As the kvæ∂i finally draws to its triumphant end, as the birds warn Sjúr∂ur of Regin’s treachery and Sjúr∂ur draws his mighty sword, once broken in three parts by Sjúr∂ur’s dead father but now welded by the same Regin — at the very moment the sword descends, the low evening sun breaks through cloud. Its long rays reach beneath the canvas roof of the courtyard to illuminate the young singer. A theatre director could not have managed a more dramatic finale. Enok’s blond hair and pale skin turn deep gold; the feet of the dancers slow and still; the last words of the saga roar to a close.
And then, on cue, the sun also is obliterated. For a long moment there is nothing, then the silence is shattered with whoops and clapping and stamping. Enok is surrounded by admirers who want to touch him, to pound their congratulations into his tall body. Enok himself shouts and laughs with the excitement of it all.
Else and her daughters, their eyes still streaming, run to bring out the trenchers of food and drink. There is barley bread and potato bread, fatty sheep sausage and delicious strips of dried sheepmeat, chunks of Else’s famous pickled puffins alongside boiled and stuffed puffins and guillemots. Neighbours have brought trays of fresh fish and salted klipfish, boiled potatoes and precious slices of dried whale meat and blubber. There is butter cake and half a tun of imported mead. Hans and the boys hang whale-oil lamps to light the big room and the courtyard. The evening is young yet: the second kvæ∂i is still to come. Oh, this is a night to be remembered long into the future.
Indeed.
Later, when night has finally turned dark, Enok has settled to his singing again. His deep and resonant voice chants the story of Sjúr∂ur’s magic horse, Grani, and the great leap through the ring of fire to claim beautiful Brynhild. As the dancers are quickening their steps to match the pace of the saga, as evil magic is woven and the hero seems doomed, at that high moment a different sound niggles at the attention of the courtyard dancers. A sweet merry tune played on a pipe, distant at first, but coming closer.
Those on the outer edge of the listening crowd shake their heads, as if an annoying fly is buzzing, and press in closer to the ballad singer. But the piped tune comes closer and now male voices take up the jaunty melody, giving it words.
A drummer boy by a lake saw a beautiful swan
Fly down to swim in the water there …
The sailors sing in Danish, their rough voices blurred with drink but tuneful enough.
Enok sings on, raising his voice to meet the challenge and never missing a beat.
Trapped within the circle Brynhild waited
Around her leapt the magic fire
Up and upward surged the horse
Sjúr∂ur urged great Grani higher.
Those inside the house cannot hear the interruption; they dance on, entranced. But outside it is a different matter. A few younger lads and a girl or two, tiring perhaps of the long evening of chanting, have broken from the chain and turned to listen to the jig. Someone claps in time with the sailors, which encourages them to sing louder. An angry farmer tries to chase the little band away.
‘Hey there! Move away! Hendrick, I know you — show some respect for a decent kvæ∂i. Off with you!’
His outburst only draws attention to the rival singing. A few more turn to listen. Someone laughs at the ribald chorus …
If you beat on your drum,
Young drummer, she will come …
Enok, dancing near the doorway, can hear the lilting tune clearly. For the first time in the whole evening his voice falters; a dancer or two from the inside ring stumble as the rhythm is broken. Else is not dancing but listening in wonder to this kvæ∂i, which her first husband learned but never performed. She sees her son’s face redden but thinks the emotion is coming from the scene he describes. Her hands clench tight as she wills him to continue, to carry the audience with him at this important climax. For another stanza — and another — Enok carries on, but the magic is no longer there. By now even those inside can sense some kind of commotion out on the street.
The angry farmer has spotted Otto among the singers, ‘Otto Dahl! You should be ashamed of yourself. Be off!’
The singers are already moving away, still piping their tune, when Enok hears Otto’s name called out. His concentration — and his control — breaks.
LATER, sitting alone on a high rock, far from the village, Enok looks down at the crawling sea and beats his damaged fist against the stone until it bleeds all over again. Stupid, stupid, stupid! If he had held on a minute or two longer the crisis would have been averted. Already the crowd outside was turning back to him. He could easily have drawn them in again and carried the day. But for once he had let his cousin get under his skin. Stupid!
