Be Still the Water Page 4

  “Never speak of our difficulties here again,” he said, looking at each of us children in turn. Hanging our heads, we quickly agreed. He needed a fresh start and had no choice but to entrust his secret to us. Then he’d looked at Amma and I’d seen his worry. Amma was known to speak impulsively.

  “Mother?” he’d cautioned.

  She cocked her head. “Yes?”

  It was always like that between them. There would be an argument, an impasse, and then finally one of them, usually Pabbi, would give in. But not that time.

  “Do you think I am an imbecile?” she finally said. “Mention what happened in Sleðbrjot? Never.”

  Pabbi startled me back to the present. “So this is how it will be?”

  “I am afraid so,” J.K. said, pointing at a wisp of smoke rising up from where Bensi’s house lay hidden in the dense bush. “Bensi is the sort of man who will steal your hay then try to sell it back to you. There is no reasoning with a man like that. All you can do is outsmart him.”

  “Then that is what we will do,” Amma said.

  “The air at Lundi was the freshest I ever smelled,” Father said, “but here—” He took in a deep breath, and we started walking back through the trees. Everyone opened up their lungs as far as they could to inhale. Breathing wasn’t something I’d ever thought about until that day, but after that, no matter where I was, I could close my eyes and remember the song of the meadowlark, the breeze on my face, and the intoxicating air at the farm.

  “Photosynthesis,” Finn announced. “It is a chemical process that trees use to convert carbon dioxide into sugars using the sun. Oxygen is the waste product and that is what we need to breathe.”

  “And because of the abundant trees—” J.K. said.

  “The air is full of oxygen,” Finn added, looking pleased with himself. “So it is instinct to want to suck in as much as we can.”

  “Literature, science and mathematics,” J.K. said. “Classes will resume in our kitchen when harvest is done, and your children are welcome to attend. I have applied to the province that our community build a school, but until then, I will ensure that the children who want an education shall receive one.”

  This pleased Mother and Pabbi, but Amma’s mind was clearly still on Bensi’s sheep.

  “Should we graze that land,” she asked, pointing back over her shoulder, “make hay on my meadow instead?”

  “Even if you can spare one of the children to shepherd every day,” J.K. said, “if the coyotes are hungry a child won’t dissuade them.”

  I shuddered. Old Uncle Ásgeir had warned us about wild animals in the new world, the likes of which did not exist in Iceland.

  “I will take the gun,” Leifur said cheerfully as we emerged from the bush, tramping across knee-high grass. Our thoughts turned to the squared-off log house on Amma’s quarter. The settlers who’d built it had left without closing the door and had taken the glass windows, so barn swallows were flying in and out.

  As we stepped inside, the birds dove in an attempt to scare us away from their mud nests stuck near the ceiling.

  “I hoped to never see this again,” Mother sighed as she stared up at the sod roof then at the dirt floor. It reminded us all of the house we’d left in Iceland.

  Amma was not pleased. She stood with her hands planted firmly on her hips.

  “What happened to them?” she asked. “Freeze to death?”

  J.K. explained that the two brothers who’d homesteaded here had decided more money could be made building roads.

  “Bachelors,” Amma muttered. “No wonder it’s in such a state.”

  Mother peered out the front window. “Are those fruit trees?”

  “The bachelors planted them,” said J.K.

  We waited as Mother paced the floor, assessing the place.

  “There is no bush to the east so we will enjoy the morning sun,” she finally said.

  “And the breeze will be cool in the afternoon,” Pabbi added.

  J.K. stood in the middle of the floor. “New windows, fix the door, add a large stove and it will be quite comfortable.”

  “As a barn,” Amma interrupted, shaking her head. “We cannot live here.”

  Pabbi cleared his throat. He did not want anyone to know that Amma had lived quite well in Reykjavík and the sale of her city home had paid for our passage here. She often told us that she had a sack full of money stashed somewhere and was prepared to spend it.

