A Summer of Drowning

by John Burnside

  ‘Come in for a moment, then,’ I said. ‘I was just about to make some coffee.’ He hesitated; I could tell that he was remembering the last time he had visited unexpectedly, and he didn’t want to play that scene over again. He was the type of person who hated to intrude, or push himself forward, and now, for the second time, he was, in his own mind at least, doing exactly that. Any other time, I would have let him go, but I was curious to know why, after missing several Saturday tea mornings, he was here now, bearing gifts, so I started for the kitchen without saying anything else, knowing that he wouldn’t have any choice but to follow. I think I had already guessed that he had come to say he was leaving, but I didn’t know why and I wanted to give him time to tell me. Of course, Mother would probably be gone for hours yet, but he didn’t know that.

  He was still nervous. We made small talk, while I prepared the coffee and he sat at the kitchen table, clutching his brown-paper gift, but neither of us took it very seriously – we were both waiting for the real conversation to begin, the one where he said what he had come to say. The one where he explained his absence and made whatever announcement he had come to make. ‘So, I heard you were in England,’ he said, as I brought the things to the table.

  I nodded. ‘Only for a short while,’ I said, in a tone that suggested, I hoped politely, that I didn’t much want to pursue that line of conversation.

  ‘And all the work for the show has gone off to Oslo?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s good.’ He sat quiet for a moment, not knowing what to say next; then, when he did speak, his voice sounded different, less nervous, more relaxed, as if he had worked out that Mother wouldn’t be coming back any time soon and he could leave his gift, and whatever message he had, with me – because it was obvious, now, that he was afraid of seeing Mother. There was something he wanted her to know, but he would be happier not to have to say it to her face. He smiled. ‘So what else is new, out here on Kvaløya,’ he said. He made it sound far away, a part of his past already, and it made me uncomfortable, for Mother’s sake, to know that he had already begun the process of putting this part of his life behind him.

  ‘Nothing much,’ I said.

  ‘That’s good,’ he said, relaxing a little more. ‘Too much has happened already. Those boys drowning like that …’

  That surprised me. For some reason, I had thought that what had happened to the Sigfridsson brothers hadn’t registered with him – or not, at least, enough that he would choose it as a topic of conversation. ‘It was odd,’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It was a terrible coincidence, their being brothers and –’

  ‘Kyrre Opdahl doesn’t think it was a coincidence,’ I said quickly, surprising myself. I hadn’t intended to talk about Kyrre, but it was all I could come up with – and I saw that I was casting about for some way of extending the conversation because, now, for no reason that I could think of, I didn’t want him to just hand me his box and leave. It was too casual, too unceremonious.

  He smiled. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure I want to know what Kyrre Opdahl believes. But no doubt you’ll tell me anyway.’

  I smiled at that. He was, I think, rather fond of Kyrre Opdahl, and had a higher regard for him than he pretended – though he knew perfectly well what Kyrre thought of him. ‘He thinks they were taken,’ I said.

  ‘What do you mean, taken?’

  I shrugged. ‘Taken by the huldra, I think,’ I said.

  I expected him to laugh at that, but he didn’t – and for the first time, I understood that he was concerned about my friendship with the old man. Concerned about what nonsense Kyrre might be planting in my head, with his crazy stories. He collected those crazy stories himself, of course, but for him it was purely academic. It wasn’t a matter of faith, the way it was with Kyrre. ‘Why does he say that?’ he said.

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘you said yourself, it’s an odd coincidence …’

  He shook his head. ‘Well, you’re right,’ he said. ‘It probably wasn’t a coincidence.’ He studied my face while he thought about what he was saying. I didn’t know why, but it was obviously important to him to say what he wanted to say in very precise and unambiguous terms. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t a coincidence. But it wasn’t the huldra either. Or not what Kyrre Opdahl means by the huldra. The huldra is an idea. It’s not a person, it’s not a monster. It’s just a way of saying those boys were – susceptible …’ He paused and shook his head. He was unhappy with himself, that he couldn’t find the right words. ‘They were too susceptible to the world around them,’ he said. ‘Probably they always were, but over this last while, something shifted –’

  ‘What do you mean, susceptible?’ I said. ‘Susceptible to what?’