Enok has downed a good measure of mead and his head swims, but nothing can obliterate the memory of Otto’s odd, pleased smirk as Enok charged through the crowd, roaring like a bull seal. Or the way Otto stood, unflinching, to receive the crunching blow — not even raising a hand to defend himself, and the sickening backward snap of his head as he was flung to the ground by the force of Enok’s rage.
Enok groans and sucks blood from his bleeding hand. He tries to stand but the liquor and his misery have overcome him. For a while he lies on his back, watching the sky lighten. A curious skua approaches, step by step, head cocked sideways. Enok lunges with one hand but the movement is clumsy. The bird flies away. He tries to imagine what happened after he struck the blow and then ran off, snatching a jug of mead as he went. Consternation over Otto, no doubt. Was he dead? Disfigured? Had the blow lost him his mind? Else and Hans would be distraught — not to mention all those who had come for a great celebration. He could imagine what they would be saying: Enok didn’t even stay to survey the damage. It’s his father’s story all over again.
Enok finally staggers to his feet. Lurching, sometimes falling, sometimes crawling, he makes his way back towards the village. At the edge of the infield he is met by three naval officers. Two hold the staggering boy upright, one on either side of him. The third speaks kindly.
‘Come on, lad; celebrations are over; ship’s waiting.’
Enok shakes his head, not understanding. He tries to pull away but is too drunk to control his actions.
The officer frowns and consults his list. ‘Enok Rasmussen, isn’t it?’
Enok nods.
‘You’ve enlisted. Paperwork’s all here.’
‘No … No …’
One of the others speaks. ‘Lad’s too drunk to remember, sir. Can’t even keep his feet.’
The first officer chuckles. ‘Well, St Olaf’s Day is like that. You can’t blame them. Tough year ahead. Come on, lad, let’s get you aboard.’
‘No,’ says Enok, finally getting his tongue around a word or two. ‘I don’t want … Didn’t … didn’t sign.’ But there’s no spirit in the words.
The officer holds a sheet in front of Enok’s unfocused eyes. ‘Here. Your signature. Your grandfather as witness. You’ll remember it all when you’ve slept this off. Come on, now.’
Tall Enok, head hanging, feet dragging, lets himself be taken.
3.
Storms and Disasters
KARERE,
NORTH ISLAND, NEW ZEALAND
1868
1.
CONRAD’S HOME FOR the past year has been a small hut that he built himself on Monrad land down near the river. It is a cunning construction — everything Conrad makes with his hands is beautiful. The framework is of ponga logs, lashed together with stripped flax. Between these dark red and fibrous uprights Conrad has placed walls of river stones, so neatly interlocked that there is no need for a plastering of mud. The roof consists of many layers of ponga fronds laid over a sheet of stretched canvas.
‘I’ll not be staying long,’ he said when he arrived many months ago, ‘or I’d build something more substantial.’ But here he has stayed, missing the sea, dreaming sometimes of his other life on the Faroes, but content enough with the hard work — and with Anahuia’s c
ompany. Often Anahuia sleeps here with him. She comes and goes according to other calls on her time, calls that Conrad has learned not to question.
On this evening she is with him, and so is Napoleon. The three friends sit around a fire that Anahuia has lit on a hearth of stones at the entrance to the hut. They all sit close to the smoky warmth — the night is cool, and the mosquitoes are kept at bay by the swirling wisps of smoke, which Anahuia fans this way and that, making sure all three are protected.
Napoleon is laughing as he tells them of his day spent searching for the bishop’s sheep. ‘Even the sheep here are wild! Here I am stumbling over stumps and branches,’ — he jumps up to imitate his clumsy advance — ‘calling them by all the sweetest words I know, and they simply run further away! Back home, Ana, our sheep are more like members of the family. They love us. They come to our call. How can you manage sheep that run off all the time?’
Ana smiles at the lively fellow. ‘You use a dog to fetch them.’
‘A dog!’ Napoleon is horrified. ‘Surely that would drive them further away? At any rate, the bishop is surely losing his flock. I can count only sixty where there should be two hundred — or so he says. Two hundred is scarcely believable. I have never heard of two hundred sheep all belonging to one man.’
Conrad grins at his friend. ‘This place is full of surprises. Have you looked closely at the wool? Curly and fine all the way through. These sheep don’t grow outer wool at all. Nothing coarse and straight for coats or sails. And watch the way these people take the wool. Cut it right off the sheep’s back with huge shears. The whole fleece! For weeks the poor ugly things run around half naked, pink skin showing through. You wait, you’ll see.’ He reaches out a lazy arm to pull Ana closer. She leans against him, her blanket falling open to reveal one brown breast. Napoleon turns away at first, but then his eyes are drawn back. His look is anxious, though.
‘Enok, I don’t want to wait much longer,’ he says. ‘Even to see naked sheep. Friend, when will we leave?’
‘Use Danish, Napoleon. She should hear what you say.’
Napoleon frowns. He shifts a little, as if to shrug away some thought, but repeats formally in Danish: ‘Enok? Is my friend ready to leave? This wanderer cannot go without him. The mother at home says it is important.’ He looks away again into the night. A single bird calls, long and mournful, once, twice, a third time. ‘Others say it is important. You are needed.’
Anahuia gathers her blanket and stands. Even with the heavy weight of the baby she stands straight, her bare feet planted firmly. Her strange grey eyes are dark in the firelight, their expression stern, perhaps. Or calm? Difficult to read. She touches Conrad on the shoulder.
‘Talk to your friend in your own language. Make a true decision.’
Conrad rises and follows her. ‘Ah, stay, sweetheart. I thought you could stay tonight?’
‘I am able to, yes, but your friend is anxious when I am here. You are a hero to him in some way. Be careful with him.’
Conrad groans. ‘Ana, I am no good at big decisions. Stay and help me.’
She wraps her arms around his chest and holds him tightly for a moment, the bulge of the baby pressing into his groin. Conrad feels a small kick and then another more impatient one, and despite himself he stiffens in response.
‘Jesus,’ he murmurs, ‘my own child is enticing me. This is not proper, surely!’
She laughs and releases him. ‘Conrad Rasmussen — or whatever your name is — you are a good man and a true one.’ She grins. ‘And sometimes a foolish one. Let the true man make the decision, not the foolish one.’
‘I couldn’t leave you.’
‘That is what I hope. Then tell him. But gently.’
‘He should know your story.’
‘I will tell it. But later. Ka kite.’
Anahuia turns and walks steadily into the dark — downriver, back towards her kainga.
Conrad returns to the fire. He sits for a while, looking into the flames, then picks up a piece he is carving and begins to work.
Napoleon smiles in recognition. How many times has he seen his friend carving at bone or wood when he is trying to untangle a thought.
‘What is it?’ he asks.
‘This? A wood they call manuka. Hard and sweet-smelling.’ He hands the piece across to Napoleon.
‘No, I mean what will it be?’
‘A boat, I think. A little whaling boat.’
‘There — you see? You are missing your own island!’
Conrad laughs. Takes the piece from Napoleon and works again in silence. ‘That woman,’ he says at last, ‘she has become … important. Can’t you see that, Napoleon? How strong she is?’
‘She is very strange sometimes. Scary. The baby is yours?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘I thought maybe they weren’t so … strict … as us about that sort of thing.’
‘Napoleon!’
‘But how can you know? I mean she is often down with her own people. Perhaps there is another …’
Conrad stabs his knife into the ground. ‘I know because she tells me so! The baby is mine. I am happy for it to be mine.’
Napoleon will not give the matter away. ‘She wants to keep you here, can’t you see that? She has cast some kind of spell over you. It’s uncanny. How can you prefer a … a half-caste like that, before your own mother? Before Clara? Before all of us?’
Conrad leaps to his feet, too blind with anger to notice the tears in his friend’s eyes. For a moment it seems as if he will strike Napoleon, who cries out and rolls away in fear.
‘Don’t you dare call her a half-caste! It’s bad enough they say those things down at Jackeytown. Leave it. Leave it alone, Napoleon!’
He snatches his knife from the ground and crawls through the low entrance to his hut. There he lies on the mattress of fern fronds, frowning up at the dark roof.
Outside, Napoleon cries silently. Again the low hoot of the morepork sounds; again it is echoed from further away, two-toned and lonely. The boy wraps his blanket tighter against all the pressures of this strange, frightening island — so large, so gloomy — which seems to have captured his friend. He thinks of the wide, grassy fields of the farm on Streymoy, the windswept sky, his mother knitting by the fire and his bright bossy sister, now assisting the teacher at Tórshavn. The excitement of the voyage has disappeared. His pride in accomplishing a difficult mission — finding Enok — has vanished among these dark trees. A harsh, rasping cry sounds somewhere nearby and he starts in fear. But before he can move back towards the security of the bishop’s house, a jaunty whistle comes from inside the hut — a seaman’s jig the boy recognises. Quickly he wipes his fist over his wet cheeks. His lips, though, are still out of control; they will not form the return phrase.
‘Ah, Jesus.’ Conrad’s voice comes out of the dark. ‘What are we doing, Faroeman, arguing? Come inside this minute. I have not heard even half of your story. My woman has walked into the dark so you will have to do for warmth, eh? Come on in and bring your blanket, Napoleon Haraldsen.’
Inside, the two young men snug down together. Conrad hugs the smaller boy to him, punches his shoulder. ‘God bless you, my friend. You have travelled half the world to find me and I repay you with curses. They should string me to the yard and flog my wretched temper out of me! You know what I am like, Napoleon. Forgive this mad fool. Eh?’
Napoleon is too happy to speak. The tears are flowing again, for a different reason. He returns the punch and hopes that his grunt of assent will pass for words.
Conrad whistles the tune again. ‘Did you learn that one?’
This time Napoleon manages a wavering return.
Conrad laughs. ‘We all learned that one! Join the navy and learn a new ditty every day.’ He sings the snatch of another tune and Napoleon responds immediately with the chorus. Soon the two are singing and laughing like young boys, vying to remember the rude sailor ve
rsions of the old folksongs.
Conrad stops mid-song to ask, ‘But, friend, I never once saw you! Every ship I came near I asked for you. You went into the navy?’
‘I did. For a while only.’
‘What ship?’
‘Frederik.’
‘Jesus, man, we were alongside at least twice! No boy aboard called Napoleon, they said. Did you change your name too?’
‘They drafted me out, the rats. It turned out I was a good shot with the rifle, and they were desperate for more land troops.’
Conrad snorts. ‘Why waste a Faroeman on land? What use would we be in the army?’
‘What use were any of us except to die?’
Conrad suddenly turns on his elbow and peers at Napoleon. ‘They didn’t send you to Slesvig? You were at Dannevirke?’
‘I was.’
‘Jesus. At Dybbøl and Als?’
‘The whole bloody mess. The bishop up there in his big house has a lot to answer for. Different orders every day, different leaders. Advance. Retreat. Hold fast. All we could do was die by the hundred.’
‘Napoleon Haraldsen, tell me the story at once. You are a bloody hero just to come out alive. Did you see the bishop’s son? Viggo? He was a captain there.’
Napoleon stretches, smiling in the dark, warm and secure now in his friend’s admiration. ‘They said he was there. I never saw him. Müller was there too — you remember our teacher?’
‘How could I forget?’
‘He caught the first ship back to Denmark to fight for his land. He came from Als, didn’t he?’
‘Yes, or somewhere in Slesvig.’
‘Well, he died there. On that retreat from the Dannevirke. Enok, I have never been so cold in my life as on that damned retreat. The officers had fired us all up to hold and fight for king and Denmark. They boasted that we had beaten the Germans before and had the best army in the world, that our brave navy had blockaded German ports so the enemy would soon be crippled. They said we had important allies who would come rushing to our defence — Sweden, England, France …’
Catching the Current Page 9
