Catching the Current

by Jenny Pattrick

  Still the birds wheel in the steady wind. The hatchery is below Napoleon, on an almost inaccessibly sheer rock-face, but as the birds leave their perches to forage, they ride the air currents up and past the boy and that is when he must lunge with the netted pole. A precarious action. Napoleon waits for the perfect moment.

  Above, Enok is intrigued. On Su∂eroy they do it a little differently. He explains the system to Haraldsen, who laughs and shakes his head.

  ‘You southerners would make a rats’ nest out of any simple operation!’

  ‘No, but you see,’ says Enok, eager to explain, ‘we hold the pole this way, so the net hangs at an angle to the wind.’ He demonstrates expansively, lunging with his right hand and turning his body, then whoops in alarm as he trips and nearly goes over the edge.

  His laughter as he regains his equilibrium is covered by a wilder scream. Haraldsen, who has momentarily turned his attention away from his task, is nearly jerked over the edge as Napoleon’s rope goes taut. The boy on the cliffs has lunged at almost the same time as Enok’s demonstration. Perhaps the shout from above diverted his attention; perhaps he heard nothing but simply lost his balance. Whatever the cause, Haraldsen and Thorval are now taking all the boy’s weight.

  ‘What is it, quick?’ Haraldsen pants, straining back from the edge, his boots making deep rucks in the turf. Enok throws himself onto Haraldsen and grips the big man’s shoulders, adding his weight to the burden. Clara and Otto peer over and are horrified to see Napoleon dangling face down at the end of the rope. His pole has smashed far below on the rocks. They can’t see his face. His fingers grab for the cliff-face but they touch only air as he circles slowly above the sea.

  Haraldsen, Thorval and Enok lean back against the rope but it won’t budge. Otto adds his weight but still there is no movement.

  ‘No, wait! Stop, stop!’ Clara, looking down, is suddenly aware of the danger. ‘The rope is caught! You will cut it!’

  ‘Clara, don’t panic,’ grunts Haraldsen. ‘We have been through this kind of thing many times before. He will come up safe and he knows it. We must be patient. Otto, run and fetch the others.’ He indicates with a nod of his head a place on the headland where the other men from the farm are already set up.

  Otto sprints away. The teacher stands transfixed. He is no use at all, unable to approach the cliff’s edge, not knowing whether his added weight would help anyway. Across the headland Otto shouts his request. The startled men look up and immediately understand the danger. Otto helps them bring the lower man up from the cliff. All are experienced at fowling and show no fear. Now they race back to the others, coiling their ropes as they run, preparing for the new task.

  Haraldsen grinds out the orders. ‘Petur, help me with the weight; you are heavier than this boy. Símun and Jacob, lower Enok down to release the rope.’

  ‘I could do it,’ says the panting Otto. ‘I will be quicker than him.’

  ‘You are out of breath. Thank you, Otto, but we may need Enok’s broader shoulders if the rope is hard to budge.’

  ‘But I know our ways better —’

  Haraldsen cuts him off sharply. ‘Otto Dahl, this is not the time for arguments. You do not know our ways if you waste breath at a time like this. Watch at the edge and call when the rope is free.’

  The boy colours at the rebuke; glances over to see if Clara has heard, which she has. His brows lower but he goes, quiet now, to the edge.

  Already Enok is roped. Down he goes, sure as a goat, hardly needing the support. Símun pays out steadily, then slackens as the boy reaches the ledge. Enok lies flat on his stomach across the rocky protuberance, his long legs dangling into space. An arm’s length away a puffin sweeps past, orange bill and neat clown’s face clear between the spread wings, but Enok pays no attention and neither does the bird.

  ‘Hey, Napoleon!’ Enok speaks quietly, not to startle his friend below. ‘Your rope is caught. Try not to swing while I try to free it.’

  Napoleon nods. His face, when he twists it upwards for a moment, is bright red. The rope is clearly cutting into his sides but he is calm enough, and hangs as still as he can as Enok reaches down, feeling for the snag. There it is — a small crevice into which the rope has wedged. Enok tries to loosen it, but the tension makes the task impossible. He feels for his knife, then picks delicately at the rock to see if he can enlarge the crevice. The stone will not yield.

