I sat on the shore side, not flinching at all as a light mist splashed up on my arm and face. The air was fresh, except for the occasional whiff of Amma’s cigarette as unfortunately she was sitting upwind from me.
My stomach churned with excitement as the castle came into view. I strained to catch a glimpse of Bjorn, but all I could see were indistinguishable men working the mill, the shrill sound of the saw echoing through the trees, at least two decibels higher than the engine that rumbled below deck.
“You can let me off here,” Amma yelled over the noise. “I want to talk to Magnus about my house. It needs to be built next spring.”
Asi turned sharply toward the dock.
Pabbi was adamant another house was an expense we didn’t need, but Amma had her mind set. This was one of those times when they came to an impasse and neither would budge.
“I will find my own way home,” Amma said.
Asi laughed. “I’m sure you will.”
He blew the horn to announce Amma’s arrival and within minutes we were chugging through the water again. “Someday I will own that place,” he said. “I feel it in my bones.”
As The Narrows came into view we began craning our necks to finally see the place we’d heard so much about. The water ran fast and the ship moved with the current through the channel. On the far side were log houses, birch bark canoes pulled up on shore, and animal hides stretched on wooden frames drying in the sun. Brown-skinned children stopped playing to wave at Asi who pulled playfully on the horn as we passed. A whitewashed church stood high on a rocky ledge, reminding them that God was watching. I lost track counting the boats.
“That,” Asi said, pointing over the ship’s bow to a rocky island in the middle of the strait, “is Manitou-wapow. The Indians believe the great spirit Gitche Manitou can be heard speaking in the wind as it whistles through the trees. This is a sacred place for them.”
Our forebears had centuries of experience dealing with the English so we sympathized with the Indians and understood how difficult it must have been for them. The missionaries trod across Iceland as well, admonishing us for our pagan beliefs. So even though we now considered ourselves Christians, we understood how deeply rooted ancestral beliefs are; and how difficult they are to unearth.
Horses and cattle grazed right up to the water’s edge, where homes dotted the shoreline.
“There’s the new hall,” Stefan said, pointing to a long building at the edge of a huge, mown field. It was built near the store, a close walking distance from the dock.
“We need flour, sugar, lamp oil,” Signy recited as we tramped up the dock behind Pabbi. A little bell tinkled as he pulled open the door, then again as it closed behind us.
We’d only been a few times to the store in Lundi. Helgi’s shop was at least twice the size and far more interesting. The shelves were made from up-ended fish boxes, packed to the low-slung ceiling with everything a person might need—household staples on one side, animal pelts, guns, tools and fishing equipment on the other. Furniture and stoves were piled in the back. The scent of raw fur, tobacco and spices hung in the dusty air.
A young Indian woman eyed us shyly from behind the counter.
Pabbi’s voice lowered when he asked if Helgi was there.
“Yes,” she said, casting her eyes at the floor as she wove through the tightly packed shelves to the back door.
Leifur and Stefan went straight to the steel traps tethered by rope to the rafters. Signy and I were immediately drawn to the rack of factory-made dresses, coats, and shoes. Along the wall was a shelf filled with dressmaking materials, more than we could have ever imagined.
“It’s been so long since I wore a new frock,” Signy whispered, admiring a bolt of cornflower blue cloth. “Do you think Pabbi would buy this for us?”
“It is not thick enough for winter,” I said.
She went to the cutting-table, running her hand across a bolt of deep red velvet. “Did you keep any of the money Magnus gave you?” she whispered, eyes flicking briefly over my shoulder at Pabbi.
“Signy—” I rasped. The idea never once occurred to me. She rolled her eyes, but then I saw her mind begin to work.
The doorbell tinkled again as an older woman came in who looked like she’d stepped out of the women’s finery page of the Eaton’s catalogue. She bowed politely at Pabbi then strode across the floor to the men’s wear.
“That must be Helgi’s wife,” Signy whispered.
As I leaned in to correct her, Helgi appeared from the back of the store. He had the weathered face of a fisherman but wore moccasins and a tanned hide shirt like an Indian.
“Mrs. Sifton, how are you this fine day?” he asked.
“Mr. Einarsson,” she said. “I am well. And you?”
“I’ve had better days,” he said. “What can I help you with?”
It was hard to tell how long it had been since the gentlewoman had left Britain—that accent must have been hard to shake, though I expect she hadn’t even tried.
“Butter, soft cheese, eggs,” she said. “And mittens. By chance have you received any in yet?”
Helgi waved the clerk to the back of the store to bring the items from the icebox.
“No mittens yet,” he said. “Next month.”
Mrs. Sifton sighed. “Last year I came in too late so my husband had to make do with a pair from the year before. They are the finest mittens he has ever owned and I want to buy two pair exactly like it.”
“I know the ones,” he said.
“Indeed. Made by the Icelanders. Tightly knit, wool of course, with two thumbs.”
Helgi understood. “Not all are made exactly like that—”
“Well those are the ones I want. I expect you will put at least two pair aside for me.”
“I’ll make a note of it.”
“Because no others will do. Icelanders do make the finest mittens. I will pay extra, double even, if they are made from dark wool.”
