Northernmost

by Peter Geye

  * * *

  —

  I had hardly stopped playing since. On this February morning, walking past the church with my hardingfele in one hand and my wife in the other, I went to play once more with the town band. On the Kirkegata we were hardly alone, with nigh everyone making the pilgrimage out to the Jannebakken, where for a week the ski club had been shoveling and packing snow to make the jump. Rumor had it skiers were coming from as far south as Christiania, and that the best of them might soar one hundred feet or more on the kicker they’d built.

  “Are you looking forward to the festival, Inger?”

  She turned her face up to the pleasant sun. “It’s a perfect day for it.”

  “We should stop by Lundby’s and check the post,” I said.

  “Maybe the Queen herself has written!”

  Since Isbjørn i Nordligste Natt was published, I often received letters. At first Inger teased that I was more famous than Fridtjof Nansen, but when one letter turned out to be a proposal from a wealthy heiress in Trondheim she began to insist that all such missives go unanswered.

  “Don’t you remember?” I joked. “She came in person.”

  Inger laughed, and on we walked.

  At Lundby’s, while she bought a jar of preserves and a block of cheese and crackers for our picnic, I asked Lundby’s son to check our post. Indeed, there was a small stack of letters, one of which stood out conspicuously. Postmarked GUNFLINT, MINN. JANUARY 29, 1900, it had a certain heft. Setting my hardingfele case and the other letters on the counter, I studied that envelope and the fine penmanship that addressed me and my wife. I heard her across the store, wishing a good day to Fru Klykken, whose son Ove would that afternoon be competing at the skihopp.

  “Odd Einar, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.” It was Lundby himself, standing behind the counter in place of his son.

  I looked up at him.

  “I noticed the postmark,” he said, and put his hands together in a prayerful gesture. “Here,” he said, giving me the kerchief from his pocket. “God bless you.” Then he called to Inger, and gestured for her to come over.

  She walked toward me, the basket of goods hooked in her arm. “What is it?”

  I handed her the letter, which she, too, studied before placing the basket on the counter and stumbling to a straight-backed chair in the corner. I went and knelt at her side and there passed a period of time that might have been two minutes or twenty.

  It was Inger who next spoke. “I can’t open it. I don’t want to.” She handed it back to me.

  I looked around as though I had in my hands not the letter I’d dreamt of for so long but a stick of dynamite, so wide was the berth Lundby and his customers had given us.

  “Please, Odd Einar, open it.” She touched the letter and then closed her eyes and turned her head heavenward.

  Standing up, I removed my pocketknife, unfolded the blade, and carefully sliced the top of the envelope. There was a letter indeed, two pages covered with impeccable penmanship not my daughter’s and not in Norwegian. There was also a smaller, unsealed envelope holding two photographs. In the first, my daughter gazed down on the babe in her arms in a bed, her legs covered by an eiderdown and her head resting on a pile of pillows. The child was sleeping, swaddled in a white gown, a tuft of hair on the top of his head. And my daughter was every bit a woman, her own hair pulled off her face and into a little cap, her shoulders draped by the puffed sleeves of a nightgown.

  As I gazed down on the photographic paper, all the distance and time that had separated us the previous five years vanished. All of my suffering, gone with it. I was with her again.

  “Well?” Inger said.

  I gave her the first photograph without a word and looked intently at the second: a boy in a sailor suit holding a toy boat, all of three or four years old, sitting with a young woman decidedly not my daughter. She had about her a doubtful countenance and a rigid posture. She looked posed, whereas Thea, in her photograph, appeared wholly at ease and in the middle of a blessed moment with her newborn. This other woman was beautiful, too, and clearly a woman of means, but she also looked unhappy. I flipped the photograph over and on the back was written: REBEKAH AND ODD, CHRISTMAS 1899. Christmas. Jul. But Odd? Was the boy’s name Odd? Was this the same boy as in the first photograph? I looked down at the photograph Inger held, turned it over, and read, THEA AND ODD, DECEMBER 1896.

