Catching the Current

by Jenny Pattrick

  ‘But the Faroes — I still haven’t visited half of them! What more could you want?’

  ‘How can we know till we get away and look back?’

  ‘You want to leave? I can’t believe it. I thought you loved the islands.’

  ‘Enok …’ Clara speaks slowly now, frowning as she thinks. ‘I love the Faroes, yes, but I want to know other things too. Other kinds of people — how they think and do things. Don’t you? We are so small. My father wants to send me to Copenhagen next year to stay with a friend of his. Maybe go to a realskole there. One year, maybe two. But of course I will come back.’

  ‘Two years?’ Enok touches her arm gently. His tender smile would melt an iceberg. ‘What would I do without you, Clara? Two years?’

  ‘You could come too.’

  He shakes his head. ‘How could I? I must learn the third ballad. Also I will get no scholarship to Denmark like you and Otto. And I am the oldest son. My stepbrothers are young. I will be needed.’

  Enok sees to his dismay that Clara is impatient with him.

  ‘Enok,’ she says, ‘use your own will; think for yourself. You do not have to learn the third part. It will be a triumph if you manage two! Your mother has no right to expect —’

  ‘It was my father’s dying wish.’

  ‘And then he killed himself and left the burden to you.’

  ‘That’s not fair!’

  ‘Isn’t it exactly the truth?’ Clara is engrossed in her own argument now, and doesn’t notice the effect her words are having on Enok. ‘Isn’t it? He couldn’t face his own failure, so left the righting of it to his unborn son. Walk away from it all, Enok. You say you are a man now.’

  Enok jumps to his feet, raging for all the village to hear. ‘You are wrong, Clara! I want to sing! Want it for myself!’

  ‘How can you know that? It has been drummed into you all your life. I feel so sorry for you, Enok.’

  ‘Sorry?’ The word comes out as a roar.

  ‘Everyone knows your story. How could you escape from it?’

  ‘Clara, I don’t want to escape! I want to live that story. I’m proud of it. I want you to live it with me. Ohh!’ Enok kicks against a rock and then hops with pain until he tumbles down beside her. ‘Oh, this is all wrong. Shall we start again?’

  ‘The words need saying.’

  ‘No. Not like this. They have the wrong flavour. Can’t you hear that? You are saying them in a cruel way.’

  Clara looks down at her hands and says nothing. Enok fidgets beside her for a moment, then stands up again.

  ‘Clara, would you at least come down to Su∂eroy to hear me this St Olaf’s?’

  Clara raises her head then. There are tears in her eyes. ‘How can I? We will be celebrating here and I must be here to help. You know it is impossible.’

  ‘So I must break away from my obligations but you must not?’

  Clara beats the grass with her fist. ‘Oh, you stupid ox of a man! Can’t you see how different the two are?’

  ‘No, I can’t. I can’t!’

  Enok turns and runs away from her up the hill. He leaps rocks and blunders past the placid sheep, muttering furious arguments to himself as he climbs. He doesn’t notice Otto, who has been watching the scene and who has now climbed lower, to stand directly above Clara.

  ‘You were right to say that to him,’ murmurs Otto. ‘He should go away from it all.’

  ‘Oh, what do you know about it?’ screams Clara. ‘Get out of my hair, both of you!’

  And down she storms, back to the smouldering peat and the ripening barley.

  6.

  AS ST OLAF’S Day approaches, the village of Sumba on Su∂eroy is brimming with people and excitement. Every day for the week before the festival another boat rows in bringing visitors for the celebrations. In the handful of houses at the head of the bay, children are bedding down on sacks of feathers out in storerooms, to make room for visiting adults. Anyone with a remote family connection to someone in Sumba has decided, it seems, to leave their own island and ‘come home’ this year. Isn’t that handsome young Rasmussen boy going to attempt what his father never achieved? Who could miss the chance to dance two of the longest Sjúr∂ur ballads sung by this talented fellow?

