Be Still the Water

by Karen Emilson

  “I love you, Asta,” he said, kissing me on the cheek. “And I promise I will never let anyone hurt you ever again.”

  “I need time to think,” I whispered.

  “I will wait,” he said.

  He climbed into the car and I went inside and stuck my head into Superintendent Gray’s office. She looked up at the clock then back at her paperwork.

  “Did you have a pleasant evening?” she asked.

  “Yes I did,” I said.

  “Asta.” She did not look up from the desk. “If he is the one you discarded, I am anxious to see who you kept.”

  Thora was still awake. She looked terribly angry. And hurt. As I climbed into bed, she closed her book loudly, let it drop to the floor, switched off the light and turned away from me.

  “How could you do this to Finn?”

  Already exhausted and frustrated and excited and anxious, it took every ounce of energy I had left to formulate a civil reply.

  “He came to ask about Freyja,” I said into the darkness. “That is all.”

  “I saw you hugging him on the street.”

  “I was happy to see an old friend from home.” Hearing the words out loud helped solidify my feelings. “I promised your brother I’d wait for him and nothing has changed.”

  The next day Thora and I stood together on either side of a microscope, taking turns peering through the lens.

  “I am sorry,” she said quietly, one eye focused on the germs wiggling on the glass.

  “I understand,” I said, writing notes in the tablet. “Had I been you, I probably would have thought the same thing.”

  Now I see Bjorn, across town, at the edge of the cemetery, waiting for the service to end. Bjarni makes his way across the grass, frowning at the stranger standing with his arms crossed.

  “Bjarni Thordarson?” Bjorn says.

  “Yes?”

  “I am Bjorn Magnusson from Siglunes. Your brother died at our mill. He was a good worker and well-liked.”

  “Thank you.” Bjarni is cautious.

  “I am looking for Freyja Gudmundsson. Numerous people have seen her with you and I want to know where she is.”

  “Freyja who?”

  “Stop pretending. Why does her name make you so nervous? You have fooled no one, least of all me.”

  Bjarni laughs. “Her sister sent you, didn’t she?”

  “Asta knows nothing about this. Lodge another complaint against her and you will deal with me, understand?”

  “No girl is worth this much trouble,” Bjarni says.

  “This one is.”

  “If this harassment continues, I will notify the police.”

  “Why don’t we go to the police station right now?” Bjorn says.

  Bjarni turns and marches to a motor car. He slams it into reverse then jolts onto the road.

  Bjorn flags down a jitney and climbs in. “Follow him,” he says, pointing at Bjarni’s car speeding down the street, turning at the first intersection. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a large bill. “Don’t lose him.”

  They round corners, quick turns left and right, then onto a side street.

  “Enjoy driving motorcars?” Bjorn asks.

  “Today I do.” The driver laughs.

  “A pleasant way to see the sights.”

  “Why are we following him?”

  “He needs to know I am serious.”

  “I don’t want any trouble.”

  “Neither does he.”

  They settle into the rhythm of the traffic, skirting trolleys and carriages, keeping Bjarni in their sights as he crosses the river.

  “What did the bloke do?” the driver asks. “About a woman, isn’t it? I see a lot of jilted lovers, especially now with the war on.”

  “Well they are not lovers, at least I don’t think so. And nobody has been jilted. But the woman I love has been hurt twice and I’m sure as hell not going to let it happen a third time.”

  “How long do you want me to keep following him?”

  “Until he out-maneuvers you.”

  “All afternoon, then?”

  Two weeks later a letter from Bjorn arrived. I did not want to read it. I didn’t want to know. I took it upstairs and, after staring at my name written in his hand, carefully tracing it with my finger, tucked it unopened in the bureau drawer.

  As the Great War raged in Europe, I thought carefully about everything Bjorn had said during our visit. The promise I’d made to Finn weighed heavily on me. Living with Thora was a constant reminder that hurting him would also mean losing my only true friend. I believed as so often young people do that I didn’t have a choice.

  One afternoon a few weeks later I returned briefly to my room to find a note slipped under the door. The envelope was addressed to me in handwriting I didn’t recognize. I opened it and went straight to the bottom of the page. It was from Bjarni.

  July 13, 1916

  To Ástfriður Guðmundsson:

  I am writing to inform you that I have departed for Iceland. My Afi died last month so there is nothing left for me here in Canada.

  By the time you read this, I will be at sea. This is a tremendous relief for me unless you decide to pursue me across the ocean.

  Freyja came to my apartment one evening so I took her in. She was broken-hearted and said she never wanted to see her beau again. She begged me to keep her presence a secret, fearing that one of you might come looking for her. Doing so caused me a great inconvenience as I was forced to lie to everyone—my friends, co-workers, the Pastor and even my Afi.

  After I fell in love with her I continued with the lie. Freyja feared that your father would never accept me, and if he found her would force her to go home and I would lose her forever.

  You are probably wondering why I have decided to confess. It is time I unburden myself and, considering the lengths you went to, you deserve to know the truth . . .

