Be Still the Water Read online

  “The baby is breech,” she said quietly to Signy, then told her to retrieve the instruments from the stove.

  “Ella, you must stop pushing,” she said, repeating herself until Mother could focus. “Ella, look at me. I can feel one foot but the other leg must be brought down. Do you understand?”

  Mother clenched through another contraction.

  “Put the rag in her mouth,” she said to me. “Now bite down,” to Mother as she carefully reached inside again.

  “Once I have both feet, you are going to have to push harder and faster than you have ever pushed before, do you understand?”

  Mother’s face was in a knot, teeth clamped down hard on the cloth. She nodded furiously.

  Signy stood ghostlike at the end of the bed, trembling, as she held the instruments. Our eyes met. Sometimes women died during childbirth but, until that moment, we never understood why. Our mother’s stifled, painful screams were something we’d both remember for the rest of our lives.

  Then, finally, we heard a hint of victory in Bergthora’s voice.

  “Hand me the big one with the loops,” she said to Signy, who fumbled, dropping the instrument on the floor. Embarrassed, she scooped it up and ran back to the stove, returning a few moments later.

  “There, there,” Bergthora whispered as her hands moved expertly under the blanket, her eyes never once leaving Mother’s face.

  “Ella, it is time . . . push.”

  Now that I am a nurse, I understand what she was doing. Normally, forceps are used on a baby’s head, but they work just as well on the hips. I am glad I didn’t know then how easily the baby’s head could become stuck.

  “Pjetur,” Bergthora called.

  Pabbi appeared at the door instantly.

  “Asta isn’t strong enough,” she said, motioning for me to get out of the way. Pabbi understood what he needed to do once he saw Mother trying to push herself up on her elbows. He knelt down, wedging his arm and shoulder behind her back.

  That is when Mother changed. She regained her focus as Pabbi’s strength set her determination. She spat out the rag and began pushing. A short time later she gave one final scream and the baby came out in a swoosh.

  The relief was unbelievable. Hearing our joy as Bergthora lifted the crying baby into the air, Amma emerged shakily from her room.

  “I knew it would turn out alright,” she blustered. “That is exactly how Pjetur came into the world. He’s been nothing but trouble ever since.”

  We all laughed, including Leifur, who brought Freyja into the room a few minutes later.

  “A girl baby?” she asked, scrunching up her face. We’d all been hoping for a boy.

  “Now don’t be jealous,” Signy said, pulling Freyja into her arms. “You can still be my baby.”

  Freyja pushed her away so she could come over to pout by me, annoying Signy.

  “You will see,” I whispered in Freyja’s ear, kissing her cheek. “Soon you will love the baby as much as I love you.”

  Bergthora washed and wrapped the child before handing her to Signy, then once again ushered us out of the room. When the afterbirth came minutes later, Mother asked to see it.

  “I had a son born on the train crossing this country, his afterbirth, I don’t know what happened to it,” she said, looking into the pail. “Now he’s gone. I’ve never been superstitious, but . . .”

  Bergthora understood. Most women whose babies she’d helped deliver didn’t dare tempt fate, choosing to dispose of the afterbirth the traditional way. She walked the pail discreetly by us, opened the stove’s firebox and tipping the pail, let the shuddering mass slip into the flames.

  “Now no harm will come to this child,” Amma announced as she took baby Solrun in her arms. “Now that she has a lucky star.”

  Amma made supper that night while she visited with Bergthora as if they’d known each other for years.

  “You have a choice,” Amma said gaily at Mother’s door. “Boiled fish with bread or bread with boiled fish. Which will it be?”

  “I will take the boiled fish and bread,” Mother said. “Can I have a little butter with that? A bit of salt?”

  “Only if I am allowed to put more wood in the stove,” she said. “We are freezing to death.”

  Once we were fed and tiny Solrun was nestled against Mother’s breast, the difficult subject of how Bergthora would be paid was broached. She sensed that we were as hard-pressed as everyone else in the community.