  He shook his head again. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘But the old folk would have said that the susceptible person is drawn in because he wants things that he shouldn’t even be thinking about. A man goes out and he’s looking for someone – he’s looking for someone to love, but he doesn’t want just anyone. He wants somebody special, somebody – unnatural. No ordinary woman will do for him – and when he meets the huldra, he sees that she’s beautiful, and, yes, he falls in love with this beautiful girl, but he already knows that she’s something other than that, and he’s drawn to that other thing. Not the space she conceals at her back, and not the animal – not that – but the mysterious creature he sees in her –’

  ‘And she’s irresistible –’

  ‘Yes, but only because he collaborates with her. He could see her as she is, he could expose the illusion, but he doesn’t want to –’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because that would dispel the illusion. That’s what gives the huldra her power – she is the keeper of the illusion –’

  ‘I thought you said it wasn’t the huldra?’

  ‘It wasn’t,’ he said. ‘Not like that. Not the way Kyrre Opdahl means it –’

  ‘How do you know what Kyrre Opdahl means by it?’

  ‘I know,’ he said. He seemed almost annoyed by the question, and that was surprising, because I had never seen him annoyed before. In fact, I had never seen him show any kind of emotion. ‘The huldra is an idea,’ he said. ‘People in the old days, they knew that. They could tell that story because they knew. They didn’t really think there were women with cows’ tails roaming around the countryside, luring young men to their deaths. But they did think that some people were …’ He thought for a second.

  ‘Susceptible,’ I said.

  He looked at me – and the annoyance was gone. He smiled. ‘Akkurat,’ he said – and when he said it, he sounded just like Kyrre Opdahl.

  We sat silent for a moment. I could see that he was dissatisfied with himself, for having been annoyed; he was also trying to work out a way of raising the subject he had come to talk about – and it seemed a small courtesy to help him on his way. ‘So,’ I said, at last. ‘What’s new with you?’

  He looked startled for a moment, then he smiled – a little sadly this time, I thought. ‘It’s hard to say,’ he said. ‘I’ve been coming to this house for so long, I know I’ll miss it …’ He picked up the little box that he’d set down on the table when I gave him his coffee. ‘I’m going away,’ he said. ‘I’m starting a new … I’m making a fresh start.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In Bergen,’ he said.

  ‘This is sudden,’ I said. ‘I always thought you liked it in the north –’

  ‘I do,’ he said. ‘I’ve enjoyed my time here. But …’ He considered for a few seconds, before beginning the next part of his story. The part he wouldn’t have told to Mother, I think, but could tell to me because, as far as he was concerned, I was a neutral party – and it was obvious, as he began his story, that he wanted to tell it to someone. ‘It’s strange how things turn out,’ he said. ‘I would never have expected it, but … Well. Years ago, when I was very young, I met someone …’ He smiled and shook his head slightly, as if amused at his own fool
ishness. ‘This was when I was still in Telemark, just after I finished college and had my first teaching job,’ he said. ‘We weren’t together for very long – a few weeks, really, and we were both young. I wanted to be with her, but I was stupid and I didn’t understand …’ He gave me an odd, somewhat quizzical look and I remembered what I had thought about him once before – remembered that he was someone who had taken to collecting stories because he found people puzzling, and the stories allowed him to put their strange actions into some larger context. ‘I was – cruel,’ he said. ‘And she left. She went to America … To Wisconsin. Which seemed to me hugely exotic at the time. I tried to picture her there. I had this picture in my mind of snowy forests and endless roads running across America, and I wanted to go after her … But I didn’t.’

  The sad smile flickered across his face again, but I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t imagine him as cruel. I suppose, all that time, I had thought of him in a quite different light – not as a victim, perhaps, but as someone who, to some extent, had been burdened by the pain, or at least by the disappointment, of wanting something from Mother that she couldn’t reasonably give. As a suitor, in other words. As someone who was, in his own way, susceptible. ‘And now?’ I said.

