Be Still the Water Read online

  Thora pours herself a mug of coffee from the thermos she brought from home. I am remembering the old days. We no longer cool our coffee in the saucer before drinking it, though some old-timers in the care home still do.

  “Are you hungry?” she asks, leaning across to lift the tray lid. “You probably should eat something.”

  She is right, so I let her push the table to my chest, and she watches as I slowly lift the spoon. It is embarrassing how shaky I’ve become.

  “Oatmeal without raisins, what would our mothers say?” I ask.

  “About this food?” She claps her hands together and throws her head back with delight. “A disgrace. I imagine they’d roll in their graves at the thought of feeding this to anyone.”

  I inhale, joining her in laughter.

  We didn’t have much back then, but one ingredient our mothers put into every meal was pride. Even the simplest foods tasted wonderful. No one ever left the table hungry.

  Now the tears come, now she is here, when I need her the most. Thora pulls a tissue from the box that sits on the window ledge and gently wipes my eyes, then her own. We stare at each other for a long time, until the warm sunshine lulls my mind. I am ready to travel again.

  “Get some rest,” she whispers, pulling the window drape closed just enough. “Everyone will want to visit with you later.”

  * * *

  A week before Freyja nearly drowned, we crossed the lake on the steamship Lady Ellen. We’d lived in Canada for five years by then in the nearby town of Lundi with Mother’s cousin and his family. By 1906 Pabbi had saved enough money that we were ready to farm on our own and he’d claimed a homestead.

  I still remember Mother’s cousin waving good-bye as we set out with everything we owned piled in the wagon, including a pregnant sow, three sheep, and a crate of chickens. Our brother Leifur led our shorthorn cow named Skalda the whole way. The oxen pulled our wagon overland through the Dog Creek Reservation and we boarded the Lady Ellen at Chief’s Point for the short ride to Finn’s parents’ homestead. It was customary for immigrants already established to take in the new, and since they would be our closest neighbors, they were expecting us.

  It was impossible to hide our awe as we stood on the beach staring at the Kristjansson house, a mansion compared to anything we’d ever seen in Iceland or in Lundi. It was a white, two-story frame home that had gables, shutters, and a covered verandah. The front door and windows faced the lake like a large, welcoming smile.

  “My God,” Mother said.

  Pabbi didn’t say a word. This was not unusual as Mother did most of the talking. You see, Pabbi had a lisp. He told us it had made him a target in school and had been a handicap during his teenaged years. A diminutive chin and prominent nose hadn’t helped him win friends either. But Pabbi’s strong belief in God and civility meant he never reacted in anger. Mother was the only girl who’d seen into his heart and he loved her dearly for it, and didn’t mind her talking for him.

  Finn’s father, Jonas Kristjan Kristjansson, shook Pabbi’s hand in greeting. If ever there was a man who inspired respect, it was J.K. He looked you square in the eye while speaking in a convincing, baritone voice. “Here along this beautiful lake, anything is possible.” It was so convincing, we had no choice but to believe him. He dressed more like a shopkeeper than a farmer and his eyes gleamed at the prospect of a debate. Though he was two inches shorter than Pabbi, his reputation for measured argument lifted him above most men.

  “I have named the place Vinðheimar,” J.K. said, sweeping his arm from the lake across the land to show everything that was his. This was a wind-swept place, so it was suitably named.

  Father liked him instantly, so Mother did too. One certain thing about Pabbi was his ability to read people. It was a hard-learned skill from childhood, to sense sincerity and kindness in others. Only once did his instincts fail him.

  “I’d like to introduce my wife, Ella Leifursdóttir,” Pabbi said.

  “My pleasure,” J.K. said as he appraised the two of them. Mother lowered her eyes and nodded in respect. She had warned us against presumptuousness. J.K. was welcoming, but it was an unspoken rule that usually the woman of the house would decide if visitors stayed and for how long. If the husband disagreed, he would not say a word until the travelers were well on their way.

