Be Still the Water

by Karen Emilson

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.” Lars says, words trailing off as he jams his hands in his pockets.

  She waves him off, slipping her hand behind my head to help straighten my neck. “She is stubborn, so she probably would have refused anyway.”

  I want to say how unusual it is to have the youngest sister bossing everyone around, but sucking a straw is hard work.

  “Where is . . . Signy?” I am finally able to ask.

  The room grows silent. They seem embarrassed. Why has the one person I expect to be present at such a critical time made no effort to appear? I wonder if we’ve had a falling out I can’t remember.

  “She has the flu and doesn’t want you to catch it,” Solrun says.

  This makes me feel better. Signy and I had a disagreement years ago over Freyja so we didn’t see each other much after that. There were always reasons; she was busy raising the boys, I worked nights. But still I’ve always wondered if my love for Freyja ruined our sisterhood.

  “She will come as soon as she can,” Thora says.

  “Such a . . . good day,” I say. “Memorable.”

  Lars looks out the window and I see he is troubled. I can always tell when something weighs heavily on his mind.

  * * *

  Telling Mother and Pabbi that Finn was my beau delighted them beyond belief. They had dared not say it aloud for fear of cursing it, but they had hoped that someday Finn might become my husband—cementing the bond already formed with the Kristjanssons. It was, as you say, too good to be true.

  Still, Mother was guarded. Having learned a lesson with Signy, she sent Freyja along everywhere Finn and I went. He didn’t mind at first, but soon tired of this and found ways to sneak me off without Freyja knowing. On those few times he succeeded, he’d press his body up against mine and kiss me with such intensity that sometimes I couldn’t breath. When the smothering became too much of a reminder, that little room door would creak open and I’d push him away. He thought I was being coy, but I was scared to death and didn’t mind one bit when Freyja cheerfully interrupted us, completely oblivious to what was going on.

  One summer evening he walked me home along the bush trail. It was a bright, warm night and the air was filled with the sound of crickets. A beautiful ending to a Sunday spent combing the shoreline for pretty stones and buffalo bones.

  “Do you know how they are able to chirp?” he asked, turning his ear to listen. Then he explained how the males run the top of one wing along the teeth at the bottom of the other wing and, holding it open, the sound is carried to the females.

  “Crickets stridulate during all stages of the mating cycle, quietly when the female is near and aggressively if another male is around,” he said. “The most satisfying sound, I imagine, is the gentle tremble after a successful mating.”

  We stopped at the edge of the bush where no one could see us and he kissed me passionately, backing me into an oak trunk, pressing hard. His hand came up to my breast and touched so lightly it sent a shiver through me. Deep inside I was throbbing.

  “Can we?” he whispered through short, halting breaths. “Before I go?”

  My mind swirled so much that for a moment I considered it, but knew I was nowhere near ready.

  “We can’t,” I whispered back. “Not until we marry.”

  I felt his annoyance as he sighed.

  “Signy confided in me it happened to her their first time,” I lied, pulling away from him. “What would we do if that were us?”

  He was frustrated, but agreed. The most effective way to get through to Finn was by appealing to his ever-present sense of logic.

  All too soon autumn arrived and the long hot days gave way to brisk frosty mornings and the instinct to begin piling stores against the oncoming winter. Finn would be leaving soon so his parents thought it appropriate to throw a going away party.

  Everyone in the community was there, including Bensi, who arrived wearing a new suit. Already he’d experienced the consternation in our community that had come with his new position as the fish inspector, but he seemed to enjoy it. He spent the entire afternoon moving from guest to guest, straightening his tie, promising that the rules on the lake would be less strict, at least here in Siglunes.

  “Entertaining the king, are we?” Asi whispered in his best British accent, sounding as silly as the English when they tried to imitate us.

  It was uncharacteristic for J.K. to be rude, but his reaction toward Bensi bordered on that all afternoon. Finn and I were standing hip-to-hip talking when the door opened and Bjorn stepped inside with Steina on his arm. Everyone greeted them with cheer—hugs from the women and handshakes, backslapping from the men.

