Be Still the Water

by Karen Emilson

  The next day we were sitting at the table together drinking strong tea sweetened with sugar. I’d added logs to the stove so the house was warm. After staring a long time into her cup, her lip began quivering.

  “What is wrong?” I asked.

  “It’s about the baby,” she said, blinking hard. She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her gown and then, like a river spilling over its banks, she told me her fears so quickly that I couldn’t interrupt.

  Bergthora would have understood and been able to piece together what Runa said and guess the parts she’d left out, but I was too young to understand why she might think the baby was not Siggi’s.

  She made me promise not to tell anyone her secret.

  How could I tell anyone anything? With only an inkling of how babies were made, I was more confused after the confession than when I’d come into the cottage. But what I did understand was her shame.

  Talking about it was such a relief to Runa that her mood lightened from that day forward. The next morning, she put on clothes and, with my help, started housecleaning. She even said that perhaps it would turn out for the best, that the baby would be born blonde-haired like Siggi. She quietly hoped for a girl that she would name Sigga, after her husband and her grandmother who’d died a few years before.

  Siggi was delighted when he came in that afternoon. He squeezed her thin shoulders with a loving hand and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

  He passed by me and whispered, “Now I understand why Father calls you our good luck charm. First you tamed Bergthora, now Runa is happy again.”

  It was incredibly heartening to hear this, but I felt a shiver of fear. While Siggi’s words were meant as a compliment, everyone knew you should never say thoughts out loud, as fortunes were quick to reverse.

  Later that evening, as I sat with Magnus in front of the fireplace, the Passion Hymns open and resting on his lap, he asked me a question I didn’t expect.

  “How well does your father know Bensi?”

  I sat there for a moment, unsure how to answer.

  “He asked if your father owed me money, said he couldn’t be trusted,” he said. “And that he is hiding something. Do you know why Bensi would say this to me?”

  It was impossible to hide my shock. To refuse to answer was almost as rude as him asking.

  “We were told never to mention it,” I said softly.

  Magnus nodded thoughtfully. “Then it is not your story to tell.”

  To sum up my time at the castle, I’d have to say each day ran into the next, punctuated by moments alone with Bjorn.

  “Nearly four weeks,” Bergthora said one afternoon while we dug through the pile of freshly washed fish mitts, discarding those damaged beyond repair, matching its mate to another. I learned that I would much rather knit a mitten from scratch than repair a torn one.

  “When can I go home?” I asked. Not wanting to sound ungrateful, I said that I missed my family.

  “And so you should.” She handed me her wide-eyed needle to thread. She adjusted her spectacles as I easily slipped the yarn through then handed it back. “I will take you home on Sunday. Perhaps you will work here again?”

  “I hope to,” I said quickly. While I sat darning thumbs, I fantasized that I was married to Bjorn. I imagined myself in Bergthora’s shoes with a handful of children running through the house. This was so delightful I barely noticed when Magnus brought Halli Eyolfson inside.

  “How are Anna and the children?” Bergthora asked as they sat down.

  Magnus lifted his ledger book from the small table. Like Pabbi, he kept track of everything in one book—daily entries in the front, financial calculations and monthly summaries in the back.

  “Very well,” Halli said excitedly. “The house is warmer than we expected and we have more fish than we can eat. What else could a man want?”

  “How is the ice holding up at The Narrows?” Magnus asked.

  “The current is really moving now,” Halli said, sliding a folded paper across the table. “Helgi finished pulling up all his nets yesterday.”

  “Já, a worrisome thing,” Magnus said, putting on his spectacles. “We are almost done, too.”

  He unfolded the page then began jotting down the details, calculating how much lumber was needed to construct the new hall. They made small talk for a while, then Magnus handed him the quote. “Let me know when you are ready to start building.”

  “There is one more thing I must ask,” Halli said, clearing his throat as he stood up to shake Magnus’s hand. “I brought along a young man who needs work. His parents were from Hofsós. His name is Arni Thordarson. He lives with his Amma, Afi and brother in Winnipeg. They have relatives at Big Point.”