  He looked back at me, and his face was serious, but I could tell that he was – hopeful. I had never seen that in him before and I realised, then, that I’d always thought that he preferred to live without hope. ‘It was too much of a coincidence,’ he said. ‘Our meeting again. She’s come back to Bergen to live and … Well …’ He smiled – at himself, mostly. ‘We’re going to give it a try. See where it leads. It’s early days, but …’ His expression grew serious again. ‘I need a change,’ he said.

  ‘I see.’ I was disappointed in him now, and I couldn’t resist the impulse to let him see that I was. ‘And I always thought it was Mother you were in love with.’

  He gave me a sad, somewhat accusing look, as if I’d just hit him with something. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Well – that’s true, I suppose. Though maybe not in the way you imagine. We’re all in love with her, I think, in our different ways, but … if she came to any one of us and said, all right, I’ll marry you … I hope you won’t take this the wrong way –’

  ‘Why would I?’ I said.

  He considered a moment, then he decided not to pursue the point. Instead, he held out the box and waited for me to take it. ‘This is for her,’ he said. ‘It’s a goodbye gift – and a thank-you, too …’

  I took it from him. ‘Don’t you want to give it to her yourself?’ I said. ‘She won’t be long now.’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t think I can,’ he said.

  ‘Why not?’

  He smiled. ‘I thought, before, that I wouldn’t be able to explain,’ he said. ‘But I realise now that I wouldn’t have to, because she wouldn’t ask.’ He looked me in the eyes to see if I understood, fully, what he was saying – and he must have been satisfied, or he wouldn’t have continued with what he wanted to say. He would have gone away and left us to forget him. ‘Your mother is an astonishing person,’ he said. ‘A great artist, without a doubt, and a great spirit too. You could say that she lives up to her name. But the more angelic a person becomes, the less room there is for the merely human, and I …’ He thought for a moment, though he knew what he wanted to say. He knew what he wanted to say and he felt right in saying it, but I think he also wished that it wasn’t true. ‘For my own part,’ he said, ‘I find the merely human a little less … difficult …’

  I nodded. I understood what he was saying, and I didn’t think less of him for it, but I didn’t want him to be there any more. Now that he had said what he had to say, I needed him to leave, before Mother got home. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I’m sure –’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘You don’t have to say anything.’ He stood up and made ready to go – and I didn’t try to detain him. I felt sure that we would never see him again, and I knew Mother would miss him for a time – but only for a time. He knew it, too – but that didn’t matter now. His mind was elsewhere – and that felt, for a moment, like a betrayal, not of Mother, but of himself. As if he had settled for something less than he deserved, something he merely wanted. As I opened the door to see him out, he paused a moment and looked at me, one last time. ‘There’s more than one way to live,’ he said.

  I thought, at first, that he was talking about himself; then I saw that he meant something else – that, in fact, it was me he was talking about. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I said. I did, though – and for the first time, I was angry with him.

  ‘You’re her daughter, but that doesn’t mean you have to be like her,’ he said. ‘You have your own life.’

  I shook my head. I didn’t want to hear any more. He was letting himself down and I needed him to stop. ‘Thank you for coming,’ I said. ‘I’ll tell Mother you said goodbye.’

  He didn’t move for a moment – and I think, for that one moment, he thought I might have misunderstood him. Or maybe he was upset with himself, for blurting out what he’d obviously been thinking about since – since when? Since the time we had skipped stones on the beach? Since he’d fallen in love with a mere human and started looking at Mother with new eyes? I didn’t know, and I didn’t care – and when he saw that, he made the only choice he could make, which was not to say anything else, but leave his gift and go.

  I can’t say for certain, but I’m pretty sure it was that same night that Martin drowned. I almost missed what happened, because I fell asleep in my room right after dinner, and I didn’t wake up till after ten o’clock. Mother and I had prepared dinner together, and I had told her about Ryvold’s visit and given her the gift, but I didn’t say anything about the girl from Wisconsin or Ryvold’s attempt to offer me advice. I just told her the basic facts – and I could see that she wasn’t surprised. She didn’t seem to be particularly upset either. She opened the box – it contained a brooch whose design suggested that Ryvold had chosen it to go with the poppy scarf – then she set it aside and we had dinner. ‘How was your afternoon?’ she said, as she passed me the potatoes.