  “First we will build Ella’s house,” Amma said. “Then in a few years we will build mine.”

  “Freda—” Mother began, but Amma was already shaking her head.

  “Alright, then I will build my house first and whoever wants can come live with me,” she said.

  We children began cheering, jumping up and down.

  And that is how it was decided that Mother would get a new house.

  We children stayed behind examining an old pot and utensils left by the bachelors and poking our heads through the window openings. Finn and Leifur found two long sticks and started jabbing at a nest. Within a few moments it somersaulted to the ground, spilling out four chicks. Dazed and half-dead from the fall they let out a few squawks then grew quiet. Morbid curiosity drew us all close and we stood staring at their rubbery transparent bodies, all blue-veined and bulgy-eyed. Every bit of energy went into their beating hearts, overly large and thumping hard in their chests.

  By the time we realized what Finn was about to do it was too late.

  A second later, Leifur raised his foot to stomp on the other chicks.

  “Stop it,” I screamed, but his foot came down again to make sure the birds were dead.

  “If we don’t kill them then they will come back to nest,” Finn said. “You will be overrun in no time.”

  Freyja started crying. Finn picked up one of the limp birds and dangled it in front of her until she ran out the door. He turned to me, bringing the bird close to eye level and I stood there until I couldn’t stand it any longer. Forgetting the first rule of playing with boys—never let them see your fear—I ran out, screaming for Mother.

  Thinking something terrible must have happened, she reeled around.

  “They are killing the baby birds,” Freyja cried.

  “I am tired of your hysterics,” she scolded, waving an angry finger.

  “But Mama—”

  “Hush.”

  “But they—”

  “There are too many birds.”

  “It is so cruel,” I said coming to Freyja’s defense.

  “There is no point, Asta,” Mother sighed. “Boys do what their friends do regardless of what we say.”

  “But you can make them stop.”

  “I cannot force empathy on them, they must learn that on their own,” she said.

  Father and J.K. were deep in conversation and Amma was leaning in so that she wouldn’t miss a single word.

  “The well is over there,” J.K. said pointing to a dark patch of grass not too far from the shanty. “I have tasted the water and it is exceptional.”

  We walked across Amma’s land until we came to the end of it, then started back in the direction of J.K.’s house, this time across the open prairie leading to the lake.

  “How many sheep can we graze on Mother’s quarter?” Father asked.

  “At least 100.”

  Our parents beamed. ‘Paradise’ was one of the first English words we learned.

  “How I wish my Freyja were here,” Mother whispered, looking up at Pabbi. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder, squeezing her in close.

  “Soon,” he said. “We will send for your sister very soon.”

  A week later, on the morning Freyja nearly drowned, our parents stood on the dock waiting as the Lady Ellen blew its horn and turned into the bay. It would take them to The Narrows where J.K. and Gudrun woul
d buy a few supplies and introduce them to others in this growing community.

  “Do not eat anything,” Mother said before they left.

  “Do not touch the gun,” Pabbi told Leifur.

  “Do not go in the water,” Amma warned.

  They had not cautioned against going sailing, but as we sat there waiting for their return, I was overwhelmed with guilt.

  “Remember,” Leifur scowled as we watched the Lady Ellen chugging into view. “Don’t say one word.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  For with law shall our land be built up and settled,

  and with lawlessness wasted and spoiled.

  —NJÁL’s Saga

  Mary Strong’s family has returned. I am jarred awake by the flop-drag-flop of a teenager’s tennis shoes across the floor and the sweet, clear voice of the two-year-old girl holding her hand. A month ago these sounds were annoying, but now they serve as a reminder that the world will continue on long after I am gone.

  “Shhhh,” Mary’s daughter says to them. Embarrassed, the teenager sees I have opened my eyes and looks away self-consciously. I would too, if my hair looked like hers. Permed like a poodle, it is ridiculous.

  I chuckle to myself. More likely she is made uncomfortable by the sight of me. Crumpled old crone, legs bare, misshapen feet that have walked more miles than hers ever will. Better to look away than stare like the two-year-old who holds a homemade card to her chest.

