And you have always been old,” Leifur said playfully, encouraging a reaction.
“Not so old that I can’t outwork you,” Amma said.
This elicited jeers and laughter from the rest of us.
“We will see about that,” Leifur said, puffing out his chest.
Amma trotted out to the blettur with them. They told us that night that as soon as they chopped down a young tree, the moment it crashed down, she chased them away, picked up the bar and began working on the roots.
“Once I have it loose the oxen will help me,” she’d said. Then she sang to herself as if she was all alone.
The next morning Signy put on a pair of pants and joined them. For another three weeks they labored. Each day I ran the trail, lunch sack slung over my shoulder, and on the final day when I arrived, they were standing facing the oak.
“I am not sure I can do it,” Pabbi said as I laid our picnic on the ground.
Amma’s feet were planted solidly as if she was bracing against a great wind. She always stood like this, face scrunched up in a scowl while allowing her gut to decide. Amma believed she was born with the gift of skyggni—or second sight—the ability to foresee what others couldn’t. Pabbi would joke that if it were true, her gift was blind in one eye since she was only correct half the time.
“Then leave it,” she said.
“What if a storm blows it onto the house?”
“It won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“I have a feeling about this tree.”
“You are just tired of digging roots,” he teased.
“So are you.”
They looked at Leifur who had the habit of standing exactly like her, only now he seemed a bit taller. In a month of hard work, he’d grown noticeable muscles on his arms, chest, shoulders, and back. Signy stood taller too. Thank goodness it was me who caught him weeks later admiring himself in the mirror and not her.
“This tree is starting to feel like a friend,” she said.
Amma agreed. “An old one who will still be here long after we are gone.”
That night after supper, Pabbi announced that they were done and it was finally time to start building. I’d known the announcement was coming but cheered just the same. J.K. poured a celebratory drink and even slid a glass with two gulps in front of Leifur.
“A man’s drink for a job well done,” he said as they raised their glasses. “Cheers.”
“Skál,” Amma said clinking her glass hard against Leifur’s.
He was so surprised he wasn’t sure what to do. He smelled it first, then took a sip. He pulled a face and we all laughed, everyone except Finn, who looked so jealous I thought he might spit.
The moment I saw Bensi Solmundsson from Skógafoss, he inspired a sense of unease in me. Only a few years older than Pabbi, he came one day riding a roan horse through the bush trail across our land, head held high as if he owned the place. Bensi had a mouth that turned down like a crescent moon, giving his smile a mocking quality.
Decades later when I watched western movies, I always thought of him whenever the Sheriff rode up to the lawbreakers, back straight as a plank, rifle casually lying hip to hip. But despite his charming face and demeanor suggesting his word was law, Bensi was nothing like those honest, caring lawmen from the movies.
I see how Pabbi shrank during that first encounter.
We were all there, levelling the ground for the foundation, even Freyja whose job it was to help me clear away the sticks.
“Pjetur, I am surprised to see you,” Bensi said, pulling back on the reins. The horse stopped, but instead of dismounting—the polite thing to do—Bensi stayed in the saddle and towered over us.
“Not as surprised as I,” Pabbi said.
An arrogant man makes others feel small by ignoring them, an insecure man will hang on every word. Pabbi was trying hard to be neither.
“Ella,” Bensi bowed. “Freda. I would have guessed you too old to make the journey.”
Amma levelled her gaze at him. “My family would never leave me behind. Which makes me wonder, where are your sons?”
“I see you are building a house.” He ignored her question, pointing his gun up at the cloudless sky. “You will never get the roof up in time. A week of rain is coming.”
Pabbi laughed, wiping the sweat from his brow. “It never rains here in July.”
“You are thinking of September,” he smirked. “You should have waited until then. You will never finish before haying.”
“We will see about that,” Mother said.
Bensi seemed to enjoy how quickly she reacted, the annoyance in her voice. Normally, if they were prepared, Mother together with Pabbi were difficult to out-maneuver in an argument. Pabbi would think through the logic of the situation, then Mother would annihilate any opponent with her words. But Bensi had caught them off guard.
“That boy of yours looks like a good worker,” he said. “What is your name, son?”
“Leifur,” he said.
“You come work at my farm and I will make sure you get paid what you are worth.”
Leifur looked flattered but irked at the same time.
“Not as long as I’m alive,” Amma said. “I have a sack full of money to spend. Soon we will have more sheep than you.”
Bragging was a sin almost as bad as lying. Whenever Amma talked about her money (none of us ever saw it), Pabbi shushed her while Mother rolled her eyes, but right now the three of them stood solid as a wall facing Bensi.
Bensi snorted. “We all know how you came by that money.”
“And we know how you came by yours,” she snapped back. “Don’t think you are going to chase us off. We’re here to stay.”
“Not if your animals starve,” he sneered. “You will never make a living on this quarter, it is the worst in the district.”
“Asi Frimann disagrees,” Pabbi said. “He has been here longer than you.”
“Asi is a fool, though I am not surprised you are taking advice from him,” Bensi said.