  “I knew his father, God bless him,” Magnus said.

  “Arni worked for Helgi all winter and stayed with us,” Halli said as he buttoned his coat. “A nice young lad.”

  Bergthora sighed as she cleared the table. “Another mouth to feed.”

  “Spring will be here soon and we will hire another girl,” Magnus said, waving good-bye to Halli. “Until then, Asta, my favorite, will help, já?”

  “Only until Sunday,” she reminded him.

  Thinking back on that moment and seeing the two of them standing there perplexes me. How is it that sometimes the best of intentions end with disastrous results?

  CHAPTER TEN

  Fear not death, for the hour of your doom is set and none may escape it.

  —Völsunga Saga

  “How far is The Narrows?” I asked on my last morning there as Bjorn and I scuffed through fresh snow.

  “About six miles north of here,” he said. “We lived there for a while. Father worked for Helgi and we lived on the island until he bought this place.”

  “Ghost Island?” I asked, turning back around to look past the house at the barren lake. “Where exactly is it?”

  “Good question,” Bjorn chuckled, shielding his eyes against the rising sun. “You can’t always see it, but it is there. About four miles out.”

  I squinted at the horizon. The harder I focused the blurrier it became until my eyes stung. “Then your father built the mill?”

  “Thirteen years ago,” he said, as we continued to the barn. “Sometimes I wish he hadn’t. Everyone thinks we are rich, that Father gives me everything, but I work as hard as everyone else.”

  I’d witnessed how the brothers were always first outside in the morning and the last ones in at night.

  “When the hired men become jealous they go work for Helgi. They find out wages are the same everywhere,” he said, pulling open the barn door. “They think I am lucky, but I believe a man makes his own luck.”

  “My Pabbi says fishing brings him luck,” I said, stomping the snow off my boots. “He is working for J.K. until he has enough money to buy his own nets.”

  The pups were six weeks old by then and accustomed to our routine. All except the runt were wrestling. Finna was up and she hurried outside to where Bjorn had left her fish.

  “J.K. is a good man,” he said, kneeling down. “Not everyone trusts him, though. Father says people are suspicious of the successful.”

  I tried to persuade the runt to come to me, but she cowered into the corner. She yelped so loud when I picked her up that I immediately let her go.

  “You should hear what some say about Helgi.” Bjorn grinned. “The ones who cannot get used to the idea that he has half-breed children with an Indian woman.”

  He said it so casually that I didn’t know what to think. Since I was young I waited to hear his opinion, but Bjorn said nothing more, allowing me to make up my own mind.

  The barn door opened and light came streaming in. The tall, beak-nosed fisherman looked over the stall door. “Something is wrong with Arni,” he said.

  An hour later Bjorn had harnessed the dog team. With the skill
of someone who’d done it a thousand times, he ran behind the sleigh until the dogs were up to speed, then jumped on, mushing them toward The Narrows.

  It was the day Bergthora planned to take me home so, watching Bjorn leave, I knew there would be no opportunity to say good-bye. I went inside to pack my clothes into the duffel, then sat it by the door.

  Magnus was sitting in his usual spot. He and Bergthora spoke in hushed tones. The door opened and in came the twins followed by all the hired men.

  “Asta, will you prepare a coffee lunch,” Bergthora said, pulling on her coat. “I will be outside.”

  I retrieved the cheese and meat from the icebox, sliced bread and spooned skyr from the crock.

  The chairs scraped heavily against the floor as the men all sat down at once.

  “What is this about, ehh?” Einar asked. “I hope you are finally going to pay us so we can leave.”

  Magnus took a piece of bread from the plate before passing it around.

  “Nei, not yet,” he said. “Today will be a day of rest.”

  “What a waste of time,” Einar said, leading with his chin. He hadn’t shaved in more than a week. “Won’t make any money, ehh, sitting in the house.”

