Catching the Current

by Jenny Pattrick

  ‘Soon he was out of sight, lost among the rattling bush — the last time I ever saw or heard of my brother. He could have been a good and brave man, and perhaps he was to some eyes. I like to think he survived the wars and perhaps turned to more peaceful ways as he grew older. I pray that his narrow thoughts broadened, for as you know, my children, fanatics are dangerous men …

  ‘Oh, the wind blew strongly that day! Even in my shelter, trees thrashed. My eyes and mouth were full of dust. You young ones would not even begin to imagine the winds of my birthplace: the sea that rages night and day; the sand whipped up and streaming low to the ground, stinging your legs worse than a thousand needles; the seagulls screaming high above, hanging still against the wind and then sloping away in the buffeting air, enjoying the ride as if they were on a Sunday picnic.’

  Anahuia would sigh then. ‘Oh, I miss that fierce weather of my birthplace,’ she would say, and add, smoothing her skirts and preparing to get on with her tasks. ‘So I travelled south, two days’ walk, to Wellington, where I met your other grandfather.’

  6.

  Whale-road

  THE FAROE ISLANDS AND NEW ZEALAND

  1870–72

  1.

  AN IRON-GREY SKY presses low over the islands the day Enok Rasmussen returns. Down at the stone dock old Niclas Patursson, on his usual bench outside Parliament on the point at Tinganes, stamps his feet and mutters to himself. He hates this dark and oppressive weather — no room for a man to stretch his thoughts. Three days now the sky has hung thus — leaden, windless, not a sea-bird aloft nor even a rolling mist to break the sense of pending doom. Where, in the name of Thor, is some breeze to break the mood?

  Leaning heavily on his stick, the old man rises and makes his way to the water’s edge, peers over the wall at the sea below. It heaves silently, sullen as the sky above, no friendly slap slap against the stone, nothing of interest to see in its depths. Niclas sighs. On a day like this he feels ready to leave this world. He looks south down the sound. Nothing. But north, yes, at last some distant thing that moves! He narrows his eyes, unsure of what he sees, but guessing, correctly, that a ship under steam is on the way.

  ‘Well, that will make a change, at least,’ he mutters. ‘I will watch it unload, and there will be people coming and going.’

  Back on his stone bench he watches the ship grow larger, its sails hanging slack, its funnel belching black smoke. Now he can hear the hammer of the engine and the ringing of bells as the schooner slows and the anchor-chain rattles its way towards the seabed. It is a medium-sized vessel, no doubt from Copenhagen with the usual load of provisions and timber. Since the war, visits have been less frequent. Everyone is feeling the pinch.

  From the wharf sheds several fellows emerge, each greeting Niclas with a nod or a touch of the cap. They jump into a large rowboat moored at the dock and bend to their oars. This ship is too large to come alongside: goods will be rowed ashore. Niclas stands watching the activity on board the schooner. In the stern a lone mariner at a capstan hauls down the heavy triangular sail. A strong man, that, to do it alone. The man straightens, eases his back and stands looking shorewards. There is something strange about his stillness, the way he scans the hills. The man’s peaked cap is pulled low on his forehead, the collar of his dark jacket high around his ears against the cold. His gaze lowers to take in the infield and the houses near the shore.

  But now the big fellow’s arms spread in a gesture familiar to old Niclas. Familiar, too, is the voice roaring across the water. ‘Is that my old teacher Niclas Patursson come to greet me?’

  Niclas clears his throat but no sound emerges. In frustration he stamps and nods, banging his stick hard on the cobbles, tears running down his old cheeks.

  Enok flings down his rope and disappears from view. In a moment he is back, a canvas bag over his shoulder and some other bundle in his arms, making the dangerous leap into the loaded boat below. Someone aboard shouts at him to come back, in the name of God, and finish the task in hand, but already the oarsmen are pulling shorewards, laughing and greeting their returning countryman.

  Enok runs up the steps and stops in front of the old man. He, too, has tears in his eyes. ‘God bless you, my friend and my teacher,’ he says.

  ‘And you, and you,’ chokes Niclas. ‘The teacher welcomes the pupil: this one standing before me, who is like a son returned at last, just before this old man leaves his lonely life.’

