A Faraway Island

by Annika Thor

  “Why do I have to row backward?” she asks. “It’s hard not to be able to see where you’re going.”

  “Try sitting frontward and see how that goes.”

  Stephie turns around on the bench and pulls the oars the other way, from front to back. It’s impossible.

  There’s hardly any wind. A gray-blue haze merges the water and the sky at the horizon. The surface of the water is smooth, with barely a ripple. Just a gentle coursing back and forth, reminding Stephie of the shiny satin of Mamma’s finest ball gown. Dove-blue moiré, her mother used to call it. Stephie turns the word “moiré” over and over in her mouth, finding it as soft and lovely as the fabric itself.

  “If I kept rowing west, just kept on and on, would I end up in America?” Stephie asks.

  Uncle Evert laughs. “Sure, if you managed to keep on course due west, so you didn’t bump into Denmark or Norway, you’d bypass Scotland and only have the whole Atlantic left to cross. You’d have to stock up on provisions if you were going to try. And hope for calm weather, like today.”

  The oars are blistering Stephie’s hands, the soft part between her thumb and her forefinger. But she doesn’t complain.

  Uncle Evert pulls out a wooden reel and lets a long line run from the stern of the dinghy.

  “Rest the oars and come hold the line,” he tells her.

  Stephie raises the oars over the edge of the boat. Cold water drips on her feet. Carefully she steps over the bench toward the stern. The boat feels tippy. She’s afraid it will capsize.

  “Don’t worry,” Uncle Evert says. “This boat doesn’t tip easily. At least not from the movements of somebody as light as you.”

  Stephie gets to hold the line, while Uncle Evert rows with powerful strokes.

  “Let’s hope the mackerel are biting,” he says. “Tell me if you feel the line pull.”

  Stephie thinks the line’s pulling the whole time.

  “Now!” she says. “I’ve got a bite.”

  Uncle Evert comes over and feels the line, then shakes his head.

  “That’s just the weight of the sinker. When the fish nibble it feels different.”

  “Like what?”

  “You’ll know. Lively, not just a dead weight.”

  Stephie examines the palms of her hands. They’re red and tender. She’s almost forgotten the line when, suddenly, there is movement between her fingers.

  “Now!” she shouts. “Now they’re biting.”

  Uncle Evert rests the oars, comes over to her, and pulls the line in. A shimmering fish is struggling on one of the hooks.

  Although Stephie has watched Aunt Märta clean mackerel many a time since she came to the island, she’s never before realized how beautiful a mackerel is. The smooth skin shimmers in black, gray, and silver. She’s strangely excited, her heart beating fast.

  “What a beauty,” Uncle Evert says. “Surely weighs over a pound. You take it off the hook.”

  Stephie hesitates. She’s never touched a living fish before.

  Then she seizes the mackerel with both hands. It’s not as yucky a feeling as she’d expected. Cold, but not slimy. Uncle Evert helps her remove the hook from its mouth.

  Then he takes his knife and slits an incision alongside one of the gills. Stephie looks away.

  “This is another thing you need to learn,” he says. “How to gut and clean them.”

  “Ugh, no,” says Stephie. “I’ll never do that.”

  Uncle Evert smiles to himself. “Never say never, that’s what I say.”

  They get three mackerel on the line that evening. Aunt Märta cleans them and fries them for dinner. They do taste quite good, actually.

  One bright spring evening, just as Aunt Märta is settling in to listen to the evening prayer on the radio, Stephie’s head appears around the corner of the door to the front room.

  “I’ve done the dishes and my homework,” she says. “May I go out for a while?”

  “I suppose so,” Aunt Märta replies. “But be home by dark.”

  Stephie pulls on a cardigan and ties her shoes. Finally it’s warm enough for her to put her too-small boots away and wear lighter shoes.

  She goes out onto the steps. The air feels cool and fresh against her cheeks.

  Aunt Märta’s bicycle is leaning up against the house. It has thick tires and a heavy black frame.

  If she could learn to row the dinghy she must be able to master Aunt Märta’s bicycle, too.

