by Chris Ould
“Do you feel like an expedition?” she asked. I saw her spot the large, buff envelope on the table and the empty coffee mug near it.
“To do what?” I asked, partly to redirect her attention.
“A trip to Sandoy. Finn – my brother – has sent me a text from his boat. They have found a pod of whales so there will be a grind at Sandur, unless they escape.” She checked her watch. “We’ll have to leave in a few minutes, but if we’re lucky I think we can catch the next ferry from Gamlarætt and be at Sandur by the time they arrive – but only if you want to,” she added. “If you want to see it.”
“Are you going anyway, or would it just be for my benefit?” I asked. I had a suspicion that Fríða thought I needed more exposure to my cultural roots. At various times she’d brought me books she thought I should look at – collections of old photographs of the Faroes and novels by Heinesen, Brú and others. I wasn’t sure I agreed with her diagnosis, but I appreciated the thought.
“No, I’ll go anyway,” Fríða said. “I haven’t seen Finn for a while and it’s a nice day.”
A nice day to kill whales.
“Okay, sure,” I said. “Do I need to bring anything? Harpoon? A big knife?”
She gave me a look, slightly beady, but she was getting used to me by now. “No, I don’t think you need anything like that,” she said. “You don’t want any more injuries, I think.”
She could be very sardonic, which I liked.
When she’d gone I went to find boots and waterproofs. Essentials, even for a nice day on the Faroes. At least I was that much in touch with life here.
* * *
So where was I?
Mending/mended. Suspended. Putting things off: decisions; movement; leaving; asking. I supposed I was waiting for something: to take a hint. I can take a hint. But there was none, and I had no imperative until one came along.
Fríða had still given no sign of wanting to kick me out of the guest house and a few days ago when I’d told her I thought it might be time I went back to a hotel she dismissed the idea as if I’d suggested something illogical. “Why? There’s no need. It would be a waste of money.”
I didn’t want to impose on her hospitality or outstay my welcome – I was still English enough for that – but if I read it right, she viewed my presence as a pragmatic solution to my situation: first injured, then – after the news of Signar’s death – awaiting his funeral. I also knew her well enough not to argue when she’d made up her mind.
So I stayed.
I’d also emailed Kirkland, my superintendent back in England, and told him I was unavailable to be interviewed by the Directorate of Professional Standards on the dates he’d requested. I used the word request deliberately because it hadn’t been one. There had been a family bereavement, I told him; on top of the fact I was recovering from injuries sustained while assisting the Faroese police. I even offered to provide medical notes and testimonials if he required them. Not necessary as it turned out. I hadn’t thought so. He knew what he could do.
And I walked.
Not to outdistance or shake off the black dog, but because I wanted to. Because, by and large, I hadn’t walked for the sake of the walk for a long time and if I tired myself out I hoped it might bring my sleep back to normal.
Ever since the concussion and painkillers had scrambled a couple of my days I’d been waking in the small hours, vaguely conscious that in my dreams I’d been inhabiting a place I didn’t like. It was a sensation I remembered, like déjà vu, from almost a lifetime away: a primal thing, almost childlike in its simplicity. Maybe not surprising because I had been a child when I’d last felt it: waking up and not knowing where I’d been.
So I walked, and after the first day when I’d underestimated the terrain, I remembered the addictive muscle-aching satisfaction of accomplishment it gave. This was something I could do, and while I was doing it there was nothing else I could do at the same time: just be preoccupied by the next step and the one after that.
So, that’s where I was: abstracted from reality, I guess. As much in limbo as Signar Ravnsfjall had been when I’d seen him that one time in his hospital bed, between his first stroke and his last. Unresolved. Unanswered. Unfinished.
2
BEHIND THE BOAT THE WATER WAS CHOPPY AND DISTURBED BY the wakes of the pursuing craft; half a dozen, strung out in a loose, ragged line, engines throbbing. Ahead, though, the water was calm, almost unbroken even by the smoothly arcing dorsal fins as the pilot whale pod sliced the water with apparently effortless ease.
Did they even realise they were being herded? At the wheel of the Kári Edith Finn Sólsker had wondered about this before. They were supposed to be smart, these whales. So why didn’t they just turn, dive beneath the boats and head for open water instead of the mouth of the bay? But they just didn’t. That was the way of it.
In the bow of the boat Høgni Joensen stood by the rail, leaning forward slightly into the light breeze. He was a short, square man with coarse hair under a woollen hat and a stubbled, round face which bore a broad smile. He was caught up in the sight of the whales and the thrilling uncertainty about whether or not things would go to plan. Everything else was forgotten until the regular beat of the engine faltered for a moment, then picked up again.
Even though the interruption was brief, Høgni cast a glance back at the engine hatch, then towards Finn Sólsker in the wheelhouse. Høgni had cleaned and reinstalled the fuel pump a couple of days ago, so if it started to play up again now it would be his fault. And to choose this moment, that would just make it worse. Høgni always wanted Finn to know that he could rely on him and trust him to do a good job. But as often as not the world conspired to undermine him in front of his friend and employer.