  Enok turns his face to Otto and Clara above and signals that he should be lowered further. Otto nods and speaks to the ropemen, who lower again. This is tricky. The cliff is undercut here, so Enok must free the rope while hanging in mid-air himself. But nothing seems to worry this big agile boy. He is humming to himself as he works. Clara does not hear the song but can see the wide grin on his face. She would not be able to say whether the beating of her heart is fear for her brother or admiration for his rescuer.

  Reaching for Napoleon’s harness, Enok hooks his fingers around the rope and heaves upward with one hand, while the other releases the now-slackened rope from the crevice. It is an impressive feat of strength for a boy not yet grown into a man’s heavy frame. Now both boys swing free. Enok, whose harness allows him to hang upright, takes Napoleon’s arm and holds him so that he, too, may face the cliff instead of the sea below. Napoleon closes his eyes and sighs with pleasure as the blood drains from his head.

  ‘Oh, that is good. My eyes were going to burst out of their sockets if I stayed that way one more second. Thank you.’

  Enok grins but does not speak. The strain of holding them both upright is beginning to tell. Napoleon gives the signal and both ropes move upwards. As soon as they are hauled past the ledge, both boys can assist the men above by walking against the cliff, using their fingers in the tiny cracks and seams in the rock.

  ‘Hey,’ whispers Napoleon as they climb, ‘you should watch out for Otto. He’s set to destroy you.’

  Enok laughs. ‘Jesu, man, you are climbing up from an almost death and you warn me?’

  ‘But it’s true! I heard his uncle —’

  Enok will hear none of it. ‘You heard old people retelling old stories. I have listened to them all before. All my life. But Otto and I are not our fathers. Now, save your breath for reaching the top.’

  And up they go, guided and hauled by ropes, to emerge, two heads together, one dark, one blond, both grinning, to receive hugs from Clara and a gruff slap on the back from Haraldsen, who is not inclined to over-dramatise the rescue.

  ‘Now,’ says that man, ‘perhaps we can get on with some real fowling before the day is over. Napoleon, you will need to regain your confidence with a good catch, but meantime, Otto, let’s see what you can do.’

  As Otto is roped and prepares to be lowered down the cliff with his netted pole, Clara is watching the other two boys. Napoleon looks up at tall Enok with something like awe. ‘You saved my life.’

  Enok rolls his eyes at Clara, shrugging off the adulation. ‘Hey, friend, any one of us would have done the same. And could.’ He laughs and Clara has to join in. His moods are infectious.

  The last thing Otto sees as he backs down the cliff is that scene: Clara and Enok laughing together, and little Napoleon looking up at a hero.

  5.

  IN THE BIG Haraldsen house the meal of roast puffin, potatoes, barley-bread and greens is over. The men have drunk good Tórshavn-brewed beer with their meal, but now Haraldsen brings out Danish brandy to help the flow of conversation. Upstairs, in this solid box of a building, the younger children are asleep. Across the yard in the smokehouse the surplus birds — puffins and guillemots — are curing under a smouldering peat fire. Clara sits with her sister, mother and grandmother knitting jerseys. The beautiful Faroese designs grow under fingers that have no need to count stitches or concentrate on the intricacies. The mother smiles as she knits, pleased to have visitors under her roof, pleased at the contentment she has engendered among the men with her good food and warm hospitality. In a corner of the room the grandfather, who is now
too deaf to join in the talk, cards wool in preparation for spinning. Clara’s attention is more on Enok than the general conversation; her face is bent to the wool but her eyes slide sideways.

  Enok fidgets. His stool is too small and his long legs feel cramped. He wants to go outside into the wind-blown evening light. He wants to talk to Clara about his coming kvæ∂i; is it possible she and Napoleon might come to Su∂eroy? He tries to concentrate on the conversation, which has turned to Danish politics, but always other thoughts break in: snatches of song, memories of the past months on this island. He takes from his pocket the piece of bone he has been working. The rhythm of carving will perhaps spread up through his hands and settle his ears to the talk.