  Now I knelt beside my wife and showed her the second photograph. When I glanced up, many of the marketgoers were staring at us. If by instinct I felt defensive of our privacy, I then realized that they weren’t gawking, merely readying their kindness and sympathy should it be required.

  “This is our Thea,” Inger whispered. “And our grandson.”

  “I think so.”

  “What does the letter say?” She appeared so doubtful.

  “It’s in English.”

  “Is it written by Thea?”

  I looked at the signature on the second page. “No. Someone named Hosea Grimm.”

  “Who is that?” she asked, as though this man and I were old acquaintances.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Let me see,” she said, taking the letter from my hand. She studied it for some time, as though actually reading it, before looking up at me. “What does it say, Odd Einar?”

  “Gerd Bjornsen knows English. Will Gerd be at the skihopp?” I watched Inger struggle to catch up, could see her wanting relief in this moment even as the part of her that for five years had grieved the loss of her daughter was keeping its guard up. “Or perhaps we should skip the skihopp, Inger. We can go home and catch our breath from this.”

  “Gerd does know English.” And now her faraway gaze grew sharper and sharper. “She will be there today, Odd Einar.” She stood and took the letter and second picture from me and slipped it all gently back in the envelope, then handed it to me and nodded at her provisions. “Go pay Lundby for this.”

  When I took the basket and started for the other end of the counter, she said, “Here, Odd Einar.” She held out my hardingfele case. “You can’t play without this. And the band can’t play without you.”

  * * *

  —

  We were speechless when we arrived at the Jannebakken, even as the stream of townsfolk sang and danced and reveled together. The crowd funneled onto the path up to Gávpotjávri, but all had to wait there a few minutes until Ábo Somby and his reindeer herd came down from the fjeld. The people shook their bells and whistled; their merriment was made still livelier by this delay. Even Ábo got in on the ruckus, tossing back a swig of aquavit offered by one of the bachelors in the crowd.

  The Jannebakken was decorated with bunting and seats for the press and even a pair of saunas at the bottom of the skihopp. There was a stand selling beer and glogg, and another roasting sides of venison. A third sold sweets and cookies from Bjornsen’s bakery, and Gerd stood behind that table. When she saw Inger hurrying toward her, Gerd’s whole aspect changed, and she quickly came around the table to greet us.

  Before she could even say a word, Inger took the letter out of my hand and told her that our daughter was alive and handed her the first photograph. “What’s more, we have a grandson. Just look at him!”

  “And look at Thea,” Gerd said. “A grown woman and the spitting image of her mother.” Then she looked at the other photograph. “And such a handsome boy. What’s his name?”

  “He’s Odd. Can you believe that? Just like his grandpapa.”

  Now Gerd looked at me as friendly as she often had since Bengt passed. “Congratulations, Odd Einar.” She clutched Inger’s arm, and the affection passing between them was obvious. “Tell me, what has Thea written?”

  “That’s just the thing,” Inger said. “The letter isn’t from her, it’s from a man named Hosea Grimm. I’ve never so much as heard of him.”

  �
��Well, what does his letter say?”

  Inger unfolded and handed it to Gerd, who glanced at it knowingly and then turned to her girl. “Ruth, you’ll be fine for a few minutes. Remember, two øre for the candies, three for the cookies.” Then, to Inger and me: “Let’s step behind the tent there. It’s quieter.”

  So we moved through the crowd and stood huddled in the shadow of the tent.

  Gerd nodded. “Would you like me to just read it to you, the best I can?”

  We put our four hands in a knot as Gerd took a deep breath and began:

  Dear Mr. and Mrs. Eide,

  May I present to you my son, and your grandson. His name is Odd, and as I write this on New Year’s Day, 1900, he is just recently turned three years old. A boy so doted on the world has never known until now. I believe he is ready to command the new century!