  Stephie grasps the handlebars by their wooden grips and leads the bike out onto the road. She pulls it up the hill, getting sweaty and out of breath.

  She stops at the top. The road continues in a long downward incline. Not steep. And quite straight. This must be a good place.

  Taking a deep breath, she puts her right foot on one pedal. Then she lifts her left foot, tramping down with her right. She tries to get up on the seat, but it’s too high. Standing on one pedal, she rolls unsteadily down the hill, gaining speed. It feels exciting and scary, both at once.

  Between two outcrops of rock, the road curves left. Stephie turns the handlebars and loses control. The bike totters, she pushes the brakes and skids in the loose gravel. The bicycle topples and Stephie is thrown into the roadside ditch.

  I’m dead, she thinks.

  But she’s not. One of her arms hurts, though, and so do both her knees.

  At the sound of brakes in the gravel she looks up, knowing everyone on the island will hear about this and laugh at her.

  “Are you all right?” Vera asks.

  “I’m not sure,” Stephie answers. “My arm … I’m afraid it’s broken.”

  “Let me help you up,” Vera says. She dismounts from her bike and pulls Stephie out of the ditch. “Is that your bicycle?” she asks.

  “No, it’s Aunt Märta’s.”

  Vera stands the bike up and inspects it. “Looks all right,” she says. “Maybe a little dent over the front tire. But that might have been there before.”

  “I don’t know,” says Stephie.

  She’s feeling less dizzy now. Her knees are just scraped, but her right arm aches.

  “Do you think it’s broken?” she asks Vera.

  Vera feels it gently through the cardigan. “Can you move it?” she asks. “Like this?”

  Stephie tries moving her arm up and down. It hurts, but she can do it.

  “I don’t think it’s broken” is Vera’s verdict. “Don’t you know how to ride a bike?”

  It’s no use denying it now.

  “I’ll help you learn,” says Vera. “You can’t just roll away, you need to know how to turn and to put on the brakes first. Want me to show you?”

  “Please.”

  “Tomorrow,” Vera tells her. “After school. It’s Saturday, so we won’t have homework. I’ve got to get home now, and you need to wash up and change your clothes.”

  Stephie glances down at her muddy dress.

  “I’ll have to come home for the bicycle after school,” she says. “Where do you want to meet?”

  “Right here?”

  “Fine.”

  “See you,” says Vera, hopping onto her bike and riding off.

  Stephie walks Aunt Märta’s bike the whole way home. It feels like it’s growing heavier and heavier. Going down the steep hill to the house demands all her strength; she has to hold back to keep the bike from taking off on its own and pulling her with it.

  She leans the bike up against the house and goes in.

  “I’m back,” she calls, scurrying up the stairs so Aunt Märta won’t catch sight of her muddy dress. At the wash-stand she does her best to rinse the mud off herself and her dress and to clean her scraped knees.

  “I see you’re learning to ride the bike,” Aunt Märta says when she comes back down.

  Stephie had been hoping Aunt Märta wouldn’t have noticed the absence of her bicycle. But it’s eight o’clock and evening prayers were over long ago. Aunt Märta probably went out into the yard and saw that the bike was gone.
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  “I’m sorry,” says Stephie. “I should have asked before I borrowed it.”

  “That’s all right,” Aunt Märta answers. “Just take good care of it. And yourself,” she adds, glancing at Stephie’s scraped knees and stiff arm.

  “May I borrow it tomorrow after school?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Thank you.”

  The next day Stephie hurries home from school. She leads the bike back up the hill again, and down to the meeting place. Vera’s already there.

  “Come on,” she says, taking Stephie to a little side road. “This is a better spot. You have to practice on flat ground first. We’d better start by lowering the seat.”

  Vera’s brought a wrench, and she loosens the bolt that holds the seat in place, twisting the seat gently downward and then tightening the bolt again.

  “Give it a try,” she says.

  Stephie tries to mount the bike as she did yesterday, but she can’t seem to make it balance.

  “You have to start pedaling right away,” Vera instructs. “I’ll hold you from behind. Try again.”

  Vera holds the carrier in a firm grip. Stephie swings up into the seat and starts to pedal.