  Thora waves to the little one. She stares back wordlessly, her intense black eyes framed beautifully by raven straight hair clipped even with her chin.

  The teenager startles when she sees the giant picture of Jesus. She pokes her mother in the arm and they both whisper and giggle. The two-year-old is too short to see Him. Thora coaxes a wave from the toddler before the teenager lifts her up, crushing the card.

  “Why are they called tennis shoes?” I ask. “Nobody plays tennis.”

  Amused, Thora lays the newspaper on her lap.

  “Running shoes,” she says. “That’s what the kids call them.”

  “She should lace them up,” I say a little too loudly.

  Thora opens her mouth to explain, but I wave it off.

  I know, I know. It is the style. Tell me, when did the world become such a trivial place? Those new, acrylic-rimmed spectacles overpower Thora’s face. I know they are called ‘glasses’ now but I can’t get used to it. Life has changed so much my old brain resists. I despise that I have become intolerant, but cannot help myself.

  “And they are ‘children,’” I remind her. “Kids are baby goats.”

  Thora takes the glasses off, folds the arms. We watch as the two-year-old leans down to slap the card onto Mary’s thigh.

  More people come shuffling up the hallway. A skinny, pigeon-toed teenaged boy wearing a Dog Creek Chiefs baseball cap jams his hands into his pockets and waits for the heavy-set middle-aged man to lead the ancient one into the room. This is a painfully slow process. The old man focuses on each step, pushing a walker, glancing up to see how much farther. The teenager hesitates in the doorway, overwhelmed by all the age in the room. He pokes his head in and brightens when he sees the teenaged girl. Relief. Someone he can relate to.

  I have watched people in hospitals most of my life.

  The middle-aged man has no choice but to acknowledge us, while the old man only pauses to push up his spectacles then continues to Mary’s bedside—and I see it: their whole life together reduced to a final few days.

  “Bet?” I whisper to Thora.

  She frowns and cocks her head, uncertain what I mean. How could she forget? I chuckle to myself. I have accepted the fact my memory is not what it used to be. So should they.

  “The rally,” I hint. “Will she or won’t she?”

  Thora shrugs, taking away all my fun.

  It is an unexplained phenomenon that nurses and hospice workers see, how oftentimes the dying will inexplicably start to feel better, wake up, and sometimes get out of bed when they haven’t done so in days. We call it the rally. It lasts for a few hours, days or sometimes even a week. There is no science behind predicting who will rally and who won’t.

  “She will,” I say, feeling a tug of hope for her husband who’s beside her now. The daughter quickly stands up, takes his arm, and encourages him to sit. He refuses in their mother tongue, Saulteaux. His words are high-pitched, faint. Seventy years of memories have grabbed him by the throat. The children respectfully step back, staring at their shoes. He shakes and tears trickle as he talks to Mary. He wipes his nose with his jacket cuff.

  This reminds me that my days left on earth are limited. My dying wish is to know what happened to Freyja so I can tell my siblings.

  “I need to sleep,” I say to Thora and close my eyes.

  * * *

  Leifur took the lead as we followed the adults to the house, asking questions about their day as if nothing had jolted ours. Our older sister Signy came out onto the verandah and frowned. If she knew we’d been in the boat, she would tell Mother. Older than Leifur by two years, Signy was the compass that kept us all navigating in the right direction. She was beautiful and direct, shockingly hot-tempered, and seldom it was that a boy didn’t look at her twice. She ignored those glances and not one potential teenage suitor ever summoned the courage to pursue her, much to Pabbi’s delight.

  “Must you carry her everywhere?” Signy asked me.

  Freyja annoyed Signy more than the rest of us. Normally Mother would have scolded her for harassing us, but she seemed unusually tired.

  “That is a fine store at The Narrows,” Mother said, handing Signy a bag of coffee, then she thanked her for making supper as the aroma of roasting meat wafted out the door.

