Be Still the Water Read online

  Magnus’s eyes lit up when he laughed. He lifted a ceramic cup from the table and spit into it. Mother said that chewing snuff was a disgusting habit and didn’t allow father to do it. Sometimes he snuck a bit when she wasn’t around and we children kept his secret.

  “Well, elskan, Freyja isn’t here,” he said. “And I have only sons, so you can be my favorite, já?”

  My chest swelled a bit. To be called ‘elskan’ or ‘dear one,’ as the English like to say, was unusual for me.

  “I have never been in a castle before,” I said, marveling at the high ceilings and the polished staircase that led upstairs where later I counted twelve bedrooms.

  “What do you miss most about Iceland?” he asked.

  I thought about it for a moment. “Going to church. And seeing the nuns who ran the hospital.”

  Magnus looked surprised. “I did not realize your father is Catholic.”

  “We are Lutheran like everyone else, but my Amma says I can still be a nun if I want.”

  “Anyone who wants a devout life serving God will find a way,” he said. “Do you like to read?”

  “Of course. I read to Freyja but she doesn’t like the Passion Hymns much. She prefers Amma’s stories, the ones filled with adventure.”

  He patiently nodded. “Then you and I shall sit by the fire every night. I have a few new books that may interest you. Do you know how to open one properly the first time?”

  “Yes, sir. My Pabbi taught me.”

  He reached back to the small table behind his chair then placed a book on the table. It was beautifully bound in leather, pages still compressed, never opened. He lifted his chin. “Show me.”

  Reaching out nervously I took the book in one hand, wiping crumbs from the table with the other. Balancing it on the spine I carefully splayed the front and back cover like wings on a bird, holding the pages tight. Then cautiously I opened the pages directly in the middle, split each section in half, then once again, slowly pressing them open, gently loosening the spine.

  “Not bad,” he said. “A smart girl. Do you play chess?”

  “No sir, I don’t know how.”

  “I am sure Bjorn would be glad to teach you. He is always looking for someone to play with. It takes more effort than many men here care to expend. The men would rather gamble or play cards.”

  “I won’t be much of an opponent.”

  “Nei, you will do just fine.” Magnus looked at me the same way Mother did the first time she held baby Solrun. “You are a clever girl, and pretty too.”

  Bergthora chortled as she went to the front room to place her birthing bag on a shelf.

  “You say that to all the girls who come here,” she said, clearing dishes from the table, nodding that I should help. I began gathering mugs, understanding fully what her words implied. Too many compliments and I might actually start believing them. Conceit was a loathsome trait.

  “My head is throbbing,” Magnus said, rubbing his temples.

  Bergthora turned quickly to study him, eyebrows knit together.

  He grinned. “Já, I have not had a decent cup of coffee since you left.”

  Disgusted, she shook her head. “Is no one here capable of cleaning up after themselves?”

  “Consider yourself fortunate,” he said, winking at me. “Otherwise we would not need you, dear sister. Will you make me a fresh pot?”

  Bergthora pointed to a five pound can on the shelf over the window. I’d never made coffee before, but had seen it done many times.

  “If they spent less time wrestling and more time seaming nets or splitting wood, I wouldn’t mind the mess,” she quipped. “Where is Runa hiding? Nose in a book again? She could have at least made dinner.”

  Magnus sighed. “She was sick again this morning. Siggi is worried she will lose the child if this continues.”

  “Pregnancy is no excuse.”

  “Sometimes it is. My Dísa was sick, too.”

  Bergthora shook her head. “Runa needs to toughen up. Siggi coddling her is no help. How will she manage once the child comes?”

  The banter between the two reminded me so much of Leifur and Signy that a feeling of homesickness settled in my stomach. “How many scoops?” I asked. Mother and Amma always quibbled about the coffee. Mother liked three scoops, Amma five.

  “Four,” Bergthora said.

  I filled the sock as I’d seen Mother do, twisted the end, then placed it in the pot, filled it with water, then put it on the stove to boil.