  “Miss Erlendsson,” Freyja squealed, skipping across the room with arms open. “I miss you so much.”

  Steina gave Freyja a one-armed hug as she slipped off her jacket.

  “I miss seeing you too,” she said smoothing her hair as she looked around the room, clutching a handbag as she watched Bjorn smiling widely at the people he’d known most of his life. He pulled her along, working his way over to us.

  “It appears this party is for you,” Finn laughed, extending his hand.

  Bjorn was caught off guard by Finn’s comment and he glanced at Steina. There was an awkward pause that likely had to do with Magnus’s prediction there might be a wedding.

  “Congratulations,” Bjorn said, recovering quickly as he shook Finn’s hand. “Not everyone who applies to the faculty of engineering gets in on his first try.”

  Finn blushed. “Your father’s recommendation letter certainly helped.”

  “He does have a few friends at the University, but he says you were accepted on your own merit.”

  “A score of ninety-seven percent on his provincial exams certainly helped,” Steina beamed at him. Then she turned to me. “Hello Asta, how are you?”

  “Very well, thank you,” I said, squeezing Finn’s hand. I’d fantasized many times how I would react the first time I saw Bjorn and her together, but since falling in love with Finn, I’d forgotten every spiteful word.

  “What is new around here?” Bjorn asked.

  “A wolf is killing our sheep,” Finn said. “Lost another again this morning.”

  Bensi stood within earshot and his head turned ever so slightly in our direction.

  “Are you sure it wasn’t Thor?” Bjorn asked, glancing back over his shoulder. “Oh yes, I forgot, someone shot him. Now the wolves can do as they please.”

  We had never heard Magnus’s reaction to losing Thor. But now I see it. I see how everything played out: Bensi pushing his horse hard down the road to the mill, fabricating a lie. Pall had told him that he’d killed the wrong dog. I hear the possibilities rolling through his mind. He rejected the option of blaming Pabbi, knowing that Magnus would never take his word over Father’s.

  Bensi thinks up the story by saying he, too, heard the shot so he went to investigate and saw Pabbi and Leifur take the dog’s body off the ice, but had no idea who’d fired the gun, assumed it must be Indians who were known to hide in the bushes and shoot coyotes for their pelts when they came onto the ice to eat the rough fish left behind by fishermen.

  What Bensi doesn’t realize is that Magnus knows about the conversation with the fish inspector.

  Bensi and Magnus are standing under the sawmill roof. Magnus says: “Any man who would do such a thing but not own up to it—not apologize—has no honor.”

  “Well that does not surprise me, the Indians . . .” Bensi’s words trail off. He cannot look at Magnus.

  “A man with no honor is not much of a man; and even less an Icelander,” Magnus says. Then he starts the sawmill engine and turns his back on Bensi.

  “How do you like your school?” I asked Steina. It took a few moments to pull everyone back into the fold, especially Bjorn who was eavesdropping on Bensi’s conversati
on.

  Steina brightened. “Very much, although I must say few children are brighter than those I taught at here at Siglunes. How are Pall and Petra?”

  “Pall quit to farm with his father,” I said.

  “I am still friends with Petra,” Freyja said. “She is truly a good person even though nobody gives her a chance. Our new teacher is nice, except he is a man.”

  Stefan chuckled. “What is wrong with that?”

  I expected that she might say that he was old or strict, but then her eyebrows went up when the idea occurred to her. “You should become a teacher.” She beamed.

  Stefan laughed, shaking his head.

  “But you would be good at it,” she said.

  “Have you seen his handwriting?” Bjorn teased. “It’s terrible.”

  Freyja brushed him off, shaking Stefan’s good arm. “It is what you should do.”

  “Bjorn is right,” Stefan said. “Even worse than before.”

  Frustrated, Freyja rolled her eyes and her shoulders slumped.

  “No need to worry about me,” Stefan said, patting her shoulder. “I’d make a lousy school teacher.”