  And what will the Dahls think of the event? Enok is, after all, Magnus’s grandson. Surely it is time for old grudges to be buried? Though, come to think of it, has that powerful bastard ever shown generosity of spirit? The old skinflint was born grasping with both hands and has never stopped reaching out for something more. For one thing, he wants his daughter’s trading post, but that is secure now in the Høgnesen line; for another he desires more sons and grandsons to inherit his many marks of land, but there is only Poul in Tórshavn, who is more interested in trading than farming. Now it is rumoured that his precious only grandson, Otto (for Enok will never be acknowledged), is turning his back on farming too, and talking about going to Denmark to study! Oh yes, there haven’t been such rich topics for gossip on Su∂eroy since — well, probably since the whale kill, when Enok’s father killed Otto’s. Now wouldn’t that add salt to the feast, if the whales paid a visit this time too?

  To increase the excitement, the Danish army and navy recruiters are on the island. At this time of year, if a naval boat is free, it will bring last year’s recruits back to their homes for the celebrations. These young lads arrive in their smart uniforms, accompanied by a few older officers to keep them in line. Their commanders wisely believe that young men returning home at festival time with stories of foreign sights and new experiences will excite admiration and envy and be the best possible advertisement for the armed forces. The boys are expected to persuade their friends to enlist, and receive a bonus for every recruit they bring in.

  The officers are quartered with Magnus in the big Dahl house. For two days they have enjoyed his food and hospitality and left the returning recruits to roar around the island, drunk every night and telling wild tales of their adventures in the navy. Recruiting is going badly, though. There is talk of war — Slesvig/Holsten yet again — and what father wants to lose a much-needed son fighting over land that means little to a Faroeman?

  The night before St Olaf’s, Magnus entertains the officers lavishly and nods sagely as they outline their concerns.

  ‘I tell you what,’ booms Magnus, ‘your lads need to show a bit more initiative. Falling about drunk doesn’t help the cause.’ He offers more brandy. ‘I’ve heard them out the back singing those new Danish songs. Much more catchy than our own old dirges. Get them to go around the villages in a group. Sing and dance the latest tunes from Denmark. That’ll bring the young ones in.’

  ‘But isn’t there a special — what do you call it? — your kind of ballad dance here tomorrow?’

  Magnus laughs dismissively. ‘Oh, that’s not important, really. Relic of the old days. Our village needs livening up. They all do. Tell you what, Otto will come with your lads. He won’t be enlisting, mind, but he’ll be interested in the new songs. Otto! Come in here, boy. I have a proposition for you.’

  Later Otto tries to argue with his grandfather. He points out that the villagers love and revere the kvæ∂i; that they will not take kindly to an interruption; that the Dahls will be unpopular if they are linked to such a break with tradition. But Magnus only laughs and claps his lanky grandson on the shoulder.

  ‘The tide is beginning to flow in a different direction, lad, and I intend to catch the current. Look at you — off to Denmark! You’ll bring back new ideas, no doubt, new ways to further the Dahl holdings. New customs. Now, I want you to take those young sailors down to Høgnesen’s when the kvæ∂i is on.’

  ‘They are from this island. They will want to be at the kvæ∂i too.’

  ‘Tell them I will pay them two skind each if their songs prove more popular than Enok’s. Turn it into sport! A contest. They will love the idea.’

  ‘It’s not wise, Grandfather.’

  ‘Rubbish. You do what I say! Get them to sing outside
the Høgnesen place. We’ll see who is more popular. The young will leave their dreary dance and come out to jig.’

  ‘They won’t.’ Otto keeps his voice low. He shows no emotion but his words leave no room for doubt. ‘Enok is popular. He will be the hero tomorrow, not the sailors. Not the Dahls. Everyone loves Enok.’

  Magnus is suddenly angry. ‘A boy should not speak back like that, Otto. Your grandfather knows these islanders better than you do. You have been away too long.’

  That is the end of the argument. Otto gives that quick, hunted smile of his, nods without looking into his grandfather’s face, and walks away.

  THE first hours of St Olaf’s Day are cool and windy but more or less clear. Thin wisps of high cloud stream across the wide sky; birds circle in flocks over the sea, plunging again and again to feed. Fishermen grumble that such a perfect fishing day should present itself on St Olaf’s but the complaint is only routine — rain today would not be welcome.