  His mother, my wife, sends her regards, and thanks you both for your eager correspondence. A true thing about your daughter: Since she arrived in Gunflint she has been without her voice. The reasons why are most confounding, but from her first steps on the Lighthouse Road—that being our main thoroughfare—she has been almost mute, and so seems ever to be more and more inward looking. It is only thanks to Odd and myself that she communicates with the world at all. If this sounds glum, you needn’t worry. She is otherwise healthy, and loved beyond measure by both her husband and son. And indeed, each day finds her more and more open, which you shall see proof of anon.

  But first, about the boy! He is taken care of mostly by our governess, a very capable woman called Rebekah. I tell you, your grandson has a fondness for her that he shares with none other. And what else? He has a great curiosity for the natural world, and a love of boats. A lucky thing, given our remoteness here in Gunflint. Our hope is that when the time comes for him to sail on or sail home, he’ll choose home. Starting in three years he will be tutored in the arts and sciences, and if all goes well, he will study to become a surgeon like his papa. He is handsome—as you can surely see, thanks entirely to his mother’s great beauty—and witty and playful all day long. He already shows a great aptitude for kindness and empathy. And, above all, he loves his parents truly.

  If, as you read this, you are wondering why it has taken us so long to return your own letters, I will provide this in answer, as well as in confidence: Thea, my sweet, sweet wife, suffered a great deal upon arriving here with no one to greet her. If I may be so bold, I would tell you both that the horrible loss of her aunt and uncle, and the tragic, even ruinous nature of their deaths, was a grave blow to her. So great that until recently she has been keen to forget who she was before her arrival.

  It was neither animus nor a grudge she felt toward you, rather simply shock at her present condition. I doubt I could explain to you in clear enough language the wilderness in which she found herself. Lesser souls than hers have taken but one look at our outpost and turned tail. But not our Thea. She bore down, and worked hard, and now she has our son. The good news—indeed the great news!—is that she has asked me to extend to you an invitation to make the journey to America, to meet your grandson and to stay with us. She would have written herself, but she fears the length of her silence might have caused you pain enough to doubt her abiding love. In any case, it is my pleasure to offer the invitation on her behalf, and to note that I share in her enthusiasm for you to join us.

  I send this letter in good cheer, for it warms my heart to see my wife in such peace and tranquillity. I might be quick to add that throughout her ordeal here in Minnesota she has remained true to her faith, a fact she wished for me to convey. Nightly she reads from the good book, and her prayers, why, they echo across our great lake.

  But lo! Here comes Odd, with another of his toy boats, asking Papa to play with him.

  I do hope the New Year finds you in good health and prosperity.

  Ever yours,

  Hosea Grimm

  Inger had tears in her eyes as she took the letter from Gerd, folded it, and replaced it in the envelope, then again pulled out both photographs. She kept the one of the toddler boy and handed me the picture of Thea and her babe. I took it and walked out of the shadow of the tent, into the sun shining down on the Jannebakken, holding it up before me and regarding it as intently as I had the sails of the Pobeg on that final morning up in Spitzbergen.

  There at the bottom of the hill, I stumbled into the throng. My boyhood friend Rolf Arne Buskum was using his speaking trumpet to shout, “…First up, here from Bergen and one of the favorites this afternoon, the world record holder with a leap of more than one hundred feet just last year at the Solbergbakken, Eivind Torr! Show him a warm Hammerfest welcome!”

  The clamber of cowbells called my attention, and I looked up to see this man speeding down the inrun, then disappear for an instant before he rose into the air, backlit by the sun, his arms spread like wings. He seemed to hang there, the image of grace, and I saw myself in him. I felt Inger’s touch on my elbow. I knew she, too, was watching Eivind Torr.

  After he landed his perfect telemark, and as the crowd raised a mighty cheer, Inger took the photograph of our daughter from me and slipped it back in the envelope, folded it shut, then unbuttoned my coat and put it inside my pocket. “You were right,” she said.

  I shook my head, felt the contagion of her tears, and patted the envelope inside my coat.

