“Hello,” I said in English. “How are you today?”
He looked at me a bit perplexed.
“A new colt was born yesterday,” he said in Icelandic. “Do you want to see him?”
I thought for a moment. “Horse. Are good for work,” I said. My reading skills were passable, having learned that in school, but speaking was still difficult.
“My horse name Hector,” I said as I dismounted. “See him there?”
Stefan chuckled, motioning for me to follow him into the barn, which was exactly as I remembered it, calm and bathed in muted light. A pleasant wave washed over me as I remembered being there with Bjorn, playing with the pups.
“He is back here,” Stefan said, and I followed him to the stall at the far end of the barn. The mare turned as we neared, whinnying a bit, then shook her head. The colt, a brown male with white boots and a star on his forehead wobbled beside her.
“I think Magnus is going to give me this colt,” he said.
“Magnus doesn’t want him?”
“I am not sure.” He picked up a brush then ran it in long strokes across the mare’s back. “I had a dream I was riding a horse exactly like this and now here he is.”
I was thinking how to translate his sentence when he asked a question that caught me by surprise.
“Does Freyja love me?” He was standing directly under a window so I could easily see him though the light was dim. It wasn’t often that Stefan looked so serious.
“Freyja is only fourteen,” I said.
His expression grew solemn and I waited, knowing he had something important to say.
“Father does not like that I spend so much time with her,” he said, waiting for my reaction.
“He shouldn’t listen to Bensi. Bensi always says spiteful things,” I said.
“I know, but since my accident Father worries more.”
“About what?”
“Did Bjorn tell you that I died?” he asked. He said it so matter-of-factly, he may just as well been asking what I’d eaten for dinner.
“But you are not dead,” I said.
“I was. I stopped breathing.” His words had a dreamlike quality that prickled my scalp. He said that while the surgeon was removing his arm, he floated up, away from his body, and hovered, watching everything that was going on. He’d felt no pain until his soul returned to his body.
“I saw the nurse start my heart again.”
“You are sure?” I asked.
“My older sister was there. I did not see her, but felt her presence, heard her voice and knew it was her. She told me to go back, that it wasn’t my time to die.”
Up until that point I’d been able to convince myself that what had happened to me during the fever had been a hallucination.
“You think I’ve lost my mind,” he said.
“No,” I replied quickly. “I’ve heard of this before.”
He was encouraged and began talking fast, his eyes drawn inward as if remembering something important.
“I saw my future. It came in quick pictures, so fast there was no time to make sense of it. I was playing ball, fishing, carrying the mail into the kitchen . . .”
“But there was no post office here then,” I said.
He agreed. “I saw Freyja, standing in a little house looking unhappy, but I was out on the lake, thrilled, mushing the dogs, bringing the mail home. It was the last thing I saw before being sucked back into my body.”
“Have you told anyone else this?”
“Only Asi and Bjorn,” he said, stroking the colt’s neck.
It would take many years for me to piece it all together, to understand what was predetermined versus how much of our future is altered by choice.
“Sometimes I think Freyja and I are not supposed to be together,” he said. “She does nothing but worry now. She doesn’t want me to fish or carry the mail, but how will I make a living otherwise?”
“You could go to school.”
“I don’t belong there,” he said. “I told her that.”
So had Pabbi. I’d seen the two of them standing in the kitchen, Freyja pouting because Pabbi did not agree with her. He warned against forcing her opinion on Stefan as his decisions were not hers to make.
Stefan gave the colt one final rub. “Asi says it was all a dream, but I know it was more than that.”
The kitchen smelled of bread fresh out of the oven and coffee boiling on the stove. Bergthora stood at the counter looking out the window at the blowing snow. She was concerned about the storm so it took a few moments for her to acknowledge I was there.
An official from Canada Post had come all the way from Winnipeg to train her in the proper procedures required to handle mail. They’d chosen the little room off the kitchen as the new post office and the transformation—which included the addition of a table and a shelf that was divided into boxes for each family—erased all evidence that it had ever been a bedroom.
Bergthora went into the office, returning with a thin bundle of mail.
“Papers for your Pabbi and Amma,” she said, “and a letter from Finn.”
She went directly to the stove, poured two cups of coffee, then motioned for me to sit across from her.
“Have you heard the news?” she asked. “Bjorn is opening a store. They are out there right now unloading the dry goods.”
He’d been away for three years by then and I hadn’t seen him since Finn’s going away party. “Here?” I asked.
“Yes, in the cottage,” she said.
“I thought Bjorn liked living in Swan River.”
“He did,” she began. “But you will have to ask him about that yourself.”
She looked up at the clock then rose to rinse out the coffee pot and start it brewing again. “How are you?” she asked over her shoulder. “How is Finn?”
“Never been happier,” I said.
She observed me so carefully I couldn’t help but wonder. I shook off the feeling that she didn’t believe me, took a deep breath, and smiled. Bjorn had made his choice, so I had made mine.
“Thora and I are going to study nursing. Finn will graduate in two years and I will go to the city then. He is already talking about buying a house in Winnipeg along the river.”