  Amma was gay as a schoolgirl, schottisching across the yard with a man half her age on her arm. She and Ásmundur, or ‘Asi’ as he was called, were still laughing at an earlier joke.

  Asi was the ship’s captain. Experienced. Confident. In control. He was rammy as a young ox, thirty-two years old and so full of energy he could barely contain it. He hammered his way into the kitchen, his presence filling every empty inch of the room.

  “Come here, little brother,” he said, pulling Stefan in close for a rough, playful exchange that shook them both. “So what sort of trouble did you get yourself into today?” he asked, eyes smiling. Then he tossed his cap on the floor and ran a thick, calloused hand through his hair.

  “Not much,” Stefan said. “Went in the bush, swam a bit, played on the beach.”

  All true.

  Asi remembered each of us children by name, messing our hair as we walked past. We were delighted when he reached into his pocket then tossed a handful of horehound candies into the air, laughing as we all scrambled to catch them. It has been said that if you treat children with kindness they will think well of you no matter what else you might do. And they say that women are attracted to a certain type of man and there is no changing it. I see now how Amma’s flirting embarrassed Pabbi.

  Subdued, Finn sat down with a book while Leifur fidgeted by the window. Thora came down the stairs with her youngest siblings who wiped the sleep from their eyes.

  The dead giveaway that something was wrong was Freyja’s silence.

  Lying was a terrible sin. A lie by omission made the devil grin. I peeked at Amma, but only for a moment. She sensed something was amiss but did not say a word.

  Thankfully, Asi was distracting everyone. “Did you get all those books unpacked?” he asked Pabbi.

  “They are in the barn.”

  Asi laughed as he shook his head. “If an Icelander ever came without a wagonload of books I’d ask to see his immigration papers,” he said. “Probably be an Irishman.”

  Then he looked at Amma. “So, where is that daughter you promised me?”

  She laughed, eyes sparkling.

  “You don’t ha
ve one?” he said, feigning disappointment. “Too bad, I am looking for a wife. You might want to consider it.”

  Mother rolled her eyes. “There will be no living with her now,” she said under her breath to Gudrun, who chuckled.

  “Do you have any snuff?” Amma asked.

  Pabbi squirmed as Asi quickly took a tin from his pocket, twisted it open and held it out. Amma took a pinch then inhaled it up her nose and he did the same.

  “When will the lumber be ready?” Asi asked as he sat down.

  “In a week,” Pabbi said. “Magnus seems like a fair man to deal with.”

  “He is. And not a bad business partner.”

  Asi explained that the area was expanding. Their freighting contracts were increasing and so was the demand for lumber.

  “Magnus has fifteen men hired at the mill, including his sons,” he said.

  Pabbi was impressed. “Sounds like a solid business.”

  Asi agreed. “I would buy it from him but he wants to give his sons a chance first. The oldest doesn’t seem interested and of the three boys he is the only one with the brains to make a go of it.”

  Gudrun and Mother joined everyone around the table and began passing around food.

  I loved the chatter of young and old, children playing on the floor, meat cooking on the stove, utensils on the hard table, the whir of the spinning wheel, the smell of coffee—those simple comforts that were the backdrop to our everyday lives.

  “Where do you plan to build?” Asi asked, handing a plate of meat to Pabbi.

  “On Mother’s meadow, near the shanty,” he said, forking a piece of mutton onto his plate. “I plan to turn it into a barn.”

  Asi thought carefully. “I don’t like giving another man advice, but during the flood of 1882 that meadow was under water,” he said. “The trail that leads overland to The Narrows divides your quarters and is the start of a ridge. You can barely see it, but your land is higher than Freda’s. The water will never rise there.”

  Pabbi was listening hard. So was Amma.

  “If it were me I would build straight north of here,” he said, pointing his arm like an arrow toward Pabbi’s quarter. “It was never leased until now. Everyone was discouraged by the trees.”