‘Well. On this day, the last of Napoleon’s tragically short life, his task was to drive a herd of cattle from a distant town where they had been purchased, to the bishop’s farm, further inland. Unknown to him and his two companions, it had rained heavily that night deep in the hills. The river was rising. Napoleon, atop his fine white horse, encouraged the reluctant beasts towards a place in the river where carts and animals were accustomed to cross. In English they call such a place a ford. Leading the way, Napoleon negotiated the river safely and the animals began to follow.
‘But as fate would have it, a few of the herd strayed from the shallow water of the ford to a place where the river ran more swiftly. One of Napoleon’s companions, a Dane from Funen, shouted warning and drove his horse into the water, which minute by minute was rising. The Dane managed to head the cattle successfully towards the bank but his horse stumbled, throwing its rider. When Napoleon saw his friend in difficulty he showed no hesitation, even though, as you know, he could not swim. His white steed was set at the river, Napoleon leaning low in the saddle to grab at the tumbling man’s coat. The Dane, spitting and choking, gratefully held to the saddle, the strong white horse turned towards the shore and all seemed safe again. But by cruel misfortune a heavy log, rolling in the now wild river, struck the threesome, dislodging Napoleon, who was swept away in a moment.
‘Horse and Dane reached the bank with difficulty and then rode swiftly down the bank seeking a place where Napoleon might be brought to shore. Alas, though Napoleon struggled against the current, the river grew wilder and deeper moment by moment. The horrified Dane could only watch as the boy who had saved him went under for the last time.’
Enok pauses in this dramatic story and looks around at the silent family. ‘Napoleon Haraldsen saved a life and lost his own doing so. When the desperate men rode into the farm with the news I ran out into the dark night, downriver, calling in our own language in the forlorn hope he may be lying injured. Many others followed. When grey dawn arrived there was still no sign. At last a sad procession of native Maori brought his body back to the farm. They had found him downriver, swept far from the Monrad block.
‘In death, his face appeared peaceful; there were no marks upon his body to hint at his struggle with that powerful river, which is called Manawatu — a name that means in the native language “heart stood still”. I was told …’ Enok’s voice faltered for a moment and he looked down at the floor, ‘by a native Maori that a great chief once came to the river and felt his heart stop with fear at its grandeur and size. Hence the name. Alas, the heart of our brave friend and son, Napoleon, was also stilled by the River Manawatu in that far colony. We could only hope that the drowning was swift.
‘He is buried in the cemetery at Jackeytown, which the natives call Tiakitahuna, the bishop himself saying the words of committal. I carved a simple cross with his name and family, his dates and the words “A Brave Faroeman”.’
Enok took a deep breath, looked around at the silent family. At last he spoke a simple truth from the heart. ‘Every single day since, I have missed him and cursed the friendship that brought him to that far place in search of Enok Rasmussen, this wretched man standing here before you.’
‘May my son rest in God’s peace,’ says Harald Haraldsen into the silence.
All are in tears. Clara, though she also weeps, gives Enok a questioning and thoughtful look, which he notices with discomfort.
That night, warm and well fed, lying in the bed kept for important guests, Enok wonders why he had not mentioned Anahuia or the twin sons he has never seen. During the evening he had told stories about the far colony of New Zealand: about Bishop Monrad’s establishment there, about the death of the ship’s captain on the long voyage back, about his frustration waiting for a passage from England and then an even longer wait in Copenhagen for one to the Faroes. He drew a smile from the grieving father over the strange way the bishop farmed his sheep, and a proud ‘Yes, of course!’ from the mother when he told how Napoleon had charmed the bishop’s daughters. But Anahuia, who had been so important in his life, had never surfaced. For a moment or two he puzzles over his silence but then shrugs the matter away and sleeps soundly enough.
It took young Lars Larsen, walking beside him next morning, to put his finger on a few home truths. They walk in the cold half-light of mid-morning. Already Clara has disappeared over the hill, to reach Tórshavn in time for her work. Lars flaps along in his oversize sealskins, full of questions and pronouncements. The lively twelve-year-old has long finished with school. He works, when weather permits, on his father’s fishing boat, practises to be a champion rower or a champion skyd and is a fount of knowledge on the private lives of everyone on Streymoy. Now he has a new ambition — to travel the world like Enok.