  ‘War is inevitable in any case,’ Müller is saying. ‘The only way to secure the boundary is to fight for it. The Prime Minister is right. Let Holsten go; fight for Slesvig.’

  Haraldsen disagrees. He has friends in Copenhagen who write to him regularly. ‘Bishop Monrad is a friend to our family but I must admit he is not a popular choice as new prime minister. He will not easily form a strong Cabinet. New king, new prime minister: bad combination at such a time.’

  ‘But look at our allies! King Christian’s daughter Alexandra will be queen of England. His other daughter married to the Czar of Russia. His son now king of the Hellenes. Our new king is related to all the crowns of Europe.’

  Haraldsen laughs. ‘But not to Prussia. Not to Austria. That is where an alliance would be useful. The Germans want Holsten and Slesvig. Do the other crowns of Europe care enough to come to our assistance? I doubt it.’

  Otto is interested. History and politics are fascinating to him. He wants to show off his knowledge. ‘Queen Victoria of England would surely favour the Prussian argument. Look at her own German connections. She won’t let her son’s beautiful Danish wife sway her in our favour, surely?’

  His teacher considers the argument but rejects it. ‘No, Otto, these days it is politicians who decide matters, not kings and queens. England will not let Denmark fight alone. Right is on our side and the British believe in justice. And anyway, look at our army! Didn’t we fight alone last time? And didn’t we win against the Holsteners? We have the best navy in Europe and the bravest soldiers. It is time Slesvig enjoyed full citizenship with Denmark. If we have to fight to hold Slesvig, so be it. Bishop Monrad is a clear thinker and a great patriot. He says we must not compromise and he is right.’

  ‘But war?’ says Haraldsen. ‘I hope not. I would not like to think I was sending young Napoleon here into battle. I have just enlisted him in the navy. See a bit of the world, yes; learn the seamanship and discipline, certainly. Not killed, though, for another country’s argument. That would make no sense at all.’

  ‘But Father,’ says the lad, flushed and proud of his new status, ‘we are part of Denmark. I would fight for her.’

  ‘No, no, son, you will be needed here on the farm in a few years,’ rumbles Haraldsen. ‘But we will see, we will see. A war may not come. More to the point, will the potato blight arrive? Now, there’s a danger!’

  ‘Potatoes?’ Müller frowns at this sudden change of topic. He is just getting into his swing.

  Haraldsen, though more cosmopolitan than most Faroese, still puts Faroe matters first. He considers the agricultural change from barley to the far more productive potato a dangerous move. ‘Look at Ireland — their famines, their blight. We must be vigilant. If the blight arrives on these islands we may suffer the same fate. Now, I still plant a decent crop of barley in my best section of infield …’

  And so the conversation goes on. Otto joins in and, now that the talk has moved to farming, so does Napoleon. Enok at last manages to catch Clara’s eye and jerks his head to the door. She nods — the smallest movement, but enough for Enok. He rises to stretch and saunters to the door, making as if he is headed for the outhouse.

  Outside he walks a little way towards the shore, breathes with pleasure the salty air. The sky has cleared and a pale full moon, just risen in the east above the hills, mirrors the low western sun. Enok reaches upward and out, then flexes his cramped knees. He wants to run. Or row out. Fly, even. Until he has sung his double kvæ∂i he will feel like this — full to bursting with an excitement that is also deep apprehension. All his life he has been brought up with this dream ahead of him — his dead father’s wish. And the third part? Will he ever manage to hold all three in his head? Even for one performance? He hums a line or two, then stops. The words want to roar out of him, and that would never do. Impatient, he looks back at the big Haraldsen house, solid and substantial, set aside a little from the other houses of the village. Why doesn’t she come? The house juts squarely up from the hillside, a forbidding, uncompromising building, quite different in style from the low, grass-covered house of old Niclas Patursson, which has been his home this last year.

  But here she comes, Clara, running down to meet him, her pale hair turned silver in the evening light. She could be out of a ballad herself: the pale beauty whom Sigurd roused with a kiss. When she dances up to him, Enok holds her shoulders still and kisses her cheek with such gentleness that she can find no words of rebuke, but kisses him back.

