‘Of course Róland should have waited for the king’s bailiff, who should surely be hurrying to the scene. But for one thing the king’s bailiff was a close friend of Magnus’s, and might well have been encouraged to dally, and for another, alas, Róland was lost to a rage that no doubt flared all the wilder from the past years of taunts and sneers from his wife’s family.
‘“These beasts are the property of all!” he shouted, brandishing his whaling spear at Daniel. “We will not allow this arrogance!” He turned to gather support from the crowd, who roared approval and moved towards the Dahl men.
‘Daniel was not a man to be cowed. He stood firm, with his own spear at the ready. Again he laughed, directly into the face of the furious Róland.
‘“This landless herring who brings dishonour to our sister thinks he can control the Dahls? Dream away, singer.”
‘The cutting words released all restraint from Róland. With a wild cry he lashed out, meaning, he later insisted, to thwack Daniel across the shoulders with the shaft of his spear. But at the same moment Daniel swung around to shout something to his brother, moving directly into the path of the razor-sharp blade. His throat was split ear to ear, cutting windpipe and jugular both. For a moment he stood clutching his neck, red blood seeping between his fingers. His mouth opened wide but no sound could escape, nor any breath be drawn in. Oh, it was a sight to still the heart of every man and boy there as the big man slowly, slowly buckled at the knees, never once taking his eyes off the horrified Róland. His last gesture was to take one hand from his neck and point a terrible red finger at his sister’s husband, as his blood gushed to mingle with that of the whales.’
For a long moment there is silence in the bare room. The night sun still slants through the window. Below a child is singing. Old Niclas stares into the empty fireplace.
‘And Otto?’ says the teacher at last. ‘My pupil?’
‘Daniel’s son,’ says the old man. ‘A child not more than a year old at the time. He has been brought up to consider vengeance is his duty. I would like to hope that he can resist that call of duty, but who knows? Certainly he is not like his grandfather. Nor his Uncle Poul, who has done his best to instill in the boy a fierce hatred of the sister’s family.’
‘The father, Róland? Where is he now?’
‘Dead, long dead,’ says Niclas flatly. ‘He didn’t live to see the birth of his son, Enok. What happened was a sad, quiet end. The king’s bailiff arrived to a scene of mayhem. Shouts and threats from all sides, half-butchered whales lying on the shore, a dead man and a broken killer standing among the bloody wreckage. Fortunately I was present and at that time commanded a certain respect. The bailiff turned to me in all this uproar, as a voice of impartiality. I recounted the scene as I had observed it, and was able to say, with truth, that I believed Róland’s blow had been hot-headed but not struck with intent to kill. Several others agreed. Róland was a popular man and Magnus less so — especially after his attempt to steal whales that were not his right.
‘The bailiff believed my version and acted quickly. A wise man — dead whales wait for no one. He decreed that Magnus had acted illegally and the whales should be shared equally. But also that Róland would forfeit any share at all, as punishment for his act. And that he would work for Magnus one day in every week for a year, and that the coming kvæ∂i, in which Róland was the star attraction, would no longer take place.
‘It was a good judgement and seen as fair by all except the Dahls, who loudly demanded Róland’s imprisonment or deportation to Denmark. Else took her stunned husband by the hand and was leading him away when Magnus spoke out.
‘“Let this be the first day of the wretch’s work for me. Take up your knife, singer, and prepare my share of the catch, and render my train oil.”
‘It broke Róland. There is no other way to describe it. The sudden descent from the brightest day of his life to the most humiliating was too steep. While the rest of the villagers gathered to sing and dance the life back into their icy limbs, while the women boiled up a steaming stew of whale kidneys for their heroes, Róland, cold and alone, was set to cutting strips of whale meat to hang and dry under the eaves of Dahl houses. Whale meat that should have been his and his family’s.
‘Poor Róland. His spirit was not strong enough to withstand the further humiliations the Dahls heaped upon him in the following weeks. They say he became quieter and quieter, avoiding even his wife and daughters. One stormy morning he quietly put into his wife’s palm his ring. It was a beautiful thing, old and heavy with gold, an enamelled design on its upper surface, which he had found, he said, among salvage goods washed up against a rocky outcrop half a day’s row to the south. He used to joke about its past and make up stories about its powers, and he would never be without it.
