Be Still the Water

by Karen Emilson

  “Ella, it is the most terrible thing to see,” Gudrun said as she led J.K.’s mother to the front room. “Water was splashing on the verandah.”

  She said that fortunately J.K. had already moved the sheep and cows to higher ground, but he’d had no idea that the storm would push the water all the way to the house. They’d moved everything they could upstairs but feared if the pounding continued, the foundation might not hold.

  The men returned hours later, soaked. The Kristjanssons stayed with us two nights until the storm ended. The next morning J.K. and Pabbi rode off before breakfast to assess the damage.

  Leifur, Freyja, Thora and I snuck off to the west, further onto the ridge where it was high, to see for ourselves. Shielding our eyes against the reflection off the water, we saw the barn pushed off its foundation, wedged up against the bush behind the house. Most of the fence posts were beaten out of the ground and scattered like match sticks. Where the water had risen up, the ground was washed bare except for debris—sand, rocks, branches, dead fish—even a few lost, tangled nets.

  We were mesmerized by the destruction. Had I not seen it firsthand, I never would have believed the lake could do so much damage.

  “The house will be fine,” J.K. told Gudrun when they returned. “Some water damage to the foundation but it is easily fixed. The barn was destroyed, but we expected that might happen. We will rebuild on higher ground. The lake is back to where it was before the storm, about 25 yards from the house. The low spots are full of water, but now it should dry up quick.”

  Relieved and thankful, we decided that since it was Sunday we would all go to church. It was a glorious morning as we piled into the wagons. The sun shone bright, sparkling in the wet grass. We pointed to every blossoming Saskatoon bush we passed, making a mental note where they were along the road. Soon the leaves would be thick and we wouldn’t see them again.

  “Look Amma,” Solrun said, “your favorite spot.”

  Amma wagged her head and a few unintelligible words stammered out. When Mother wasn’t looking, Leifur snuck her a pinch of snuff.

  “Full moon tonight so the weather should be in our favor for a whole month,” J.K. said.

  As usual, he was right. As the decades passed we came to understand the weather. High water every ten years or so in the early spring left behind valuable nutrients on our wild hay fields, and when they dried up—and they always did by July—the crop had improved over the year before. We were quickly integrating ourselves with elements that had ebbed and flowed for centuries.

  Neighbors were standing outside the church in three clusters, the men and women who arrived early were in two groups, while the latecomers were standing together. No one was smiling.

  “I wonder how Bensi made out in the storm,” Mother said, voice softening.

  We all looked at Bensi who was helping his wife down from their wagon. He lived as close to the lake as Kristjanssons, and the Siglunes creek fractured his land. We hadn’t seen him all winter. In fact, the last time was right after Amma’s stroke. I was curious to see how he would react seeing us today.

  Pabbi parked the wagon alongside the others and we jumped down. Asi was sitting—something he seldom did—with Olafur standing beside him, and Oli’s hand rested sympathetically on his back. Signy looked stricken. She held the baby, and when our eyes met she looked away.

  When Oli saw us he came over quickly.

  “Pjetur, J.K.,” he said, shaking their hands. “Glad you are here and that everyone is safe.”

  “What is wrong?” Pabbi asked.

  Oli inhaled and his eyes went to his shoes as he struggled to find the words.

  “I have terrible news to report,” he said. “There has been an accident.”

  We waited as he steeled himself, taking a deep breath.

  “Magnus’s sons drowned yesterday.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  If a man’s time has not come, something will save him.

  —Fóstbroeðra Saga

  I didn’t look back.

  There were no thoughts, only the sound of my breath echoing in my ears. Water splashed against my legs. My feet pounded into the soft ground. Mother called my name but like a deer, I was already gone.

  The heart is an amazing muscle. It works so much more efficiently than the brain. Once it receives the signal that you need to go, it takes you there, pumping blood, moving oxygen from the lungs to the legs. Set the rhythm and you can go for miles, for as long as you need.

