Be Still the Water

by Karen Emilson

  “But your vision,” I said. “Bergthora thought we’d be together, too.”

  Amma, who usually had an answer for everything, was quiet. I stared silently out the window. She got up to start supper. Lifting the crawlspace door, she crouched down to pull up a cloth bag.

  “How do you feel about Finn?” she asked, reaching into the bag.

  By the way she said it I presumed she was hoping, along with everyone else, that a spark might ignite a fire between him and me. Since the wedding he’d visited regularly, usually bringing along his chessboard.

  “I am not sure,” I said.

  “He is handsome and kind,” she said, placing a handful of potatoes on the counter. “Surely you have noticed.”

  “I have, it’s just that…”

  “You are afraid,” she said. “Giving your heart to someone only to be disappointed makes it hard to do again.”

  I agreed but deep inside I believed it was more complicated than that. Allowing myself to fall in love with Finn was something I wanted, but there was an invisible barrier between us, one I didn’t know how to penetrate.

  “Can a man truly love a woman who is inferior?”

  “Asta, you can’t possibly believe that,” she said.

  “But I am not like the other girls,” I said, letting my words trail off.

  Amma stopped peeling potatoes to examine me.

  That is exactly how it felt, like those eyes of hers were boring into my soul. There was a hint of understanding between us and now I see that she knew.

  “I understand exactly how you feel,” she said. “But I didn’t let my past destroy me. I am stronger because of it. Someday a man will come along who loves you for who you are.”

  I thought back to the night before, when Finn and I were playing chess.

  “But how will I know?”

  “You won’t,” she said. “Not unless you give him the chance.”

  Everyone began counting on their fingers the day Signy’s baby was born. She made excuses: the child was so big he came early; she must have conceived the same month as their marriage in July. But the neighbor ladies knew better since this was a trick a few of them had used themselves. Gudrun quietly reminded them of that fact, putting an end to the gossip.

  “Isn’t he the most beautiful baby in the world?” Signy gushed, still overwhelmed by what she and Olafur had created.

  Mother agreed, saying he looked exactly like his father—questioning eyes, ruddy cheeks, pug nose, and a robust cry that could be heard clear across the yard—and when she held little Petur that first time, I saw the bond strengthen between mother and daughter as Signy watched her kiss the top of his head. But I also overheard Mother confess to Gudrun that with Lars barely over one year old, she was having a difficult time accepting she was now an Amma.

  Gudrun was so wise, oh what a gift she was in Mother’s life.

  “Children keep us young,” she said, patting Mother’s hand. “Remember, this little one is not your responsibility. You can indulge him, then send him home.”

  Pabbi didn’t say much after the baby was born, but he did admit that he liked the change he saw in Olafur. Becoming a father slowed him down a bit, made him stop to think.

  One flawless Sunday that June, everyone milled outside the school after the church service chatting while admiring the pink cascade of wild roses that were in full bloom along the edge of the bush.

  Finn took me aside to ask if I might like to spend the afternoon sailing in the bay. It was an invitation I was expecting since he’d hinted at it for months. All through Magnus’s church service I could hardly think of anything else, knowing that he’d brought his father’s democrat for that reason, so that we might spend time alone.

  Up until then I’d unfairly compared him to Bjorn, but now he was a man, the same age as Bjorn when I’d met him, I allowed myself to see how attractive he was; tall, slim and muscular with a face that, after studying it, I realized was beautifully symmetrical. Perfectly spaced eyes, tidy ears, a nose that was neither too big nor too small. He’d even grown into his teeth. No wonder the younger girls always tittered when he was near. All at once the fog lifted in my brain and the realization struck that in the three years I’d been pining for Bjorn, Finn had been doing the same for me.

  “Mother made us dinner so we will have to stop at the house,” he said, climbing into the democrat, reaching out to take my hand. We’d never touched like that before and the tingle was electric. I was surprised by the strength in his grip as he easily pulled me up onto the seat beside him.

  The world looked brighter that afternoon as the horses trotted along—the bush, the wildflowers, even our house seemed fresh and new. It was like seeing it all for the first time.

  “Did you hear the news?” he asked, squinting into the sun that shone through the trees lighting up his face as the horse clomped down the trail to the lake. “They hired Bensi as the new fish inspector.”

  “No—” I said. We’d heard rumors that the inspector from Big Point had been transferred south, that Magnus had filed a formal complaint against him.

  “Bensi told the fish inspector Stefan wouldn’t be able to fish and he should take away his license,” Finn said. “Didn’t even give him a chance.”

  “But why would they hire Bensi?”

  “In the government’s mind, anyone who will rat out a neighbor will make a good inspector.”

  Terrible as it was, part of me was glad that Bensi was targeting someone other than Pabbi.

  “If Bensi continues like this he is going to run out of pawns, then you know what will happen,” Finn said. We grinned as our eyes met. Checkmate.

  The telltale sign of a good sailor is someone who knows, by memory and instinct, what lies hidden below the surface. Finn was as careful on the lake as he was in life. I felt safe with him.

