Be Still the Water

by Karen Emilson

  “Sigurdur writes that the Education Bill will likely pass,” Bjorn said.

  “Pabbi reads Lögberg,” I said.

  “Ha!” Bjorn said to his father, knowing Pabbi’s Liberal leanings without me having to say another word. Then I turned to Magnus, “but Amma reads Heimskringla.”

  “Smart woman.” He winked, turning his paper so I could see its masthead. “What do you read?” They all paused awaiting my answer.

  “The women’s magazine, Freyja.”

  Bergthora smiled triumphantly. “Good choice. What is your opinion of the editor?”

  “Mama hopes to someday meet her.”

  “So do I. Equality for women and education for all.”

  “Já, well, on that issue we definitely agree,” Magnus said. “The only way all children in Iceland will receive an education is if government legislates and pays for it.”

  “But parents don’t want their children taught by those who don’t share their religious views,” Bjorn said. “Teachers must be independent from religion and politics.”

  Magnus raised his eyebrows. “Do you think the church will give up that control?”

  “It may have to,” Bjorn said.

  “Are you certain?” Magnus asked. “Your paper says religion is the issue, but I disagree. It is the attitude of the peasant who promises to sit his children down every day to teach them; however, it is much easier, plus more profitable, to send them out to work. Sometimes people find an excuse.”

  “That is unfair,” Bergthora said, putting bread, cheese, and meat on the table. “For the poorly educated it is a difficult task, and children do not make it easy. It was all I could do to force you boys to learn.”

  “That is the lesson,” Magnus said. “There is always another side to every story.”

  I wondered if it was the same here as in Iceland. “How many for breakfast this morning?” I asked, opening the cupboard door. I felt harried being the last one up and vowed it wouldn’t happen again.

  “Just us. Einar and the others will not pay for breakfast, so they have coffee at Siggi’s instead.”

  I circled the table, carrying plates and utensils, trying hard not to stare at Bjorn.

  Bergthora’s jaw was set as she squinted out the window over the wash-basin at Siggi and Runa’s house.

  “Einar just left with a loaf of bread,” she said, turning away from the window to refill the coffee cups. “Siggi earns the same as he does, and who do you think makes that bread?”

  “Já, well, Siggi might enjoy his company.”

  She paused, hurling him a look of disbelief. “He is taking advantage of the boy’s softhearted nature.”

  Magnus sighed. “When Siggi grows tired of him, it will end. Men have ways of sorting out disagreements. You will see.”

  “But I don’t trust him.”

  “Sister, you worry too much.”

  “Well one of us has to,” she said, raising her eyebrows.

  Bjorn and Arn stopped reading. The conversation had taken an abrupt turn, and everyone but I understood its direction.

  “It makes no sense,” Bjorn said. “We are losing money.”

  Bergthora finally settled on her chair and I was told to sit as well.

  “Já, well, I promised these men work until the end of March. They are counting on it.”

  Bjorn sighed and his face softened toward his father. “Some are complaining they want to go home. Einar is inciting them. You should hear what they say behind your back.”

  Then I remembered the conversation the night before, that fishing was poor but Magnus was reluctant to pull up.

  His disappointment gave way to resignation. “We will pull up mid-March and those who want to leave can,” he said. “I will tell them after dinner.”

  “What about the rest?”

  “They can work in the mill. We already have more orders than we can handle.”

  “Good,” Bergthora said. “If Einar needs help packing I will gladly offer it.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Be warned by another’s woe.

  —Njál’s Saga

  I have never understood why people want to die at home.

  They are attracted, I think, to the idea of spending their final days surrounded by family in the place where they experienced so much life. During the day this makes perfect sense. I wonder, though, what it is like for them at night if they awaken to the silence. Anyone who has lived alone or suffered from insomnia understands how sluggishly the hours pass, with only the frightening shadows in a moonlit bedroom for company.

  But the hospital is not like that at all. It is quiet without the stillness. It is dark in the hallway, but soft light filters in from the nursing station, where everything they do is muted. Waking here in the night is like watching a pleasing dream unfold.

  I like being alone. I like it especially here. Always have. I told Solrun that I wasn’t going to die that night so she should go home. Since I cannot die in the place I spent most of my childhood, it makes sense to take my last breath in the place I’ve spent most of my life.

  I hear Mary breathing heavily in the bed beside me. I am accustomed to the sound, even welcome it. She stirs, waking herself up. Her daughter is twisted like a pretzel on the chair beneath Jesus. Mary is fidgeting now, moaning a bit. She knows her daughter is there but doesn’t want to wake her.

  Now I remember Mary. Her grandfather was a fine horseman who bred, broke, and sold beautiful horses to supplement what they didn’t have living on the Reserve. Pabbi bought his first team, a mare and gelding, from him. Mary’s father and brother worked on J.K.’s fishing crew, so we became acquainted with the family and over the years would see them, usually at ball tournaments where the old man would always ask about the horses, concerned about them, had they turned out well?

  “Cancer?” I whisper into the dark. So many people smoked before they understood it was killing the people around them.

  Her head wavers.

  “Lung?”

  “All over.”

