Be Still the Water

by Karen Emilson

  It was my job to add the loops then tie the floats and sinkers on.

  “This would be impossible with only one hand,” I said.

  “I wouldn’t want to live if I couldn’t fish,” Leifur said. He was hoping for an early freeze up because fishing was always better when the lake froze while the fish were still moving. “Have you told J.K. that we have our own nets?” He spread out the net for him and Pabbi to work on.

  Pabbi frowned, saying he planned to that evening.

  Right at coffee time, we looked up to see J.K.’s team coming up the bush trail. He pushed the wagon brake and everyone piled out. Gudrun took the children to the house, but Finn and Thora came to see us.

  “We finished seaming yesterday,” Finn said. “Fishing is going to be great this year.”

  I felt so embarrassed for him. That morning I’d overheard Pabbi and Leifur saying what a terrible fisherman Finn was, that his hands were always cold so the fish often wiggled from his grasp back into the hole. He ripped the nets with the hook and they tangled when it was his turn to pull them back under the ice—the complete opposite to Leifur who took to it so naturally.

  “So I see you bought yourself some nets,” J.K. said, crossing his arms.

  Pabbi’s cheeks flushed. “I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

  J.K. sighed. “Wish I had known yesterday. I turned down a man from Dog Creek looking for work. I was counting on you and Leifur to get my nets lifted.”

  Pabbi finished tying on a lead and let the bottom of the net drop to the ground. He told us to take Finn and Thora inside.

  Feeling the tension between them, we obeyed immediately.

  Mother and Gudrun were making plans to butcher the pigs and fattened sheep. That is why they’d come, for coffee and to see if it was a job our families should do together.

  “The children need to learn how to butcher,” Gudrun said. “Otherwise who will make the svið when we are too old?”

  Svið, or boiled sheep’s head, was a delicacy that we couldn’t live without.

  “Well, I’m not counting on Freyja in that regard,” Mother said.

  “Hmmmm?” Freyja asked, looking up from the table where she was sketching in her tablet.

  “Nothing, dear,” Mother said.

  I went over to the window to watch Pabbi and J.K.’s conversation. Their heads bobbed seriously, each listening to what the other said. Mother called me away, reminding me that I hadn’t yet swept the floor.

  When the men came in, both were smiling. Outside in the October wind they’d reached an agreement that would see them continue fishing together. They would share the expense of the hired men; J.K. would arrange to sell and transport all Pabbi’s catch to the buyer at Big Point while Pabbi would supply a sleigh, the team and his own fish boxes.

  “To be honest,” J.K. said, eyes twinkling, “I would respect you less if you didn’t want your own outfit.”

  Then he took his coffee and told us about the time they were on the lake in late February. A six-week deep freeze had ended and there was a sudden warm spell that drove temperatures well above freezing. They were lifting south of Ghost Island when suddenly a thunderous roar caused the ice to shake violently. They fell to their knees, helpless, as the lake erupted like an earthquake. Monstrous slabs of five-foot-thick ice heaved up less than 200 yards away, creating a ten-foot-high wall that extended as far as they could see.

  “It was unbelievable,” J.K. said.

  Finn listened thoughtfully. “A pressure ridge,” he said. “Caused by fissures that fill with water then freeze causing the surface of the ice to expand. When ice expands, it presses against the lake banks and, with nowhere to go, it heaves upward.”

  J.K. was as surprised as the rest of us.

  “It is the conclusion I drew after reading one of the scientific books Magnus donated to the library,” Finn said. At seventeen years old he had already completed grade twelve by correspondence.

  “And you want to spend your life fishing?” Gudrun asked.

  “Miss Erlendsson said Finn should be a doctor,” I blurted out. It was every Icelandic family’s dream to produce at least one.

  “A doctor?” J.K. said. “Now that is an idea I can get behind.”

  Until that point, all Finn had wanted was to be like Leifur—to spend his life working alongside his father. But I think he saw for the first time the gleam in his father’s eye, and a way to make him proud.

