Be Still the Water

by Karen Emilson

  For weeks afterwards, every time I closed my eyes, all I could see was the image of Siggi crying over his wife’s body, their son lying at the foot of the bed like an afterthought.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Long shall a man be tried.

  —Grettir’s Saga

  The old woman beside me has died.

  I slept through her passing and so did her daughter. I know this because there were no wails or anguished cries, only muffled sobbing as the nurse led the daughter from the room, whispering reassurances that she’d died peacefully.

  I expect her soul has joined the others that crowd the room, kind spirits who gather to let the dying know they are welcome on the other side. Or perhaps I am imagining it all.

  Thora looks apologetic when the nurse returns to remove the body as if this death might cause me to lose heart. She does not comment, though, as she turns to unlatch the window for, what is it now, the eighth morning in a row? Her dedication is impressive. Some believe it’s hard to sleep on a not-so-comfortable chair, drinking stale coffee, eating dinner from a paper bag. But old timers like us see no hardship in short-term inconvenience.

  “Who was she again?” I ask once the nurse has wheeled the body out the door.

  “Mary Swan,” Thora says.

  “Of course.” I nod. “Do you remember?”

  The word croaks out and I cough, trying to loosen the tangle in my throat. I feel better than I sound. Using my elbows, I push myself up.

  Thora tilts her head. “Remember what?”

  “Our years at Winnipeg General.”

  She hesitated then her mouth quirked upwards. “Those were good times.”

  “The hardest three years of our lives.”

  “Tell me what you remember most,” she says, encouraging me to roll onto my side. She begins massaging my shoulders and back. Her hands are petite but effective, though I wish she’d thought to trim her fingernails first.

  I see in my mind’s eye a room full of young, tittering apprentices wearing dark blue starched uniforms, white aprons, and caps. Most were boy-crazy, others smoked whenever they found the chance, but we all shared the same goal—to become a nurse.

  It sure wasn’t easy. Some girls cried over nothing, and the occasional one defied the acerbic head nurse who pretended she hated us all. We lived with the pressure of on-the-job training, twelve-hour shifts. Rigid rules. Suspensions.

  “They thought we were sisters,” I say. “Except Dr. Bjornsson. He played along so we could trick the others into thinking we were.”

  “An Icelander—”

  “So he was never fooled,” I say. “What do you remember?”

  Thora pauses and her hands relax for a moment. She dabs a rag with rubbing alcohol, begins massaging it into my skin.

  “How exciting it was to be in Winnipeg,” she says. “Riding on the streetcars. Going to the cafés. Hospitals were impressive.”

  “They certainly were.”

  “Mostly, though, I remember the maternity ward,” she says, her voice breaking a bit. “Especially the unmarried girls who were forced to give up their babies.”

  “Dr. Bjornsson was kind,” I say. “He arranged Icelandic homes for many, some right here in Lundi. And he did help us try to find Freyja.”

  Thora tenses and I know I’ve made a mistake, hurt her again. Our few disagreements were about Freyja. There is nothing to gain by saying more. Especially now.

  “I want to go outside today,” I say, rolling onto my back after she refastens the nightgown.

  “We will,” she says. “The fresh air will do you good.”

  * * *

  “Good morning, elskan,” Magnus said over his spectacles. He was sitting at the table with his journal open. “Good news. The doctor sent word that the quarantine is over. Bjorn can take you home today if you wish.”

  I’d been so preoccupied with my own awakening over how cruel men could be, and the deep need to hide my shame, I’d been sleeping in later and later. I had to think hard how many days had passed since Runa died.

  “Yes, I would like that very much,” I said. “Where is Bergthora?”

  “She took Siggi something to eat.”

  “He hasn’t come out yet?”

  Magnus shook his head. When the door opened Bjorn and Arn stepped inside carrying the milk. Magnus closed his journal then unfolded a letter that sat with a stack of mail on the table.