  ‘Clara,’ he says, loving the sound, ‘Clara.’ And kisses her again. ‘Can we walk up a little? I want to talk with you and there is never a time. And soon it will be St Olaf’s Day and I will be back on Su∂eroy —’

  Clara lays a gentle hand over his mouth to stop the tumbling words. ‘You know I cannot walk up with you. We would surely be missed. My father may relax some of the rules but never that one.’

  Enok’s feet dance on the gravel of the shore. Tonight he feels like a lightning strike that has no place to ground. ‘Just for a few minutes? Clara?’

  She reaches for his hand, holds it between both of hers. He grips her — too hard — and she almost cries out as the heat from him runs up her arm and through her body.

  ‘Come early in the morning, then,’ she gasps, ‘up to the peat-house. I will be watching the barley.’

  Without another word or backward glance she runs back to the house, where the lamps have just been lit. The flickering lights in the windows soften the severe building but do nothing to ease Enok’s mood. He bounds across the beach, kicking up shingle, until he comes to the rocky headland. Out of sight and ankle deep in the moonstruck water, he tears at his clothes then leans, half naked, hard up against the black stone of the land. There, hands spread wide and clutching at crevices, forehead laid against the cool surface, he thrusts again and again at the unyielding rock until, with a moan, he releases.

  Much later, calmer but ashamed, he creeps into the quiet house and finds a place to sleep.

  IN the morning he finds her in the smokehouse. The cured birds have already been taken away to the dry store and now it is the barley’s turn to enjoy a little heat. In this cold climate the barley rarely ripens in the field but has to be brought to full readiness over a smouldering peat fire. Clara, bare-armed and barefoot, is raking the trays of grain, the warmth in the little shed making her skin rosy and slick with sweat. Enok creeps up behind her and plants a kiss on the first part he can reach, which is a bony elbow. She jumps backwards, nearly knocking out one of his teeth. Enok clutches his mouth, hopping in pain and rolling his eyes, while she laughs until the tears run.

  ‘Enok Rasmussen, you will bring the whole family running! Get out of here, in the name of God, before you scatter the barley!’ She pushes him to the door and out they both tumble, into a morning that for once is clear and sharp. Behind the shed they are in the lee of the westerly. The wind scuds over the brow of the hill behind them, but they lie on the grass, sheltered and warm.

  Clara allows a kiss, then another. Her breathing is now as urgent as Enok’s but her will is stronger. She moves away a little and sits up, head to one side like an inquisitive bird. ‘Is this the talk, then, that can’t find a time?’

  Enok grins. The fingers of one big hand walk gently up and down the bones of he
r spine. She shivers with pleasure but won’t lie down again.

  ‘Enok?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘Wake up, man, you are half asleep in this sun!’

  Enok lies back, eyes shut, and speaks so quietly that she has to lean in to hear.

  ‘This moment, this morning is so perfect — you here, the sun — don’t you feel it? It seems best just to drink it in. Forget about plans and futures. Kiss me again.’

  ‘What plans and futures?’

  ‘There you are! Planning already!’

  ‘Enok!’

  Enok opens his eyes and smiles at her. ‘Marry me, then. Shall we ask your father?’

  Clara makes a sound that is half laughter, half despair. ‘Oh, you are truly impossible. Are you serious?’

  ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘We are still at school. We are children still.’

  ‘Seventeen is a man.’ Enok jumps to his feet and stretches his full height. ‘Look at me! Won’t I do?’

  Clara pulls at one of those long legs. ‘Well, you won’t do quite yet. Sit down or they will see that great length of you.’

  Enok crashes to the ground. His calm of a moment ago is shattered; now he is ready to argue. ‘But we have nearly finished our schooling. What now? Wouldn’t I make a good husband? I lack land, yes, but there’s the family business. I am a top fisherman and share a boat with my half-brothers. Su∂eroy is a beautiful island. I have a reputation as a ballad singer … Clara?’

  Clara sighs. ‘You may feel ready to settle but I don’t. I feel a girl still. Don’t you want to go to Denmark? Set eyes on something more than these islands?’