  “The thought has crossed my mind,” Finn said, looking across the table at me. “Practicing medicine is an honorable way to make a living.”

  Our eyes locked and my cheeks grew warm.

  “Stefan should come with me to the University,” he said. “I don’t think he will be much good to his father now.”

  “That is a splendid idea,” Gudrun said. “Law school would be a fine place for him. He is smart as a whip and certainly charming enough.”

  Freyja put down her pencil to listen, excited.

  “I am not sure his father would encourage it,” J.K. said, “or Asi for that matter. All Stefan talks about is fishing again and playing ball.”

  Everyone raised their eyebrows at that.

  “If he does not give up, that arm will become strong,” J.K. said, focussing on Finn. “It is amazing what a young man can do when he puts his mind to it.”

  Within a week the lake froze over. Leifur was so excited that he barely slept. The night before they started setting, he anxiously asked if I would help Signy milk the cows, so he and Pabbi could get an early start.

  Mother met them at the door with dinner wrapped in a flour sack while the rest of us watched from the window as they set out at first light, pulling the pile of nets behind them on a homemade sleigh. The ice wouldn’t be strong enough to hold the horses for at least a month.

  That fall, the catch was incredibly good. Steady, cold temperatures meant the ice didn’t break up as it often did, so no nets were lost. J.K. said it was the best freeze-up he’d ever seen.

  They fished every day except when the wind blew with such force they could barely stay upright. Pabbi and Leifur came home dog tired, nearly overcome with gnawing hunger, but satiated at the same time.

  Men who remembered the patterns and could read the ice were the most successful fishermen. Leifur had caught on quickly. He’d learned from J.K. that perch school out by the islands where the lake bottom is soft, while pickerel preferred the hard bottom closer to shore. Tullibees would suddenly appear in the nets by the thousands at the coldest time of year.

  Though Pabbi didn’t say it, and none of us ever spoke of it, we all knew he hoped that Signy would change her mind. Olafur had transplanted himself into our family like a long lost cousin. We had an unspoken family commandment, Thou Shalt Not Say Things Out Loud. We didn’t even realize the power of this rule until Olafur came along and started breaking it. His family commandment must have been Thou Shalt Say Everything.

  Having Olafur eat at the table with us, talking happily while we all listened; seeing Pabbi’s strained expression, Mother’s patience and Signy’s satisfied grin, I have to say I realized that Signy was far more resourceful than I had given her credit for.

  She reassured Olafur that our parents didn’t mind one bit that he ate with us, so every evening, after his chores were done, he’d jump on his horse and ride in at supper time. He stayed until well past dark, then rode home. Olafur believed everything he heard; he brought a new story with him every night.

  “Good news,” he said to Signy one evening in late November. “We are going to move our nets to the bay here.”

  The next morning the brothers arrived right after breakfast. They set their nets south of J.K. and Pabbi’s and, since it made no sense to Olafur to go all the way home, he helped with our evening chores then came in on Pabbi’s heels, hanging his jacket on the hook next to his. When a storm blew in, Amma
suggested that Olafur should sleep on the sofa. He’d talk all through breakfast the next morning.

  “Is he ever going to go home?” Pabbi asked Mother when they were alone.

  Mother shrugged, hiding the hint of a smile. “He is going to be our son-in-law.”

  “Will I get my house back then?” he asked.

  “That all depends,” Mother said. “The little house is ready for them now. If one of Olafur’s brothers decide to move into it, he and Signy may have nowhere else to live but here.”

  One evening in late February, Freyja and I made a cake to celebrate Solrun’s second birthday. Freyja watched anxiously at the window for the men to come in off the lake. “You should see what I did,” she said, meeting Leifur at the door. “I made a cake for Solrun.”

  We immediately knew by Leifur’s expression that something was wrong. His jaw was tight and his muscles were tense as he tore off his mitts and hat, throwing them on the floor by the stove.