Pabbi flinched. By then his hands were furious, fingers pressed into his palms, knuckles white.
“Now the quarter over there,” Bensi said, pointing to the shanty, “it is the better of the two. You should have chosen it.”
“Time will tell,” Pabbi said.
Bensi turned his horse, spurring with his heels while holding the reins back, lifting the horse’s head. Then he clicked his tongue and jabbed his heels hard. The horse obediently took off in a full gallop back in the direction from where he’d come.
“Just wait until he hears we have both quarters,” Leifur grinned.
The next morning, we awoke to pattering on the roof. Pabbi was already standing in front of the picture window, staring out at the grey sky. He did not answer when we spoke to him, preoccupied by the sight of the calm lake, its surface dimpled as far as we could see.
The mood around the kitchen table was cheerful nevertheless. The house smelled of pönnukökur—the Icelandic crepe we all loved so much, rolled with sugar and cinnamon; there was also warm bread and thick, sweet berry preserves. Coffee for the adults, fresh milk for the children.
A month had passed since the last rain so it came as a great relief. It replenished the pasture, prompted new growth and provided much needed moisture for the wild hay meadows that were only weeks away from being ready to cut. We would be busy then and everyone would work without a break from August through September. Years later when I’d hear someone quote the English proverb, ‘make hay while the sun shines,’ I found it amusing. Only a farmer truly understands the meaning behind those words.
She wore an apron like Gudrun, and when we asked why she put on her best dress so often and why her hair smelled so sweet, her face brightened and she kept on with whatever she was doing. We didn’t know at the time she was pregnant with our little sister, Solrun, who would be born during a fierce storm that coming winter.
“I think the children should do sums today,” J.K. said.
We were unsure how serious he was so we took our cue from Finn and Thora who slumped like rag dolls in their chairs and groaned.
“That is a wonderful idea,” Gudrun said as she sipped coffee. Mother agreed. It was obvious by the way she brought the delicate cup to her lips that she enjoyed living here very much.
Thora sighed. “For how long?”
“Until you get them all right. Afterwards, if you ask Freda nicely, she may read to you from the Sagas.”
The table was cleared while Mother and Gudrun began knitting in the front room and Pabbi retrieved his ledger book to begin doing his own version of sums. He wrote comments, mostly about the weather, so he could reference it in the future.
Grouped by age, we sat at the table with J.K. as our teacher.
We were each given a slate and piece of chalk from the box packed away under the stairs. J.K. jotted a list of sums on three separate pages then placed them on the table. Thora and I shared one. Freyja and the little children read from another. Finn, Leifur and Signy began figuring quickly, blocking the slate with their free hand so the others couldn’t see, since between them it was always a competition.
But I was the first to finish.
“Good for you, Asta,” J.K. said, looking a bit surprised as he read over my slate. “All correct.”
Leifur and Signy looked up, then Signy put her head down and began multiplying faster.
“You gave her the easy ones,” Leifur complained.
Without a word, J.K. turned their page so I could see it. Their sums were more difficult, but I didn’t want to disappoint him, so ignoring Thora and Freyja who stopped to watch, I sped through the figures and slammed my chalk down less than a minute after the older ones. Thora clapped with glee.
“Impressive,” J.K. said. “Now you can either go play with the others or help Freyja.”
I didn’t see it as a choice. Freyja had no sense at all when it came to numbers so she needed me.
“Soon we will have our own teacher.” J.K. winked at me.
Not wanting to appear conceited, I didn’t react, but deep inside my heart swelled with pride.
He leaned down and with his hand resting on my back, in a confiding tone, whispered: “Learn as much as you can because no one can ever take that away from you.”
When Freyja finally finished her sums correctly, we gathered on the floor around Amma who was seated on a wing back chair with a thick book waiting on her lap. For two hours she read to us from Njál’s Saga, widening her eyes during the mysterious parts, whispering, before hollering out the frightening scenes, animating every word to regain our attention whenever we became distracted. Occasionally, Langamma, whose eyes were too weak to read, would mutter to herself while nodding in agreement, confirming that Amma was telling the story as she remembered it.
My earliest memories are of listening to the adults read. The Sagas contained medieval stories filled with lessons on how to live and die with honor. They gave strength, imagination and hope to all who believed it was circumstance, not genetics, that kept our forebears oppressed. Deep inside every Icelander was a belief that while life might not always be fair, our destiny was decided by our actions.
“It is said that he never lies,” Amma said slowly of Njál, the hero. “He is wise, moral, and we understand from the story that his nemesis, Hrútr, tells lies to a woman who treated him with only kindness. His life was complicated by hardship ever after.”
Amma’s eyes locked onto mine. Why she singled me out I’ve never understood.
Then, as was her usual habit, she closed the book at a most suspenseful point. If we behaved, she would read to us again at bedtime.
The rain came down harder, water falling over the verandah roof.
Our parents moved to the kitchen table to play a game of Whist. Finn and Leifur, energized by the Saga’s battle scenes, could not resist the temptation to wrestle. The girls followed our parents, leaving me alone with Amma.