Helgi took the package from the clerk then handed it to Mrs. Sifton. “I will send word as soon as they come in.”
“Thank you,” she said, marching to the door. As she reached for the knob, she called back over her shoulder, “Remember, two thumbs.” The doorbell tinkled behind her.
Helgi chuckled.
Signy and I looked at each other, thinking exactly the same thing. I gave her a shove, raising my eyebrows in Helgi’s direction.
“Mr. Einarsson,” Signy said. “We are Icelanders.”
It was an absurd thing to say since the only person who hadn’t realized that was Mrs. Sifton. “What I mean to say is that we know how to make mittens. With two thumbs.”
Helgi eyed Pabbi first for approval. “How many pair can you make before freeze up?” he asked.
“How many do you need?”
“Every pair,” he said. “But you heard her, no Doukhobor mittens.”
We had no idea what that meant. “We make them from wool,” I said.
“From our own sheep,” Signy added.
“Já,” Helgi said, amused. “Well, you bring them in. If they are good, I will pay top price for them.”
Signy was incredibly pleased. She immediately began calculating how many yards we’d need as she turned back to the bolt of cloth.
Pabbi took Mother’s letter from his pocket and handed it to Helgi.
“The others, with the money for my wife’s sister,” he whispered, “they were all sent?”
Helgi nodded as he placed a stamp on the corner then put it in the mail box. He seemed distracted by another matter.
Pabbi grimaced. “I thought by now we would have heard from her.”
The back door closed with a bang. I looked back to see two men standing there. One raised his hand, motioning for Helgi to come.
“I will be there shortly,” Helgi called out then tur
ned back to Pabbi. “A body washed up on shore this morning.”
“One of your men?”
“Not sure. They come and go. This one looks like he has been in the lake for a while.”
Signy was chattering about a roll of lace, saying how nice it would look around the collar and sleeves of our new dresses, but I barely heard her. She wanted me to count out eight buttons that matched.
“Asta,” she scolded. “What is wrong with you? You don’t care about anything anymore.”
“I’m listening,” I shot back.
“No, you’re not.”
I was, just not to her. I feigned interest in the buttons, but my gut was wrenched up into my throat.
“Probably some fool who had too much to drink,” Helgi said. “Or someone who tried to cross the lake late in the spring. It happens.”
Convinced it was Einar, my first thought was of Bjorn.
Helgi opened a book, flipped through, adding Mrs. Sifton’s purchases to the bottom of a long tally. “What can I help you with?” he asked.
“I am here to pick up the desks and supplies for the Siglunes school,” Pabbi said.
Helgi seemed pleased as he turned to the back of the book. “Good. It is a sizeable order taking up space in my storage room. Cash?”
Pabbi was quiet for a moment. He glanced at the boys, who were standing behind him, each holding four traps. He lowered his voice as he leaned forward.
“J.K. Kristjansson said that you offered to extend our school credit until we have our finances in order. He will be collecting taxes after harvest so we will have the balance paid before Christmas.”
Helgi sighed. “I agreed to extend credit to J.K., but given the circumstances—”
“He paid a deposit of half, correct?”
Helgi nodded.
“Then I do not understand,” Pabbi said, the words catching in his throat. “Classes will start in a week. We need desks and slates.”
Helgi reached under the counter for a piece of paper that he carefully placed in front of Pabbi. Both men studied it for a few moments, then their eyes met. Pabbi was in a state of disbelief. He read the document again then looked away.
“I paid for my stove in full. We purchase all our goods here. Why do you believe I intend to cheat you?”
Helgi’s eyes softened but his words were firm. “I cannot afford to get caught in the middle.”
Signy was still chattering about the buttons, completely unaware. Pabbi looked across the store at us, then at Leifur who had heard every word.
Helgi sighed. “I was told your community is divided about the school, with J.K. on one side, you on the other. Since he paid the deposit . . .”
“Not true,” Pabbi said, hesitating as his thoughts wound back to the meeting.
“That is what I was told. How will I get paid if half refuse to support the school?” Helgi asked.
Pabbi looked at the paper again. “You are asking me to sign a personal guarantee for an entire community?”
“If you are confident there is consensus, then what difference does it make?”
“Pabbi,” Leifur said. “J.K. would never go back on his word. He is not a two-face.”
Pabbi reached for the pen, holding it for a long time while staring at the page. Finally, he wrote his name across the bottom in an enraged, almost unrecognizable, scrawl. He slammed the pen on the counter then stormed out the door.
Helgi shook his head firmly as he placed the paper under the counter. Then he turned to the boys.
Leifur clearly felt in a bit of a jam so he nudged Stefan. “Asi says that you will finance our traps if we sell the furs to you,” he said.
Helgi’s face softened. “Yes, I will.”
“We would like to take four each.”
He handed them each a form. “Fill this out. Name on top. Each time you bring in a pelt I will deduct it from the cost of the traps. In no time they will be paid off.”
As Asi and the boys loaded the crates on the ship, Pabbi stood on the deck, opening each one. He counted every item, slowing down our departure, annoying the passengers destined for Westbourne. When Asi asked if we were ready to go, I nudged Signy.
