Be Still the Water

by Karen Emilson

  Immediately I thought of Pabbi’s reputation as Secretary-Treasurer.

  “I am sorry,” I said.

  Pall smirked.

  Steina saw it and pointed to the corner of the room. “You can stand there all day and think about what your father will say. Asta, you will sit at the back of the room and study alone.”

  Without a word I slid into a desk and opened my text book. I didn’t feel one bit sorry about what I’d done. In fact, I decided to never apologize again unless I meant it.

  When it came time to leave school that day, Pall came up behind us and began reciting a rhyme about Pabbi. Since he wasn’t clever enough to make it up, I guessed that Bensi must have.

  “If anyone hurts Setta,” I said, “Leifur will come looking for you.”

  Outside the lean-to door I swore Freyja to secrecy. Under no circumstances was she to tell Pabbi what had happened.

  We went in to find everyone preoccupied with the latest catastrophe. Skalda had labored all day giving birth to a large bull calf that was coming into the world backwards. Pabbi and Leifur had spent hours trying to get the calf out alive, but their efforts had been fruitless and Skalda began hemorrhaging. Pabbi was forced, for the second time in only a few days, to end the suffering of an animal whose eyes he’d looked into many times.

  “If Pabbi thinks I am going to wait another year . . .” Signy said.

  It was a week later and we were upstairs, about to go to bed. She ran the brush through her waist-long hair, quietly counting the strokes.

  “Here,” she said handing me the brush. “Your hair is starting to embarrass me.”

  “Where do you suppose Pabbi went?” I asked.

  She climbed into bed beside Freyja. “To the lake. Probably wants to talk with J.K.”

  “Why did Olafur have to say that to Pabbi?” I asked.

  Signy shrugged. “If he wants to know something he asks.”

  It had begun after supper. Mother asked Freyja what she’d learned in school, but of course Freyja had been too busy daydreaming to answer, then Olafur asked if Pall was back at school yet.

  He looked directly at me. “I hear you gave him a thrashing,” he said. “My pa had a visitor last night. Bensi’s on the warpath. Says you shouldn’t be allowed back at school. Plans to write a letter so you will not be accepted into teachers’ college.”

  Pabbi was staring at me but I was too ashamed to meet his gaze.

  “What is this about?” Mother asked.

  “I say good for Asta,” Olafur said, leaning back in his chair. “About time someone put his little nuts in place.”

  “Olafur,” Mother hissed under her breath.

  “Oh, Ella,” Amma said. “He’s right.”

  “Asta?” Pabbi asked.

  Everyone turned to look at me.

  “Freyja, you tell them,” I said.

  She looked up from the table and her eyes widened. She stood up, actually stood up on the bench so everyone could see her, and began acting the whole thing out. When she got to the part where I tackled Pall, she jumped down and ran to the middle of the kitchen to flatten an imaginary Pall to the floor. I winced a bit when she began screeching like a wild animal, pounding her imaginary Pall with her fist.

  Amma cheered. Leifur turned and I am certain there was admiration in his eyes.

  Then Freyja, imitating Steina, said: “Asta, Pall, what in the world? Asta you should be ashamed of yourself.”

  Freyja placed her hands on her hips pretending to be me. “His father shot Thor so I am going to teach him a lesson.” Then she kicked.

  “I didn’t kick him,” I said over all the noise.

  “Alright,” Mother said. “Freyja settle down.”

  “I can hardly wait to tell Magnus.” Amma beamed.

  Mother scolded her and reminded everyone about the letter Bensi planned to write.

  Pabbi suggested that I apologize to the teacher to regain her respect.

  There was an English word that I’d learned from the eighth grade matriculation exam—grovel—and knew this was something I’d never do.

  “I have already made up my mind,” I said. “I have decided I don’t want to be a teacher after all.”

  Too bad it hadn’t ended right there, but before anyone had time to react to my statement, Olafur finished what he’d intended to say.