Coming over the brow, they stop to puff and look down the long sloping fields to Tórshavn. Lars peers through the mist, points out a wheeling guillemot — sign, he says, that the mist will rise. Then he looks back at Enok, head cocked to one side, and grins.
‘That story,’ he says in his cracking half-man’s voice, ‘about Napoleon’s death. That was dressing up the sheep, eh?’
‘What?’ Enok has been thinking other thoughts.
‘You told them a story they wanted to hear, I reckon, because the true one wasn’t so pretty.’
Enok frowns at the boy. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘I watched your face. You were enjoying the story too much. The daughter of Haraldsen could see that too.’
‘You see more than is there.’ Enok sets off down the track at a pace that forces Lars to run.
‘No, but …’ the nimble boy hops and chats, keeping up with ease, ‘No, but listen, Enok, why not dress up the story a bit? To make them happy. It was good.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ says Enok dryly. He is worried, though, to think that Clara might have noticed.
‘Clara Haraldsen is holding a lighted candle for you,’ says Lars. ‘A very bright one. She watched you all the time last night. She has been waiting for you to return — everyone says so.’
‘You are the oracle as well as champion skyd, then?’
‘Yes, I suppose. Will you marry her, Enok?’
Enok laughs then, to hide his confusion. Snatches off the boy’s cap and throws it into the field. ‘Cheeky pup!’ he roars. ‘I have been here one day and you are matchmaking! Get away with you!’
‘Is that a yes, then?’ shouts Lars. And before Enok can answer he has grabbed up his cap, jammed it back on and flapped off down the hill. By the time Enok reaches the dock Lars is already setting out across the sound, rowing his father’s small boat as if he were a one-man competition.
Enok stands on the dock watching the boat grow smaller. But what he sees is a woman’s blue dress floating down a distant river, and his best friend drowning to save it.
2.
BY AFTERNOON ENOK’S mood and the mist have both lifted. Clara, beaming her congratulation, stands with him outside the schoolroom.
‘But that is marvellous!’ she says, clapping her hands and laughing. ‘The third kvæ∂i? That is perfect, Enok! We will call a special gathering to launch our newspaper, and you shall sing at it. It will set just the right note. Can you stay here in Tórshavn a few weeks more?’
Enok grins, enjoying the praise. It is Saturday and school is now over. Clara, eager to show off her modern ways, walks with him down to the little meeting room next door to the brewery. They drink beer together and chatter in the fading afternoon light. Soon, Clara promises, the others of their group will arrive to talk and plan and read Faroese poetry of their own making. Meantime, Enok brings from his pocket a carving for her — a small scene, carved from whale bone, of a group of sheep and lambs, grazing under a spreading fern.
‘It might remind you of Napoleon,’ he says. ‘He was a farmer at heart. Already his taste for adventure had been quenched and his eyes were looking home.’
Clara strokes the little carving. ‘You are so clever, Enok,’ she says. ‘Eve
rything you touch …’ Then, looking straight at him and blushing, ‘And you? What about your taste for adventure? Do your eyes looked homeward now?’
When Enok remains silent she says suddenly, all in a rush, ‘Enok, it is so good to see you again. I hope you stay now. Well, we all do, of course. Especially me. I have waited … I mean we have all waited … I mean … Enok, say you’ll stay.’
There is something urgent about the plea. And embarrassed — the younger, sweeter Clara now showing beneath the surface of her severe hair and sensible clothes. Enok can’t help smiling back, and her returning beam is like the sun coming out.
‘Oh, we have such fine things planned,’ she says, the confident, capable woman taking over again. ‘You will be impressed. We are going to make big changes, Enok. Five of us who have all been to study in Copenhagen are back now. Over there we learned to read and write in our own language. Our teachers encouraged it.’ She laughs. ‘Imagine that! We wrote pamphlets and poetry and now we are going to establish a patriotic Faroese newspaper. You have arrived back at just the right time, Enok.’