  All was quiet in the mill yard. I ran through the mud, past the barn and the cottage, to the house. I choked back a sob at the sight of the ramp that jutted off to the side of the stairs. It was nearly finished. Two hammers lay on the ground beside a pail of kicked-over nails.

  I pushed open the door.

  Bergthora and Magnus were sitting at the table. They looked up at me, expressionless, tired and ancient, as if nothing in their world would ever be right again.

  I went over to Bergthora, who stood up and wrapped her arms around me. Over her shoulder I saw Magnus staring at his folded hands. The house was never so silent.

  “I nearly lost all three,” he whispered.

  I pulled away to look into Bergthora’s eyes. She motioned toward the front door. I ran down the hallway and flung it open, stepping out onto the verandah that overlooked the water. He stood, legs wide, arms crossed, staring defiantly at the choppy lake. There are no words to describe the tumble of emotions I felt when I saw his hair blowing back in the wind, the elation after imagining the whole way there how life might be to never see him again.

  “Bjorn?”

  He swiveled at the waist; it wasn’t until I saw his face, older than it had been days before, that I was convinced my eyes weren’t playing tricks. He didn’t acknowledge me, only turned back to face the water.

  My knees wobbled. I nearly collapsed against the railing but held on, catching my breath and balance. “I am so sorry,” was all I could say.

  We stood there in silence for the longest time, listening to the wind.

  “I tried to save them,” he whispered, voice broken. “They are still out there. It will take days until they come up and I cannot go inside until they do.”

  Bjorn tells me what he can.

  Now I see the events unfold.

  The storm had abated enough that Bjorn and Magnus were able to leave the house to assess damage to the mill and store. The lake was still churning but the waves were no longer splashing over the ridge where the house sat like a fortress. A wise decision it was to construct such a house.

  Water lay in all the low spots and the floor of the store was wet, but everything inside was salvageable, as was most of the piled lumber. Only the planks on the ground were swollen. Relieved that the damage was minimal, they decided to finish building the ramp. Little else could be done until the lake receded, the ground dried up and the workers returned.

  When they were an hour into it, Bergthora arrived with Magnus’s field glasses.

  “I think they have swamped the boat,” she said.

  Of course Bjorn was quicker than Magnus. He darted to the front of the house. He could see a speck in the choppy waves two miles out and once magnified knew it was Siggi and Arn. The wind still blew hard from the south, pushing them slowly north.

  “Go get Asi,” Magnus hollered.

  Soon Magnus had the Lady Ellen ready to go. They accelerated, pounding through the bitterly cold waves, Magnus at the front holding the glasses, Bjorn and Asi at the stern.

  The mast had snapped off the little boat and the weight of the sail was pulling it under. Arn was trying to hack it loose. Siggi lay sprawled, arms hanging over the bow. They must have set out from Ghost Island an hour or so before.

  Bjorn readied the lifeboat and the anchor.

  Arn gave up on the sail. He waded back to Siggi, tried to lift Siggi onto
his back, but he was too weak. Arn wrapped the rope around Siggi’s waist and pulled him tight against his back, tying the two of them together.

  “I thought we had them saved, we were right there.”

  The bow of the boat sank. Arn was treading water for the both of them.

  Asi cut the engine and Bjorn threw the anchor.

  “Hold on,” Magnus yelled.

  The lifeboat dropped into the water and Asi and Bjorn scrambled down the ladder. Asi rowed. Bjorn threw a buoy which landed close, but Arn couldn’t grab it. Siggi’s head was dipping in and out of the water.

  “I hollered at him to have faith, to keep treading.”

  Bjorn saw but could not admit Arn’s relief as their eyes meet. He knew what was about to happen but couldn’t stop it.

  You cannot live on an island and not be touched by the sea. Centuries of knowledge had been passed down by his forebears who fished the waters off the coast of Iceland. Bjorn knew in his bones the critical point at which a drowning man, believing he is saved, will weaken.