“The flour—” she said.
“We will do without,” Pabbi growled. “We are never going into that store again. Period.”
And within minutes we were on our way.
All I could think about was Einar’s body washing up on shore, and a foreboding settled in my stomach as we passed Ghost Island. Signy wondered out loud how difficult it would be to knit in the evening once we ran out of lamp oil.
“Amma isn’t going to like this one bit,” Signy said with a bit of a grin.
J.K. and Finn stood waiting for us on the dock. The moment I saw the look on J.K.’s face, I knew Leifur was right. Pabbi didn’t say much until everything was loaded in the back of the wagons, taken to our farm, and safely stored in the renovated shanty which now served as our barn.
“I said no such thing,” J.K. said as they stood talking at the corral gate. “You know I completely support the school.”
Signy told Mother about the agreement we’d made with Helgi to knit mittens. She suggested we start spinning that night. I told her about Mrs. Sifton.
“What sort of woman does not have a cow and chickens?” she asked, but we already knew the answer. Wealthy ones. Her mind turned the same way Signy’s did when presented with a money-making idea so she barely heard our calculation on the cost to make the dresses. Signy was a whiz when motivated and figured it down to the last penny.
“Do you think Mrs. Sifton buys bread?” Mother wondered out loud, placing a pot of venison stew on the table. Leifur had dragged home a young buck (Finn shot it but Leifur said he saw it first) the week before. He promised to shoot another one before freeze up.
None of us dared say a word about what happened in the store because it was Pabbi’s story to tell.
“I will just have to borrow flour from Gudrun,” Mother sighed as we sat down to supper. “Signy was too busy looking at fabric to remember what we needed.”
Pabbi’s eyes softened for the first time that afternoon. He looked at Signy. “It’s not her fault,” he said. “It is mine. She reminded me but I was so angry . . .”
It didn’t take long to theorize who was trying to sabotage Pabbi’s efforts before he’d even started, but it took more than an hour to discuss.
“J.K. is going to have a talk with Bensi tonight,” Pabbi said. “I am very curious to hear what he will say for himself.”
Amma returned the next day. That evening we sat in the front room, Mother spinning the wool we’d collected, cleaned, and carded that spring, while Freyja wrapped the wool around her hand into a loose ball.
My enthusiasm for knitting was never so great. Signy had seized all the dark wool so I was left with light brown, but that didn’t matter. I barely heard the story Amma read as my mind filled with thoughts of riches. I so looked forward to seeing the shine on Helgi’s face when he saw the mittens. I hadn’t forgotten how satisfying it felt to have money I’d earned in my hand. I already had one mitt with two thumbs half done when Pabbi placed the book he was studying on his lap.
“Let me see,” he said.
I came to stand beside him. He held up his hand, spreading his fingers so I could check the mitt for size.
“You’ve done a fine job, Asta,” he said.
“Why is Setta barking?” Freyja asked, still rolling the ball in her hands. We barely heard her, each one of us lost in our own thoughts. Then she said it again, this time loudly.
“Stop interrupting Amma’s story,” Signy growled.
“But Setta never barks,” she said.
Pabbi sent me to check. I stuck my head out the lean-to door into the darkness. Setta’s barking came from the direction of the barn and when my eyes settled
on it I saw a warm glow through the front window. At first I thought Leifur had left a lamp burning.
“Fire!” I screamed when the realization struck.
Everyone came running.
“Get the pails,” Mother yelled.
Pabbi and Leifur bolted across the road, vaulting over the corral. Pabbi swung the door wide and ran through the flames. Leifur hesitated, but only for a moment, then he too leapt through the fire. Grabbing a horse blanket, he began furiously pounding while Pabbi, like a man possessed, began forking burning straw out the door.
Amma was the last one to the barn. She paused at the water pump, filled a pail, and, straining under the weight, carried it to the door then heaved it onto the flames.
Mother was screaming for Freyja to stay back as she hoisted her skirt to stomp on the burning hay as it came flying out the door.
Amma and I went back for another fill, but this time she threw the water directly at Pabbi, soaking his smoldering shirt sleeves and pant legs. I handed her my pail then she soaked Leifur. It seemed that we did this for a long time, but in fact the fire was out in less than five minutes.
Our eyes settled on the scorched lamp that lay half buried in the smoking hay.
“How could you be so careless,” Pabbi hollered, cuffing Leifur across the back of the head.
“It wasn’t me, Pabbi,” Leifur said. “I didn’t even bring the lamp.”
“Well how did the fire start then? Magic?” Pabbi’s eyes were wild as he threw his fork to the ground.
“I don’t know,” Leifur said as he bit back tears.
Pabbi never struck any of us so we were shocked. It would take days before Leifur would speak to him again.
Mother looked at the rest of us. One by one, we all shook our heads. Amma wiped her hands on her skirt then bent to examine the blackened lamp. “Not even ours,” she said.
Enraged, Pabbi stomped forward and kicked it across the corral. “That son-of-the-devil,” he swore. “He did this.”
Be Still the Water Page 16