Enok lets her chatter roll over him. He feels lazy and at ease in this fuggy room, the fumes from fermenting barley next door almost as heady as the beer he drinks. Clara’s cheeks are pink, her blue eyes bright and animated as she outlines the group’s plans. The old folk are too conservative, she says — they would let the old ways die, out of sheer inertia. The Faroese Poetry Society will bring energy and intelligence to the task of preserving the language and culture before it is swamped by the all-pervading Danish influences. With the help of her father they have purchased a second-hand printing press, and soon every Faroeman and woman will be able to read news of cultural and local events and, of course, enjoy Faroese poetry, once a week, all in their own language.
Enok smiles and nods, admiring her energy but only half engaged. Outside it is dark. Rain batters against the window. Enok finds it hard, now, to adjust to these closed and brief winter days. For a year and a half he has sailed across wide, open seas, in oppressive heat or bitter storm but always with a sense of great expanse and ever-changing light. He would have liked to walk over the hills this afternoon, but only a madman would walk in the icy dark of these treacherous islands with their plunging cliffs. Beyond the door he hears voices. He reaches out to touch Clara’s hand, to stem her flow.
‘They are here. You will have to introduce me.’
Outside they can hear boots clanging against scrapers and coats being shaken to free them from damp.
‘No, no,’ smiles Clara, leaving her hand, warm and small, under his, ‘you will know them. Old friends.’
And in they come, four men, laughing and talking, removing caps and slapping them against their thighs. Petur and Johan and Símun — old schoolmates. The fourth is Otto Dahl. His quick green eyes notice the two hands on the table. His laughing chatter with the others ceases and his smile is careful.
‘Hello, Enok.’
Enok rises quickly, knocking his tankard (fortunately empty) to the floor.
‘Otto!’ Enok looks quickly to Clara, angry that he has not been warned. She shakes her head gently as if to dismiss his agitation.
‘Well, cousin,’ says Otto easily, ‘you look as if you’ve seen a ghost! No greeting, then?’
Enok recovers himself, clasps his cousin’s offered hand as warmly as he is able. ‘My friend, I have spent the last several years thinking you were indeed a ghost and regretting the blow that I thought had made you so.’
The others laugh. The story is obviously well known.
‘I am no ghost but a merchant and proprietor of this very brewery and warehouse. The blow was nothing and is forgotten. Welcome back.’
‘By God, I am glad to hear you say that, cousin. Also, my condolences on your — our — grandfather’s death.’
Otto’s laugh is easy but the voice has an edge to it. ‘Do not pretend sorrow for the end of that life, Enok. Magnus was a hard man and I neither liked nor respected him. But for all that, he made me heir to certain important concerns. And one of these I would like to discuss with you later.’
The two men have been standing face to face during this exchange. Clara, still seated, watches the two. Otto is tall, narrow-shouldered and hipped. The fair hair of childhood has darkened to a deep honey-gold. His green eyes are striking in a handsome, narrow face. He looks a good few years older than his cousin, is more contained, carries a settled and prosperous manner with ease. Enok, taller, broader, his ash-blond hair wild about his slabby face, seems unfinished still, not quite grown into his expanse of skin. He shifts from foot to foot as if impatient to move on, uses his hands when he speaks. He is noticeable, and not just for his size. The openness draws people, Clara included, as sea-birds are drawn to the promised feast of a returning fishing boat. She can’t help smiling as he now greets the others, as if he were the host and they the newcomers.
‘Clara,’ says Otto. He has been watching her and moves now to take her hands in his. ‘I am looking forward to hearing your poem. Shall we begin?’
There is a great scraping of chairs and clearing of throats as fresh beer is poured and places are taken around the table. Otto conducts the session, inviting contributions and leading the following discussion. He is quick to praise and equally free with suggestions for improvement. Enok listens. He is surprised by Clara’s piece. After all her fervent and patriotic talk he had expected more of a call to action, but her words are gentle, praising the joys of home and hearth, likening the role of the good Faroese mother to that of a prudent farmer: she nurtures the soul while he the land. Otto praises the work fulsomely, and Enok of course applauds, but in truth he finds all the writing a little dull.
When Otto looks to his cousin, Enok smiles easily. ‘Well, I have nothing written, but how about I sing something I made up for the sailors on the way over here?’