  “Arni’s mother asked that he be buried at Big Point,” he said. “He and the Jonsson brothers can be sent home on the Lady Ellen with the casket order. Their community was hit even harder than ours.”

  “And Halli?” Bjorn asked.

  “He needs only one casket,” Magnus said. “We will ask Stefan to take it on his way home.”

  Thor jumped against my legs as he followed me to my room, wanting me to play with him. All I could think about as I packed my duffel was the look of shock on Bjorn’s face when he saw me at the bedroom window. We’d said very little to each other since, and had not mentioned Einar. Tension hung between us, even the night before when we’d played chess.

  “Soon I won’t be able to beat you,” he’d said quietly when I took his rook early in the game. Clearly he was preoccupied, while I’d discovered that concentrating hard helped push all the ugly memories away.

  “How long until all the ice is gone?” Bjorn had asked Magnus as he set up the board for one last game.

  “Not long, why do you ask?”

  He shrugged. “I haven’t been to the island in a while.”

  My insides turned at the mention of it and I felt my cheeks warm.

  “Já, well, you know how the lake is this time of year,” Magnus said. I’d looked over to where he sat, legs up, thick socks facing the fire. “She is like a lover, já, one whose predictability should never be taken for granted.”

  I placed my bag by the door then finished washing the dishes.

  “Still working,” Magnus said as he came from the front room holding a cloth envelope.

  “I feel terrible leaving Bergthora with so much to do,” I said, folding the dishrag on the counter.

  “You have been a tremendous help, now we must discuss how much I owe you,” he said, opening the envelope.

  His words caught me by surprise. “Nothing sir. I came here to repay Father’s debt.”

  Magnus lowered his chin so his eyes were level with mine. “Já, and that you did, but stayed on much longer, so now it is I who am indebted to you.”

  A girl like myself wasn’t worth much, so the thought of taking money from him seemed wrong. “Father needs a dog to keep the coyotes and wolves away from the sheep.” I could already see myself sitting in the boat with Thor on my lap, his little puppy face staring with curiosity in the direction of Eikheimar. My family would come running to the shore, throw their arms around me, and be thrilled to finally have me home.

  Magnus’s eyes twinkled and he nearly chuckled, but did not give me Thor. He’d grown fond of having him in the house, a practice that was unheard of in those days. He went to the barn and returned with the runt, who was still smaller than her littermates but had grown considerably. “This one reminds me of you,” he said, handing her to me.

  I bit back my disappointment. There was a lesson for me in this, one I wouldn’t fully understand until many years later.

  “I don’t think she will be much good against the coyotes,” I whispered, blinking away tears. “She is a coward.”

  “A dog is like its master,” he said. “How she turns out will be up to you.” Then he grew serious as his thoughts shifted. “Stay away from Bensi,” he said. “I do not trust that man. Remind your father that the only way to win against a bully is to stand up to him . . . and tell Pjetur to not let his secret destroy his life.”

  Following Magnus, Bergthora, and Bjorn to the dock, I tried coax
ing the pup to come, but she ran back toward the barn. I chased her down and she whined when I picked her up.

  “Good-bye, Asta,” Magnus said, pressing a wad of folded bills into my hand. Then he cautioned Bjorn to watch for rocks hidden along shore as he climbed into the small rowboat.

  Bergthora leaned in to hug me. “He is too old for you now, but time will change that,” she whispered. “The day will arrive and you will know what to do.”

  “Say hello to your Amma for us.” Magnus winked as he handed Bjorn my duffel, and I stepped into the boat and sat at the stern as Bjorn, facing me, took the oars. “Tell her to come for a visit some time.”

  I turned away from them so that Magnus and Bergthora wouldn’t see my tears. When the boat was far enough away from the dock, I waved. The sight of them standing there watching me leave is etched in my memory.