  “Have you been to Gull Reef?” he asked, pointing ahead to a thin jut of land close to shore. Seeing my interest, he pulled expertly on the tiller, veering us slightly to the right. He navigated around all the rocks I couldn’t see, through a channel of boulders that barely broke the surface. Our approach sent the hoards of nesting seagulls frantically into the air in a great, circling squawk. The cormorants were much braver. They opened their mouths, toddling along the shoreline, one icy-blue eye on their nests, the other watchful of us as our boat slid effortlessly up onto the sand.

  Finn was quick to jump out and for the second time that day I felt a jolt when he took my hand. I shielded my eyes from the sun, looking up at the gulls then along the full length of the reef. What surprised me most was the sand. It was bleached almost white.

  “The reef is limestone,” he explained. “The cliffs north at Steep Rock are spectacular. I will take you there someday.”

  Not much survived on a reef and the fact there was life here at all was amazing. A few tired-looking trees jutted up, their limbs plucked clean. The gulls began landing cautiously at the far end, except those whose nests were buried amongst the scrub, and they hovered, swooping down, trying to scare us away.

  At first we didn’t notice the eggs, monotone gray with speckles, bigger than a hen’s but smaller than a wild turkey’s egg. Seeing a few shells split open, we began searching for chicks. We pulled back the wild potentilla, awash in yellow flowers, and were startled when a handful of soft brown chicks popped up, their little heads oscillating as they ran across the sand toward the safety of water.

  We trudged through the scratchy underbrush toward a smooth granite rock big as a dinner table situated in the center of the island.

  “Too bad everything is covered in bird shit,” Finn said, carrying the dinner sack.

  “That’s why you wear a hat, remember?”

  Chicks skittered away from our feet; the anxious mother birds screeched.

  “How did this rock get here?” I asked, “And look at these sma
ller ones around it, they look like chairs.”

  “The ice pushed them,” he said, laying out the lunch. It was difficult to estimate how much the rock weighed, hard to fathom that ice, so fragile and easily destroyed, could have so much power.

  “How nice it would be if we could chase away all the birds, scrub the rocks clean and keep this place for ourselves,” I said, brushing away the sand.

  At home the sandwich would have tasted common, everyday, but out here in the bay, surrounded by sunshine and a soft breeze, it was wonderful.

  “Unfortunately nature does not work that way,” Fin said, taking a bite, chewing, examining the meat between the bread. “It is the wildness of this place that makes it exciting. Remove that aspect and we would probably find it dull.”

  I tore a bit of crust from the bread, tossing it into the air. The birds swooped and the greediest gull gobbled it down.

  “Now that you have a table and chairs I expect you would want a house.” He grinned. “Then you’d need firewood, food—”

  “And a stove,” I said.

  “Once you had all that, you would need pots, dishes and more furniture.”

  “And a dog.”

  “Then you would want to bring Freyja.”

  “Imagine, trying to get both Setta and Freyja into a boat.” I laughed, brushing away a spider that came up over the edge of the table top.

  “Did you tell anyone about that day?” he asked.

  “No, but Freyja has been afraid of water ever since,” I said. “Did you?”

  “Father would have throttled me. I should have known better,” he said, thinking back. “It is a miracle they survived.”

  We finished our sandwiches in silence facing each other. I had my back to Ghost Island.

  “I think when I build a house for someone, it should be on land like everyone else’s,” he said. “I cannot imagine ever living anywhere but along the lake. You?”

  I pretended not to notice how he was weaving me into his future plans. “Definitely by the water,” I said.

  When we finished eating, he tucked the sack in his back pocket and we continued to the far end of the reef. We walked so close that my shoulder bumped into his arm. He gingerly reached out to take my hand. I did not pull away, though I could tell he thought I might.

  “What do you like most about the farm?” I asked.

  He thought for a moment. “The horses. I am amazed by their power. Father and I plan to build a new barn for them. I am looking forward to that. I like building things.”

  “Hunting?”

  “It is an instinct men have,” he said. “But I find the more we are able to raise our own meat, the less desire I have to hunt. Not because I am awful at it; in fact, it is one of the things I am good at.”

  He held out his left arm, closed one eye and tilted his head as if looking down the barrel of a gun. He deliberately brought up his right hand, held it mid-air and stood like that, finger on an invisible trigger. At first it struck me as odd, until I realized he was showing me how long he could stand perfectly still. It was the first time I took notice of the strength in his arms, the absence of even the slightest tremor in his hands.

  “You see, I do not care to hunt,” he said, still staring into the imaginary sight. “Leifur, on the other hand, is so keen that when a deer comes into view, he fumbles out of excitement. He misses for that reason.”

  I came around to stand in front of him, spreading my fingers like antlers, placing them on top of my head. I batted my eyes like a doe, stuck my tongue out, but he didn’t even blink. So I started prancing around. An inkling of recognition of what I was trying to do caused his eyes to dart up, but the rest of him did not move.

  “I believe the best hunters are those who don’t want to kill,” he said.