  “Not so fast,” Vera pants as Stephie picks up speed. “Now put on the brakes, but gently.”

  Stephie backpedals and feels the bike slow down. She puts one foot on the ground.

  “Again,” Vera tells her. “Steer, and apply the brakes softly when you start going too fast.”

  Stephie picks up speed again. Vera runs behind the bi cycle with one hand on the carrier. Suddenly, though, Stephie stops hearing her footsteps. There’s only the crunch of the tires on the gravel. The pedals keep going around, the bi cycle follows the curves in the road easily. She’s riding all on her own!

  A rock in the middle of the road is her downfall. But she manages to put one foot down so that she doesn’t crash; she isn’t hurt.

  Vera comes biking up from behind.

  “You’re doing fine,” she laughs. “You’ll be able to bike to school by Monday.”

  Stephie bikes back and forth along the road all afternoon. Vera helps her get started at first, but after a while she can get her own balance, and Vera bikes alongside her. Their hair and skirts flutter in the spring wind. The salty sting of the sea blends with the scent of earth warmed by the sun. Light green grass is sprouting up alongside the road and between the outcrops of rock.

  When they get tired of riding, Vera teaches Stephie how to pump the tires. They crouch down next to each other, hands and arms touching. The wind blows wisps of Vera’s hair so it brushes Stephie’s cheek.

  There are so many things Stephie would like to ask Vera. Why she’s always clowning around in class and pretending to be dumber than she is. Why she’s friends with Sylvia and her crowd. Whether the two of them, Stephie and Vera, could be friends for real.

  But she doesn’t ask anything at all. Vera gets up.

  “I’ve got to get home,” she says, “and help my mother with the washing.”

  They bicycle side by side out to the main road.

  “Will you be able to bike home now?” Vera asks.

  “I think so.”

  Stephie mounts the bike. She manages to pedal all the way up to the top of the hill, but she leads the bike on the steep downhill, just to be on the safe side.

  Stephie spends all Sunday afternoon practicing, up and down hills, and riding the road in both directions. Aunt Märta, who is otherwise quite strict about keeping the Sabbath on Sunday, and who always wants Stephie to do something quiet after Sunday school, agrees immediately when Stephie asks to borrow her bicycle again.

  On Monday Stephie bikes to school. Having struggled up the steep hill from the white house, she has a steady decline for the next half mile, and the wind at her back. She doesn’t even need to pedal, the bike just rolls on its own. The wind brushes her face gently and the air is full of new smells.

  On her way to school, she imagines arriving at the schoolyard, gently applying the brakes at the gate and then leading the bicycle over to the stand, with Sylvia, Barbro, and all the others gaping in astonishment. She plans to act as if there’s nothing unusual about her having biked to school. If they continue to stare she’ll ask, “What are you staring at? Haven’t you ever seen a bike before?”

  Then she’ll look right at Vera and they’ll smile conspiratorially. Vera won’t give her away. She’s promised.

  Intentionally, Stephie takes the last stretch slowly. She wants everyone to be there when she arrives.

  As soon as she has put on the brakes at the gate and set one foot on the ground, she begins to look around for her classmates. They’re huddled between the bike stand and the outhouse. Sylvia, Barbro, Gunvor, and Majbritt.

  And Vera. She’s at the center of the crowd. Apparently she’s doing one of her imitations. The others are watching her and laughing.

  Stephie walks the bike over to the stand. No one notices. She glances furtively toward the group surrounding Vera.

  Vera’s holding one of her arms as if it’s hurt. “Ow, ow!” she cries. “My arm! I think it’s broken!”

  At that very moment, Gunvor catches sight of Stephie. “Here she comes!” she shouts.

  Stephie feels a lump forming in her throat. At first it’s ice cold, then it feels hot. It grows larger and larger.

  Everybody’s staring at her.

  “Well, look at her,” Sylvia says in her most affected voice, like an adult talking to a child. “The old lady let the little girl borrow her bicycle. Be careful you don’t end up in the ditch. Next time there might not be anybody around to rescue you.”