  “If one of the girls can come with me it would be a tremendous help,” she said.

  Mother and Father readily agreed.

  Bergthora looked Signy and myself over, her eyes settling on me.

  “You will need Signy here,” she said wisely. “The young Asta needs to learn. I will bring her back in a month.”

  Parents and children today might find such an arrangement unsettling, but young girls working as domestics is how it was done back then, so to us it didn’t feel strange at all.

  I’d struggled with shyness my whole life, but didn’t dare let on how nervous I felt. Amma must have sensed it though, because the moment we were alone she offered to go in my place. I knew my parents wouldn’t think much of me if I agreed, so I shook my head no. A small duffel was packed containing a change of clothes, and I waited solemnly until the storm lifted.

  The following morning at daybreak I followed Pabbi and Bergthora out the door without looking back. The sky was tinted pink and all was still except for a slight breeze that came from the west, bringing a hint of warmth with it. Bergthora needed no help mounting the horse, but Pabbi had to lift me up. I slid into the saddle directly behind her and grabbed onto her buffalo coat.

  “It will be alright, Asta,” Pabbi said softly. “Mind what Bergthora says, learn what she has to teach, and we will see you again soon.”

  As Bergthora turned the horse and we set out toward the lake, bells jingling, I looked back to see Pabbi standing in front of the house, surrounded by blue-tinged drifts, the sun’s golden reflection bouncing off our kitchen window. The giant oak towered overhead, its branches heavy with snow.

  Little did we know that it would be months before I would see Eikheimar and my family again.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Many hands make light work.

  —Grettir’s Saga

  I sense that my sister Solrun is nearby.

  I open my eyes and slowly focus on activity in the hallway. A nurse walks briskly from the station toward the care home, pushing open the heavy metal door. Behind it is where all the old people exist, sitting on well-worn chairs in tiny rooms, surrounded by the essentials: a wool blanket from the old country, tin of snuff, shoe horn, cane, thick socks, books, peppermints, and photographs that when thumbed through, jostle into view decades of memories.

  The front door opens and in walks Solrun. I am not surprised. It always was like that between us. At first I ignored the serendipitous moments, but then, as we grew older, I realized that I always knew where she was, how she felt. I pointed this out to her once but she thought it all coincidence.

  The day after Freyja disappeared, Solrun climbed onto my lap and whispered fearfully, “Asta, there is a pain in my heart.” All of us were hurting terribly, but poor little Solrun thought she was getting sick again.

  Today she carries a baking pan covered with a tea towel. She wears a new yellow cardigan. Good for her. She is a frugal and dutiful wife who has given her whole life to her family and the farm. She’d rather do without than live with debt. It was every farmer’s dream, to find a woman like her.

  I know even before the sweet smell of warm cinnamon wafts into the room what is hidden under the cloth. Every woman has a signature dish, one that took years to perfect. Solrun’s cinnamon buns won first prize at the Lundi Fair so many years in a row, that she thought it boastful and stopped entering.

  She
is already smiling at me, looking the same as when she was a girl. Some women do have the remarkable ability of remaining young at heart and she is one of them.

  She stops to offer encouragement to Mary’s family and holds out the pan, lifting the cloth. They are already cut so it is easy to lift them out and she hands one to each of them. They are nodding in thanks, glad to lick the sweet goo from their fingers as they eat. It is obvious by the way they laugh that she knows them well.

  Solrun leans over Mary’s bed to say hello before coming over to kiss my cheek. Oh, and I should probably mention she still has a limp. I barely notice it anymore but I am certain others do.

  “How are you today?” she asks.

  “Nice sweater,” I say.

  “This old thing? I’ve had it for years. Would you like one?”

  At first I think she means the sweater.

  Thora sits up in the chair where she’d been dozing with a blanket on her lap, spectacles and paper on the window ledge. Solrun digs out a cinnamon bun, places it on a napkin to hand to her.

  “Me too,” I say.