  Bergthora assigned me my next task—skimming the milk using the cream separator at the far end of the kitchen. Magnus looked impressed that I already knew what to do, then he resumed writing in his ledger.

  Bergthora quickly made dinner, then packed it in a fish box so that Magnus could take it with him onto the lake. When she was done, he closed the ledger book and placed it behind his chair on the shelf.

  Bergthora relaxed the moment the door closed behind him. Mother was the same. And even Amma. There was something irritating about having men in the kitchen.

  What amazed me were all their wonderful conveniences. Bergthora had an icebox, a black enamel bathing tub and a crank machine for washing clothes—all things Mother desperately wanted. There was plenty of furniture, some of it handmade, but most imported from Europe to Iceland and then brought here. Bureaus, sideboards, tables, and heavy chairs with padded brocade seats. One large chair that faced the massive stone fireplace was covered with fur. There were paintings, and photographs too, all from Iceland. One showed two men facing off in a wrestling match, while a thick crowd stood watching in the background.

  I enjoyed being in the front room where I could stare out the big windows at the lake bank stretching into the distance. A distinct smell of soot lingered in the room and old books were lined up neatly on a shelf that spanned an entire wall. There was a solid roll-top desk with a mess of paper and ledger books stacked on it. I offered to tidy the desk, but Bergthora said if I did Magnus would never be able to find anything.

  Here was my daily routine. In the morning I’d help make breakfast, clear the table, do dishes, skim the milk. Then I would help Bergthora make dinner, set the table if the men were in that day, or if they went on the lake, pack sandwiches into the box.

  Afternoon was my favorite time, as those hours were spent mending in the front room. Each time I looked up from my lap, I had a full view of Magnus’s library. My heart swooned, knowing that later I’d be allowed to take a book to bed. But those cherished afternoon hours were short. We also needed to bake bread, make butter, and skyr - a soft whey cheese that everyone loved. Then we prepared supper. Every second day we made a dessert, in pans larger than I’d ever seen before.

  “There are no boarders right now, only workers,” Bergthora explained that first afternoon as we stood at the counter making kleinur. “Some of the men eat with us, so I charge them a daily rate, while the others prepare their own meals in the bunkhouse.”

  I twisted the dough into little knots putting them on a tray.

  “Of course there are the three of us and the boys.”

  I tried my best to keep it all straight.

  “Bjorn, Siggi and Arn,” she said. “You met Siggi earlier in the barn. He and Arn are not identical so you will have no trouble telling them apart.”

  She explained that after Magnus’s wife died giving birth to the twins, they immigrated here and named the place Siglunes, which means ‘a point to sail around.’ Bergthora had worked as a nurse in Iceland, but retired to raise her nephews.

  She moved past me to the stove where the pot of oil was heating. She slid one of the knots in and watched it sink to the bottom.

  “The oil is not hot enough,” she said.

  “So how many do we cook for?” I asked.

  “Eleven if you count Runa. She is Siggi’s wife but spends most of her time
alone in their house. I am sure you saw it, the little log one set off alone by the bush.”

  I had in fact. The red and white checked curtains that hung in the windows had caught my eye as we rode in.

  “Before Runa became pregnant she would eat with us and even helped make meals, but that all stopped,” she said. I could tell by Bergthora’s tone she was miffed.

  “Siggi still eats here and Magnus insists we take her a plate. But if it were up to me . . .”

  She bustled past me carrying the tray. The oil crackled this time as she dropped each one in; they rose to the surface and the edges began bubbling. When they were brown on the bottom, I flipped them with a metal spoon.

  “I say too young to marry in the first place,” she said. “But there was no talking Siggi out of it.”

  I dusted the hot kleinur with sugar and cinnamon before arranging them on a plate. I wanted to ask more about Runa, but a noise outside caused her to squint at the clock. She began moving quickly. “They will be in soon.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The eyes of a maid tell true, to whom her love she has given.