  Old Niclas lets his stick clatter to the cobblestones as he seizes tall Enok by the elbows, holding him at arm’s length while he squints up to search the face. He sees a man where there was a boy. He sees the same eagerness to take life by the horns, the same infectious impatience. But also a shadow. He nods, releasing the boy — the man — and says quietly, ‘But you have come with sad news?’

  Enok looks away, up towards the dark hills. ‘Are you a seer too, teacher?’

  Niclas would like to claim that skill, but seeing Enok’s lowered brows he decides on the swifter truth. ‘A letter from that Danish bishop came for old Haraldsen. They say it warned that you brought bad news.’

  Enok bends to hear more clearly. His question is anxious. ‘What else did the letter say?’

  ‘Am I the recipient? You will have to ask him.’ The old man shakes his head sadly and adds, ‘But any fool can imagine, when one returns without the other, what that news might be.’

  Enok nods. They are both silent for a moment.

  ‘Well then,’ says Niclas at last, ‘the news must be spoken first to the proper ears. Will you take a mug of beer with me before you walk up?’

  ‘I will. Gladly.’ Enok smiles then, and slaps the flax basket under his arm. ‘There is a gift here for you, teacher, and another thing that will interest you. I have brought more than gloom. And wait till you hear, old man, the sights I have seen!’

  The old man chuckles and his step is lighter as the two make their way over the uneven stones of the pathway. New stories! Now that is better than brandy to warm an old man’s bones!

  Enok slows his pace, dances on the spot until Niclas puffs level, talks of giant trees and strange dark people, his arms flinging this way and that to show improbable size and shape. Already he has forgotten, it seems, his sad news.

  At the doorway Niclas points to the eaves, where dark blocks are hanging in the cool air. ‘Reach me down meat and blubber,’ he says. ‘They have been hanging there waiting for some tall fellow. As you see, these old bones have shrunk even since I hung them three months back. Come in, come in, the smoke-room will be warm still.’

  Enok reaches down a stick of the dark whale meat and one of the lighter blubber. Already his mouth is watering. Inside, the air is scented sweetly with burning peat. Niclas places a pan of milk among the embers in the firebox and stirs in barley meal. While they wait for the porridge to thicken, Enok unstraps the canvas roll and brings out a small bundle wrapped in soft leather. Grinning, proud, he turns away from Niclas while he selects something from the bundle, then turns back, his great hand cupping something small.

  ‘For you.’

  Niclas takes the carving, holds it close to his old eyes to examine the detail. ‘Whale ivory,’ he says, pleased with the smooth and golden glow of it. ‘Beautiful. Very clever. But what is this thing, Enok?’

  ‘A bird.’

  ‘So? You have invented this creature? A mythical beast?’

  Enok laughs. ‘No, old man, it’s real enough. I have eaten its flesh and heard its cry in the night. It is a bird from New Zealand. Kiwi, they call it.’

  ‘But where are the wings? You don’t have a bird without wings. How could it survive?’

  Enok is delighted to be the teacher for once. The two down their beer and whale meat while the words tumble out of Enok, and the old man, sitting upright on his bench by the fire, listens and questions, his blue eyes alert, his aching knees forgotten.

  ‘But listen,’ says Enok suddenly, ‘what do you think? I have learned the third kvæ∂i! Wait till you hear
! There is a book!’

  He jumps to his feet, but before he has taken a step towards his swag there comes a boy’s shout from outside and a pounding on the door.

  ‘Enok Rasmussen! Is Enok within?’ More pounding.

  Niclas Patursson frowns. ‘What manners! Let him knock until he learns better.’

  But Enok only laughs, and opens the heavy wooden door to reveal a blue-eyed lad clad head to toe in black sealskin — jacket, pants, boots and cap roughly stitched and rather too large for him. He is still gasping from his run up the hill, his breath steaming in the cold air.

  ‘You Enok?’ asks the lad, grinning, but before Enok can answer, Niclas has reached the door and gripped the strings of the boy’s cap, jerking his head up.

  ‘Lars Larsen,’ he grumbles. ‘I might have known. Your mother would turn in her grave and your father die of shame!’