  “He should have conserved his strength.”

  Arn began swimming toward the lifeboat but Siggi’s weight was pulling him down. A wave came up over his head. He took in a lung full of water.

  Bjorn dove in but when he surfaced, Arn and Siggi were nowhere to be seen. The cold shocked the wind out of him. Asi pointed to the spot they went down. Bjorn dove again. Up and down again. The storm had churned the lake to a sickening brown. He came up and inhaled. He dove down, stayed under. He re-surfaced.

  Magnus was yelling frantically. Not wanting to let his father down, Bjorn dove again.

  This time when he came up, Magnus was yelling at Asi, “Save my Bjorn!”

  Asi reached over the side and strong-armed him against the boat. Bjorn wanted to struggle, to dive down again but he didn’t have the strength.

  “They are gone,” Asi hollered into the wind and waves. “There is nothing more you can do.”

  Bjorn’s forehead rested on my shoulder.

  “I felt a hand,” he whispered. “I went down as far as I could, but couldn’t find them again.”

  He dropped to his knees. “It wasn’t even Arn’s fault,” he cried. “He didn’t even know what we did to Einar.” Face to the sky he let out a fierce wail.

  The wagons arrived a few hours later. First the men came, marching toward the dock with their heads down, carrying nets and poles.

  “The current would have taken them north,” J.K. said as they prepared to launch the skiffs.

  The front door opened then Magnus came heavily down the steps. Without a word he and Bjorn joined the search.

  I was inside with Bergthora when the women arrived. Mother brought Amma, Freyja, Gudrun and Thora. Oli was right behind with his wife, Signy and Bensi’s wife; two wagonloads came from Hayland.

  Pabbi and Oli didn’t go on the lake, they stayed behind. Oli lifted his tool box from the back of the wagon. Pabbi stoked the firebox while Oli carefully chose two of the finest oaks from the pile. Soon there was enough steam, and from the kitchen we heard the whine of the saw as the oaks were sliced into six-foot lengths.

  “First their Mama and now the twins.” Bergthora coughed, bringing a handkerchief to her lips. Her eyes went to Amma in her chair between the kitchen and front room. “No man deserves this much heartache.”

  The women all shook their heads, tsking and muttering in agreement as they began making sandwiches.

  Bensi’s wife was the only one who had the courage to ask what we were all thinking: Why in God’s name would the boys have set out from Ghost Island for home when the lake was so rough? Why not wait another day?

  “They went out three days before the storm to do some work on the cabin,” Bergthora said, shaking her head. “Siggi had pneumonia. I told him not to go.”

  And then a half hour later: “Arn wouldn’t have tried to bring him back unless he needed to.”

  The boats rowed in at dusk.

  Bjorn stayed outside with Leifur and Stefan to build a fire, so Thora and I took food out to them. We young people stayed the night, wrapped in blankets I brought down from the upper bedrooms. We were silent most of the time, staring into the flames.

  “We’ll find them tomorrow,” Leifur said. He added another log to the fire.

  “And if not,” Stefan said, “we will keep looking until we do.”

  Their words sounded forced and hollow. Nothing we said lightened Bjorn’s mood. The back door opened and slammed closed many times and we listened to quiet voices as the last wagon rolled down the lane.

  Eventually, we lay on our sides listening to the coyotes yipping and howling in the distance. I fell into a restless sleep, waking a few times; at dawn, I lay there, realizing Leifur had stayed awake all night to keep the fire going for the rest of us.

  They dragged the lake for three more days.

  On the fourth morning when I went in to get Amma up, I opened her window to the sound of birds chattering and heard, in the distance, the faint sound of the Lady Ellen’s death knell—three long pulls on the horn, a fifteen second pause, three more.

  I wheeled Amma into the kitchen as Mother and Freyja came in carrying the milk.

  “They are found,” I said.

  “Probably washed ashore during the night,” Mother said. “Likely near The Narrows.”