  Reaching back over my head I press the call button. I am still able to reach it—one last defiant gesture of independence.

  The nurse comes down the hall to check on me and I point to Mary, who I already know won’t ask for what she needs.

  Idealistic young nurses hired straight from school were always further ahead of us in their knowledge of the newest treatment. It took them only minutes to learn a newfangled gadget that took the rest of us a week to understand. But it is the experienced ones who know what can never be learned from a textbook.

  She asks Mary if she is in pain, but Mary does not want to be a bother.

  “Take a bit more,” I say. “It will help you sleep.”

  The nurse pokes Mary’s hip with a needle.

  “If you need anything else, just press the button,” she whispers as she leaves. She returns a few minutes later carrying a blanket from the warmer. Unfolding it silently, she gently covers Mary’s daughter.

  That is something she learned from us.

  Mary and I lie there for a while listening to each other breathe.

  “It was you,” she says, breaking the silence; her voice already sounds lighter. “You took care of my father.”

  I remember.

  She gathers her thoughts. “I feel the angels around me.”

  It is a phenomenon nurses who work the night shift understand.

  “They are always here,” I say.

  * * *

  “Do you want to see the pups?” Bjorn asked, sticking his head into the kitchen. It took a few moments before I realized he was speaking to me. I looked at Bergthora, who waved toward the door, telling me as I pulled on my coat to bring back the milk.

  Outside, the air was crisp but you could feel a hint of spring. Mornings would remain cold for the next month, b
ut gradually, as the wind shifted and began blowing from the south, it would bring warmth during the day. You could already feel the sun regaining its power.

  Dust swirled across the hard packed floor when Bjorn pulled open the barn door and we were greeted by the savory scent of cured hay and the sweet bite of manure. From overhead we heard whistling and footsteps in the loft.

  “Siggi always does the barn chores,” Bjorn said as a forkful of hay fell through an opening at the far end of the barn, landing on the floor. “Nobody likes milking cows more than he.”

  Morning light shone in over the horses’ heads where they stood placidly waiting in their stalls. Four cows were tethered side by side at the end of the barn. Siggi monkeyed down the ladder and quietly called each cow by name, patting their rumps as he began forking hay into the stalls. The cows swung their heads, grunting softly, reaching their long tongues around the wispy strands.

  Gentle whines from behind a closed stall caught my attention, but then the door opened behind us and Stefan Frimann came in, cheerfully shaking off the cold. I hadn’t seen him much since he’d saved Freyja from drowning. It was obvious he was happy to be at the mill, even though there was plenty of work to do at home. I’d overheard Magnus chuckle that Stefan and his father were too much alike to get along, and it had been old man Frimann’s idea that Stefan come work at Siglunes. This was greatly to Magnus’s benefit, since Stefan had inherited from his father tremendous instincts when it came to animals. Even the orneriest cow or skittish horse was calm when he took its lead.

  “It’s nice and warm in here,” Stefan said, rubbing his mittens together. He was right. A well-kept barn is a most comfortable place to be. He lifted a bit and bridle from a hook on the wall and rubbed the bit vigorously on his sleeve, then deliberately steamed it with his breath.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Ever stick your tongue on frozen metal?” he asked between breaths. “Horses don’t like it much either.” He went over to a tall brown mare in the first stall, softly patting her as he circled around, stroking her back and ribs. He spoke to her and she nickered as he positioned the bridle between her ears and across her nose.

  “There we go, girl,” he said, gently pushing the bit into her mouth. “It will be calmer on the lake today.”

  He grinned at us as he led the horse out, the dust swirling up again. Bjorn closed the door behind him. More whimpering, louder this time, reminding us why we came.

  “Finna,” Bjorn said as he lifted the stall latch. “How are you today? How are your pups?”

  Her tail thumped hard on the dirt floor, eyes turned upwards. Finna had a long, thick, creamy coat, and ears that flopped down but lay flat when she listened. She was easily the biggest dog I’d ever seen; she came to my waist when she stood, sturdy and thick bodied. But for now, she lay on her side with six little black and white sausages grunting as they dug at her belly.

  Everything inside me softened at the sight of them. Only the runt was solid black, the rest were noticeably bigger, with varied white markings, including two with saddle backs. The runt was by itself, head bobbing as it searched for a teat, but it couldn’t fight its way past its brothers and sisters.

  “Born two weeks ago,” Bjorn said, pulling one saddle back off Finna to set the runt in its place, holding it steady until it latched on. “Everyone says you should put the runt out of its misery but I don’t have the heart to do it. Probably won’t amount to much, but someone might want her.”

  Bjorn explained that over Christmas a doctor migrating from the east coast, on his way to Swan River, had boarded with them.

  “He had a huge dog with him,” he said. “Came on the lake with us one day so we harnessed him to a sleigh. He could pull as much as three huskies.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Doctor Bennett.”

  “I mean the dog.”

  “Samson,” Bjorn said. “Usually huskies will attack a strange dog, but none of ours had the courage to try.”

  “What did Samson do?” I asked.

  “He just stood there, tongue hanging out. Sure drooled a lot.”