“Has he asked you to marry him?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “But he will.”
Bergthora’s words were strained. “Regardless, I am glad that you have decided to become a nurse.”
It felt wonderful sitting with her discussing our lives woman-to-woman and we visited for the better part of an hour. When I stood up to leave, I tucked the mail in my pocket. When I stepped outside, the force of the wind whipped my dress against my legs nearly knocking me over. I turned away from it pulling up my collar. The shoes, light stockings, and cotton frock I’d put on that morning when the sun shone brightly, seemed a foolishly optimistic choice now.
As I hurried toward the barn, the conversation with Bergthora was running through my mind, how impressed she’d been that I’d pulled Runa out of her malaise and did not flinch when she was dying. I don’t remember comforting Siggi afterwards, but apparently I had. Honestly, all I remembered was how inadequate I’d felt.
Asi and Bjorn were lugging wooden crates to the bunkhouse. I hurried ahead, surprising them, swinging the door against the wind to hold it open for them.
“Asta.” Asi grinned. “Never been happier to see you.”
Bjorn gave me a sideways glance as he and Asi shouldered the crate through the door. Their boots echoed across the floor as I poked my head into the dark building to see the boxes stacked against the back wall all the way to the ceiling.
“We need the moisture,” Asi said. “It didn’t rain much last fall so the lake is low.”
“Not much in Swan either,” Bjorn said, glancing at me as they st
opped briefly at the door. “This storm will help.”
We all looked up at the sky then down the road at the near solid white wall of cloud.
“I’d better go,” I said, waving as I hurried to the barn. Hector was standing with his head down, an inch of snow on his back. I quickly brushed it off then swung my leg up over the saddle. When I turned the horse around, I looked back toward the house to see Bjorn watching me. He raised his arm up so I waved back, then put my head down and began galloping home.
Fortunately, Hector knew where to go since I couldn’t see more than fifteen feet in front of us. Everything was covered in a deep blanket, and the snow was blowing so hard from behind that the oak bluffs that I knew so well looked frighteningly unfamiliar. We’d all heard stories about people getting lost in a blizzard, how some died only a short distance from home. Until now I’d always found it hard to believe.
It wasn’t until we plodded past the school that I was able to get my bearings again. I considered stopping there to wait out the storm, but knew Pabbi would worry and might come looking for me. Glancing back, I saw how quickly our tracks were filling in and decided to press on. Hector seemed to understand as I patted his neck, whispering encouragement into the wind and, as our house came into view, I understood why men fall so in love with their horses.
I made him take me straight to the house so I could let everyone know I was home, but had to dig through the snow first to get the door open. The warmth from the stove was comforting as I stomped the snow off my shoes.
All was quiet. The pot of venison stew Mother made earlier sat untouched. Solrun was sitting with Lars on the kitchen floor.
“Where is everyone?” I asked.
“Finding the sheep,” she said. “They ran away when the storm came.”
I have lived a great many years now, but still cannot articulate the tumble of emotions farmers feel when things begin to go wrong.
I pulled a pair of Leifur’s pants over my stockings, then, opening the firebox, threw in a piece of wood. “Stay away from the stove,” I reminded them.
When snow comes in the winter, it can be dry as chaff, but spring blizzards are always wet. Squinting into the wind, I rode Hector across the road to the barn. It wasn’t until I came closer that I saw two figures in the pen at the far side. Pabbi and Leifur walked delicately through the snow, holding each leg high then lowering it slowly, testing to see what was buried beneath before allowing their foot to bear weight. They were checking the inside perimeters of the fence, holding the top rail to keep their balance. Setta was not so delicate. She ploughed through, head down. She stopped, stuck her nose deep, then began digging furiously. Leifur waded over, dropped to his knees, hand shoveling beside her.
I jumped down and Hector went behind the barn where Strong stood out of the wind. I trudged through the corral to the fence corner as Leifur pulled up a lamb and began brushing its face. Setta stuck her head in further, digging. Leifur, buried to his chest, pulled out another lamb. He carried two over to me.
“Take them to the barn,” he panted. He turned back to where Setta was still digging.
I quickly unbuttoned my coat and brought their limp bodies against mine, wrapping the coat tight.
The barn door was open a crack. Mother looked up from where she and Freyja were kneeling in the hay, each rubbing a mewling lamb.
“Asta, thank goodness,” she said as I let my jacket fall open and handed her the lambs. Mother began rubbing their bodies with a sack, laying her ear against each chest to see if they were still breathing. She’d made a fire in the middle of the dirt floor and had the ewes cornered tightly in a pen. In between massaging the chilled lambs, she milked the ewes and Freyja fed the little ones with a bottle.
Halfway back to the fence I met Leifur carrying the ewe. Pabbi wasn’t far behind cradling two bigger lambs, with Setta behind him, head high, carrying a lamb the same way she would a pup.
“Gronn,” Freyja cried when Leifur pushed into the barn and laid the limp ewe in front of the fire. “That is my Gronn,” she sobbed.