  They look surprised and watch as I slowly break pieces off then feed myself. I know it is incredibly good, even though my sense of taste has left me.

  “Good news from our part of the world,” Solrun says, pulling up a chair. “At the Fair we won Grand Aggregate, have the Grand Champion steer and one of our girls was just crowned Miss Interlake.”

  “Wonderful,” Thora says, breaking off a piece of bun, popping it in her mouth. “Three champions from Siglunes. We are still a force to be reckoned with.”

  That is what our community along the lake is called now, Siglunes, after Magnus Magnusson’s birthplace in Iceland. Funny she should mention it as I was just thinking about him.

  Now they are watching me eat, surprised by how well I’m doing.

  I point to the glass out of reach. Solrun holds it as I take a sip from the straw and clear my throat. I give her the same lecture about town water and she smirks, having heard this before.

  A band of people come down the hallway, hesitate at the door. They are not sure they have the right room. A man carries the two-year-old we saw earlier. Her cheeks are stained pink from the stick of candy floss she holds. Solrun waves them in, pointing toward Mary’s bed.

  The others stand, stretch, make quiet conversation and leave. The changing of guard I call it.

  “Chief Strong,” Solrun whispers to us. “Mary is his grandmother.”

  Then she encourages Thora to go home and get some rest. “I will stay with her,” she says.

  Thora seems troubled as she gathers her glasses and thermos into her large purse. She stretches and stifles a yawn. “I will be back later,” she says, patting my hand.

  We watch as she leaves, seeing her briefly through the window as she walks across the parking lot. Solrun opens the paper and starts reading out loud bits of local news.

  “Pabbi didn’t send the money for Aunt Freyja,” I say, now that Thora has left. “At least not right away.”

  Solrun looks up from the paper, confused, so I tell her again.

  She shakes her head. “Of course he did.”

  “It happened before you were born.”

  Solrun shrugs. “Why would you bring this up now?”

  We are distracted by the two-year-old who is getting bored. She starts hopping and dancing, her little shoes tapping the hard floor. She peeks around the curtain at us.

  Solrun waves.

  The little girl pulls the curtain in front of her face, then looks again. Her cheeks leave a stain on the curtain. She does it again. And again. Then, feeling brave, she holds up the candy floss stick, pretending it’s a spear.

  “I travelled back and saw what happened,” I say. “You were just a baby, too young to remember their terrible fight.”

  Solrun looks at me the same way she does the child, as if I am sweet, misbehaving.

  “Now, Asta,” she says. “You know these are just dreams.”

  The little girl begins pulling at the curtain. The Chief tells her to stop and she looks at him for a moment, then her eyes go up to the ceiling. She gives it another tug and it moves. She starts swinging her arm back and forth, the curtain wheels roll in the metal track.

  “Come here my baby,” he says. “Stop it.”

  He picks her up and sits with her on his knee, but she stiffens and whines, sliding away from him, and goes back to the curtain. This time she grabs it and, watching the ceiling, starts running back and forth, opening and closing it.

  They watch her and so do we. As it opens I see Mary propped upright on the bed. She is smiling. Then the curtain closes. Swoosh, it’s open again. This time Mary is laughing. Her family looks at us, uncertain. Solrun tells them we don’t mind. This is how children are supposed to be. The curtain closes.

  I am starting to doze off.

  The toddler is dizzy now. She staggers and lands on her diapered bum. The room erupts in full belly laughter. Mary says something quietly in Saulteaux and the Chief quickly gets up. He lifts the girl and places her in her great-great-grandmother’s arms.

  * * *

  Pabbi had described the Magnusson’s mill at Siglunes, but at only fourteen years old I was limited in what I could imagine. Despite this, there was no mistaking it for anything else when I saw the place towering up along the shoreline. There it stood - a magnificent house made from stone, visible for miles in all directions. For nearly a century travelers referred to it as ‘the castle on the lake,’ but only a few knew it was I who named it that.