‘“If you have a son,” he said, “give him this ring. And if he has my voice, see that he learns the Sjúr∂ur kvæ∂i. And,” he said, smiling sadly, “if he has your tenacity, see if he can learn all three parts to the ballad. That will show your family that even landless fools like me have gifts they may pass on.”
‘Before Else could take breath he was gone, down to the shore and around the headland, running as if the dragon Fáfnir were after him. Else, deadly afraid, called to him and ran too, but, heavy with child, she made only slow progress. By the time she rounded the headland he was gone. No sign at all. When, two days later, his cap and a boot were washed ashore, she took them both to her father’s big house on the hill, laid them at his door and left silently. She never spoke again to father or brother.’
Again there is silence in the room. Niclas nods slowly at some unspoken thought. He picks up his brandy and sips again. Müller reaches out to add a little more and the old man smiles his thanks.
‘Yes,’ says the teacher, ‘I can see why you warn me about Otto. Some strong blood between the boys. But Otto lives here, surely?’
‘He does. He was brought up by his uncle, Poul, who now looks after the Dahl land here in Tórshavn. Magnus stayed in Su∂eroy and has remained set hard against his only daughter all these years. If it hadn’t been for the priest Hans Høgnesen, goodness knows what would have happened.’
‘I have heard Enok speak of him. With affection.’
‘Oh, indeed. And well he might. The priest married his mother a year after Enok was born. Høgnesen is the most senior priest on the island and second only to Magnus in wealth. He shielded Else and her children from the wrath of the Dahls. What is more, he encouraged Else to continue with the plans for the trading post. She and her daughters now run it, quite successfully, and soon Enok and his two half-brothers will take it over.’
Niclas smiles. ‘That post is an ever-standing affront to Magnus’s pride. It stands at the shore of his village like a lightning rod to his wrath. The store is a gathering place for gossip and laughter, a happy centre to the village. And it is run by the family who killed his eldest son. In his mind the death of Daniel Dahl has never been paid for. That is the way he thinks. “My son’s blood will never rest easy in the soil of Su∂eroy until retribution is made.” To Magnus, Róland’s death was a cowardly escape from punishment — a punishment that now should be suffered by someone in that family. If not his own daughter, then the son. And yet they prosper!’
The teacher nods. ‘An understandable attitude. Naturally, I would not condone it.’ Müller is proud of his modern views. ‘But in the matter of a violent death some punishment is to be expected. The king’s bailiff was perhaps too lenient in his original judgement. So Otto is expected to carry on this animosity? Surely this is a heavy burden to lay on a boy?’
‘Not in the mind of the Dahls — Magnus or the uncle, Poul. Enok has led a golden life — talented, admired, open and friendly — as you have surely noticed. They will try to discredit him in some way, count on it. If not worse. Otto, poor boy, will be torn. On the one hand he will be attracted to his cousin and schoolmate. On the other he will be urged to bring him down in any way he is able, no m
atter how false.’
‘Well then,’ says the teacher, ‘Otto is the one I fear for. Enok draws all into his orbit. In my view he is too flamboyant, too confident, but they all admire him. Otto will find himself the outcast in my small class.’
Old Niclas rises. He steadies himself against the bench until his legs return to his body and he is confident they will bear him outside.
‘You may be right,’ he says. ‘I am not so sure. Otto is clever and studious, but there is a devious side to him. Enok, for all his flamboyance, as you call it, is ingenuous. He feels no ill-will and does not expect to find it in others. We will see whether that becomes a strength or a weakness in his dealings with Otto.’
The old man thanks Müller and walks, staggering a little, to the door. He stands in the doorway, one hand on the post, tuttutting at his own weakness. ‘Your brandy and my old legs are unsettling partners! Will you take care with Enok? Don’t be too hard on the boy. He carries a precious burden in his head: all those words. I would like to see him succeed in his task. He is even more brilliant as a singer than his father. You will be amazed when you hear him.’
Müller nods and smiles. Privately he considers the old Faroese kvæ∂i over-long and rather dull compared to the tuneful Danish ballads he has learned; however, he knows better than to say such a thing to this man.
‘I will watch them both,’ he says. ‘Don’t worry, old man.’