By now the Kári Edith and the other boats were drawing level with the point at Boðatangi and the vessels on the outermost, easterly end of the line began to speed up a little, bringing them round to make a large, shallow semi-circle. The intention was to force the whale pod to bear around to the left and head for the broad beach at Sandur.
Off the port side Høgni saw a flotilla of smaller boats, waiting close to the shore for the pod to pass before coming in to join the drive. It was still too far away to see how many people were on the beach, but Høgni could guess that there would be a fair few. In the two hours since the whales had first been spotted there had been plenty of time to put out the news.
Then the engine faltered again – slightly longer this time – before picking up once more. Høgni debated for a moment, but then decided it would be better to face Finn now, rather than wait until – if – the pump packed up for good. He left his place in the bow and went back to the wheelhouse.
Finn was on the radio, talking to Birgir Kallsberg, the whaling foreman, who was on the Ebba. He didn’t look away from the window when Høgni opened the wheelhouse so Høgni just stood there and waited, then dug out his tobacco tin and started to roll up, so it didn’t look like he was standing there like a moron.
“Okay,” Finn said into the radio’s handset. “Once the others are in line I’ll drop back and head in to the harbour.”
“Understood,” Birgir Kallsberg’s voice came back through the speaker. “Don’t worry, you’ll still get the finder’s whale.”
“Yeh, yeh, I trust you,” Finn said with a laugh.
He hung up the handset as the boat’s engine spluttered and misfired again. This time there was a definite drop in speed before it picked up.
“I reckon it’s that fuel pump again,” Høgni said. He realised it was a stupid thing to say as soon as it was out of his mouth.
Finn nodded. “I hope that’s all it is.”
“Yeh, yeh, it is, I’m sure of it,” Høgni said, trying to be reassuring. “We should probably have got a new one instead of trying to fix it again.”
“Yeh, maybe.” Finn allowed. “Too late now, though. At least we’re not fifty kilometres out: that’s one thing.”
Seeming to take this as an ind
ication that Finn wasn’t going to blame him for the fault, Høgni stepped into the wheelhouse. “I’ll have a look at it as soon as we’re back at the quay,” he said. “I’m not bothered about the kill.”
The affected nonchalance wasn’t lost on Finn. Høgni loved the grindarakstur. He took the roll-up from Høgni’s stubby fingers and put it to his lips. “Don’t worry, I’ll do it later,” he said. “No need to miss out.”
Høgni passed him his lighter. “Do you think those Alliance people will turn up and try to spoil things?”
Finn chuckled. Høgni was like a little boy, everything seen in black and white: good or spoiled; liked or disliked; friend or enemy. Except that Høgni had no enemies: he was too good-natured for that.
“What?” Høgni said, reacting to Finn’s laugh.
“Nothing,” Finn told him, waving him out of the wheelhouse. “Go on, go back and watch. The protesters are probably all still in bed.”
* * *
At the eastern end of the broadly curved bay, Erla Sivertsen panned her camera along the line of people standing on the grass-covered sand dunes above the beach. More were arriving – men, women and children – coming from the road and a line of parked cars. Some of the men carried ropes and hooks, striding purposefully until they reached the edge of the grey sand, then halting to look and assess. No one went further. That was the way of it. You waited until the whales came to the beach.
At each end of the bay there were groups of AWCA volunteers, easy to pick out through the viewfinder because of the light blue sweatshirt they all wore. AWCA, pronounced as “Orca” by its members, was the Atlantic Wildlife Conservation Alliance. They had been on the islands for nearly two months, but this was the first time they had been scrambled, ready to take action, and it seemed that only a dozen or so had made it here in time. Now, like everyone else, they stood with their attention trained on the sea, watching the line of disparate boats ploughing closer and straining for sight of the whales.
Erla shifted the camera again, adjusting the focus on the telephoto lens. There were nearly two dozen police officers stationed at intervals along the line of the sand dunes, all dressed in tactical gear. Some had been brought in by a naval helicopter – clearly a show of strength by the authorities – and Erla knew that when her footage was edited the dark uniforms and bulky equipment of the police would look truly ominous in contrast to the unarmed AWCA protesters.
Having captured the scene down the length of the beach, Erla stopped filming for a moment and checked the progress of the boats out at sea. She’d witnessed four other grinds in her life – the first when she’d been six or seven years old – and knowing the way things would go now, she’d already planned the footage she wanted to get. Video was not her favourite medium, but she knew it would have the most impact when showing the actual drive. Then she’d use stills for the aftermath of the kill.
The whales were still more than three hundred metres from shore but now there was a growing desperation in their movements. They had sped up and broke the surface of the water more often. Their slick, arching bodies were more tightly grouped, as if they sensed that they were running out of room to manoeuvre. And still the boats came on behind them, grouping them tighter, pushing them in.
Finally the larger boats slowed and stopped to let the smaller craft take over and Erla knew it was time. She moved the camera and refocused on the Alliance protesters at the nearest end of the beach, waiting.
And then it started. At a signal the protesters moved into action, each taking a length of scaffolding pipe from the ground and then running quickly down towards the water. No one pursued them, but there were shouts of protest and gestures of resentment from the locals on the dunes.