‘It must be in Faroese,’ says Otto quickly. ‘That is our rule.’
‘I have gathered that, cousin,’ says Enok dryly. He leans back, tilting his chair dangerously, and sings — in Faroese — a lively and saucy ditty about a fisherman who rows his boat across the sound to meet a lovely girl who is, alas, betrothed to another. The chorus makes a word-play about creaking oars and creaking bed-boards. Enok invites the group to join in the second chorus and they do, smiling and laughing, while he whips out his whistle and accompanies them. After the third ribald verse and enthusiastic chorus, Otto, who hasn’t joined in the singing, holds up his hand to interrupt the flow.
‘A good song for a sailor,’ he says, ‘but your tune is Danish. I heard it last year in Copenhagen.’
Enok crashes his chair back onto its four legs, ready to argue. ‘But surely a tune has no boundary. Who is to say where the Danes found this one? Maybe some wandering sailor brought it back from America? Often I have heard one tune serve to tell different stories in as many languages as you can imagine.’
‘Well, that is all very well for sailors. But we are scholars and are dedicated to preserving the culture of these islands. Think, Enok: if we let every new word or fashion take root here, Faroese would be swamped. Already this is a danger. Surely you of all people, with your background in kvæ∂i, recognise this.’
Otto’s patronising manner irritates Enok. ‘But you would cut yourself off from so much!’ he cries. ‘The Faroes have a great and interesting history, but we are so small. So …’ he hesitates to use the word but then throws caution away, ‘so limited. We are a conservative people who need opening out, not preserving in a museum.’
The others murmur and shift at such strong words, but they look to Otto to respond. He is clearly their leader. Nothing seems to provoke Otto; he is calm and in control even in the face of Enok’s passion. Now, as Enok leans forward, enjoying every minute of the argument, his fist pounding the table, demanding a reply, Otto shakes his head as if to say that it is beneath his dignity to answer.
But before he speaks Clara laughs out loud. ‘You two!’ she says. ‘Stop and
listen to your words! I seem to remember an argument a few years back in realskole. My memory says you have changed sides. Enok, you argued for learning the Faroese language and Otto called you an old stick-in-the-mud! Surely you remember?’
Enok opens his mouth to speak, then shuts it again. Slap! Down comes his palm on the table and he joins the laughter. ‘Clara Haraldsen, you have taken the wind out of my sails fair and square! Yes! It’s true!’ He leans across to cuff his cousin on the shoulder. ‘Well, friend, this smart woman has caught us out properly!’ Standing now, he paces the room, interested in the new direction of the discussion. ‘But how strange that we have changed our views. Or am I simply a little drunk and argue for the enjoyment? What does the oracle say?’ He turns, laughing, to Clara, arms spread, inviting her decision.
‘Clara,’ says Otto quietly, ‘is going to read us her next poem.’
‘Well, actually,’ says Clara, still flushed from Enok’s praise, ‘I was going to make a suggestion. About the launch of our newspaper. Come and sit down, Enok.’
‘No,’ says Otto, ‘I want to hear your poem. We will have suggestions later.’
The meeting resumes, but the mood has been broken. Clara is aware of the change — Enok has brought a different energy to the group, one that both disturbs and excites her. On the one hand she agrees with Otto’s views, but then as soon as Enok opens his mouth she finds herself listening to him, enjoying the fresh breeze he brings.
Before they go out into the black damp of the evening, Clara outlines her plan: to have Enok sing the last of the Sjúr∂ar kvæ∂i at the launch of the newspaper.
‘Everyone would come to hear him!’ she says. ‘Think what good publicity it would be. A dance, a great ballad singer and the first copy of the first Faroese newspaper all in one parcel. Perfect!’
For the first time all evening Otto seems agitated. He stands, comes behind Clara and places his hands on her shoulders: a formal and proprietary gesture. ‘Let us think carefully about this,’ he says, dampening the enthusiasm of all. ‘The newspaper is the important thing, surely. We do not want it overshadowed by a performance — however good — that has little to do with our endeavour. Also, we should remember that the proper time for kvæ∂i is Christmas or St Olaf’s Day.’
Catching the Current Page 24