  The lake was calm along shore but still frozen less than a mile out. We both rowed in silence, unable to stop ourselves from sneaking quick peeks at Ghost Island. Bjorn didn’t relax until we rounded a bend and could no longer see it. We could not meet each other’s gaze, and then I covered my ears at the honk of wild geese gliding low overhead, much to his amusement.

  “The snow is almost gone,” he said hopefully, nudging the boat toward the shoreline.

  It was true. The warm April sun had melted most of it. Rivulets lacerated the fields as the run-off muscled its way to the Siglunes creek, a meandering low spot that separated their land from Bensi’s. I thought of Magnus’s words as we rowed past the log house partially hidden in the trees.

  “What will you tell your family?” Bjorn asked, voice low and serious.

  Einar was never far from my thoughts so I knew without hesitation he was referring to that night.

  “Best if you don’t say anything to anyone,” he said, “because they will ask questions.”

  I could see the dock at Vinðheimar in the distance.

  “And you can forget about Einar,” he said. “Siggi and me, we put the fear of God in him. He took off and won’t be coming back.”

  It was then I realized he didn’t know how much I’d seen.

  “Will you promise?”

  “Of course,” I whispered.

  Expecting my family to be waiting at the dock was unrealistic since nobody had known I was coming home that day. But seeing us approach the dock, J.K.’s family came running out to greet us, and all were thrilled to see me except for their youngest who, believing I was a ghost, hid behind Gudrun’s skirt.

  Word of the casualties at Siglunes had travelled here but somehow, in the telling of it, the young woman who’d died in the cottage was me. Gudrun persuaded her daughter to touch my arm; she reassured me that my family knew the truth.

  “Your mama cried for days when she thought you were gone,” Gudrun said, hugging me tight. “I am so glad you survived, Asta. You are such a delightful girl.”

  No one had ever called me delightful before.

  “Would you like to come in?” she asked.

  Bjorn said he needed to get back to the mill.

  J.K. offered to take me home by horse but I said I would rather walk so I set out with my duffel over my arm and the pup at foot. And I see now that Thora accompanied me on that walk home, asking many questions that I answered in a rather dull fashion.

  The pup began whimpering and refused to go any farther when we reached the bush so I was forced to carry her the rest of the way. She’d thrown up in the bottom of the boat so her breath smelled terrible.

  Everyone was shocked when I came through the door.

  “My Asta is home,” Freyja yelled as she ran to greet me, nearly knocking me down. Pabbi lifted me up and hugged me hard, but I was unable to hug him back because I was still holding the large pup.

  “I brought a dog to guard the sheep but I don’t think she will be much good,” I said.

  Pabbi’s brows raised and he laughed, eyes moist with tears. He handed the dog to Freyja who was jumping up and down, clapping her hands.

  “Asta brought us a dog,” she cheered.

  Next to pull me into a warm embrace was Amma, who sang a short prayer of thanks for my safe return. Baby Solrun, who’d been asleep in a fish box on the floor, began to cry.

  “Asta,” Mother said as I hugged her. “You look so grown up.”

  Digging into my bag I pulled out the money Magnus had given me. Mother smiled, motioning for me to give it to Pabbi. The look on his face filled me with pride.

  “Asta, my girl,” he said. “I always knew you were an industrious one.”

  Within minutes it was as if I’d never left.

  Freyja climbed onto my lap. She wrapped her skinny arms tightly around my neck. Amongst the noise and clatter, Leifur and Signy began arguing as we finished eating. Pabbi was curious to know how Magnus’s fishing crew had made out that year and asked many questions that I tried my best to answer.

  I must have mentioned Bjorn’s name too many times because Signy began grilling me with questions. When I refused to answer, she started teasing.

  “Asta has a sweetheart,” she sang.

  “Bjorn is too old for me,” I said.

  Signy raised her eyebrows. “Well, not too old for me.”

  The look on my face told her everything she needed to know.

  “Ah-ha!” she said.

  “Magnus told me to say hello to you, Amma,” I said, changing the subject, “and that you should visit soon.”

