Catching the Current

by Jenny Pattrick

  ‘RÓLAND of Sumba was a Rasmussen — a Faroeman from Su∂eroy. Su∂eroy, you understand, is the most southern of our islands and the most isolated. The other islands are separated one from the next by narrow channels. With some you can hold a conversation across the fjord without raising your voice, but Su∂eroy is different. A stretch of wild and open sea separates it from the rest of us. So in that southern island the people are more independent — and more conservative, if you can imagine that! — than up here. Old ways die last in Su∂eroy, and last of all in Sumba.

  ‘Róland was the younger son of a landowner who had only one mark of land to pass on. That mark went to Róland’s elder brother, as is the custom and the law here. But Róland was not one to be defeated by such a misfortune. Imagine Enok twenty years older, perhaps a little wiser, but certainly no less hot-headed, and you have his father. Energy to burn. Tall, fair like Enok and very strong. He wore his hair long like the heroes in the ballads he sang. Sumba folk are large people and mostly fair. Some say a Viking hero spent time there long ago and fathered a special breed. Who knows? Look at me. I was once dark-haired and have always been small. I believe that here in the northern islands our blood is mixed with that of Celts from the Shetland Islands. Well, that is by the by. Certainly Sumba people sing their kvæ∂i with such fervour, stamp the dance so energetically that no other Faroese village can match them.

  ‘So then, Róland, Enok’s father. He made his living as a fisherman until the law was passed to abolish the Monopoly. You understand about the Monopoly?’

  Müller nods. The system by which the Danish government supplied the islands with their needs and bought their goods at fixed prices in return had been in operation for centuries. Often grumbled over by both the government (poor investment) and the Faroemen (too restrictive), it had no doubt saved the Faroes in years of failed crops or poor fishing. Müller is of the opinion that it was unwise to abolish the Monopoly; that the fragile economy of the tiny Faroes is now dangerously exposed.

  Obviously old Niclas thinks the same. ‘A foolish move,’ he mutters. ‘The Monopoly, with its trading post here at Tórshavn, united us. All Faroemen, even from Su∂eroy, had to come here to buy and sell. We exchanged stories and passed on news. No good will come of this fragmentation. No good.’

  He picks up his brandy glass, looks into it, then smiles up at Müller. The dour old face lightens and the teacher is suddenly warmed by a charm he has not seen before.

  ‘Oho,’ says Niclas, ‘I had better not take any more of this excellent liquor or I will be off on every side-road and lost in some bog before I get to Enok himself. That is no way to tell a story, as I should well know. Now. Sumba.’

  As the story unfolds, the old man’s voice grows stronger. The face is impassive but the words rise in pitch, then fall away with the rhythm and emotion of the tale. Almost, he is singing. Müller is drawn into the tragedy. This man is a true storyteller. The teacher can picture the events, though he has never been to Su∂eroy and will perhaps never sail that far south.

  ‘Róland Rasmussen,’ says old Niclas, ‘may have been landless, but his good looks and his skill with the ballads and his fine, open ways made him a favourite with everyone, especially the girls. He could have chosen any of many for a wife, but the stubborn lad had to set his eye on a Dahl. Else Dahl. She was willing enough, too — a sweet thing, lively and open-hearted, nothing like the rest of the family. The Dahls are a powerful family, as you may know, owning five marks of land in Su∂eroy and, through careful marriages, several marks of crown-lease land here on Streymoy. Old Magnus Dahl, Else’s father — he’s still alive — is a formidable man to this day, admired and hated in more or less equal measure by most Faroemen.

  ‘It is never wise to cross a powerful man like Magnus Dahl, but wisdom was not a virtue held in high esteem by young Róland. He courted Else Dahl and won her heart, despite the black looks of the father and her two brothers. Else, the only daughter, had been set down for a sound marriage — to a wealthy farmer, owner of several marks of land, on another island. Magnus liked to have a finger in many pies. To make matters worse, the headstrong Róland arranged for his friend Hans Høgnesen, son of a wealthy and powerful priest, and newly ordained as a priest himself, to marry the couple without the knowledge or consent of Magnus. A very, very foolish matter, but then young people in love are blind to reason and imagine that all the world will forgive them; that their love is both a shield against ill-will and a magnet to kindness and warmth.