  “Bensi is spreading a rumor about you,” he said to Pabbi. “He says that you stole money from a church in Iceland.”

  Pabbi stiffened. A dreadful silence filled the room. Not even Amma knew what to say.

  “A lie,” Pabbi said.

  “I figured as much. But it would be nice to know the truth so that when the gossiping starts, I can set them all straight.”

  Pabbi pushed back his chair. He stood up. He looked Olafur direct in the eye before slapping his hand down on the table, rattling the plates and cutlery. “I will not have some young buck fighting my battles,” he said. “None of this is any of your business. If you speak of it again, I will forbid you to marry my daughter.”

  There was nothing any of us could do but watch him storm across the floor then out the door.

  Olafur’s ears blazed and that was one of the few times in all the years I knew him that he was rendered speechless.

  So we cleaned up the kitchen in silence.

  Hard as that evening was, I’ve always credited Olafur for the change we saw in Pabbi after that night. Signy was right. While she and I were upstairs brushing our hair, Pabbi was conversing with J.K. on his verandah. My heart aches for him even now as I watch the two of them.

  “I have lived with shame my whole life,” Pabbi says into the still night. The moon shines through a mist of clouds and all else is silent except for the sound of their breathing. “Mother kicked Father out when I was a young lad so I barely have a recollection of him.”

  J.K. pulls a box of matches from his pocket then strikes one on the banister. He raises it to his pipe, quickly drawing in a breath, puffing on it until it starts to smoke.

  “She changed my surname, sent me to a fine school,” he continued.

  “I’ve wondered about that.”

  “By the time I was a teenager, I realized that she earned a living by questionable means. But she was my mother and she treated me like a prince. They all teased me about her . . . and my lisp.”

  “Go on,” J.K. says calmly.

  “I did not take any money from her when I left home. Ella and I worked hard, acquired everything we had on our own. We were proud of that. Ella was proud of me.” He takes in a deep breath, and laughs. “That smells so good I almost wish I smoked.”

  J.K. holds out the pipe but Pabbi refuses.

  “We bought a small farm at Sleðbrjot and were getting by. During the ten years we were there, I made improvements to the land. I owed some money but nothing I couldn’t handle as my credit was good.”

  “You are telling me this because of Bensi,” J.K. says.

  Pabbi lets his breath out slowly. “I was chosen as district administrator and there were decisions to make. I bought lumber from Norway to build a church in the belief that the money was available from the government. I signed for it. You can imagine the cost.”

  J.K. whistles. “A lot.”

  “Fishing was poor and the crops failed that year and the next. I was able to sell the lumber but it was to a scoundrel who knew how desperate I was. I was forced to declare bankruptcy the following year. I lost the farm.”

  “That is when you moved in with Ella’s family?”

  Pabbi leans hard against the railing. “They thought even less of me after that. Here . . . at least I’d hoped . . .” Pabbi chuckles. “All my life she’s been nothing but good to me.”

  “I take it you left behind the debt?”

  “I don’t expect you to defend me to the neighbors.
Judge my actions as you see fit. I just wanted you to know the truth. It would have taken me a lifetime to repay. I could not do that to Ella. Mother offered to help, but only if we made a fresh start—in America. I did not steal from anyone,” he says, turning to face J.K. “It was Bensi who stole from me.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  It is good to have two mouths for the two kinds of speech.

  —The Saga of Thorstein, Viking’s Son

  Spring came early that year. The weather was mild so the ewes lambed with ease and were on pasture by mid-May. The ice house was packed full and the door shut tight. Last summer’s vegetables were long eaten except for a few wrinkly potatoes, but the garden was already showing signs of new life. The days were long, the air sweet, and the breeze blew calm; and because it was the month between the two busiest times on the farm—birthing and haying—that same calmness settled over us.

  Leifur came home from the lake one morning with a full fish box. The commercial season was long over but the fish inspector allowed each family to set one net year round for the house. It was an unwritten rule that in the spring, fishermen would throw back the large, fat pickerel as they were usually the females filled with roe.