  “Did he?” Amma cooed. “Awfully nice of him.”

  Mother slanted her eyes in Amma’s direction. “Not your next victim, I hope.”

  “Are you going to wrestle him?” Freyja asked.

  “I just might,” Amma said, humming to herself.

  “Freda,” Mother scolded under her breath.

  Freyja leaned in to whisper: “J.K. lied. He told us you were dead.”

  I shook my head. “He did not mean to, he believed it was true.”

  “Promise you will never go away again,” she said.

  “I promise.”

  Through it all, Leifur stared. I could not look at him for more than a few seconds without turning away. My heart lurched at the thought that he might know my secret, that I was as different on the outside as I felt inside.

  “What did the dead men look like?” he asked.

  “Hush,” Mother said. “Asta will tell us when she is ready.”

  But I never was. I pushed it all away, pretending Arni’s neck hadn’t swollen up and that Runa didn’t die. But most of all, I locked away memories of Einar. I concluded that God does have a way of answering our prayers, but not always as we expect. Arni’s suffering was short. So was Runa’s.

  Mine would last a lifetime.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Fear is the mother of defeat.

  —King Ólaf Tryggvason’s Saga

  Life for me at Eikheimar would never be the same, even though the daily routine returned to normal—so quickly, in fact, that I felt rather insignificant. A close bond had developed between Signy and Leifur that no longer included me. I sensed their hesitation. It was almost as if they regretted mourning me and didn’t want to be tricked into it again.

  Sleep did not come easily. I was plagued by nightmares and dreaded the nights the moon cast our bedroom in a blue shadow. Many times I did not fall asleep until the early morning hours, making it difficult to rise in time for school. Sometimes I’d jolt awake to Mother’s alarm.

  “Asta, it is just a dream,” she’d say, hands gripping my shoulders.

  On the nights sleep eluded me, I’d listen to the family undertones. Signy softly falling asleep on her back and barely moving. Freyja’s constant mumbling. Leifur thrashing so violently that he’d wake himself up. Footsteps downstairs and the rub of the front door as Amma visited the outhouse.

  A week later
the ground thawed enough that a funeral date was set and the caskets were dug out of the shoveled pile of snow and ice. We gathered on a foggy, damp morning at the mill, in a small clearing not too far from the cottage, where Magnus performed Runa’s service. I stifled back tears, hiding my face in a handkerchief the whole time. Everything Magnus said made me think of Einar. When he was done, I was convinced that God couldn’t let what happened go unpunished.

  “I will do it myself,” Siggi said, jaw set as he picked up the spade. Bjorn protested but Siggi chased him away with angry eyes.

  As we walked slowly to the dock, the only noise that echoed through the trees was the hollow thud of dirt on the casket top. It’s a sound you never forget, even after hearing it only once.

  We boarded the Lady Ellen again for the short trip to Halli’s farm, which sat close to the lake on land that was low and wet. I was surprised by the number of boats pulled up to shore and how many people milled around, waiting for the funeral to begin.

  We filed up from the beach in a straight line. I barely recognized Halli, who stood at the edge of it all, under a thick oak whose leaves hadn’t yet started to bud. In later years, that tree would be a lasting reminder of that spring’s devastating toll and the heartbreak that our community never forgot. The image of that single casket sitting on the ground settled forever in my soul.

  When the door of their little log shanty opened, Halli’s wife appeared with their oldest daughter, so close they appeared fused at the hip. They came to stand by Halli, whose most notable trait, exuberant cheer, had completely dissolved.

  As we gathered around the grave Magnus began the service, reading four names from the paper he held. All but one of their children had died. Unable to separate them in death, Halli had placed their little bodies together in the casket.

  Magnus’s words were mercifully short. When he finished, Halli’s wife stepped forward like a woman in a trance, her tears long dried up. Somehow she found the strength to kneel down to pray alongside the casket. It was Bergthora who helped her to her feet.