  —The Saga of Gunnlaug the Worm-tongue

  As you become an old woman, many memories begin to fade like the colors on a well-washed shirt. But the day I met Bjorn Magnusson is one that is crisp as a bolt of new gingham, refreshing as a glass of lemonade on a hot summer day.

  He came mushing the sled dogs in from Ghost Island as I was arranging the kleinur on the plate. I lifted it and turned when the door opened, expecting to see Magnus, but in came his firstborn son who looked nothing at all like him.

  He was holding the dinner box, still wearing his coat, but his boots were off. He stood as I imagined Tyr—the God of law and heroic glory, son of Odin—might stand. His hair was the color of a brown hen’s egg and he had the unusual habit of wearing it long, tucked behind his ears. His shoulders were square and his hands, when he stretched them out, were as large as dinner plates. I easily imagined what his mother must have looked like, beautiful and engaging, with the same square jaw, and blue eyes that sang.

  I was too young then to fully appreciate how physical he was, to know the sort of pleasure a man like that could bring, but deep inside me there was an instinctive stirring. My heart raced as I inhaled, flushing pink with anticipation.

  “Kleinur.” He smiled as he came straight toward me, took one from the plate and popped it in his mouth. He chewed as he spoke, directly at me, something no other young man ever did. Always before it was Signy or Freyja who received the attention. Bjorn’s eyes danced with praise as he looked me over without a hint of shyness. It was as if my soul recognized his instantly. I stood there mesmerized, turning to watch wherever he was, holding out the plate. It was impossible to stop looking at him.

  “This is Asta,” Bergthora said as he circled around me reaching for another kleinur. I would have given them all to him, but Bergthora interrupted by slapping his hand.

  “You will spoil your appetite,” she said.

  “Never,” he laughed, managing to grab another, dodging around her, dangling it out of reach. Bergthora feigned disgust, shaking her head, with hands planted firmly on her hips. There was a brightness in her eyes, though, and it became obvious in an instant that I wasn’t the only one susceptible to Bjorn’s charms.

  “How was fishing?” she asked.

  “Still slow,” he said, splitting the kleinur in two, licking the sugar off his fingers as he started toward the door. “I think it is time we pull up.”

  “What does your father think?”

  “That it usually gets better in March,” he said, pulling the door closed and rolling his eyes.

  Talk around the table that night was lively. I was soon to discover it would be like that every night. I sat at the far end from Magnus, on the side bench. Fortunately, the discussions didn’t concern me, so I was able to keep my eyes focused on my plate, sneaking peeks at Bjorn when he added to the conversation, which happened often.

  “I hear they plan to build a hall at The Narrows this summer,” he said as he slid another piece of roasted mutton onto his plate and scooped potatoes from the bowl, smashing them with his fork. “Helgi is excited about it.”

  “With good reason,” Magnus said. “The more people frequenting The Narrows, the more business for his store.”

  Everyone nodded in agreement.

  “That new settler Halli Eyolfson is selling shares in it,” Bjorn said, adding that Helgi recommended it since he was heading up the committee. Someone had to collect the money.

  “But nobody around here knows Halli,” Bergthora said. “We barely do and he is one of our closest neighbors.”

  The conversation paused while everyone thought, eyes on their plates. It was astonishing how much food eight men could eat. I understood why Bergthora was quick to suggest I come work for her.

  “People know,” Magnus said thoughtfully. “Halli is honest.”

  Everyone agreed, except for the four fishermen who were not from the community.

  “Ehh, he could take everyone’s money and run,” the fisherman named Einar grunted. The other three laughed.

  “Not likely with a wife and five children,” Magnus said.

  “All the more reason. The last thing I’d want, ehh, is a woman and a pack of snot-nosed kids weighing me down.”

  He didn’t actually say ‘snot-nosed’ but there is a similar saying in Icelandic.