“Who knows how long she was buried,” Leifur panted, rubbing his snow caked mitt across his nose.
Mother scrambled on her knees, looking into the ewe’s eyes. She pressed Gronn’s chest then rotated her legs to get her blood circulating.
“I think she is too far gone, but I will try.”
“Good girl,” I said, taking the limp lamb from Setta, and began rubbing it vigorously.
The longer it took, the less chance we’d have of finding animals that could be saved, but we continued checking the pen until every foot of snow was stamped down. It was so unpredictable. Some of the lambs that were buried revived quickly, while others—those brought to the barn first, the ones that we thought for sure would live—inexplicably died.
I pieced together what had happened from their solemn conversation. The scent of lambing had brought a pack of starving coyotes to the barn, scattering the pen of yearlings in all directions. A good six inches of snow had fallen by then, so Pabbi and Leifur were on their way from the house to check the new lambs when they heard Setta’s bark. Leifur ran back to get the gun. Pabbi arrived in time to see Setta chase down the leader. A furious fight ensued. The sheep were so frightened they’d pushed down the gate, clambered over one another, then run toward the bush with two coyotes on their tails. More were yipping out of sight.
Setta followed the sounds of bleating death cries into the bush with Pabbi and Leifur not far behind. She bowled over two young coyotes trying to drag away a dead ewe, easily overpowering the bigger of the two. Leifur took careful aim, killing the female that stood watching. Setta, her hatred strong, used her powerful jaws to squeeze the life out of the male she had pinned to the ground.
This had all happened around the time I was sitting in Bergthora’s kitchen. They’d spent the next hour trying to herd the young females out of the bush, a difficult task since the traumatized animals had no one to follow—their young leader, a tall graceful long-legged animal that Pabbi counted on in times like this, had been an early casualty.
“Of all the ones to kill,” he said.
By then, the blizzard was in full force. Pabbi and Leifur gave up on the sheep in the bush, turning their attention to the ewes with newborn lambs in the maternity pen. They were quickly being buried as they hunkered down over their lambs.
Amma always said it was easy to keep livestock alive if they were housed dry and out of the wind. On her suggestion, Pabbi had stacked hay to block the snow and wind that came from the west, creating a large cove, the perfect place to winter the ewes. Amma was there watching over the ones close to lambing.
“Two sets of twins and triplets. All are doing fine. A few more will lamb tonight,” she said. “Tell your father I will take care of it.”
Thinking Solrun and Lars would be growing restless, I went in before everyone else to re-heat supper. The two of them were asleep on the sofa.
The storm continued for another day and night.
When the skies finally cleared, three feet of snow had fallen. On the first full, clear day afterwards, the sun was downright hot, causing the snow to melt so fast on the rooftop it created a shower along the eaves. We put milk pails over our heads before running in and out of the door.
That week, the temperatures stayed above freezing and as the snow shrank it began revealing the extent of the storm’s destruction. All but two of the newborn piglets had died, but fortunately the sow was fine. The chickens all survived, but the stress of the storm set their egg production back by weeks. The heifer calf born right in the middle of it all ended up with badly frozen ears. She turned into a pretty good cow, but seeing her in the pasture in years to come, ears burned off all the way to the cartilage, was a constant reminder of that early May storm that killed more than half our sheep.
“Your Mama does not need reminding of the ones she could not save,”
Pabbi said, explaining why, after Mother had done all that she could, she refused to go back to the barn. He told Leifur this as they loaded the stiff bodies piled outside the door onto the stone boat. I expected Freyja to start crying when she saw Gronn but she didn’t. She stood there with a blank expression, soaking up the scene in such a way that it occurred to me years later that the storm may have damaged more than our flock.
Leifur stayed behind with his gun after they’d unloaded the carcasses at the west end of the farm. He waited until well past dark, but was only able to shoot one coyote when a pack came to scavenge the remains.
Pabbi’s depression didn’t set in until a week later when the snow was almost completely melted and it seemed we couldn’t walk anywhere without finding another dead sheep. He didn’t speak for two days after discovering the ram where it had suffocated after wedging itself between two trees in the bush.
If I could pick the day that our lives took a nasty turn that lasted nearly a decade, it began with that storm.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Youth is hasty.
—The Saga of Harald Hardrada
The month of May, I always think, is a great trickster. A half dozen heart-soaring days early on always leading us to believe that summer has arrived. The buds on the trees open, the south-facing wild chokecherries blossoming along the edge of the marsh where the frogs bubble to the surface and begin singing.
But then without fail, the skies cloud over and we smell the rain coming. There’s no wind at first as the fat drops splatter against the ground, then the downpour comes, eventually easing off into a drizzle. Ten degrees on the thermometer in May is bone-chilling; colder than ten degrees any other time of year.
Often this weather lasts two weeks, saturating everything it touches, and our world droops under the weight of it. But then finally the clouds dissipate, and the sky turns a shade by which all things blue are measured as everything comes to life.
Be Still the Water Page 27