  “He would,” Bjorn agreed, grinning at us. “Too many fights to break up. How would he do that with only one arm, and his weak one at that?”

  “I can still break up fights,” Stefan said.

  “Not with one arm you can’t.”

  “Of course I could. They are just children.”

  “What about Signy’s son? Just wait until he goes to school. Half Thorsteinsson, half Aunt Asta,” Bjorn teased, shooting me a sideways glance that I ignored. “Good luck, my friend.”

  “You aren’t my friend,” Stefan shot back.

  “Yes I am, I saved your life.”

  “No. Actually, I don’t even recall you being there.”

  “You are such an ass.”

  “Arm wrestle?”

  Bjorn hesitated, but only for a moment. Stefan’s face lit up. Two years had passed since the accident and he’d been practicing. We wound through the adults to the table. Bjorn sat at one corner and Stefan took the seat across from him. The room fell into an excited hush. Everyone stopped to watch.

  “Two lefties in a right-armed match,” Asi said. “This should be interesting.”

  Both Bjorn and Stefan turned serious as they placed their elbows on the table with their thumbs entwined. Asi stepped forward to cup his hands over theirs.

  “When I let go­—”

  “Come on, Stefan,” Freyja said, her hands clenched up to her chin.

  The room grew silent as Asi counted to three.

  As competitive as Bjorn was, he got off to a weak start. His brief look of surprise quickly dissolved; in a few seconds their fists were even again. They stayed like this for at least half a minute, muscles bulging.

  “Getting soft working in a store.” Stefan grimaced.

  “Ha,” Bjorn grunted as he pushed harder, his face scrunched up.

  It was an incredibly even match until Bjorn started ever so slowly to gain. We all cheered when it was over, not for Bjorn, but because we all saw how Stefan hadn’t given up, even when he knew he was beat.

  “Next time,” Stefan said.

  “There will be no next time.” Bjorn laughed, catching his breath.

  It wasn’t until later that night, long after the party was over, when I was lying in bed, that I realized my yearning for Bjorn was over. The realization came with both sadness and relief but also joy that my life was beginning anew.

  How did I come to such an understanding? It was so silly. I found myself concerned more about Steina’s handbag than him. I had barely kept from staring at the lovely jeweled case and I wondered where I might find one, how much it would cost and what items I should carry inside.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  None outlives the night when the Norns have spoken.

  —Hamthesmal

  Finn kept true to his promise to write weekly and I began anxiously awaiting his letters, thick envelopes that contained pages of description about life at the University. When I unfolded the latest, coins dropped onto the floor. Everyone gathered around as I read the letter out loud.

  February 19, 1911

  Dearest Ásta,

  Today while sitting in this stuffy lecture hall I could not help but think about the lake and how much I miss it. I feel tired though I have used nothing but my brain for weeks. The snow here is packed hard and so dirty it is hard to look out the windows at the gray sky and stay optimistic. It is dreaming of our future together that keeps me going.

  I have a roommate; his name is Stanley Burroughs. His father came from England and works at one of the legal firms in the city. Their house is along the river. By the looks of it they are wealthy. They invited me last Sunday for dinner. Here in the city they call supper ‘dinner,’ dinner ‘lunch’ and lunch ‘snack.’

  Stanley’s father fought in the Boer War (he knows the Doctor who saved Stefán) so he has many interesting stories. They seemed fascinated when I described fishing. Can you make them each a pair of mittens? The expensive gloves they have do nothing to keep their hands warm. They offered to pay, but I said that we do not accept payment for gifts. I can tell by how they watch me speak they find Icelanders interesting and introduced me to their friends as ‘the Icelander from the north.’ Having never ventured outside the city, they believe I am from New Iceland. I keep reminding them I am from Siglunes on Lake Manitoba. They say, ‘Sig-loons’ which sounds ridiculous, but I have not yet corrected them. I imagine my English pronunciation causes them to snicker as well.