  “Their flesh is too soft anyway,” Leifur said. “These ones taste much better.”

  He called into the house for me so I took the knives out and together we started cleaning. It was an enjoyable job and I was proficient at filleting, so he always asked me instead of Signy. I looked forward to those mornings. There was something about handling fish that brought out the joy in my brother and it was pleasant to watch.

  Setta and the cats (where those cats came from was a mystery) would wait, some more patiently than others, to sneak under the table, grab the entrails, then carry them away.

  I only saw Setta kill a cat once. It was a large, confident tom that bullied all the others. The females scattered respectfully when Setta stuck her big head under the table, but the tomcat decided to swipe at her nose. A quick turn and she snapped his neck so fast he didn’t feel a thing.

  “You should see the creeks,” Leifur said, grabbing a fish then deftly cutting off its head, sliding the knife under the gills, then spinning it around to chop off the tail. “Full of spawning fish. In a few years, you watch Asta, it will be tremendous.”

  He sliced down the belly, scraped out the entrails, then slid it over to me to remove the bones.

  In those days we ate fish daily, sometimes morning and night. Mother boiled, fried, baked, and canned it. We’d leave the tails and skin on the last few dozen so Mother could soak them in salt brine then hang them to dry. They would turn into harðfiskur, a staple from our homeland that we all loved.

  “This is as good as anything we ever had in Iceland,” Leifur said as he stacked the splayed fish. We all missed the strong taste of cod, but in the years since coming here some of us even grew to prefer the milder taste of pickerel.

  Pabbi went early one fine morning to meet with Steina. Classes had let out the week before so they had a few details to finalize before sending the school report to Winnipeg.

  “Watch that your sister doesn’t fall in,” Mother called out as Freyja took Solrun’s hand. They trotted off, each carrying a jam pail to catch frogs.

  Leifur and I joined Mother to weed the garden. Earlier I’d overheard Signy whispering to Amma, and now we all watched them go east across the meadow and I saw puzzlement in Mother’s expression.

  When Pabbi returned, he drove straight to the barn, unhitched the team, then led them to water, the school ledger tucked under his arm.

  Freyja saw him and hurried back, water sloshing out of the pails as she pulled Solrun along.

  “Look what we caught,” Freyja said, meeting him at the road, holding up the pails.

  He exclaimed, peering inside, then lifted Solrun to carry her the rest of the way.

  We all stood up to stretch. We knew by the slant of the sun that it was time for dinner. Pabbi said little until we’d all made ourselves a quick sandwich and were sitting under Amma’s tree. We ate thoughtfully, watching Amma and Signy cross the field toward us with their heads bent together.

  “Bensi has asked for an audit of the school’s finances,” Pabbi said.

  Mother thought for a few moments. “Good. They will find everything in order and Bensi will look like a fool. Again.”

  “There is more,” he said, finishing the last of his sandwich. “Steina has decided to accept a position in Swan River at a larger school, so I will have to find another teacher.”

  “After only two years?” Mother asked.

  “Steina is leaving?” Freyja asked.

  “I’m afraid so,” he said.

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow. That is why she needed to meet with me today.”

  “But she will miss the picnic,” Freyja said. “I won’t be able to say good-bye.”

  “That is alright,” I said. “I’m sure you will like the next teacher just as well.”

  “No, I won’t,” she pouted, but I was thrilled. Steina leaving was the best news I’d heard in months.

  One day soon after, Asi brought the land inspector to our yard. Inspectors were thick-skinned men hired to keep farmers and fishermen abiding by the laws set out by the government. This particular land inspector wore a suit and carried a thin leather valise. We could see he was not accustomed to walking any distance since he had to pause to catch his breath, take a drink from the jar Asi carried, and wipe his brow with a handkerchief—all before shaking Pabbi’s hand.