  Mother gave him a questioning look. He brushed her off as he sat down at the table.

  Amma came from the front room, followed by Signy carrying our baby brother, Lars, who had been born in November.

  The door opened again. Pabbi and Olafur came inside. All Pabbi could do was shake his head.

  “What is wrong?” Mother asked.

  “That Bensi needs a good talking-to,” Olafur said, gritting his teeth.

  “What did he do now?” Signy asked, but before he could answer, Leifur startled us all by slamming his fist on the table.

  “He shot Thor,” he said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Sorrow is lightened by being brought out openly.

  —The Saga of Sigurd the Crusader

  and his Brothers Eystein and Olaf

  “Asta, you look tired,” Thora says. “Would you like to go back now?”

  I am, I would, but there is such a finality to leaving. I will put it off for as long as possible. Besides the game is only half over.

  “There you are,” a voice calls out. “The nurse said you’d be here.”

  We turn to see our brother Lars coming toward us. Lars is carrying a sealer jar in each hand. He holds them up, beaming at me.

  My dying request was to taste water from the farm once again. At least two extra days. That’s how long I estimate the water will keep me alive. I am not sure if they believe me or not.

  Solrun hugs Lars as if she hasn’t seen him in years. She is like that, always hugging people.

  “How was the flight?” she asks.

  “Not bad,” he says, glancing at me, but speaking to her. “How is she?”

  “Better today.”

  “You went on a trip?” I ask.

  “To B.C.,” he says, leaning in to give me a hug. “We have a house there now.”

  “Who’s taking care of the farm?”

  “Don’t worry, everything is fine.”

  Thora and Solrun slide over to let Lars sit beside me. “Enjoying the game?” he asks.

  Lars is so full of life. Shorter and heavier than Leifur and twice as charming. Everyone always loved Lars.

  He claps as the pitcher winds his arm the same way Bjorn used to. This boy is taller but his hair is the same and he pitches as well as my Bjorn. Southpaw. He fires it across the plate.

  I try my best to follow the conversation going on around me. They talk about the weather. The crops. And of course the roads.

  Everyone cheers as the batter strikes out.

  “I hear the number of trucks travelling north has doubled,” Lars says. “The highway is suffering because of it.”

  I know where this is going. “Please, let’s not talk about the government.”

  They all laugh.

  “Tell me how your children are doing,” I say, not taking my eyes off the game. “Start from oldest to youngest.”

  He begins rattling off where his children live, their occupations, which granddaughter is expecting. It is a lot for an old woman to take in.

  I try clapping again.

  A klatch of people come from the hall toward us. Solrun and Thora are pleased. I should recognize the young woman wearing a blue party dress and jeweled crown. A sash runs over her shoulder proclaiming, ‘Miss Interlake.’ She is elated to see me. I pretend to understand what this is about.

  “Elskan,” I say, struggling to remember her. “How are you?”

  It has been like this for a few years now. My memory of the past is remarkably clear but yesterday sits in my brain like a fog. One thing I have learned is that I must not embarrass the young people with my forgetfulness. It is the vacant stare and the complaining that causes them to stop visiting.

  So I pretend. If I wait, Solrun will give me clues.

  “How are you Nurse Gudmundsson?” the girl asks. It is always awkward hugging someone in a wheelchair but she is better at it than most.

  “Dying,” I say, hearing that my voice sounds weak. “But I am not complaining. I will wait until the game is over.”

  She looks amused. “Glad to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”

  “Is it heavy?” I ask, pointing up at her crown.

  “No, but it feels weird.”

  She looks like a princess. Freyja would have loved a crown like that.

  The coach pulls the pitcher, saving his arm for the next game. An older, heavyset young man approaches the mound for the last few innings. His knuckle ball fools them every time.

  “Have I told you about the day my sister Freyja disappeared?” I ask.

  I see in her expression that I have, many times. Young people also lose patience during the retelling of the same story.