  The boy, clearly used to such outbursts, only grins. ‘Sorry, sorry, old father. Good evening to you, old father. God bless you, Niclas Patursson, and keep you well, but I am sent in a hurry to catch this man if he be Enok Rasmussen.’

  ‘Haste never yet caught a fish, nor bad manners a civil reply,’ says Niclas severely. ‘Now stand still like a proper lad and say who sent you.’

  Enok smiles to see the boy, son of a famous Nólsoy fisherman, whose mother died at his birth and who was only a toddler last time Enok saw him. Lars smiles back, but stands still and delivers his message as ordered.

  ‘I am sent by the teacher’s assistant, who says she will be free shortly, and will accompany the man Enok to her father’s farm if he will wait. She says I am to run ahead to warn the household while it is still light and that she will bring a lamp for Enok’s journey.’ The boy taps his chest proudly. ‘I am as fast as any skyd; they will have plenty of time to prepare a welcome feast.’

  Lars looks to Enok for a response but the mood of the tall man has changed. He stares out through the doorway and down towards the village.

  ‘Clara,’ he says, and sighs.

  There is silence in the room, Lars looking questions at both men.

  Old Niclas wags a finger at the young boy. ‘Off you go now, lad. Take your message. And watch the path over the tops: the ice makes it treacherous.’

  ‘Hey! Just watch how I go!’ boasts the boy, and speeds away up the hill, his oversize jacket flapping.

  Niclas groans. ‘That boy will never make a decent Faroeman. His father was old when he married and has not married again since his wife died. He does his best, but look at the lad — not a stitch of good wool on him. Young Lars runs wild, with no one to teach him the proper way of things. He will not fit in.’

  ‘I was perhaps the same,’ suggests Enok. His mind is on other things, though.

  ‘You were not the same!’ says the old man sharply. ‘You were brought up knowing our old ways. Our old kvæ∂i. There is no comparison.’

  Enok is reminded of Bishop Monrad’s book and the ballad he has learned. He hands the treasure to his old teacher, explains what it contains.

  ‘All the Sjúr∂ar kvæ∂i are here. And some we never even heard of.’

  Niclas Patursson glowers at the book.

  ‘To start with, I didn’t want to,’ says Enok, suddenly anxious to find, in his teacher, an ally. ‘And then, on the long voyage, I was curious. Now I have learned to read our language — think of that! And have learned the third part with only the book to teach.’

  ‘That,’ says the old man flatly, ‘is not possible. I am surprised to hear you boast of such a thing.’

  ‘Wait till you hear!’

  Enok chatters on, explaining how he memorised the ballad verse by verse, drawing on the cadences and rhythms of the earlier two to suggest the tune for the third; how he had sung to the gulls that followed the ship; had bellowed verses into the wind from the top-gallant.

  Old Niclas shakes his head at it all but smiles, despite himself. He loves to hear the boy so enthusiastic. Enok hasn’t changed at all. About to face a difficult and sensitive interview with the Haraldsens, his pupil has latched onto the intricacies of storytelling, completely forgetting what is to come. But when Enok tells how he cunningly wove sections of the kvæ∂i into hauling chants for the sailors, Niclas has to draw the line.

  ‘This will not do, my friend,’ he says firmly. ‘You are babbling nonsense.’

  ‘Nonsense? It’s the truth, I swear!’

  ‘You will not be ready to sing that kvæ∂i until you have spent a year up north in Bor∂oy with Finnur Jakobsen. You may have learned the words, but the spirit will be wrong.’

  Enok puts down his beer and stands, almost hitting his head on the low ceiling. He laughs and gives the offending timber a casual slap. ‘I am grown even taller, don’t you think? But, teacher, is it not possible to add a new flavour to an old tale?’

  ‘I am surprised you even ask! Of course not. The proper way is master to pupil, down through the generations. How else can the old ways remain intact?’

  Enok taps the book. ‘Now the old ways are written here. They are intact.’

  Old Niclas slaps his knee angrily. ‘They are not! Those are some words only. And more than likely half wrong if some Dane wrote them down. Enok, Enok, my friend, take care. There is danger in what you say. Your travels have — how can I say it? — lured you in a wrong direction. It is timely that you return.’ He notices the stubborn set of his pupil’s chin and softens his tone. ‘But it is good that you have begun to learn the words at least. I will arrange with Finnur Jakobsen. He will teach you gladly. A good man, if a little slow these days.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you at least hear what I have made up? I think it is good. Your teaching has been kept in mind.’