  ‘To a certain extent that was indeed true. Róland and Else Rasmussen were popular and loved on the island, which only served to rub salt into the anger of the Dahl family. Magnus acted as if his only daughter no longer existed. In every way within their power, he and his two sons made life difficult and uncomfortable for the young pair. Not one fleece from the Dahl share of the annual sheep-shearing was presented to Else for carding and knitting. No small plot among the many belonging to Dahls in the infield was made available to the couple for growing crops or vegetables. The Dahl brothers, a surly pair, took every opportunity to ridicule the status of their sister.

  ‘And yet the young Rasmussens thrived. Imagine the wrath of the powerful Dahls! Róland was a fine fisherman. His family’s one possession was a good Su∂eroy boat, which he and friends regularly rowed out. Róland knew every hidden reef, every rocky outcrop in the seas around the island — places where cod and haddock and coalfish were waiting, it seemed, to throw themselves upon his long-line. He favoured the Scottish practice of long-line fishing, which was suited to the open sea. More cautious fishermen kept to the old practice of two or three hooks on a short line — fine for the narrow fjords where a long-line would tangle, and safer in stormy weather, which was three days out of five — but young Róland was not one for safety, as we shall soon see.

  ‘Well, so here was all this fine klipfish, split and salted by the Rasmussen family. Also pickled puffin chicks. Else’s pickle was famous: a recipe her mother had handed to her as the only daughter. The loss of this recipe was another deep thorn in the Dahl side, Magnus’s wife having died some years back. What provisions Else and Róland could not eat or sell on the island they brought up here to Tórshavn to sell to those who had business connections with Denmark.

  ‘But Róland was not satisfied with this state of affairs. Not he! He set his heart on opening the first trading store on Su∂eroy. If he had to make the long journey up to Tórshavn with his fish, why not return with a load of barley and salt, honey and liquor to sell back home? He and Else saved every skind. Róland combed every lonely cave and rocky inlet for driftwood. Our custom is that the first man or woman to lay hands on a piece of driftwood owns it, no matter where the log comes ashore. With these logs, and with stone gathered from the beach — for he possessed no land, remember — Róland began adding a large room to his mother’s house, letting it be known that he was providing extra rooms for his growing family. In fact this was to be the trading post, but he kept his plans secret for fear the Dahls would move to set up a rival post before he had enough money for the initial stock.

  ‘This was the state of affairs at the time of the fateful whale drive. The trading post half built, not quite enough money saved, two fine daughters born to them and Else again pregnant. You have not yet experienced a whale drive, I imagine?’

  Müller looks up in surprise. He has been staring at the floor, lost in the story, and is now startled that the old man has broken the narrative to address him.

  ‘No,’ he says, ‘not yet.’

  ‘You will not forget the sight. A marvel of skill and excitement. Every Faroese boy lives for the day. It is like St Olaf’s Day and Christmas and your birthday rolled into one. You must realise that though we Faroemen may be considered peaceful — phlegmatic, even — our blood runs high at a whale drive. The whales are like a precious gift that we all share. For years sometimes no pod comes near, and those are hard times for us. Even landowners with title to several marks of land can scarcely m
ake ends meet without the bounty of train oil and whale bone to sell, or the flesh and blubber to eat. On the rare occasions when violence or worse breaks out on these islands, you may be sure that the incident is in some way connected to a whale drive. Well.’

  Old Niclas takes a sip of brandy — ‘oil the voice!’ — winks at the teacher and resumes his tale.

  ‘It was near midsummer — a time like this — and St Olaf’s Day approaching. Róland Rasmussen was in a state of high excitement. (At no time could Róland be considered phlegmatic. He was a Sumba man to start with, and had high blood by nature.) Róland had finally accepted the challenge to sing the first two sections of the great Sjúr∂ur ballad at the St Olaf’s celebrations. Both in one night. No one had attempted such a feat of memory. His father knew the first section; I and another man from Nólsoy were known for singing the finest and longest second. The third was usually sung in the north, on Vi∂oy and Bor∂oy.