  A few others agreed as they helped themselves to the food.

  “The agreement was you’d work until the end of March, já?” Magnus said, waiting for their nods. “Have I paid you every month?”

  The men agreed that he had.

  “Then why do you complain?”

  “You are making all the money,” Einar said, looking to the others for support, “I want to get out of here while the ice is still good.”

  Siggi and Arn eyeballed each other. I knew, because Bjorn had told me, that every year there was at least one who tried their father’s patience.

  “There is an issue that must be dealt with first,” Magnus said. “Once that is done, you are free to go.”

  Not even Einar had the nerve to ask. Looking back, I can see that I was the only one without an inkling of what had transpired in the bunkhouse the night before. We ate in awkward silence until finally the tall, beak-nosed fisherman found the courage to speak.

  “Does this have anything to do with Arni?” he asked.

  Magnus nodded. “Bjorn will be back soon. In the meantime, you are welcome to play cards. Anyone who wants to read can join me by the fire.” With that he stood up. “Start another pot of coffee,” he said to me, and I saw his worry for the first time. “Elskan, will you bring me a cup please.”

  As the hours passed I wondered why Bergthora had not returned. When the dogs started barking, I hurried to the window and saw Bjorn. I recognized the doctor by the surgical bag he carried. I thought something must be wrong with Runa, but instead of going to the cottage, they hurried to the bunkhouse. Bergthora met them at the door. It wasn’t long until the three of them tramped heavily toward the house, expressions grim.

  Magnus came into the kitchen. The doctor set his bag on a chair as he took off his coat. He was thin and tentative looking with a name we couldn’t pronounce. Magnus had mentioned him once before, saying that he’d received his training on the front lines during the Boer War—his specialty was gunshot wounds. But to look at him inspired no confidence at all.

  “What is it?” Magnus asked.

  “As we thought,” Bergthora said.

  Magnus turned to the doctor. “Explain it to me and I will translate.”

  The grave-faced doctor stood in the doorway. Each fisherman had a different way of steeling himself against what we were about to hear. One fellow laid his cards down and stared at the table. Another kept playing as if nothing at all was wrong. Einar was the most dramatic, throwing his cards down, vaulting up, sending his chair crashing to the floor.

  “I am no fool,” he said. “I know what this means.”

  Expecting to see a fist fight, all the men’s eyes rested on the doctor. We did not understand his words as he spoke only English.

  We looked at Magnus whose explanation was swift. “Barnaveiki. There are cases of it now at Big Point. Arni visited family there not long ago.”

  There were gasps, then the house became uncomfortably quiet. The coffee pot hummed as the water boiled on the stove. The men stared dumbly at Magnus, who, if you chose to see it that way, appeared to be blocking the door.

  “How can this be?” a man asked. Back then, foreigners like us believed that no disease, not even Diphtheria, could withstand the brutal Canadian winters. We also believed that because the weather hadn’t killed us yet, nothing else could.

  “I’m leaving,” Einar said.

  “No,” the doctor said nervously. “Siglunes is now under quarantine.”

  This sent a wave of discontent through the room.

  “For how long?” the beak-nosed fisherman asked.

  “At least a month,” the Doctor said as Magnus translated. “I won’t lift it until all signs of sickness are gone.”

  “A month,” Einar said clenching his fists. “You cannot keep me here for another month.”

  The men looked at him, then at Magnus, calculating who would win if it came down to a fight. If circumstances were jovial, they probably would have started placing bets.

  “Já, we can and we will,” Magnus said raising his voice.

  Einar argued that the longer they stayed, the more likely it would be that they’d catch the disease. Magnus explained everything he understood about incubation periods, that it was already too late, but Einar was not listening. No wonder his nickname was donkey.

  “I caught it when I was a boy,” the beak-nosed fisherman said to Einar. “I would not wish it on anyone. Not even you.”

  A few nervous chuckles. The doctor began speaking again.

  “Even those who have had it before might still carry the disease,” Magnus translated. “Nobody can leave.”