  ‘No, no. It would only annoy me. Forget that, young man. If you want to make up your own, think of a táttur. Make up a funny song about our politicians. That is perfectly permissible. You might be as good at it as I was in my day.’

  Enok slumps to his chair and drains his beer. Never one to give up on an argument, he is about to launch a counter-argument when there is a sharp knocking on the door.

  ‘God bless you, Niclas Patursson, I hope you are well. This is the teacher’s assistant wishing it and hoping she may enter.’ All this said in a rush, the voice greatly out of breath.

  ‘Let her in,’ says the old man gently. ‘And think carefully how you speak.’

  Enok nods, slaps at his rough seaman’s trousers as if it could make a difference — or perhaps to gain time — and opens the door.

  ‘Clara,’ he says. His smile is careful. ‘Come in.’

  Her smile also is careful. A small, anxious flash, with hope in it — and something else that Enok finds difficult to read. ‘I won’t come in, but thank you,’ she says. ‘Enok. You are welcome. If you are ready we should set out.’

  Her words are formal. No doubt she fears what she is about to hear, and is hesitant for that reason. Enok cannot tell whether she is pleased to see him or not. She is wrapped warmly in a heavy woollen coat and scarf. The flying golden hair that Enok remembers must have been pulled back in a bun, as none of it is visible beneath her knitted cap. Her cheeks are pink — perhaps she is blushing? She stamps her feet against the cold and shouts in to Niclas, ‘Forgive us if we leave you so rudely.’

  ‘Off you go, off you go.’ Niclas smiles at the rosy woman. ‘They will be waiting. This old man will hear the news at a later time. Go, Enok, my son.’

  Enok touches her sleeve gently. ‘He is dead, Clara.’

  She sighs. ‘Yes.’

  He shrugs into his jacket, shoulders his bundles and follows her outside. Up the narrow path they walk, and west into a drizzling rain. Already, at three in the afternoon, it is completely dark. Clara leads with long strides, Enok following, rehearsing in silence the story he will tell.

  ENOK tells the story well in the Haraldsens’ warm smoke-room, where a coal fire burns in a modern iron stove and food lies ready on trays. There are fourteen sitting silent and formal on the benches a
gainst the walls — Haraldsen’s family; his brother’s family; young Lars, wide-eyed, in the corner where the old grandfather used to sit; and Enok.

  No one will eat until the story is told. And story it is, not the uncomfortable truth. Enok lays out Napoleon’s few possessions — his warm woollen coat, the carved boat Enok made him, the cheerful letter he wrote to his family a few days before his death, his knife and the papers releasing him from the Danish army.

  Enok sits in the place of honour, next to the stove. ‘Your son,’ he says, taking in the assembled group, ‘your brother and nephew, your cousin and friend, died bravely. He was my closest friend, and I have travelled the whale-road over the furthest oceans to bring you news of his death and the manner of it.

  ‘You would find it hard to imagine the farm in New Zealand where Napoleon and I worked. Every single thing about it was different from here: the bishop’s land flat as a table and covered in giant trees that had to be felled before his sheep could find any open land to graze. But Napoleon was a champion and learned quickly the new ways. Bishop Monrad himself often praised my friend for his speed and agility. You would have been proud to see him mount and ride a horse as if born to it. Proud at the way he laughed and shouted, galloping over the stumps and leaping his mount over streams just for the enjoyment of it. My task was to fell trees; his to herd the sheep.

  ‘Listen! That distant land may have been flat where we farmed, but further inland were high and dangerous mountains. These dark inland heights trapped the rain-clouds which would suddenly, without warning, drop their rain by the bucketload, filling the valley streams that then ran to greater rivers, until by the time the rivers reached our farm great torrents swept down, wider than this whole valley, in places deep and treacherous, in others shallow and swift. It is difficult to explain to a Faroeman, familiar with our small streams and waterfalls, the breadth and strength of these rivers. Especially the way in which they changed from peaceful to treacherous within a short hour.