  In the Høgnesen house activity has reached fever pitch. The trading post is besieged, everyone wanting a last-minute measure of sugar or barley flour and another kande of beer. Else and her daughters, all three beaming with pride, are trying to meet these needs while preparing food and drink for the kvæ∂i, which will take place late in the afternoon and go on well into the long summer day/night. The boys have stretched two canvas sails over the courtyard of the priest’s house to provide shelter for those who cannot fit inside.

  Else runs from store to house with a trencher of her pickled puffins. She is a big woman, strong still and with a rosy sweetness that comes from a happy marriage and busy life. Her silvery hair, which started the day firmly plaited around her head, is already breaking from its moorings. A rope of it now swings free as she runs, giving her the look of a much younger woman.

  ‘Say a special prayer for clear weather,’ she says as she sees her husband setting off for the church. ‘Look, here comes another boatload! They will never all fit in.’

  Hans Høgnesen laughs. ‘The good Lord will no doubt shed a tear or two sometime in the day, overcome by the quality of the singing. The sails will provide some cover. And what Faroeman has not danced in wet weather?’

  ‘But this singing will be so long! The old men will find it hard.’

  ‘The old men will be inside. We’ll try to keep Enok dancing near the doorway so that he can sing to those in and out.’ The priest touches her sleeve gently, then takes the heavy dish of food from her. ‘Don’t worry, Else, he will be fine; the day will be a great triumph. I have heard him practising. He is a performer. You know that.’

  ‘He is so tense. Have you noticed how jumpy he is? What if he forgets? Have we driven him too hard?’

  Hans laughs again. ‘My dear, anyone would think it was you performing! It would be a sin if the boy were not tense on the morning of such a performance. If he forgets some line he will cover, like any good singer. And who is there to recognise a mistake?’

  ‘You. Old Niclas.’

  ‘You think we would breathe a word of criticism? Else, let us prepare this house and the food and trust the boy to do his bit.’

  ‘And there is Magnus …’ Else has long given up calling him father.

  The priest sighs. ‘There is Magnus, yes. He will be at church this morning. He won’t miss that. I’ll have a word with him.’

  ‘It would be so good if he could come: praise Enok, break the silence …’ Else’s voice tails away. Her hope is too unlikely.

  Hans is a forthright man and an optimist, like any good priest. ‘One day he will come to it; perhaps this is the day. Magnus’s anger damages only himself — it rolls off Enok like water off a sea-bird’s back. He hardly notices.’

  ‘Which angers Magnus the more.’

  Hans laughs suddenly. ‘Listen to the two of us. This is a great day for the family. Our family. Let us enjoy it. What can Magnus do?’

  Else smiles, straightens her back. ‘You are right, my good husband. I’m foolish to let worry cloud this day. If Magnus wants to sulk, he will surely be the loser. Here, give me that dish. You will be late for the service.’

  ‘So will you, my dear!’

  Else smiles at him. ‘The Lord will forgive me if I tiptoe in a few minutes late. You would be a different matter. Now, off with you.’

  She turns away, already calling for the boys to beg a few stools from the nearby houses on their way back from church. The older dancers are bound to need a rest now and then.

  Upstairs Enok sings a phrase, grins and tries it another way, but softly. He wants the strength of his voice to make a dramatic impact from the first word he sings. He can feel the blood humming through his body. His breathing is slow and deep as he has been taught. The bustle and banging below are a world away. He is lost in the great tale he is about to sing.

  BY late afternoon the wind has turned to the north and blows chill. A bank of mist is rolling into the bay. When the sun breaks through, village, sea and mist are illuminated in purple and gold as if they were a fabulous setting for a grand opera. A minute later the sun disappears and colour drains from the landscape, leaving it cold and stark. Again bright, again the fade, over and over as clouds and sun play hide and seek, though Magnus is perhaps the only person in Sumba who watches these dramatic changes. Everyone else is crammed into the Høgnesen house and courtyard, intent on a drama of their own making.