  “This is Mr. Phillips,” Asi said in Icelandic. “Picked him up at Westbourne. He is from the Land Titles Office. Asked if I knew a translator.”

  “Is he paying you?” Pabbi asked.

  Mr. Phillips stood looking between the two of them, completely unaware of what was being said.

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  “Where is the Lady Ellen?”

  “Stefan and a hired man are finishing my deliveries.”

  “Coffee?”

  “Of course.”

  Mother tugged on Signy’s arm to get her to follow her to the house. It was considered rude to not invite a visitor inside. Bread was in the oven and I am sure Mr. Phillips with all his girth could smell it baking.

  “J.K. offered his democrat but I made him walk,” Asi said to Amma.

  She reached into her skirt pocket for a pack of cigarettes. “This one is on me.”

  As the rest of us came close, Mr. Phillips turned.

  We were so shy, not one of us said a word.

  “Did you hear about Bjorn?” Asi asked, again in Icelandic. He seemed pleased about the news he was about to share.

  Pabbi cocked his head.

  “Two weeks ago. Moved to Swan River.”

  His words hit me like a punch to the stomach.

  “Remember Sifton from The Narrows?” he said. “He’s opening a store in Swan River. Likes Bjorn’s ambition. Hired him to manage it.”

  “I am surprised Bjorn would leave Magnus,” Pabbi said.

  “Siggi and Arn are still at the mill. Between you and me, responsibility is exactly what those two need. Might toughen them up a bit.”

  “Bjorn is going to quit fishing?” Leifur asked. Clearly he thought this was the most unbelievable part of the story. Asi said he didn’t think so, since he’d delivered a bale of nets to Sifton a few weeks ago. He thought it more likely that Bjorn would be put in charge of a crew.

  “Who is going to set by Ghost Island?” Leifur asked.

  “Slow down.” Asi laughed. “Magnus will not give up his territory yet.”

  “How does this affect your plans to buy the mill?” Pabbi asked.

  The Inspector cleared his throat, letting them know he was still standing there. Normally Pabbi would never leave a visitor out of the conversati
on, but this man was with the government. Clearly, he was nervous.

  Amma stuck out her hand to introduce herself. “Ástfriður Guðbjornsdóttir.”

  Mr. Phillips leaned in, raising his eyebrows. She repeated herself. He appeared somewhat surprised by her grip.

  “What does he want?” Pabbi asked. “Have we done something to anger the government?”

  Asi shrugged. “He told me nothing.”

  “Pjetur Guðmundsson,” Pabbi said at last, holding out his hand, then pointing to each one of us, “Leifur, Ástfriður, Freyja, Sólrún, Lars, Signý.” He turned as Mother approached, “Ella Sigurveig Leifursdóttir.”

  Mother greets him sweetly, “Góðan daginn.”

  Mr. Phillips nodded, then cleared his throat again.

  “Tell them I am here to discuss their land,” he said, reaching into his valise for a piece of paper. “The parcels registered to “Pe-tur Gud-munds-son and As-frider Good-bjorns-daughter, respectively.”

  “He has questions,” Asi said.

  “What does he want to know?”

  “Under the Land Titles Agreement that you signed,” Mr. Phillips said, squinting at the paper, “on April 20, 1906, you took possession of these two quarter sections of land and agreed to build a home and make improvements to each parcel.”

  Then he pulled out another sheet.

  “According to a letter of complaint received in our office dated March 7 of this year, you have not made the necessary improvements to one of the parcels, nor have you built a house. I am here to investigate to see if the allegations are correct.”

  Asi translated while Pabbi listened carefully, understanding more than he let on.

  “This,” he said, pointing to Amma’s quarter, “is our pasture land.” Then, turning, he pointed beyond the bush, “and over there is our hay land. We need both to have a viable farm. As you can see, this quarter is filled with trees and we have cleared as much as we can. For now.”

  Mother handed cups to both Asi and the Inspector.

  “He wants to know why you haven’t built another house,” Asi said.