But Niclas Patursson, walking out into the cold sunlit night, fears that his warning has not been taken seriously, and that harm is bound to come to his precious pupil.
4.
CLARA HARALDSEN ORGANISED the fowling day, though she made sure her hand in the event was unnoticed. Boys and men went fowling, not girls, but somehow Clara is in the party and somehow Enok is the one who walks beside her, admiring the way her hair flies back from her face and her woollen skirt swings this way and that with every dancing step. Enok is in high spirits — this is the first time old Niclas has allowed him to leave Tórshavn. Up over the outfield they climb, west out of Tórshavn, then the long tramp across the stony headland until they look steeply down to the grassy roofs of the Haraldsen farmhouse and its many outhouses. Harald Haraldsen, Clara and Napoleon’s father, holds three marks of land here on Streymoy and one across the sound on the small island of Hestur, whose cliffs will provide the day’s fowling. Harald Haraldsen is a powerful man, a landowners’ representative on the Løgting. He was sent as a boy to Denmark for education and so knows the ways of the world. When Harald Haraldsen sent a note with his son to the teacher, Müller, asking for a two-day break so that the pupils might return home and help their families with the fowling, Müller knew he would be foolish to demur, even though the school would also close for St Olaf’s Day celebrations in a few weeks. The teacher, wrote Haraldsen, was welcome to accompany any of the class who wished to come with his two children. Surely, he wrote, it would be a good opportunity for those who had not experienced the excellent sport that the cliffs on Hestur offered.
As Clara hoped, most of the class have disappeared back to their own villages for the excellent fowling their own cliffs provide. So it is only Enok, Clara, Napoleon and Otto who walk with the teacher over the hills. Otto’s uncle, Poul, has good hatcheries near his marks of land, but Otto has decided with an easy smile to ‘have a look at how your cliffs compare with ours’. Often, in the year since Enok arrived, he has joined this group. The tension he feels in the presence of the Su∂eroy boy is clear to everyone, and yet he cannot stay away, it seems. The four have often been seen together around Tórshavn, arguing, laughing, helping unload a catch at the wharf, the boys sometimes rowing out in a Haraldsen or Dahl boat, testing their prowess against that of other youngsters. A strong man on the oars is next best to a good ballad singer, so naturally every Faroese boy practises when he can. A casual spectator would say that the four were good friends; the elders, who know the history, wait for what they consider to be the inevitable disaster. They shake their grey heads and mutter that Else Rasmussen has been most unwise to send her good boy up here, where no Rasmussen or Høgnesen can protect him. But for a year, apart from certain tensions and niggles, Enok has remained unscathed. He has learned his kvæ∂i and will soon perform it. Meantime he continues — somewhat reluctantly — his schooling.
Now, down on the shore, four other men from the village are waiting near the boats, sorting poles and oars. Haraldsen himself is striding down from the church with the ropes, which he stores in the sacred air of the church belfry, gathering blessings in between expeditions. Enok bounds onto an outcropping rock to wave his own tall pole and halloo to the men below, as if he were a castaway and they rescuers to his sea-bound rock. Haraldsen’s laugh booms back over the whistling wind as he joins in the play.
Otto, standing beside Clara, murmurs into her ear, ‘What a show-off. He should show more respect to your father.’
Clara looks away. She prefers to ignore the rivalry — and worse — between the two boys. Sometimes in class Otto will set the class sniggering at Enok’s Su∂eroy-accented Danish or his fanciful answers to scholarly questions. Once, up in the outfield, Enok lost his temper and flattened his cousin with a single back-swipe of his arm. Otto, with blood dripping from his nose, only smiled, as if he were the victor. Both boys fancy Clara; she knows this, but will not become involved in their spats.
She runs after Enok as he leaps down the last stretch of grassy slope, and arrives, puffing, to introduce the boy to her father.
‘Oho,’ laughs Harald Haraldsen, clasping the boy’s offered hand. ‘And I thought I was a big man! They breed giants down in Su∂eroy, I see. Welcome, then, Enok Rasmussen! I danced your father’s kvæ∂i once and have never forgotten it.’ He lowers his voice as the rest of the party arrives. ‘But we will talk of your family later. Now is not the moment. Welcome, Herr Müller, and to you, young Otto! Come to see whether Haraldsen puffins taste as sweet as Dahl ones, eh?’