  Now that there was a church at Hayland, we shared a pastor with The Narrows. The day of the funeral he stood in his black robe at the edge of the grassy knoll beside Magnus and Bergthora.

  We didn’t all begin crying at once.

  Bjorn, Leifur, Stefan, Olafur, Asi, and J.K. emerged from the bunkhouse, eyebrows clenched and faces screwed up, carrying the first casket. Pabbi lowered his head.

  I presumed it was Siggi because they laid the casket down beside Runa’s grave. They went back for Arn and we created a large semi-circle around the graves. Everything was so still under the overcast sky that not a sound could be heard except for the wind on water.

  The Pastor went to the head of the graves and opened his Bible. We listened, prayed and sang. A few women cried, including Amma, whose heart always opened up at the sound of a hymn.

  When the Pastor closed his Bible, Bjorn stepped forward and the others followed, grasping the rope handles, carefully lowering each casket into its grave. Mother leaned on Pabbi who wrapped his arm around her shoulder as the pallbearers took turns filling in the graves. Freyja cried in her hands when Asi handed Stefan the shovel. But it was Bjorn and Leifur who finished the job—digging slow and steady, pitching in perfect unison—as the rest of us made our way to the house.

  We’d been talking about the accident and grieving for a week, but the collective mood was definitely lighter now that the worst of it was done. Watching the younger children run and play was a welcome distraction.

  Bjorn stayed as far away from the conversation as he could. He sat building another fire. Seeing he wanted to be alone, everyone drifted away from him. When most were gone, I went to sit beside him. It was early evening so the air was already cool.

  “I cannot listen to it any longer,” he said. “All of them telling Father how sorry they are when I know half of them couldn’t care less.”

  I was stunned.

  “It’s true,” he said. “I’ve seen their jealousy my whole life.”

  “Who?” I asked. “Asi?”

  “No.”

  “Pabbi?”

  “Of course not.”

  “J.K.? Oli?”

  “No.” Bjorn turned to face me. “Bensi and the others. They think we deserve this.”

  “What have they said?”

  “They don’t have to say a word. I can see it when they look at us. They feign sorrow, but really are quite satisfied now that Father has been knocked down a notch.”

  I shook my head in disagreement. All
I saw from everyone was kindness and compassion.

  “Father does not deserve this,” he said. “It is all my fault. First, God punished Siggi by letting Runa and the baby die. Now He’s punishing me for killing Einar. I knew I would have to pay for it someday. I just didn’t expect that Arn and Father would suffer as well.”

  Had I been older, wiser, I would have known what to say, how to shake him out of it, but the truth was I understood his guilt. I felt it also. My cheeks burned with shame knowing that what they did to Einar was my fault, but I was too cowardly to say it out loud.

  The next afternoon I made an arrangement with Thora. The morning after that, once Amma was settled, I went to the mill. I met Bjorn at the barn door.

  “I am here for the job,” I said, catching him by surprise.

  “I don’t need your help,” he said. His eyes were red, swollen.

  “Yes, you do,” I said. “Amma thinks so, too.”

  Truthfully, it was difficult to know exactly what Amma thought when I explained my plan. It was a good sign, though, when Thora happily took the back of the chair and wheeled Amma into the kitchen without her hissing a fit.

  “I am ready to get started,” I said.

  He seemed to lack direction, as if there was a giant fog in front of him, so I started towards the store and he followed, Bergthora watching us from the kitchen window.

  “How many days will you need me?” I asked, pulling open the door. “Five days? Four? Is it normally busy on Friday? I have only been here twice. I think it will be good for me and for Amma too. Freyja is miffed that you didn’t offer her the job, but nothing pleases her right now.”

  “What will Finn say?” he asked.

  “Finn is not my husband,” I said.

  The door had been closed for more than a week so it smelled musty inside. I unlatched the front window then swung it open. I went to all the others and did the same, banging the stuck ones with my palm. “My life is still my own.”