  I laughed, thinking it served those huskies right. Likely Samson was a Newfoundland and Finna a Great Pyrenees, but at the time neither of us knew much about dogs.

  “I asked Doctor Bennett if I could buy Samson, but he refused. He loved him so much he wanted to keep him in his room, but Bergthora said no, so he slept in the barn.”

  “The doctor?”

  “No, the dog.” He grinned. “But I think the doctor considered it.”

  Patting Finna lightly on the head, he moved over so I could reach in too.

  “This is Asta,” he said. “She won’t hurt your pups.”

  Then he carefully picked up the biggest one, holding him so I could see the jagged white slash on his chest. “This is my favorite. He never cries. I think he is as brave as his father already.”

  “Looks like a lightning bolt,” I said, gently stroking the white mark. “Are you going to keep him?”

  “Yes, but my aunt doesn’t need to know. At least not yet.”

  “What are you going to call him?”

  “Thor,” he said.

  I thought it a clever name since Thor was the God of Thunder.

  Bjorn held the pup up high over his head, and little Thor was not afraid at all, even though his eyes were barely open. Then he brought the pup to eye level. “My mama would have liked Thor.”

  I waited, sensing he wanted to say more.

  “We had a dog in Iceland, his name was Smalé. After she was gone he kept running away looking for her. Father tied him up but Smalé hated that.”

  “So she died?” I asked, realizing my stupidity after I said it.

  “I was two. I can’t even remember what she looks like now,” he said, handing me Thor.

  I thought of the day Solrun was born, remembering Mother’s screams. I didn’t know what else to say, but could imagine how he must have felt.

  Siggi came from the back of the barn carrying the milk.

  “We will take those inside,” Bjorn said over his shoulder.

  Siggi put the pails down, smiled at me holding Thor. “Runa should come see them,” he said. “It might make her more excited about the baby.”

  When the pups were finished feeding, Bjorn persuaded Finna to stand up. The pups yipped as they unlatched, rolling in the hay as she stepped over them. Bjorn had brought along two frozen fish and, knowing their morning routine, Finna’s tail wagged as she followed him outside. I tried to hush the yelping pups by stroking them, but it was no use. They were too young to want anyone but their mother.

  Voices outside the barn meant the hired men were getting ready to go onto the lake. By then Siggi had brought out two more milk pails so we carried them to the house. After that Bjorn jogged to where the men stood waiting. This became our morning routine and one I looked forward to—glad to see the pups and anxious for the chance to talk with Bjorn alone.

  On my third day there, Bergthora handed me a covered plate to take to Siggi’s wife Runa in the little cottage. We’d finished dinner and there was a stack of mending in the front room. It was the only job I despised but would willingly tackle it ten times over if it meant I didn’t have to approach a stranger’s door.

  I obeyed silently, pulling on my coat, then trudged reluctantly across the yard.

  When Runa opened the door the first thing that struck me was her extraordinary beauty. She had a heart-shaped face, wide set eyes, and slim nose. I saw immediately why Siggi had fallen in love with her. The second thing that delighted me was the cozy little house, and I easily pictured myself living there with Bjorn.

  “Hello,” she said, surprised. She stepped back while pulling the door wide to invite me in.

  Despite her beauty, Runa looked pale and wispy as a ghost, quite gaunt beneath th
e long nightdress; a heavy knitted wool sweater hung open from her shoulders nearly to her knees. Noticing my eyes go to the bulge that was her baby, she self-consciously wrapped the sweater closed and folded her arms. Her eyes went to the floor, and in that moment Bergthora’s words, “she is trying to starve herself so she will lose that baby,” rang true.

  “Put it over there,” she said, motioning to the kitchen table. “Are you Bensi’s daughter?”

  This shocked me. I shook my head no.

  “Oh?” she said. “He was here before the storm. I assumed he brought you.”

  “No, my father is Pjetur Gudmundsson,” I said. “We live near J.K. and Gudrun. Bensi is our neighbor.” I could think of nothing more to say and began feeling foolish. “I need to get back.”

  She shrugged. “I understand. There is always so much to do at the big house . . .” she said, words trailing off. The only other thing she said to me as I turned to leave was, “Please do not tell Bergthora I haven’t dressed yet.”

  So I told her I wouldn’t.

  Weeks passed, and each day I took Runa dinner I dreaded it less and less. Soon I looked forward to seeing her and even enjoyed our conversations. We talked about the weather, then Bergthora, the men, and finally we began to reveal bits about our own lives.

  “So you believe in God?” she asked one day as I sat across the table. Her face was drawn and her eyes and nose red and swollen.

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “I am not so sure anymore.” She sniffled. She blew her nose into a handkerchief then dabbed her eyes.

  The next day I arrived with Thor under one arm. She must have seen me coming because she opened the door and was already smiling before I came in.

  “His name is Thor,” I said. “He is Bjorn’s favorite.”

  “I can see why, he is so sweet,” she said, taking him right away. Thor licked her face but then squirmed so much she put him down. He bravely trotted across the floor, smelling everything while we visited. When it came time to leave, she told me that she would take Thor back to the barn. I believe it was the first time in weeks she’d put on her coat to go outside.