“Tell me,” she asked quietly. “What happened that day we went to The Narrows?”
I looked quickly at Leifur, dreading what would happen if I broke the promise.
“Nothing,” I said, knowing that she would never ask again even though she didn’t believe me.
Freyja returned from the kitchen and climbed onto Amma’s knee.
“Will you show me your sack of money?” she whispered.
Amma hushed her and pulled her close. “Another time,” she said, bringing a finger to her lips. Her eyes moved quickly to J.K. and Gudrun, Thora and Finn, so we knew she wanted to keep it a secret from them.
Poor Pabbi. The three-day rain felt like a week. His mood did not improve until we awoke the fourth morning to clear skies.
“Finn rode to see the neighbors,” J.K. said, offering no reason, and Pabbi was too polite to ask. Pabbi thought it overly optimistic when J.K. suggested they take both wagons to the building site, each piled high with lumber that Asi had delivered the week before.
“We shouldn’t take more than we’ll need,” Pabbi said. “It may rain again.”
“It will be clear now for a few days,” he said as he released the foot break and jolted out of the barn. “We will take the shingles tomorrow.”
Pabbi raised his eyebrows but did not say a word. He did not want to offend J.K. so he placed a box of nails, a hammer and a saw on the seat, then he and Leifur climbed onto our wagon. Fortunately, the oxen, who could be stubborn at times, liked to follow. Pabbi easily coaxed them in behind J.K.’s wagon.
“Take Freyja with you,” Mother said to me. “Mind she stays out of the way.”
J.K. sang loudly the whole way. As we emerged from the bush trail at the place that would be our yard for the next fifty years, I did not understand what I was seeing. Pabbi didn’t either.
Three wagons were parked and I saw Asi, along with men of varying ages milling around. Finn was sitting on his horse at the edge of it all, and another wagon was coming from the north bringing the area’s well-respected carpenter, Oli Thorsteinsson. I understood then why Finn had slipped away that morning. Pabbi let out a whoop when he grasped what J.K. had arranged. He shook his hand vigorously for a long while, unable to say a word. J.K. looked delighted, patting him hard between the shoulders, then introduced him to the men.
I imagine Gudrun must have told Mother because they arrived at noon with enough food for that whole army of people. Mother cried as she handed out sandwiches, and she remained thankful until the day she died to those neighbors, many of whom became life-long friends.
It took only three days of persistent work and constant singing to raise the house. I have never forgotten the beauty of it, simple in its design but so much more than we could have ever hoped for. I’ll always remember the echo of our naked feet on the floor and the tangy, live smell of new lumber.
Mother asked that her house have only two things: large windows facing southeast and a plank floor. Both would add warmth over the winter. There were two doors, one off the front room that faced the lake (even though we couldn’t see it because of the trees) and one that we used every day from the kitchen to a lean-to that faced the barnyard. Amma’s bedroom was in a nook off of the front room while Pabbi and Mother’s opened into the kitchen.
Amma grabbed Mother’s arm before she went inside. Superstition kept pregnant women from walking under newly raised rafters, lest they experience a difficult birth, but Mother thought it nonsense so she wen
t in first anyway. We children followed and practised running up the stairs to the loft where we would sleep, boys in one room, girls in the other. We lay on the floor listening to the ringing of our voices against the walls.
“Shhhh,” Signy said, sitting up. “What is that sound?”
At first I thought she meant the settling of timber and nails, but then, as our voices hushed to the rhythm of our own breath, we heard a soft patter on the roof.
Even today, whenever I think of rain, I remember lying in that room with a wool blanket pulled to my chin, reading to the comforting sound of heavy drops, safe from the wind and cold.
Probably what happened next is what solidified this memory. A loud whooping echoed throughout the house. We ran down the staircase to see the three most important adults in our lives had joined hands and were swinging in a circle. Amma was singing a song of thanks, Mother’s head was thrown back in laughter and Pabbi beamed at them both.
Signy was the first to break in as the rest of us scrambled to grab a grown-up hand. We danced and spun, lifting Freyja’s arms until her feet were off the ground. We jigged and sang until finally Amma said there was something we must do.
“It is good luck to move from one house to another in the rain,” she said, breathless. “It will bring us wealth.”
It was the happiest day we’d experienced up until then so not one of us flinched as the cool, fat drops fell on our heads, tickling their way down our cheeks onto our necks as we ran through the wet grass to Vinðheimar. Pabbi hitched the oxen and backed it up to the verandah.
Langamma turned an ear to the ceiling, clucking with approval, as we rushed around gathering everything that was ours. Gudrun and J.K. stood with their family waving good-bye as we rattled down the trail to our new home.
The last thing Mother unpacked was our only family photograph and we watched as she hung it in the front room over the sofa, standing back, adjusting a corner before turning with delight. Pabbi stood in the middle of the floor with his hands on his hips, looking like a man who’d achieved everything in life he’d set out to do.
Be Still the Water Page 6