  Bergthora’s mare knew exactly where to go. It trod up the snowy bank, past the house, into what looked like a little shanty town. There were boats of all sizes in dry dock and in the center of it all was the mill. Huge piles of logs ready for cutting and four-foot wide fish boxes stacked everywhere. As you can imagine, everything was covered in snow.

  Bells on the bridle jingled our arrival and a few of the men—I counted ten in total—stopped piling fish boxes to wave. The horse seemed pleased to be home. She whinnied, trotting straight to the barn. We passed by a man chopping frozen fish from a mound that he fed to the sled dogs, each tethered to its own stake. As the man, who I later came to know as Einar, threw the fish, he seemed to enjoy watching the dogs fight. All the vicious biting was a terrible sight. The larger dogs forced the others onto their backs. I could only watch for a few moments before turning away.

  “Has your mama taught you to make butter?” Bergthora asked over her shoulder as the horse stopped at the barn door.

  “No ma’am, Signy does that,” I said, “but I have helped Amma make skyr.”

  She swung her leg over and stepped down. For an old woman she was surprisingly agile and I felt childish needing her help.

  “Our dog birthed a litter of pups,” she said, reaching up with a strong hand. Icelanders are known for their big hands and thick wrists. “Finna is meek as a fawn. She’s in the barn. Later you can pat her and handle the pups, but not until your work is done.”

  Just then, a young man came out of the barn carrying two pails of steaming milk. Bergthora took the milk, handing him the reins. As he led the horse inside, I tried to catch a glimpse of Finna and her babies.

  “Bring your bag,” Bergthora said as she strode up the well-worn trail that led from the barn to the house. She’d already explained that I would help make meals, clean, and mend. I’d soon find out that the hooks the fishermen used to untangle their catch from the nets were notoriously hard on their mittens.

  Of course, men would be far more interested in the barn, the mill, and how many pounds of fish were caught daily, than in the house, but all I can tell you about is their home which, as a domestic, is where I spent most of my time.

  We entered through a vestibule built on the back. It was a large room that smelled of fish. This is where those who lived and bo
arded there hung their coats and left their boots. Bergthora pushed open a heavy oak door and we stepped into the kitchen, the grandest I’d ever seen. A double cook stove, walls of cupboards and an indoor water pump. When her brother Magnus built the house, he’d had the good sense to build it over the well so Bergthora didn’t have to fetch water like the rest of us.

  Bergthora slipped off her buffalo coat and told me to hang mine alongside hers inside the door. “No need for us all to smell like fish,” she said, marching into the kitchen carrying the milk. It was a terrible mess; dishes were piled everywhere.

  “Welcome home,” a voice said.

  My eyes went immediately to the far end of the table, long enough to host the Last Supper. There sat a large-boned, older, weather-beaten man. His most distinct feature was a gray mop of hair and the wide, thick moustache that covered his upper lip. His nose was wide and cheekbones high, making his deep-set eyes appear smaller than they were. I remember how intimidated I felt as he looked up from his ledger book to stare over his spectacles at me. This was Magnus, the mill owner.

  Back in Iceland, girls like me seldom had the opportunity to converse with the wealthy owner of the farm where our parents worked. Teenagers, especially the pretty ones, were discouraged from ever doing so, for fear the man might take a liking to her and use her for his own purposes.

  “How was the birth?” Magnus asked.

  “Mother and daughter are doing fine,” Bergthora replied. “Pjetur is a generous man. He allowed Asta to come help with the work.”

  Magnus smiled softly at me. “Sons can be a curse at times, but daughters are always a blessing,” he said. “How many children does Pjetur have now?”

  “Four girls and one boy,” she said.

  “Já, a choice of who will care for him when he is old. And what about you, Asta, are you your father’s favorite?”

  My heart hurt ever so slightly at the mention of it, but the reality was no different than having brown hair instead of blonde. Some things could not be changed, only accepted.

  “No, sir, Freyja is. She is everyone’s favorite, including mine.”