  I skipped to the final paragraph, and ran downstairs. I caught Superintendent Gray outside her office.

  “What is it?” she asked, seeing immediately that something was wrong.

  I held up the letter.

  “Is this regarding your sister?”

  I was shaking violently. “I need to go right now.”

  “Very well,” she said. “Be careful.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Ill it is to sit lamenting for what cannot be had

  —Völsunga Saga

  All the way there I prayed. The driver stopped at the main entrance then asked if he should wait. I told him no, this would take a while. Clutching the letter, I stepped out of the car. I consulted the small map Bjarni had sketched at the bottom of the page.

  Following the path, I wondered how I was going to find her amongst so many, and then, without warning, with so little time to work out how to react, there she was under a beautiful elm tree.

  Whenever I’d imagined finding Freyja it always was the same. I would see her, call her name, and she would turn. Her mouth would open and delight would spread across her face. She would cry out my name and come running into my arms. All I’d thought about for years was how pleased Mother and Pabbi would be, that Leifur would stop blaming Bensi, the little ones would dance, and Amma might die in peace.

  Now, with the moment in front of me, I resigned myself to the truth that the quest was over. I read the final paragraph again.

  Freyja died on May 12, 1915. Pneumonia. You can check the hospital records at St. Boniface if you like. I arranged to have her buried in the Brookside Cemetery. I am sure you will have no trouble locating her grave. Losing your sister broke my heart.

  Since I have given you what you wanted, I will leave you to grieve in peace and ask that you allow me to do the same.

  Bjarni Thordarson

  Two graves lay side by side. The
one piled with fresh dirt I knew was Bjarni’s grandfather’s. The other to the left of it was sun-bleached and ever so slightly sunken. A wooden cross with ‘Freyja Guðmundsson’ carved into it was pressed into the ground.

  The only comfort I felt as I walked the four miles back to the residence was that all of the headstones surrounding Freyja bore Icelandic names.

  I handed Superintendent Gray the letter. “Please give this to Doctor Bjornsson.”

  Days passed. I remember nothing from that time except lying in bed sobbing. I slept fitfully and finally, on what I believe was the third morning, awoke with an empty mind. I simply couldn’t cry anymore.

  Thora was sitting beside my bed wearing nothing but her underclothes, fanning herself in the July heat. A book rested on her lap and an English dictionary on the bed behind her.

  “How do you feel?” she asked.

  “Hot.” I exhaled, pushing the hair back from my sweaty forehead. “And miserable.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she said.

  I couldn’t stand lying down anymore so I pushed myself up, swinging my legs over so I could sit with my feet touching the cool floor.

  It was so hard to admit what I’d refused to consider for so long.

  “Well at least now we know,” she said calmly, pouring me a glass of water from the pitcher on our night table.

  I was so thirsty I drank every ounce despite the muddy taste.

  Thora delighted in my screwed up face. The book slid from her lap onto the floor.

  “What are you reading?” I asked.

  “The Wanderer by Frances Burney,” she said, picking it up. “The clerk at the bookstore said it was poorly reviewed but I am enjoying it. The heroine finds herself in countless predicaments. She reminds me a bit of you.”

  We both chuckled at that.

  “What have I missed?” I asked, still in a daze from too much sleep.

  “Not much,” she said. “I was worried about you so I asked Miss Gray if I might stay here. She was kind enough to allow it.”

  “You are such a good friend.”

  “No,” she said wistfully, “I am your sister. That is, if you will have me. I know that I will never replace Freyja, but would like to try.”

  The sun rose the next morning then set that evening, just as it had at the farm after Freyja’s disappearance. The world felt different, even though nothing had changed, except now the quest to find Freyja was over. Looking for her had become such a habit it would take a while for me to stop. The worst part, the hardest to get over, was knowing that I’d been right there—right there—on the other side of the river the day she died.

  I decided not to tell anyone just yet and swore Thora to secrecy. I would find a way to tell Bjorn and my family once I’d worked through my own grief.

  I never did ask for the letter back. Probably a wise decision. Without it, I could let go of the obsession and instead of pouring over it endlessly, dredging up the pain time and again, I’d simply remember how brightly the sun shone the day I found her resting peacefully.

  When September arrived I threw myself into my final year of studies, determined that if I couldn’t bring Freyja home, I could at least make my parents proud.

  November 27, 1916

  Ásta,

  I cannot remember the last time I wrote.

  With winter nearing, we have nothing to look forward to except depressing skies and wet, shivering cold. I have been careful not to ruin my feet, a soldier is useless otherwise. They do their best to feed us, but it is impossible to quell our hunger. And the noise! The dog-fights overhead and shell-fire are relentless.

  My God how I miss the solitude at home.

  We are finally gaining ground but I overheard the Colonel say we’ve lost thousands of men trying to capture the Regina trench at the Somme. Heat stroke killed some of us. The temperatures are unbearable. Worst ‘tho are the rats, they are huge and come when we are sleeping. We take turns staying awake and one night me and a chum killed 32 of the bastards.