The protesters paid no heed. They waded straight into the water, using their metal poles like walking sticks to test the bottom, moving out further through the low, rolling swell until they were thigh deep, spacing themselves out at intervals. And then, in a ragged line, they produced hammers and crow bars from pockets and waistbands and started to bang their submerged scaffolding poles as hard as they could, adding to the noise with shouts and whistles.
It was a tactic no one had anticipated and for a moment the onlookers weren’t sure how to respond. The police shifted uncertainly, but then they seemed to receive an order over their radios and left their positions to jog quickly across the sand and into the water. They were followed by several men from the crowd and when the protesters saw them wading into the shallows they redoubled their noise-making and moved further out into the water.
Because the water hampered everyone’s movements equally it produced the strange effect of a slow-motion game of tag in which no one could outdistance anyone else. Whenever the police made headway towards them, the protesters waded deeper or moved left or right, all the while keeping up their hammering and whistling, which became ever more urgent as the whales got closer to shore.
Erla kept the camera trained on this cat-and-mouse game for a few seconds more, then zoomed out and panned round to the open sea. The whales were concentrated together now and behind them the bullying boats had increased their speed. It almost seemed that the whales and boats were racing each other to be first to the land, but then – a few metres from shore – the whales hesitated, as if realising their mistake. A few made to turn back, but the imperative of the boats prevented it, and then, as the creatures finally reached the shallows, the people on the dunes swarmed forward. They ran across the sand and plunged into the water amidst the thrashing of fins and black bodies and Erla held the shot, zooming in slowly on the churned waters and the first men to seize their prey.
Through the lens Erla spotted an AWCA sweatshirt, adjusted the focus and managed to zoom in close on an American woman she recognised, just as she was finally corralled between two burly cops. They were all up to their chests in the water and seeing the whales already thrashing in the shallows, the woman appeared to realise she’d failed. When the police officers took her by the arms she just stood there, and as Erla zoomed in closer she was pleased to capture the look of abject misery on the woman’s face. Even at this distance you could see that she was crying with grief. It was a good picture.
Finally lifting her eye from the viewfinder, Erla glanced around. There were a few spectators nearby but everyone’s attention was focused on the whales and no one took any notice of her as she quickly unclipped the camera from its monopod and started down from her vantage point. Her AWCA sweatshirt was well covered by her red waterproof jacket and there was nothing to tell her apart from the other Faroe islanders.
3
WE’D MISSED MOST OF THE KILLING, BUT I WAS AMBIVALENT about that. Besides, there was plenty to show what we’d missed, and it was bloody. A deep crimson stain spread the width of the beach, out through the water and a good thirty yards away from the sand. It looked like someone had emptied a tanker of chemical dye into the sea.
By the time I reached the far end of the beach I couldn’t see Fríða. She’d been waylaid by an angular, insistent woman in the throng of spectators, someone she obviously knew, and I’d wandered on without her, between the onlookers at the wave line, taking the scene in until I was at the end of the beach. I chose a relatively dry spot on the sand and sat on my coat, braving the breeze in only a fleece. It was a decent day and as good a place as any to wait and observe.
There was something of a holiday mood on the beach, but now that most of the excitement was over, the people standing along the waterline had turned their attention to neighbours and fellow onlookers, gossiping and comparing impressions. While the adults talked, local kids came and went between them, daring each other to splash in the red waves, or standing intently as they watched the men still at work in the shallows.
Up to their thighs in the water, and sometimes beyond, the men worked with the concentration and focus of knowing they still had a long job to do. This was a serious business, done with the pulling of ropes, shouted instructions and the manoeuvring of boats. There
was no jubilation as far as I could see, and no distaste either; just pragmatic resolve. You could debate the whys and wherefores of the whole thing, but I doubted that anyone here would think them questions worth asking. I was watching a thousand years of tradition and it ran just as deep as the blood in the water.
Twenty yards from where I was sitting there were three or four whale carcasses moving gently with the waves, separated from the main part of the kill. I wondered if they’d been forgotten or overlooked, but then a couple of small boats with outboard motors came to secure them: two lads in their late teens and an older hand who gave instructions.
I wasn’t the only one looking on while this was done. Standing off to one side was a stocky middle-aged guy in a brown sweater and waders. We’d exchanged nods a few minutes ago, but now he wandered across to me, as if the new activity warranted comment.
“Hey.”
“Góðan dag,” I said, which made him cock his head slightly. My accent still wasn’t that good.
“English?” he asked.
I nodded.
“You’ve seen the grindadráp before?”
“No, my first time.”
“It’s something to see, yeh?” he said after a pause. “Not one to forget.”
“No,” I agreed. And then, for the sake of something to say, “So what happens now?”
He gestured at the boats. “They pull the bodies to the harbour so they can be lifted out to be measured. It’s done with a special stick – the grindamál – and afterwards there is a calculation of how the catch will be divided. Then tickets are given out for the shares in the meat and the blubber. It’s a complicated business to be fair with everyone.”