  Both Pabbi and Leifur stood with hands on hips. Father and son, they looked at each other and grinned. The two of them were, as they say, cut from the same piece of cloth. Our Amma Ástfriður—Pabbi’s mother—stood the same way, but her bias ran in the opposite direction. Fortunately, we all had Mother, the seamstress who drew us together with her fine, optimistic hand.

  When Pabbi introduced Amma, she stepped forward to shake J.K.’s hand, a most peculiar habit for a woman in those days, one that shocked more men than it pleased.

  He looked amused. “Come with me,” he said.

  So like a band of gypsies we followed, leaving our possessions on the beach for the time being.

  There was a tiny old woman sitting in a rocker on the verandah knitting socks. She looked up expressionless as we climbed the stairs.

  “Mother,” J.K. said, introducing us but allowing her to introduce herself. She didn’t drop a stitch while stating her full name and where she was from in Iceland—“Sólveig Jónasdóttir frá Skagafjörður”—another custom my people brought across the ocean.

  “I have a cousin there,” Amma said and the words flew between them, in Icelandic of course, since none of us except J.K. and his wife spoke English.

  What is that smell? I wondered.

  The sound of cheerful music greeted us as J.K. pulled open the door. That is the first time I met Thora, playing the organ.

  We came in between the front room and kitchen. Considering that six children lived there, two of them toddlers, the house was meticulous. Quilts hung neatly over the chesterfields and chairs and all the spines were perfectly edged in the bookcase that ran the full length of one wall. Footsteps raced across the floor above, then two children younger than us came bounding down the stairs, halting the moment they saw us. Both shyly looked away in search of their mother.

  J.K.’s wife stood wearing her Sunday dress under a spotless apron in front of the most impressive stove we’d ever seen. J.K. beamed at the sight of her as she came around the length of a monstrous table.

  “Gudrun,” J.K. said with a flourish, “these are our new neighbors, Pjetur and Ella Gudmundsson.”

  “Velkommin,” Gudrun said. She wiped her hands on the apron then pulled each one of us into a warm hug, kissing us on both cheeks. The only thing sharp about Gudrun was her mind and, when necessary, her tongue. Everything else was rubenesque, hair neatly twisted into a bun, hands soft, hips full. Behind the small, round spectacles her gray eyes sparkled. When she spoke in her soft voice she seemed to consider every word carefully. I learned through the years that Gudrun was not a woman to be trifled with and only once did I see someone try.

  “Ella,” she said as she embraced Mother, kissing her, holding both Mother’s hands, and staring deeply into her eyes as if reading her past and future all in an instant.

  Mother and Gudrun were in many ways opposite. Short and thin, Mother did everything quickly. She frequently spoke without thinking until Pabbi calmed her down. Her optimism was infectious and it was quite unsettling for us on those occasional days when Mother’s thoughts went inward and she did not speak.

  “What are you baking?” Freyja asked, breaking the spell between the two women.

  “Yeast-risen bread. You have never tasted it?” Gudrun asked.

  Freyja shook her head.

  “Well come sit down then,” she said, leading Freyja gently by the shoulder around the end of the table bench. “It is time we all eat.”

  The food packed for us the day before was long eaten. Mother clasped her hands together and bowed her head slightly
in gratitude. “We do not want to impose,” she said.

  “Nonsense,” Gudrun said as she poured coffee into fine china cups.

  It was a perfectly timed dance between the two of them and we knew better than to interrupt.

  “When we came here there was no house so, by the grace of God, the neighbors took us in,” Gudrun said.

  “Very kind of them.”

  “And we would like to offer the same, that is if you find our home acceptable.”

  “My goodness yes,” Mother said.

  And that is how it was settled. We would live with them that summer.

  Thora and I were equally excited to meet. We were both fourteen years old and our friendship was instant. She was a pretty, solemn, middle-child who, I was to learn, was easily crushed by words. She listened with her eyes so, if I wanted an opinion, I had to squeeze it out of her. She stood back allowing me to take the lead, quite a novelty since I too was accustomed to following.