  ‘Young Róland had lived with me at his father’s request for the year before he married, in order to learn the middle section. A pleasure to teach he was — such a quick memory! It is important to teach the great kvæ∂i early, while the mind is supple enough to absorb not only the accuracy of the words but the spirit — the weight and importance of the ballad. Cadence, intonation and tempo are of course left up to the brilliance — or sometimes the lack of it — of the individual. Róland’s Sjúr∂ur Fafnirsbane should not sound exactly like mine, but the spirit must be captured exactly.

  ‘Now Róland felt ready to perform both kvæ∂i. Villagers from all over the island would soon gather to listen to and dance the story. Even old men who had not attended a dance for years would come this time. There was much conjecture as to whether Magnus and his sons would attend. They were not singers, but of course they danced the kvæ∂i. Who could stay away from a celebration like this? I myself was on the island to hear, and, naturally, to judge his performance. The priest Hans Høgnesen had offered his house for the dance. He had built a fine klingran — a sprung floor — especially for the purpose. If you dance all night, a good klingran is a blessing, especially for the old. And of course every housewife in Sumba was busy preparing food.

  ‘The day before St Olaf’s Day, Róland and his brother rowed out, hoping to bring in a good catch for the feast. Imagine their surprise and delight when, not far offshore, they found themselves in the centre of a large pod of caaing whale. A grind, we call it. Five or six hundred was the estimate. It was the first time for eighteen months a grind had ventured into their waters. And at St Olaf’s! It seemed a sign to the excited young men. The sea was reasonably calm and if the sky glowered, well, what was unusual in that?

  ‘No time to lose. The boys shipped their oars for fear of startling the beasts, and Róland hoisted his shirt up the mast, as is the custom, to signal their discovery. Flap flap in the breeze, the dancing garment was soon spotted by some bright lad watching sheep in the outfield. He ran first to the beacon set ready on the highest point above him, with tinder and wadding ready under a dry rock. This lit, he leapt down the field, feet flying among rocks, to bring the news to his village.

  ‘“Grindabo∂! Grindabo∂!” he shouted, and soon the call was taken up by all. “Grindabo∂!” Oh, the excitement! Away sped fresh lads — all the fastest runners — to villages that might see neither the first beacon nor other fires lit by sharp watchers on more distant high fields.

  ‘Soon boats were launched into the sea from every bay and jetty, men rowing with one hand while they fastened their sea-jackets and pulled their woollen caps low over their ears. Six or eight men rowing, depending on the size of the boat, and one in the bow with a spear. Those who had no place in a boat — mainly young boys and older men like myself — reached for spears and hooks and ran along the beach looking for where the whales would beach. The women and girls stayed inside, of course — to show themselves to the whales would bring boundless bad luck. Róland’s wife Else, being pregnant, dared not even look out the window for fear she might jeopardise the drive. But be sure that the girls peeped as they prepared boiling water in abundance for the kidneys that would enrich their feast day. “Grindabo∂!” they sang, and praised God, who had sent such a gift to honour St Olaf. The priest, Hans Høgnesen, ran to the church, ready to fling wide the west door, facing the sea, that the good Lord Himself might welcome the whales to Sumba.

  ‘Róland, standing tall in the bow of his boat, sang softly to the whales, of sea journeys and quiet summer days. “Lie basking there, dear brothers,” he sang. “Enjoy a well-earned rest in this quiet bay.” It would be a disaster if the grind changed direction and headed out to open sea before the foreman arrived to direct the little flotilla of boats. But here he came, wise old Sørin, nodding with approval at the way Róland had quietly kept with the grind. Using hand signals, old Sørin directed the boats as they rowed in, sending them wide this way and that, until the grind was contained. Róland was in a fever to start the drive but the foreman waited patiently until all the slower boats rowed into place.