  I hope you don’t think it conceited when I say that I am at the top of my class. The professor said that I will easily find a job when I am done since Winnipeg is booming. Engineers earn an impressive wage so I am hopeful to someday afford one of the homes along the river. For now, what motivates me is knowing that someday you will be here with me.

  Lovingly yours, Finn.

  P.S. The Burroughs insisted on paying the postage for the mitts.

  I opened another page folded in half again, a signal to me that these words were not meant for anyone else to hear.

  I caught Mother and Pabbi smiling as they watched me sitting at the table penning a reply. As I addressed the envelope, I wondered if Finn might change his mind about being my beau after reading about my boring life.

  March 7, 1911

  Dearest Finn,

  Without knowing the size of their hands, it is difficult to make a pair that fit perfectly. I know Pabbi likes the ends to touch the tips of his fingers, because it makes it so much easier to work. But I imagine Stanley and his father will be walking, so I hope it suits them to have the mitts long. As you know, too short is even worse, so I have extended the cuffs as well. I hope they like them. It was nice they invited you for supper.

  Despite his promises, the power has already gone to Bensi’s head. Yesterday he condemned a whole box of Leifur’s fish because of two spoiled ones. To think Bensi was given that job even though he has never fished a day in his life!

  Leifur is beside himself. Pabbi says the only thing we can do is a better job. He is sure that there will be so many complaints that Bensi will lose the position, likely by the end of this season. Fishing was good this year, much to Bensi’s disappointment. He does not want anyone to make more money than him.

  Signý is expecting again. I think it is going to be a girl this time, but Amma says she will have another boy.

  Stefan was here yesterday. He and Leifur had another arm wrestle, but this time Leifur beat him. I think arm wrestling Asi every day is too much, he should rest his arm.

  Amma and Freyja send their greetings. Ási predicts we will have an early thaw and that the Lady Ellen should be back in the water by mid-April. That is all for now. I can barely stand the wait until summer.

 
All my love, Ástfriður.

  Another uneventful year passed. In April of 1912, while Finn finished his second year at the University, his Langamma died in her sleep. She’d been in her late 90s when we came here and six years had passed since then. We watched J.K. and Gudrun drive past with her casket in the back of the wagon, along the trail to the newly built road that extended from Siglunes to Lundi where Langamma had asked to be buried.

  “Three quarters done,” Pabbi said, encouraged that lambing season was nearly over. This would be the morning of May 1st. He and Leifur had come in for breakfast after matching up the ewes with lambs born in the night. By then Pabbi’s herd had grown to a considerable size. Sheep are a frustrating animal to raise but they were what we understood; they have brains about the size of a walnut and their survival instincts are worse than pathetic. Once an ewe has willed herself to die, she is nearly impossible to save. So every spring was a test of who could be more stubborn—us or the sheep.

  The skies clouded over and it began snowing soon after dinner. We hadn’t picked up the mail at the new post office at Siglunes in over a week, so I decided to go. I tucked a letter to Finn in my pocket, saddled Hector, then set out down the road, facing the bitter wind that came from the north.

  “C’mon boy,” I said, spurring him along, adjusting my scarf to cover all but my eyes. He seemed reluctant to go, but I persisted, expecting that a letter from Finn was waiting.

  The squeal of the mill saw could be heard long before it came into view. As the horse trotted up the long, winding lane I saw a half dozen men hammering together fish boxes while the rest sawed and stacked wood under the huge pole shed built to keep it dry. Each man looked up to see who was coming, a few waved before turning back to their work.

  I’d been practicing my English, knowing that I’d need it if accepted to Nurses’ College. So that is what I was doing as I rode along—speaking English out loud. Hector’s ears twitched every time I said a word he didn’t understand.

  The Lady Ellen was docked and two men, hats pulled down with collars up to their ears, were quickly unloading crates. As I approached the barn Stefan came from the house with a satchel containing outgoing mail slung over his shoulder. He carried it twice a week from The Narrows to Siglunes then back again, over land by horse until the lake froze, then by dogsled.