  Stephie forces herself to ignore them, looking straight ahead as she walks toward the bike stand. She has heard and seen enough: the mocking mouths, the scornful gazes. And Vera’s pale, embarrassed face, framed by her fluffy red hair.

  On the stairs up to the classroom, Vera catches up with her. “Stephie,” she pants. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to—”

  The lump in Stephie’s throat bursts. “Leave me alone!” she exclaims. “You’re just like all the rest. I despise you!”

  In the fraction of a second before Vera turns away and continues on up the stairs, Stephie sees something in her eyes and recognizes it. She can’t pinpoint exactly what it is, but it makes her feel like bursting into tears.

  After school Stephie delays leaving the hallway. She doesn’t want to arrive at the bike stand at the same time as all the others just to hear more taunting remarks.

  When she finally leaves the building, she finds herself hoping to see Vera’s mane of red hair somewhere in the schoolyard, hoping Vera waited for her all the same.

  But no one is there. Only six bikes remain in the stand. Aunt Märta’s looks very old-fashioned and awkward next to Sylvia’s blue one and Ingrid’s green one.

  Stephie rolls the bicycle back out of the stand. Something doesn’t seem right. She feels the tires. They’re almost flat. The valve caps are off.

  They must have done it at recess, since all the air has had time to leak out. It was probably Barbro. Or Gunvor. Or Majbritt. Or even Sylvia, though probably not. She’s always cautious about doing anything she might get caught and punished for. Sylvia gives the orders, the others obey.

  Stephie searches the ground for the valve caps. She sees something gleaming. A little tack.

  Pfff, says the air as it exits from Sylvia’s tire. Stephie presses the nail even farther in, until the head is visible only as a shiny little dot. It would be difficult to see it if you didn’t know it was there. It’s pressed all the way in, as if Sylvia had happened to bike over it on her way to school.

  Stephie finds both valve caps, and luckily Aunt Märta keeps a bike pump attached to the frame. Stephie pumps up the tires and rides home.

  The next morning they are at the bike stand, waiting for her. When Stephie parks her bike they close in around her. She’s their prisoner.

  Sylvia is holding something between her thumb a
nd forefinger, so close to Stephie’s face she can barely see it. A shiny object.

  The tack.

  “It was you,” Sylvia says. “Admit that you did it!”

  Should she deny it? Sylvia would never be able to prove it.

  “Confess!” Sylvia says. She’s so close, Stephie can feel the heat of her breath.

  “Yes, I did it. But you let the air out of my tires first.”

  “I did not,” Sylvia says. “And anyway, that’s different. You must apologize now.”

  “Never.”

  “Grab her,” Sylvia orders.

  Barbro grasps Stephie’s right arm, twisting it up behind her back. It hurts.

  “Did you say ‘never’?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  Barbro grabs Stephie’s hair, pulling her head backward.

  “Is that what you said?”

  “Right.”

  Sylvia bends down and grabs a fistful of gravel from the ground.

  “Remember when I washed your face with snow last winter? I’ll do it again. But with gravel this time.”

  Stephie looks at Sylvia. She means business. Stephie’s only hope is for the bell to ring.

  Sylvia takes another step toward her.

  “Sorry,” Stephie says.

  “On your knees.”

  “No.”

  “Otherwise it doesn’t count,” says Sylvia as Barbro presses Stephie to the ground. She falls to her knees in the gravel.

  “Say it.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Say: ‘Forgive me for ruining your bike.’”

  “Forgive me for ruining your bike.”

  “And kiss my shoe.”

  Sylvia extends her dusty sandal; it’s just a few inches from Stephie’s face.

  “Kiss it!”

  Barbro presses hard on Stephie’s neck. Stephie presses her lips tightly together before her face touches Sylvia’s shoe.

  At last the bell rings.

  The lawns in front of the little houses in the village are bright green. The low apple trees are covered with pink and white blossoms, and the lilac bushes with clusters of white and purple buds.

  The house at the end of the world doesn’t have a yard with apple trees and lilac bushes. It’s too exposed to the wind off the water. But on the beach little flowers are pushing their way up between the rocks: yellow, white, and every possible shade of pink, from very, very pale to bright rose. In the crevices among the rocks there are patches of wild violets.