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘How was your walk?’

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘I ran into Kyrre Opdahl down on the shore. He says you haven’t been to see him since you got back from England.’

  It was true. I hadn’t been to see him, and I knew he would be waiting to hear all about the trip. And that, probably, was why I hadn’t been down there. I didn’t know what to say. I felt awkward, because of what Mother had told him, and I didn’t want to have to talk about what had happened with Kate Thompson. I didn’t want to have to tell him that I had arrived at the hospital too late – and I didn’t want to have to tell him that my father was dead, because that would upset him. It would upset him for my sake and he would be hurt by the fact that I wasn’t upset.

  Mother shook her head. ‘You should go and see him,’ she said. ‘He’s very fond of you, you know.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘It’s just –’ I broke off. I didn’t know how to say what I wanted to say without making it sound like an accusation. The truth was, I’d been annoyed when she said I was going to England to visit my father. ‘It’s just that … He’ll want to know all about the trip and …’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘I’d rather not have to talk about it.’

  ‘Well, don’t.’

  ‘I can’t do that,’ I said.

  ‘Why not? You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.’

  I shook my head. ‘Not everybody is like you,’ I said.

  She laughed. ‘What does that mean?’ she said.

  I didn’t say anything for a moment. She hadn’t asked me about my father, she had left it to me to tell her as much as I wanted in my own time, which is exactly what I had expected of her. She didn’t even want to be reassured that the phone calls wouldn’t continue. ‘He died,’ I said.

  She didn’t react right away, though
I could see that she had taken the information in. Then she put down her fork and looked at me. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t be,’ I said. ‘He was a stranger to me, after all.’ I was wondering, now, what she felt – because, even if she didn’t show it, she had to feel something. She, at least, had known the man Kate Thompson had described, whereas I hadn’t. ‘I didn’t even get to see him,’ I said. ‘He died before I got there.’

  ‘Ah.’ She put her hand over mine. ‘Are you all right?’ she said.

  I nodded. ‘Perfectly fine,’ I said. ‘As I say, I never knew him.’

  She studied my face for a moment, then she took her hand away and sat back. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘that’s – unfortunate.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He was a good man, I think. And he loved his work –’

  ‘Was that why you didn’t get married? Because of his work?’

  She didn’t answer right away, and I could see that she was puzzled by the question. ‘Married?’ she said. ‘Oh no … I never had any thought of getting married.’

  ‘Why not?’

  She was quiet for a moment and, for no more than a second or two, she had the air of someone who was carrying out a simple and rather familiar calculation in her head. ‘I didn’t want him,’ she said – and then, when I waited for her to say something else, she nodded ever so slightly and said it again. ‘I didn’t want him.’

  ‘And did he want you?’ I said.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t a question that came up. I didn’t want him, because I didn’t want anybody. No way to explain it. I just didn’t want that kind of life.’

  That was the end of the conversation – but I was still thinking about what she had said when she went to the studio and I headed to my room to look at picture books. I was tired, though, and I hadn’t lasted long; so it was ten, maybe later, when I woke up and looked out across the meadows and, by then, something had already begun – some story that belonged, not to the world that I knew, but to some other place, where the logic was different – and what I saw that night was just the very last act in what must have been a long chain of events, a sequence of words and looks and silences that led, inevitably and inexplicably, to the scene that I was unlucky enough to witness, quite by chance, when I woke. Not that I can be entirely certain of what it was that I witnessed that night. I was still a little woozy when I got up and went to the window and everything that happened afterwards seemed to contradict my version of events – but I saw what I saw, nonetheless. I didn’t imagine it all and I’m not crazy. I would happily believe that, if I could, because it would be an explanation, of sorts, for something that is otherwise impossible to explain. I saw what I saw, that night, and I saw what I saw later, when the huldra claimed her last victim and I can’t explain it away, no matter how much I would like to. It’s impossible.