  ‘At last the moment arrived. Sørin raised his hand, in it a stone tied by string to the boat. Carefully he threw it to splash behind a whale he judged to be a leader. Róland, tense with excitement, threw his own stone. Soon the sea was alive with the gentle splash of stones or the quiet smack of an oar. Yes! The grind turned lazily and began to swim towards the shore. Every rower bent to his oars, while every spearsman quietly encouraged the whales as Sørin directed.

  ‘Slowly the grind turned and headed around the little island at the entrance of the bay. Róland turned to smile at the foreman. If they could be herded in here, where the beach shelved gently, they would run ashore without panic. A perfect spot, and close to the village. Yes! Yes! Shoreward the whales swam, the sea behind them churned white by the driving oarsmen. The men and boys on the shore, seeing where the grind was headed, silently moved away, left or right, leaving the beach open and quiet. On the hill above, the priest flung open the church door and sang a hymn of welcome.

  ‘Just before the entrance to the bay was reached, a wily bull turned sharply, heading towards a rocky outcrop. Immediately his sonar told him danger lay ahead and he headed away, taking perhaps a hundred whales with him. If more followed, the operation might end in disaster. But an observant spearsman shouted the warning and nearby rowers bent their backs to plug the gap. The remaining whales were once more contained; they swam steadily in. At the perfect moment, old Sørin gave a mighty shout, striking the hindmost whale with his spear. Onto the sand the whales ran and stuck, flailing their tails and rolling in panic, but to no avail.

  ‘The slaughter was quick and deadly. From the headland above I saw the sea turn red. The spearsmen leapt from their boats and, waist deep in the rosy water, thrust again and again, one quick cut behind the blow-hole, until not one whale was left alive. Shouting, I ran with the boys down to the shore to help drag the precious animals in. Bare hands grabbed at dorsal fin, gaff-hooks took hold in the tough hide, and whale after whale was dragged up onto land. It was a wonderful whale drive, yielding close to five hundred beasts, classic in every part of its execution.’

  Old Niclas’s voice has risen during this description. His feet twitch as if he wished to dance his story, which has become almost a sung ballad. But now he pauses and sighs.

  ‘Alas, the next stage could not be described as classic in any way. As had happened so often in the past, tragic events followed the excitement of the whale kill. Foolish Róland. If only his good sense had matched his skill … but then …’

  Niclas lowers his voice in telling the next events. Müller marvels at the old man’s ability to make the tale come alive. He also wonders whether some embroidery of the truth may be creeping in. Nevertheless, he leans forward, eager to catch every word.

  ‘No time could now be lost in preparing this great catch. Men and boys set to with a will, cutting the many whales, dividing blubber from flesh, and flesh from bone. Róland worked with a will, knowing that, as
the one who gave the first call, he would receive an extra whole whale above his share. Perhaps now his dream of a trading post would be possible.

  ‘But suddenly a rumble of discontent spread among the workers. Róland looked up from his bloody work and saw a large group of men — Magnus Dahl’s farm labourers — dragging whale after whale off to one side, and preventing, with threatening gestures, other fishermen from approaching. Magnus stood above, on a grassy slope of his own land, while his two sons, Daniel and Poul, directed operations. Their intentions were clear — as landowners of the bay where the whales beached, they wished to claim half the catch.

  ‘Róland let out a roar of fury. He leapt over half-flayed carcasses and bloody sheets of blubber to confront his two brothers-in-law.

  ‘“This is illegal, what you do! We share equally! That is the new law and you know it!”

  ‘Daniel stopped his work and stood, feet apart, hands on hips. He was a big man and something of a bully. He laughed. Not a comfortable sound.

  ‘“What new law?” he said, with a wink and a grin to his brother. “We go by the old ways here. Everyone knows that Su∂eroy changes its habits slowly.”

  ‘From his position on the hill, Magnus shouted at his workers to make haste. Poul gestured to some of his men to continue taking the whales, while another group came to guard their actions, standing firm behind the elder Dahl son.

  ‘By now Róland was in a great rage. If half the catch went to the Dahls, the portion to share with the rest of the villagers would naturally be greatly reduced. The old system, which gave half the kill to the landowner of the beach where the whales came ashore, had been changed — to general approval — years ago. How dare the Dahls take the law into their own hands like this?