  Gudrun cut the bread into thick slices then placed it on the table. I couldn’t pull my eyes away. None of us could. As we chatted, we kept going back to the bread, watching the steam rise up as we waited for Leifur and Finn who were bedding our livestock in the barn.

  “Langamma,” Gudrun called, “it is time to eat.”

  I looked over my shoulder at the old woman in the corner spinning fleece into wool—J.K.’s grandmother, a sinewy knot of ancientness, stoop-shouldered with a twist of gray hair at the back of her head.

  “Nei,” she said quietly.

  “Are you sure?”

  No answer, just the whir of the wheel and treadle.

  The door opened and the boys came in, finding seats across from one another. Our family was on one side, theirs on the other.

  “Langamma would rather spin than eat.” Gudrun tsked as she sat down.

  “Not our Amma,” Leifur said. “She doesn’t even know how to spin.”

  Amma stopped considering the bread long enough to stare at him.

  “That is untrue,” she said, lifting her chin. “I can spin and knit, but choose not to. I am afraid I would put the rest of you to shame.”

  Now would be a good time to tell you about our Amma Ástfriður, or “Freda” as the English like to say. Apparently, she was a handsome woman. Men said so all the time, but all I saw were the age spots on her wide, strong hands and the deep lines that creased her striking blue eyes set beneath straight, thick, dark brows. She often used those eyes to her advantage. She took Mother’s suggestion that we leave Iceland and convinced Pabbi with the intensity of a hurricane that his past needed sweeping away and America was the place to do it. Once Amma was moving in a certain direction, there was no stopping her. Most people would shake their heads and say that they’d never met anyone quite like her.

  I was named for her because I was cursed with those same eyes. Sometimes Mother said I was exactly like her, which left me wondering if that was a good thing or not.

  J.K. held out his hands and we all joined together, bowing our heads. He gave thanks the way it should be done, thorough and ardent, his clear, deep voice so pleasing I imagined God must have liked it very much.

  There were no disappointments that afternoon, certainly not in tasting the bread—which we gobbled down—nor in the conversation led by Gudrun who filled us in on what it was like living along the lake.

  “Well,” J.K. said as he finished his second cup of coffee. “Shall we see if your quarter section is acceptable?”

  “Sections,” Amma corrected, as we all stood up. “I have one as well.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Ill is the lot of him who has an ill name.

  —Grettir’s Saga

  Pabbi was in a jovial mood as we set out. There was no need to hitch the oxen to the wagon as our farm was so close.

  “You must walk a piece of land to get a feel for it,” J.K. said, leading the way across the sandy pasture where a line of freshly sheared sheep grazed, along a trail toward a thick line of bush.

  “As beautiful as this place is, we cannot hope to succeed without a vision of the future,” he said. “Men who come here with trifling ambitions leave disheartened, not realizing they defeated themselves.”

  If his intention was to create a wonderful first impression of our new home, then he was most successful. I remember every step of that walk and whenever I hear the words ‘inspired beauty’ my mind goes back to that day.

  Picture it: a cloudless sky with a peaceful breeze, the delicious feel of warm sun on our skin, turning hot as the day wore on, the sweet smell of grass and fertile soil, still damp from light rain the night before.

  Thora giggled as we joined hands. Killdeer chicks ran ahead on the path, veering off into the tall grass while their mothers squawked, trying to distract us, letting one wing flop down to the ground so that we’d chase after her instead. Of course we children knew better, having learned this trick while living in Lundi, and took off ahead of our parents, trying to catch the fluffy chicks.

  Walking with Amma, Mother’s head tilted to hear the conversation between Pabbi and J.K. but she still watched us, as mothers always seem able to do. Although I was too far away to hear their words, Amma’s mouth was moving since, as usual, she was talking up a storm.