  “I knew your Amma and Afi,” I say quickly. The perfect segue. Old people say this sort of thing all the time.

  “Everyone knew J.J.,” Solrun adds.

  Now I remember her family. “A good man. And your Amma, a beautiful woman. I remember the day they moved to Siglunes.”

  “Elaine does volunteer work at the hospital,” Solrun says to Thora. “Another Siglunes girl who plans to be a nurse.”

  “We play chess,” I say. A safe assumption.

  “She wins every time,” Elaine adds.

  “Wish now I’d paid attention when she tried to teach me.” Lars laughs. “She beats everyone.”

  I think back. “That’s not entirely true,” I say. “There was one person I could never defeat.”

  * * *

  Pabbi refused to let us see Thor’s body. After breakfast Leifur buried it under a pile of rocks so the coyotes couldn’t tear it apart.

  They’d all heard the shot, but it wasn’t until they passed Gull Reef that they’d seen the black mass on the ice near shore.

  “Still alive?” I’d asked, choking out the words. The thought chilled me as if someone had opened the door letting in a cold wind.

  Freyja was eleven years old but still innocent as ever. “Does Setta know?” she asked.

  “I am sure she does,” I said.

  “Finn ran home to get the gun,” Pabbi said quietly. “Someday Bensi will get his just desserts.”

  I was in a sour mood as Thora, Freyja and I trudged through the snow into the school yard. I kept imagining Pabbi taking the gun from Finn, placing it on Thor’s forehead, closing his eyes before pulling the trigger.

  Wouldn’t you know it, the first thing we saw was Bensi’s son, Pall, teasing a younger boy. He held the boy’s hat in the air, taunting him.

  As we walked by, I grabbed the hat to give back to the little boy.

  Pall sneered at me. He was handsome to look at but his constant scowl and churlish attitude made him ugly. “So where is your dog?” he teased.

  “I’m not sure,” I said.

  When he looked at Freyja she started to cry then ran over to where Petra stood sadly with her arm
s wrapped around herself.

  I told the girls to go inside but neither moved.

  “Boo hoo,” Pall said, rubbing his eye with a fist. “I heard J.K. shot her.”

  Thora’s eyes widened. She looked at me, then back at Pall.

  “You are a liar,” she said.

  “Am not.”

  “Are so.”

  “Prove it.”

  Thora crossed her arms in front of her and I heard the anger in her voice. “Father was on the lake. He heard the shot. So did Olafur. My father would never do such a thing. He is not cruel like your papa.”

  Pall was two years younger than us, but almost as big. He slammed his palms onto Thora’s chest, knocking her backward into the snow.

  Blind with anger, I hit him. It was a full body tackle that caught him by surprise. He slipped, one foot crossed over the other and went down hard. His neck snapped back and his head hit the ground. He grunted when I landed on top of him. Our classmates began chanting, “Fight! Fight!” He grabbed my hair, triggering a memory, and a bold fury I’d never felt before.

  It was Petra who ran to the school to get the teacher and Steina pulled us apart. “Asta, what in God’s name are you doing?”

  It was most shocking to see Pall stagger to his feet. I’d felt nothing while hitting him, but now the heel of my hand burned, and my arm throbbed.

  “He hit Thora first.”

  “What business is that of yours?”

  “His father shot Thor.”

  Steina was taken by surprise. I imagined her at the castle patting Thor, stepping over him as he lay on the kitchen floor, feeding him bits of fat under the table.

  “Bjorn’s dog, not ours,” I said.

  The color drained from Pall’s face. “Well at least my papa is not a thief,” he said. “Asta’s father stole money from the church.”

  “That is enough,” Steina said. “Everyone into the school.”

  She called Pall and me to the front of the room once we were inside.

  “Now, apologize,” she said.

  Pall and I faced each other but neither was ready to back down. Everyone was watching solemnly from their desks.

  “If you do not apologize to one another right now, I will speak to your parents about this.”