  I continued prancing, stuck out my tongue, then started snorting, all in an attempt to make him laugh. Finally, I snuck around behind him and began poking him in the sides. I felt the muscles in his back stiffen, and it wasn’t until my fingers crept up and began furiously tickling under his arms, that he relented. He grabbed me, lifted me, my feet off the ground, spinning me around. It was a most exhilarating feeling. He pulled me close for a kiss and for the second time that afternoon I did not pull away.

  “Oh, Asta,” he whispered, brushing my hair back. It was only then that his hand shook.

  We slowly strolled to the north end of the reef.

  “Should we go to Ghost Island?” he asked, watching my reaction carefully.

  “I would rather not if it is alright with you. That is not a peaceful place.”

  Despite Amma’s belief that we must face our demons, I did not want to go to Ghost Island to exorcise it from my mind. Everything was still so vivid, all I needed to do was close my eyes and pretend I was standing at the foot of the lighthouse to imagine Einar lying on the ice, to wonder whether or not Bjorn had killed him, whether he’d frozen to death or got up and started walking home only to fall through the ice and drown. There was no reason for me to go, to dredge up all the old hurt. No, standing here in the sunshine with Finn holding my hand, I was ready to shut the door to the little room off the kitchen and never look into it again.

  Neither of us wanted to go back yet, so we went to sit again, this time on top of the table rock with our feet resting on the stone chairs.

  “Thora plans to attend the training school for nurses when she is twenty-two,” he said. “They do not accept girls younger. The schooling is rigorous. But I suppose you already know that.”

  I told him I did.

  “Have you ever thought of going?” he asked, reaching for my hand.

  Everyone knew I’d lost the desire to teach. Nursing was an option, but I’d been so preoccupied with the past, I had given little consideration to the future.

  “That is why I brought you here, because there is something important we need to discuss.”

  I knew how badly J.K. and Gudrun wanted him to enroll at the University. He told me an acceptance letter had arrived in the mail and now it was time to decide.

  “I am seriously considering it,” he said, staring at our entwined fingers. He sounded disappointed, as if it was a punishment, not a choice. “Father does not need me. He can easily hire someone to take my place.”

  “Not true,” I said.

  “It is.” He chuckled in resignation. “I fish the same way Leifur hunts.”

  “But you are exceptional at so many things,” I said.

  “Like chess?” he said, raising one eyebrow.

  “I’ve had more practice than you,” I said.

  The truth was, Finn belonged at the University and everyone knew it. I asked what he planned to study. He said he wasn’t sure but regardless would be away for four years.

  We sat in silence for a long time.

  I felt as if my chance for happiness was once again slipping away. Another young man leaving me for something better, and here I sat with no dreams of my own. But when I looked into his eyes I saw that he wasn’t looking beyond me, but inside, trying to read my thoughts.

  “Asta, I love you. I have since the first day you came here. I want to go, but if it means losing you . . . I enjoy farm work well enough and this is a good life.”

  Elbows resting on his knees, he looked out over the water.

  “Mother wants me to become a doctor, but Father thinks I should study engineering.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want to make my Father proud.”

  I thought about how every choice Signy made was for herself and because of that she’d found a man whose dreams matched hers exactly. And then there was Leifur. He would never leave the farm and, if he married, it would be to someone who devoted herself completely to him.

  “The decision is not about attending university,” he said softly. “It is what comes after that. There wil
l be no work for me here. I will be forced to live in Winnipeg.”

  He let the words sink in and waited.

  I understood what he was asking. Until then, I’d never considered leaving Siglunes. But I dreaded the thought of a life alone. I believed by the tenderness in his eyes that Finn would never hurt me the way Einar had.

  “I will go too,” I said. “Four years from now, with Thora. We can become nurses together.”

  He was delighted. “So if I leave now you will wait, and then join me?”

  I promised I would.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  He’s a wise man who knows himself.

  —The Saga of Hrafnkels Freysgoða

  “She is asking for him again,” Lars says.

  He has been sitting at my bedside for a few hours and now the others come breezing in. Solrun takes charge, landing her purse on the window ledge, quickly slipping off her sweater.

  “It is far too warm in here,” she says.

  Thora begins fighting with the window latch. Lars stands up quickly to get out of their way.

  “Asta, can you hear me?” Solrun asks, pouring water from the sealer jar into a glass. “We shouldn’t have taken her out today.”

  “Bull feathers,” I whisper.

  “Here, drink this.”

  I take a few sips. It still tastes the same. It is God’s blessing, that water. It came up from the ground without us having to dig for it and, for a reason none of us understood, lacked the iron and sulphur found in most neighboring wells. The only thing that compares to it is lake water in wintertime. Fishermen still chop holes in the ice and dip their cups before pulling up a net. It is indescribably fresh and invigorating. For me, it was the best part about accompanying Pabbi and Leifur on the lake.

  Solrun complains that I sat in the sun too long.

  “You can’t get . . . too much sun,” I say. “Or butter.”

  I see her smile, but then she points out that a patient in my state should never become dehydrated. Now she thinks she’s a nurse. She holds the straw to my lips. As I raise my hand, she tsks. “How papery your skin looks, Asta.” I remind her my hands have always looked like this.