  The beak-nosed fisherman agreed. “I don’t want to take it home to my children.”

  A murmur rose up and Magnus raised his hands to quieten them.

  Watching it all again, I see that most of the men barely understood a word despite Magnus’s translation. Regardless of intelligence, there is only so much an uneducated man can absorb. All these men could do was trust. It became obvious as they resigned themselves who respected Magnus and who didn’t.

  Siggi brought in an armload of wood and stoked the fire while Arn retrieved his violin and began playing. When the men were settled, Bergthora raised a finger to her lips. It was time for us to follow the doctor outside. We waited as he nailed a yellow quarantine sign on the vestibule door, then the three of us went to the cottage where Runa waited.

  “How bad is it?” Runa asked, shuffling to the stove. She opened the door before adding two thick pieces of oak to the fire. All the windows were clamped tight so it was as hot as I imagined hell would be. It must have made sense to her to boil every bit of moisture out of the air.

  “The bunkhouse is now an infirmary. All the men have moved upstairs,” Bergthora said to her. “It is best you stay indoors for the next few weeks.”

  Runa’s eyes softened. “Of course.”

  The doctor opened his bag and took out a needle and a tiny glass bottle. He explained that the anti-toxin was new but had been used with some success. Whoever received the injection might still become sick. Because Runa and I were so young, our chances of contracting the illness were high—more than fifty percent—but less if we’d had no direct contact with Arni.

  Runa’s eyes settled on me. Her smile was wistful, like an older sister who’d been handed a bouquet of flowers.

  “What will it do to the baby?” she asked.

  The doctor said there was no way of knowing how the anti-toxin might affect her pregnancy.

  Runa looked at me. “How many times were you near him?”

  “A few meals, and once in the barn,�
� I said.

  “I have not seen him except through the window,” Runa said.

  Thinking back on it I was brave, clenching back the tears as the doctor stuck the thick needle into my arm.

  “Thor will not become sick, will he?” I cried, remembering how I’d handed him to Arni a few days before.

  “No, elskan,” Bergthora said. “Finna and her pups will be just fine.”

  It took three days for poor Arni Thordarson to die. I heard that his neck swelled up and turned black, slowly suffocating him to death. I watched through the window as Bjorn, Arn, and Magnus trudged to the bunkhouse then carried Arni out like a sack of flour. They laid him in a six-foot wooden box along the bush, where the snow was deep and the sun never shone. Bergthora came out a few minutes later carrying Arni’s bed sheets and a blanket. She put a match to the bundle after dropping it in the fire pit.

  I overheard them say later that the dilemma surrounding a spring death was that a warm spell could cause a body to start decomposing, before the ground was soft enough to dig a decent grave.

  “He should freeze solid by morning,” Bjorn said. “Then we will shovel snow on top to keep it that way until we can send him home.”

  Two men with sore throats went to the bunkhouse that afternoon. Bergthora stayed with them, slathering their necks with the same smelly concoction she’d used on Arni.

  When I started to feel sick, I didn’t dare tell anyone because I didn’t want to die in the bunkhouse. So I snuck off to my room, closed the door to block out the golden hue of the oil lamps and thick smell of cigarette smoke and lay in bed listening to the men talking in serious tones. One or two sometimes laughed. Occasionally I heard Bjorn’s voice, but mostly it was Einar and another man. Their voices grew louder the more they drank.

  As I started to doze, I overheard Einar say my name.

  “All because of her, ehh,” he said. The room grew quiet as his voice rose up. “We were fine until Huldra came here.”

  Most laughed off his suggestion, but I knew there would be some who, the next time they saw me, would cast a suspicious eye. Growing up, we’d all heard stories about the dreaded Huldra—a beautiful seductress who appeared suddenly out of the storm—so enticing that no man could resist her charms. Eventually, he who gave into her would see his life start to go wrong. No girl wanted to be labelled a huldra. The mere suggestion had a way of sticking.