  Colonel Lipsett was so impressed that I was able to pick off a German operating a machine gun, and on the second shot, pierce the casing of the breech-block, that he called me a genius. The strategy seemed obvious to me.

  Did I mention that I took sharpshooter’s training? The Commander assessed the trenches when he arrived here and ours were healthier than most. Lipsett did not want to give me up, but the Major insisted that I go with him.

  A month later I returned to my battalion to find my chum George dead. This saddens me greatly because had I been here, George would still be alive. He was my partner but when I left they replaced me with an idiot who cost them both their lives.

  Now I’m the sharpshooter who travels with the Colonel. It is my responsibility to kill the Germans who so desperately want to kill him.

  Finn

  A letter from Mother arrived the following spring:

  April 17, 2017

  Dear Ásta,

  By the time you receive this you will be studying for your final exams. Good luck dear, I am sure you will do well.

  I considered holding off telling you the following news, but it is inevitable that you find out, so your father and I decided it best you hear it from us.

  Your beloved Amma has died. She was found one morning last week, with a most peaceful look on her face. Her suffering is over. She died knowing that her final act of belligerence kept Leifur from going to war.

  A military man intent on enforcing conscription came to the farm. We decided against your advice and filled out the ballots honestly. I didn’t think it possible that they would find us, but alas, they are desperate for young men.

  It was plain for him to see that Lars is not much use to Pabbi on the farm and while we have grown accustomed to Sólrún stomping around in the brace, to a stranger we must be a sorrowful sight. But I believe it was Amma who forced him take pity on us. By the grace of God, she was home that week while the nurse was away on leave in Brandon.

  The moment Amma saw his uniform she began raving and there was nothing any of us could do to quieten her. Amma overheard many discussions about the war and knew that only weeks ago the Larsons found out that Jon was killed. She grabbed onto Leifur’s arm and would not let go.

  The officer was disappointed but granted Pabbi’s request that Leifur be allowed to stay on the farm. Your brother has grown into an impressive young man, level-headed and strong as the oxen.

  I am distressed to say that conscription has divided our community. J.K. is of the same mind as us - that everyone should do their part, but that unfair hardship should not be placed on any one family. Leifur leaving would certainly have done that to us.

  Which brings me to the next piece of news.

  J.K. received a telegram yesterday. As I understand it, Finn took a bullet to the leg and is recovering in a hospital in England. When he is strong enough, likely by the end of the month, he will be sent home. You have not said what your plans are after graduation so I thought knowing this may help.

  After Amma’s funeral, Magnús handed us her sack of money. Who would have guessed that she had it after all? She gave it to him for safekeeping prior to her stroke with the instruction that half of it be given to Leifur to establish his farm and the other half to our family’s education fund. You will find in the bottom of this parcel an envelope. Leifur insisted that a portion of Amma’s money bequeathed to him be donated to the war effort, so please give it to the IODE on his behalf. He says that the donation makes it easier for him to sleep at night.

  Ási is coping much better. He was a sorry sight when he came to visit your father and they talked long into the night. Whatever Pabbi said to him must have worked because he stopped drinking spirits. The mill is thriving now as is the store.

  Magnús and Bergthora are still in the big house but it saddens me to report that she took to her
bed and we do not expect she will live much longer.

  We buried Amma at the edge of the yard not far from the oak. Setta has taken to lying on her grave and it brings a tear to my eye every time I see this.

  Take care my daughter, Mama

  Every out-of-town nurse had the same dream: that one day she would return to the residence after her shift at the hospital to find a loved one waiting.

  I cried nearly as hard as Thora at the sight of J.K. and Gudrun—J.K. absorbing everything he could about hospital administration from Superintendent Gray; Gudrun seeing us first, smiling wide. Thora flew into her outstretched arms.

  “Asta, you come here this instant,” Gudrun said, waving me into her generous fold.

  Superintendent Gray’s expression held a touch of admiration. “Two of the finest students I have ever taught,” she said. “You should be very proud.” Then she slipped quietly away to leave us to it.

  “Good news,” J.K. said, but he did not reveal it right away. He stood there brimming, waiting for us to plead. We turned to Gudrun but all she did was smile.

  “Telegraph from Finn,” he said, holding up a piece of paper. “He arrives on the train late tonight, so tomorrow we can take him home.”

  They followed us up to our room where it was quiet so we could speak privately. They were as impressed by the electric lighting as we had been. Although our room was a little too warm, and with the window open the noise from the street below was loud, they thought it a pleasant enough place to have spent three years.

  “You have another exam tomorrow?” Gudrun asked.

  The reminder sent a quiver through my stomach.

  They invited us to join them for supper at the café; hard as it was, I declined. Nothing, not even excitement over seeing Finn again, would get in the way of my studying that night.

  “I will come,” said Thora.

  As they stood up to leave, J.K.’s eyes met mine.

  “Thank you for believing in him,” he said quietly, squeezing my shoulder. “It is no secret that I had a difficult time keeping faith, but you never wavered.”