  Freyja climbed onto my back and wrapped her arms around my neck. “I love you, Asta,” she said into my ear.

  The sound of the lake lapping sleepily against shore grew distant as we neared the bush and a whole new, dark and mysterious world appeared. Finn and Leifur rushed ahead until something in the grass startled them. Finn bent down to lift a garter snake by its tail high in the air, laughing as it wound itself in a circle trying to bite him, thrashing, until he tossed it, and both the boys watched it slither away. They each carried a buffalo bone and began jousting like Vikings exploring new lands.

  Finn had wanted to bring his gun but Gudrun had forbidden it, to mother’s relief. But as we stood there at the edge of the trees waiting for our parents, listening to the rustle of something unseen making its way through the forest, I wished he’d brought it along. The boys invaded the darkness without hesitation, stepping over deadfall, ducking their heads as they pushed away branches while we girls waited. There was, of course, nothing to fear.

  As our parents neared I heard J.K. say, “We decided to leave this bush as the divider between my quarter section and yours. To their credit, the settlers before you cleared a fair bit.”

  We followed the path, wide as two wagons, through the bush then came out on the other side. J.K. pointed north, explaining that the trail ahead continued all the way to The Narrows and it separated the east and west quarters of the section.

  “This is your land,” J.K. said to Amma, pointing to the right.

  Pabbi unfurled his map and we all craned our necks to see it. We were on a point of land surrounded by water on three sides. He looked up from the map and pointed. “And this is mine?”

  Our eyes settled on a wide meadow, tall grass as far as we could see. The wind pushed it in waves, and the only interruption was a little shanty off to one side near the trail.

  “One mile square,” said J.K.

  Pabbi’s expression turned quickly to disappointment. “So many trees. How will we make hay?”

  “Just beyond those trees is some of the best hay land you will ever find.”

  Into the trees we went, following a century-old buffalo path that led west to the hay land. Being in the bush with our parents made it less frightening and, in a way, more beautiful.

  Finn ran ahead but Leifur hung back to pester Amma. She pretended not to notice him jabbing at her.

  “Are you tired, Amma?” he teased. “Do you want me to fetch the wagon?”

  “Bull feathers,” she said. “The day I cannot walk is the day I would rather be dead.”

  “Then catch me,” he said, poking her
then jumping away. She ignored him as he darted back and forth until finally she grabbed his arm, pulling him into a headlock. They’d been doing this since Leifur was a child. We all knew he could easily wrestle free but never did.

  “Say I am the smartest Amma in the world,” she said, rubbing her knuckle on his head. When he refused, she pressed harder until he finally relented. Silly as it was, we laughed every time they did it.

  A quarter mile is not a long distance and soon we were at the edge of another wide meadow, but unfortunately we’d attracted a cargo of mosquitoes along the way. There was no such insect in Iceland and Mother said she could not believe the terrible itch and swelling.

  “If you plan to clear bush, I would suggest you start here then work your way back,” J.K. said, swatting his face. “The sheep and cattle will keep it beaten down after that.”

  We were so preoccupied with the swarming pests that at first we didn’t see the sheep grazing in the knee-high grass.

  “How far does my land go?” Pabbi asked.

  “To that knoll. Everything on the other side belongs to our neighbor.”

  It took a few moments for his words to sink in.

  “So those are his sheep.”

  “Correct.”

  “On my hay field?”

  “Correct again,” he said.

  “What sort of man allows his sheep to graze another man’s land?” he asked.

  J.K. sighed. “Bensi Solmundsson from Skógafoss. He came here the year before us.”

  Pabbi looked at Mother; a terrible realization passed between them. Amma was equally shocked.

  “I was not aware he came here,” Pabbi said, steadying his voice.

  “Do you know him?”

  Pabbi’s face hardened. “If it is the same man.”

  My memory went back to the morning we left Iceland. As we stood for the last time in front of the sod house we shared with Mother’s family, waiting as she bid good riddance to it, Pabbi had issued us a strict warning: