Catching the Current

by Jenny Pattrick

  3.

  A MONTH AFTER Napoleon’s arrival at Karere he has still not managed to persuade Conrad to leave with him. Underlying their friendship, and the easy way they work together on the bishop’s land, is the constant pressure of that question. Napoleon tries not to mention it too often, but he is also aware that the thought of leaving this flat inland farm appeals more and more to his friend. He sees the distant look in Conrad’s eyes when he turns west and lifts his head as if to smell the salt. Napoleon shares the longing. Oceans are in their blood; when they remain too long away from the sea it feels as if a limb were missing.

  First Conrad refused any notion of leaving. He had a duty to Anahuia, and a love for her. Then he suggested they wait. Perhaps something could be worked out. Perhaps Ana could be freed from her … obligations … in some way. Napoleon, who knew his sister Clara’s heart, and who jealously wanted his friend as brother-in-law, could not take Anahuia seriously. Also, she disturbed him: her fierce, free ways, her height and her straightforward talk. Conrad hinted that she was bound in some way but she never gave that impression.

  ‘Her people will look after the baby, surely,’ Napoleon would say. ‘You can’t expect to be tied forever to people so different from us. We are wasting our lives here.’

  Conrad would frown, uncharacteristically silent.

  But increasingly Napoleon feels that his friend will leave this dark inland place. Soon the pull will be too great.

  ONE afternoon the two friends, working in the bishop’s tobacco patch, look up to see the bishop himself standing among the rows of leafy plants. He leans heavily on a stout stick, still recovering from an injury that has been slow to heal. He was thrown while riding and then the horse stepped on his leg. Monrad nods at them in his serious way.

  ‘Would the two of you come up to the house when you have finished the row?’

  Conrad straightens, wiping sweat away with his forearm. ‘We’d be glad to, Bishop. This work breaks the back of a tall fellow like me.’

  Napoleon draws breath at his friend’s cheeky response but Monrad simply nods again. ‘I would help,’ he says, ‘but as you see, I am in no shape. I find it distressing to be so idle when so much needs doing.’

  Conrad protests. ‘Ah, Bishop, I wasn’t asking for your help. Everyone knows you work harder than most when you can. We two young Faroemen can cope with these few weeds.’

  Monrad smiles, a sight not often seen around the farm. ‘You are both good workers,’ he says, ‘and I am glad to have you, but there are matters that need discussing.’ As he turns to leave he adds, ‘Come up as you are, lads. No need to change your clothes.’

  Napoleon hopes that the question of setting out for home might be raised, and he is not disappointed. But first Monrad raises another issue. As soon as the two men are standing in the quiet study, the bishop looks up from the book he is studying and comes to the point.

  ‘Conrad — or should I call you Enok?’

  ‘Conrad will serve well enough.’

  ‘Conrad, you are a ballad singer of note in the Faroes?’

  The tall young man shifts from foot to foot. Again he feels uncomfortable in this quiet, ordered room. ‘I was just a learner, Bishop.’

  Napoleon can’t let this pass. ‘A learner? You were famous in all the islands! Who else could attempt two long kvæ∂i …’

  ‘Attempt, yes. Finish, no.’

  ‘You were famous, though. You can’t say no to that.’

  Monrad silences Napoleon with a raised hand. The bishop is used to conducting his interviews without assistance. ‘Let us accept that you have exceptional talent. Now. The ballad you specialised in concerned the legend of Sigurd?’

  ‘The slayer of the dragon Fáfnir, yes.’

  ‘Interesting. We call the dragon Fafner — but the story is no doubt similar. Would you sing me some of it?’

  Conrad looks startled. ‘What — here? Now?’

  ‘Yes. If you please.’

  Napoleon and Conrad exchange a grin. The bishop, for all his wisdom, doesn’t understand. But then Conrad, never one to turn down a challenge, thrusts an arm through his friend’s, grasps his hand, then strikes a pose and takes a breath. Napoleon wants to giggle — this is ridiculous — but tries to join in. He raises one foot ready for the first step.

  Faroemen welcome from your fjords and valleys,

  Encircle this hearth, hear me sing

  Of the hero Sjúr∂ur, his mighty deeds

  The dragon’s treasure and the dread ring …

  His voice roars into the small room. The bishop leans back in his chair as if a wind has struck him. When Conrad reaches the moment for the first step of the dance, the two young men stamp on the wooden floor with gusto and move two paces forward, one pace back.

  In the second verse Conrad lowers the volume, then pauses for effect. Napoleon can’t take it seriously — he is shaking with silent laughter. Then without a change in expression Conrad neatly turns the phrase and he is singing a popular sea shanty:

  And we’re rolling rolling, over the sea

  And we’re bound, oh, we’re bound for the shore …

  He turns to his friend, grinning through the words. Napoleon changes his step to the hornpipe and then the two men fall about, laughing and slapping their thighs.

  ‘Sorry, sorry, Bishop,’ gasps Conrad, ‘but it can’t be done. Not here. Not like this. Kvæ∂i are for special occasions. They are for the Faroes. The spirit of that place. I need a crowd of Faroemen to dance me through. Ah, Jesus!’ He roars with laughter again and slaps his friend on the back until he hiccups.

  Monrad sits calmly through all this. If he is annoyed he doesn’t show it.

  ‘Well, well,’ he says at last. ‘You have made your point. But here,’ and he holds up a book finely bound in leather, ‘is your kvæ∂i, all the sections of it, inside these covers and on my desk here in the colony of New Zealand.’

  Conrad frowns. ‘A Danish version of the Sjúr∂ar kvæ∂i?’

  ‘No, no, no. In Faroese. Your version. The words you sing.’

  ‘Not possible, Bishop. My version is that of my father Róland of Su∂eroy and of old Niclas Patursson. Neither could write Faroese. Who could? The words in your book will be different.’

  Monrad smiles. ‘Indeed, they may. See for yourself. You will be interested.’ He offers the book.

  Conrad stays where he is, frowning, but Napoleon takes the heavy volume and turns the pages. For a while he is silent, reading — or seeming to. Then he hands it to Conrad, his expression blank. The tall Faroeman holds it in his hands without looking down at the page. He stares out of the window at the broken fields and the flowering garden.

  ‘Read, read,’ says the bishop. ‘I would value your opinion.’

  Conrad sighs and begins to study the page. All the liveliness and fun of the last few moments have gone from him. Napoleon watches anxiously.

  ‘I understand,’ says Monrad, ‘that you have learned two of the three sections. Perhaps you could learn the third from this book. When you return to the Faroes you might surprise them?’

  Napoleon is delighted at the idea. ‘Yes! Enok, what a plan! You could learn it on the long trip back!’ His voice falters as he sees the stubborn look on Conrad’s face. ‘I could help,’ he says quietly, touching his friend on the sleeve.

  Conrad closes the book. Hands it back to the bishop. ‘The words mean nothing,’ he says. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘A different version?’ suggests Monrad.

  ‘How would I know?’ shouts Conrad. ‘Those symbols on the paper are nothing I learned. We learned to write Danish.’

  Again the bishop raises a calming hand. ‘Ah. I see. But you will pick it up quickly, I am sure. You speak the language, after all.’

  ‘Yes, I speak it and think in it and sing it. Some Dane, I suppose, has tied it down and put it into a book?’

  Monrad is becoming testy. His worker is overstepping the rules of politeness. He had imagined a very different reaction
to his kind proposal.

  ‘Now, now, that is uncalled for, young man. This book is a fine work of scholarship. You should be delighted to see your language take its first step into the modern world …’

  Conrad snorts and would have left the room if Napoleon, embarrassed by his friend’s rage, had not barred his way.

  ‘Enok, Enok, you are too angry. There is no need. The bishop makes an offer, that is all. Calm yourself.’

  Again Conrad stares out of the window in silence. But he breathes more quietly. The other two wait. He has a presence, thinks the bishop, that is hard to explain. A quality of leadership, is it? A strength, at least. Monrad would dearly love to hear this young man sing the Sigurd ballad seriously.

  Finally Conrad turns back to face the bishop. ‘I apologise for my outburst, sir. But can you understand how I feel? I have been taught to value greatly the tradition of passing down the kvæ∂i from master to pupil. From one voice to one pair of ears. How can you possibly capture the feeling, the music, the spirit of a great ballad on a piece of paper? Don’t you see? Now anyone can read those words … well, some people will, I suppose … but what will they find? My great, living kvæ∂i is robbed of its life: dry, withered as the paper it is written on. They will have no way of understanding. This book,’ and Conrad points dramatically to the volume, which now lies on the bishop’s desk, ‘will kill what it seeks to preserve.’

  Monrad is impressed with the oratory if not the content. ‘Come now, lad, there is no need to be so black and white. I am sure this book will do no such thing. It will help many to value your traditions. We should value scholarship when we find it. I imagine that in finding a way to write your language, the writer has helped to preserve Faroese.’

  The bishop sees that Conrad is inclined to carry on the argument so he moves quickly to his next point.

  ‘Well, so be it. You may borrow the book — either of you — if you change your mind. Now. Another matter. Your father, Napoleon, asked me to see that you returned safely to him. I have heard today that a sailing ship will leave Port Nicholson Harbour in three weeks’ time. There would be positions for you and Conrad in the crew. Would you like me to arrange this for you?’

  ‘Yes! Yes, please!’ says Napoleon, almost dancing with excitement. He turns to Conrad. ‘Say yes, Enok. You know you want to.’

  Conrad moves his head slowly from side to side as if looking for a way out. The smell of freshly oiled wood is sharp in his nostrils. He twists the cap in his hands into a tight ball. When he speaks, it is to Napoleon, not the bishop.

  ‘Jesu Maria, I am no good at this kind of thing. You are right, I do want to go. It’s the sea I miss. And other things. And I would miss you, too, my good friend, if I stayed.’

  ‘Then come! Say yes! Here is the chance.’

  Conrad turns to the bishop. ‘It is Anahuia. I am … attached … to her.’

  Monrad frowns. ‘Her baby is yours? I had thought …’

  Conrad smiles. ‘Mine.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  The smile disappears. ‘Yes! In fact down at her kainga they rather suspect you are the father, Bishop.’

  Monrad snorts. ‘What rubbish!’

  ‘Well, yes, we all know that. But her people don’t fancy her — not as a woman — and since Te Peeti offered her to you, as a help and translator, they assumed … other things.’

  Napoleon’s face is red with embarrassment. He prepares to be bundled out of the study, along with his friend.

  Monrad, however, is clearly interested. ‘Anahuia. She is bound to Te Peeti’s family in some way?’

  ‘To a relative of Te Peeti’s, yes.’

  Monrad frowns. ‘Some kind of slavery?’

  ‘No, sir, not slavery. Anahuia is very firm on that.’

  ‘A native custom, then? A matter of utu?’

  ‘Yes, Bishop. A muru party took her some years back.’

  ‘Ah. I have read of such occurrences. We must hear her story. I would like to add it to my papers. Now then, young man, do you wish to marry her?’

  It is Conrad’s turn to be embarrassed. ‘Marriage? I had not thought … They would not allow … She is not Christian …’

  The bishop is stern. ‘But surely you are, Conrad. Surely?’

  Conrad manages a small nod. He glances sideways at Napoleon for help. In fact neither young man has been to church in six months.

  A silence develops in the room. The bishop rises with difficulty and walks to a desk where a book of etchings lies open. He turns a page and regards the image, taps the paper. Napoleon, looking out the window, breathes in sharply. Anahuia is there, her bare feet in the soil of the garden, standing stock-still, looking in at them. Conrad has seen too, but makes no sign. Does she know what they are discussing?

  Monrad, still regarding his etching, speaks to them. ‘If I spoke to Te Peeti he might release the girl?’

  Conrad nods slowly. ‘I have already asked the man who has … taken her. He refused. Te Peeti said it was not his decision to make or break. He might feel differently if you asked.’

  The bishop frowns. ‘I am not about to sully my reputation to save yours. If she were freed would you take her back to the Faroes as your wife?’

  Conrad spreads his hands, palm up. ‘Sir, I have no money for a passage for her. And I am by no means sure she would come. We could live near the coast, maybe. This country’s coast. Where she would be comfortable and I could find work that involved the sea.’

  ‘Returning to your homeland is not in your plan?’

  ‘Ahhh.’ Conrad moves impatiently. ‘Plans. Mine mostly go grievously astray. I … to be honest with you, I am not a planner.’ He grins. ‘One day, perhaps. I was forced to leave in such a rush. My mother … Yes, one day I will go.’

  Napoleon grabs at his sleeve. ‘Now! Come now. It is the right time.’

  Monrad frowns a little. ‘Your friend is right. The homeland is always important. A man has a duty to serve his country if he is called. It would seem you are needed.’

  Conrad bridles at this. ‘Bishop, you have left your country at a time of need.’

  The bishop clears his throat, taps a finger impatiently against the black and white drawing on the page. ‘Denmark has need, yes,’ he says, ‘desperate need. But she does not want or call me.’

  ‘And you are settling your sons in a country far from their homeland. Am I so different?’

  Monrad sighs. ‘Yes, you are different. My sons are good and upright men. They will make fine farmers here; safe from the slurs that may be cast upon them because of the … recent disasters. You, on the other hand, will be welcomed home. Your knowledge of kvæ∂i and your ability as a singer will help build and preserve a language that is in danger.’ Monrad turns at last from the page he has been studying to look directly at Conrad. If he feels bitterness or anger over his lot there is no evidence of it in his calm and straight gaze. ‘If I were called for such a reason, I would go. Gladly. So should you, my friend.’

  The stern words make no impression on Conrad. He walks to the window; raises a hand to the woman who still stands there, at a distance but looking in. ‘Thanks anyway, Bishop,’ he says, ‘If you can persuade Te Peeti to intervene in her release we would both appreciate it.’

  He walks out of the room, leaving his friend marooned. After a silence in which the remaining two, man and boy, regard each other in some disarray, Napoleon reaches for the precious book.

  ‘May I take it, sir? He will come around to it, surely.’

  ‘You may take it.’

  ‘He is concerned for that woman at the moment. But the kvæ∂i … our old customs … he was born to them, schooled from a small boy in them. In the end that will be the most important to him.’

  Monrad nods with serious approval. ‘Good. I hope so. But do not underestimate the power of a new young country and fresh experiences. My own boys …’ He smiles briefly; the change in his face is a revelation. Then he waves a hand in dismissal. ‘Well, off you go. The work r
emains to be done.’

  As Napoleon turns to leave the room the bishop asks, ‘Will you go back without him?’

  Napoleon cannot answer.

  4.

  Anahuia tells her story

  THEY ARE ALL there, in the bishop’s parlour, even the older son, Viggo, on leave from the fighting in Taranaki. He has travelled south to visit his wife and children. The room is filled with the delicious smell of æbleskiver, which Olga is cooking to mark the occasion. She has heated the heavy iron pande over the fire in the parlour, so they can all enjoy the sizzle as the batter drops into each buttery depression. Tonight Anahuia does not help with the cooking but stands in the doorway watching. Olga turns the golden treats with her knitting needle, waits for the second side to brown, then hands them to be dipped in sugar and eaten still crisp and hot.

  The bishop clears his throat. It is time for the Bible reading. Tonight he reads a passage from Jonah, his fine voice bringing the old story to life. When the passage is finished they all sigh and settle, ready for lighter entertainment. The bishop motions with his pipe for Anahuia to come forward and be seated, but she shakes her head.

  ‘I will tell it standing.’

  Anahuia is not dressed in her usual European-style dress but has draped a plaid blanket over one shoulder and pinned it in place with a bone ornament. Her hair falls straight down her back, the dark and shadowy brown of it glowing in the lamplight. She looks with her strange smoky eyes towards Conrad, who nods and smiles from his seat in the corner. Napoleon sits on the floor beside him, resting his back against his friend’s knees. The wind is quiet this night and the air blessedly free of the whine of mosquitoes. This is a peaceful scene. All the women, even young Karen, have a piece of cloth in their hands and are stitching quietly at mending or at new garments. On a table beside the bishop, paper, quill and ink are laid ready for any notes that may be made.

  ‘It is fitting,’ says Anahuia in her soft accented Danish, ‘that you have read tonight, tihopa Monrad, from Jonah. I am the daughter of a whaler. The child I carry has whaling twice in his ancestry. Conrad,’ she speaks with pride, ‘also belongs to a whaling family, and is the father of this unborn child.’