The big man gives both his children a quick slap on the shoulder, hands Clara a basket of food and beer to stow, then, anxious that they will miss the current, directs men and boys into the two boats. Soon there is no further talk as they row hard across the choppy water to Hestur.
The sky has clouded by the time they have climbed across the island to reach the top of the cliffs, and the wind coming off the sea has a sharper edge. Below them puffins are circling and calling. The cliffs, white with nesting birds, fall sheer to the grey Atlantic Sea. Harald Haraldsen tests the air with a finger and nods his approval.
‘This is excellent. The wind will bring the birds circling towards this side. We should make a good catch. Does the teacher wish to try his hand?’
Müller shakes his head, wary of the sheer cliffs below him. No tree or even shrub breaks the sharp line between grassy tops and the sudden drop. Far below, cold waves break and swirl around jagged rocks.
‘This teacher will be happy to watch and learn,’ he says, backing off a few steps and sitting abruptly on a pile of sacks. The dizzy edge has his head reeling.
‘Well then, Napoleon, you shall go first, and show how a Haraldsen snares a bird, eh?’
Napoleon is alive with excitement. He can hardly stand still while the rope is tied firmly around his middle. Clara is sent to sit with the teacher, but as soon as her father’s attention is on the rope she is back at the edge, urging her brother to snare a fat one. Haraldsen winds the other end of the rope halfway around his big body. He and the other ropeman, Thorval, pay it out slowly, taking the weight of his son, who walks backwards over the edge and down the cliff as if on a Sunday stroll. Halfway down the cliff Napoleon reaches a rocky spur with a few clumps of grass clinging to it. Here he turns outwards to face the open sky, then lowers himself carefully to sit astride the rock, the rope hanging slack beside him. In one hand he holds his eight-foot pole — Napoleon is not tall like Enok and Otto so his pole is not full-length. Clara shouts encouragement as Napoleon shakes free the V-shaped net attached to the end of the pol
e and holds the long snare ready, sloping outward but not yet fully upright.
‘Clara, would you scare off our catch with your screeching?’ says Haraldsen with a frown. ‘I knew it was a bad idea bringing you along.’
Behind her father’s back Clara turns to Enok with a smile and a shrug, but she falls silent all the same, and settles close to the edge, leaning over to watch the progress. Quick as a fish, Otto slips between Enok and the girl to sit beside her.
Clara sees his triumphant glance at Enok and thinks the whole manoeuvring silly. She watches her father as he braces himself against a rock, close to the edge. The two ropemen plant their feet firmly in front of them, preparing to hold Napoleon steady at the lunge. Clara loves her large bear of a father and knows better than to earn his disapproval. His education in Denmark has made him less strict when it comes to this daughter and the old ways. His approval of her schooling is unusual to say the least; for this alone Clara owes him her deepest gratitude. She loves to study and knows she is good at it. To be allowed on this expedition is also a rare favour. Her mother and sister will be at home preparing food for the returning men and have never been invited to join a fowling expedition.
Clara has a feeling that it is not only her own wiles that induce this leniency in her father, but some plan of his: that he sees some future for her beyond the life of a good Faroese wife and mother. The thought is both exciting and unsettling to her, and Clara is sharp enough to recognise her own divided nature. Yes, she is excited by her student status and the new ideas she is gaining, but she does not hanker for the wider life her father perhaps sees for her. Her father is avid for news of the outside world and will no doubt discuss politics with the teacher this evening, but when the adventure on the cliffs is over, Clara will be happy enough to help in the kitchen, serve a good meal — and look her best for Enok Rasmussen.
At this moment Enok’s attention is not on Clara but below, where her brother is slowly raising the pole upright. Now with a quick stab he shoots the net upwards into the flight path of a good-sized bird. A perfect catch! The puffin’s wings are caught in the folds of the net and held there as Napoleon lowers the now-heavy pole, takes the bird out by the head, breaks its neck with a smart flick, and hooks it to the rope around his waist. Haraldsen raises his hand in approval and the boy below signals that he will take several more before coming up. Haraldsen nods.
Catching the Current Page 6