  “With a face like yours no need to worry,” Bjorn teased, smiling at his brothers who sat across from him. I soon learned it was the way of young men to constantly tease one another. Most of it was good-natured, but often the jibes held more than an ounce of truth.

  Einar shook his head then caught me staring at his bulldog face.

  “Ehh, who’s this?” he asked pointing with his fork.

  “I introduced her when you came in but you were too busy talking,” Bergthora said. She could barely take her eyes off his dirty hands. “This is Asta. She is our new domestic.”

  The men turned to face me, chiming, “Hello, Asta,” all at the same time. It was comical and I blushed. The three men from away seemed nice, especially the tall, beak-nosed man. Then Einar belched. Not a quiet, cover-your-mouth rumble that snuck up on a person, his was loud and purposeful. The men shook their heads.

  “You are excused,” Magnus said, eyeing Einar.

  Fortunately for us, Einar left the table shortly after that. Fishermen who slept in the bunkhouse did not stay after supper unless invited.

  Once he was out the door, Bergthora let out a heavy sigh. “I have told him more than once to wash those hands,” she said. “Even after fishing all day they are still dirty.”

  Arn examined his own pruney fingers. “He doesn’t pull his weight, that’s why,” he said.

  “He hasn’t taken a bath all winter,” Bjorn said.

  “Or changed his clothes,” Siggi added.

  “I noticed,” Bergthora said as she cleared the dishes.

  I was already filling the sink with hot water from the stove.

  “Asni is not all bad,” Siggi said.

  I thought this hilarious. They’d nicknamed him donkey, but Bergthora did not find it humorous at all. “Magnus, you must talk to him.”

  The old man flung us a playful look, said that he would, then retired to his bear-hide chair by the fire where he spent the evening reading.

  “We should make Einar wash dishes instead of Asta,” Bjorn said. “So she could play chess with me.”

  Bergthora caught my eye. “She can. Once she is done.”

  My room was at the foot of the staircase, at the beginning of a hallway that led to the family bedrooms. Upstairs there were a dozen more. There was a door at the end of the hall, which opened onto a verandah that spread across the front of the house facing the lake. Except for quick trips to the outhous
e at night, that door wasn’t used much.

  I imagined my room was the one Bergthora gave to women travelling alone. There was a braided rug beside the bed, a mirror above the cherry wood dresser and a lace curtain that blurred the view outside but did nothing to keep out the moonlight.

  Curious, I opened every drawer and found a hairbrush (thankfully, since Signy hadn’t let me take ours), a nightdress, and a stack of rags. I put my change of clothes in the top drawer then pushed it shut.

  I didn’t sleep much that first night. The bed was comfortable enough, in fact I’ve slept on one like it—wrought iron with a feather-stuffed mattress—most of my life. No, it wasn’t the unfamiliar bed. This was the first night I’d slept without my sisters. Missing them, plus heart-twirling thoughts of Bjorn, kept me awake. I spent most of the night reliving how we’d sat in front of the fireplace, on either side of a small table, with a chessboard between us; how serious his expression had become as he bent over the board, explaining each chess piece. I remembered the names easily enough but the strategies confounded me, not because it was difficult, but because I could only concentrate a short time before my thoughts would drift back to him. I heard the compassion in his voice, hung on his every word; I noticed the shape of his fingernails, not where he moved each piece. And that hair. I’d never seen anything like it on a man before.

  The next morning I twisted my braid into a tight knot, then pinched my cheeks to bring a little color into them like I’d seen Mother and Signy do. Using the sleeve on my dress, I rubbed my teeth until they shone. Up until that point in my life I’d barely even looked in the mirror so I was a bit surprised to see that the girl who stared back at me looked older than the last time I checked.

  “Good morning, Asta,” Magnus said, looking up from the newspaper. “How did you sleep?”

  “Very well,” I lied.

  What a strange feeling it was to see Bjorn sitting there after dreaming about him all night. He offered a distracted “Morning,” as did Arn, who was reading one of Winnipeg’s Icelandic papers, over his shoulder.