  “You believed in her. You never stopped.”

  “I only hoped, Inger. I hoped and I loved.”

  “It’s no small thing. To hope.”

  “Or to love,” I said. “You’ve taught me that.”

  The crowd huzzahed again and we turned to see another skihopper, this one spinning on his back toward the bottom of the hill, a cloud of snow rising around him like a waterspout. After sliding to a stop, he sprang right up and waved his arms. The crowd cheered louder, and Rolf Arne’s voice rose above the noise: “That’s Torjus Hemmestveit, folks. Let’s see if his brother can stay off his rump! He’s next up.”

  Above the din, I heard the band’s accordion rising, then the bass, and the people gathered around the tents started waltzing. Inger’s smile sent me off. I trotted over, unpacking my hardingfele, and joined them midsong.

  We played all afternoon, the songs in me like my love for my daughter, while one skier after another leapt into flight. All I wanted was to live with this joy forever.

  EPILOGUE

  The story of her family, for as far back as she knows, has been lived in snow and ice. They were fishermen and judges, dowagers and orphans, boatbuilders and schoolteachers, weekend poets and fine artists. They were Norwegians and Minnesotans, immigrants and townfolks, travelers and stayers. But whoever they were, they lived against a tide of frozen water, measuring time’s passage not only by their love for one another but also and often against the winter to come, or the winter just gone. Or, in the case of Greta on this night, winter at its most cruel. She can’t help staring out into the blackness of the storm and remembering her grandfather’s and great-grandfather’s tragic ends.

  To distract herself, she looks over at her daughter asleep by the fire and thinks of her son up at his grandpa’s house. Of all the things being a mother requires, nothing is more important than keeping Lasse and Liv safe. Is this true, or has winter’s rapacious hunger only made it seem so?

  As if the dog knows what she’s thinking, he gets up and walks across the puncheon floor and coils his huge body under her desk. She reaches down and scratches Axel’s ears and then opens her computer and clicks on the file marked ANOTHER KRYKKJE ON ANOTHER MASTHEAD. She’s going to finish Odd Einar’s story. It’s going to end in the brilliant Arctic summer, a thought that gives her no small relief. She’s known this to be true from the first time she saw him, there in the Hammerfest cemetery. How she knew, she can’t describe. But it’s been certain all along. And if he appeared first like a ghost, he’s by now become like flesh and
blood and she loves him in much the same way.

  Greta wonders about the dreams that visit her. There were times, especially on nights such as this, when Greta thought she could plainly see them. As though they projected from the aura of her daughter’s slumber. Similar to how Odd Einar appears to her each time she sits down to visit with him.

  Her phone rings, loud and shrill against the quiet of her house. She turns quickly and answers it before she even looks at the caller ID, figuring it’s Stig calling to say good night.

  But in fact it’s Frans. “Hi,” he says. “How are you?”

  “Oh,” she said.

  “Can you hear me?”

  “Yes. Hi.”

  “We just touched down in Ushuaia. In Argentina. What a strange flight. We’re already a day behind schedule. There was a storm…” The phone crackles and then goes silent and Greta says “Hello?” before his voice comes back across the line “—the day after tomorrow, I think. I hope that’s okay.”

  “You’ll be a day late?” Greta asks.

  “If I can get the first flight to Buenos Aires.”

  “I hope you can, Liv’s pretty excited about seeing you.”

  No response. She can’t tell if they’ve lost the connection again or he’s merely resigned to another of his silences, then his voice reemerges from the static “—on Monday at about five. Tell her and Lasse I can’t wait to see them?”

  “Of course.”

  “Okay. Well.”

  “Frans?”

  “What?”

  “How was it down there?”

  As though he’s rehearsed the answer many times, he says, “The ice is the same at the bottom of the world as it is on the top. Or what’s left of it is.”

  Then the call does disconnect, and when Greta looks at her phone the red dying-battery image blinks twice and the screen goes black.

  * * *