  Enok stands in the doorway. His head touches the lintel, the long blond hair tied back and secured with a bone ornament carved long ago by his father. The scarlet waistcoat — his father’s also — is embroidered in intricate patterns. The rows of silver buttons glow against the rich cloth. His blue eyes look from inside to out and back again, gathering everyone into his orbit. The buzz of conversation dies; beer mugs are grounded. Else holds her husband’s hand tight as everyone watches Enok. Out go his arms, stretched wide as if conducting an orchestra, which in a way he is. This is the signal for the dancers to join him in a long chain, elbow to elbow, hand in hand, one foot planted, the other resting lightly on the toe, ready to move.

  Enok smiles left and right at his dancers — here is a different sun (and son) illuminating the scene! Once, twice, his shoe rings on the fine wooden floor, setting the rhythm. Stamp, stamp, sixty feet take the beat, then pause, waiting for the right place in the ballad to start moving. Enok draws out the moment, then takes the first deep breath of his kvæ∂i. He is away.

  Faroemen, welcome from your fjords and valleys, he sings, his voice strong and compelling.

  Encircle this hearth, hear me sing

  Of the hero Sjúr∂ur, his mighty deeds

  The dragon’s treasure and the dread ring …

  Feet rooted to the ground, Enok dances with torso only, moving his broad shoulders to one side and then the other — strong, graceful sweeps, building a rhythm to his words. Then, as the welcome comes to an end — thump! Down goes his foot, and sixty others take their first step with him.

  Brave Sigmund lay sore-wounded and weary,

  Sundered in three parts his sword.

  Dark Queen of the Dead, Hel, called to him

  Crimson his life’s blood poured …

  Enok’s chorus is a little different from the one the crowd knows. His is the ancient version, rarely sung. Forward, forward and back they step, listening to Enok sing it, memorising the words:

  Sjúr∂ur braved the lair of the dragon

  Claimed the golden treasure hoard

  Smote the beast with his father’s sword

  Sjúr∂ur braved the lair of the dragon …

  By the last line they have it and roar it out with Enok. The kvæ∂i is under way.

  Un-born, in his mother’s belly,

  Lay son of Sigmund, Sjúr∂ur, doomed

  Before even he breathed first breath in the land …

  The crowded dancers shout and stamp. Forward, forward and back; forward, forward and back, the rhythm already beginning to cast a spell. It is going to be a great night!

  Enok
sings with his eyes open, unlike some older ballad singers. He watches the dancers, face alive with the tale he is unfolding. The tempo builds and falls away, builds and falls again. The hypnotic rise and fall of the tune, the rich rolling lines of the great Viking saga, the slowly snaking line of dancers — all are utterly compelling. Sumba kvæ∂i are renowned in all the islands for their drama but tonight Enok has drawn the dancers into a deeper, richer state, close to intoxication. He can feel his audience with him and plays them wonderfully; they are fish hooked to his ancient mystic line. After each verse they sing the chorus as one — quietly if tragedy is in the air, more often with a great roar and a stamp and a shaking of fists as Sjúr∂ur prepares to fight the dread dragon Fáfnir.

  At the end of the first fifty verses Old Niclas leaves the circle and sits to listen. Tears roll down his wrinkled cheeks but his eyes never leave Enok’s face. Slowly he rocks back and forth on his stool, dancing in his mind. The saga rolls on. Whenever a dancer drops out of the chain another slips in to take his place. Slowly they step and circle, living the story through the movement of their bodies. Occasionally the dancers shout in unison — a wordless exclamation underlining a dramatic moment.

  Brave Sjúr∂ur lunged to broach dread Fáfnir’s belly.

  Freshly flowed the dragon’s blood

  Good fortune that the war-gear held

  Against that dire and fiery flood …

  From time to time, when the story takes a fresh turn, the dancing feet also change direction to circle back the way they have come. On and on Enok sings, his voice never faltering, driving the story into the hearts, into the very souls of his listeners. Else and Hans, who have heard him sing this before — have taught him this section, are, even so, spellbound. Together, shoulder to shoulder, they dance, lost in the chanted drama.