Stefan tried showing Freyja how to skim stones, but each throw from her skinny little arm sent the stones either straight up or down and the rest of us shook our heads in laughter. We all joined in, flinging stones out over the water.
“You’re no better than Asta,” Leifur teased Finn, causing us all to turn and watch.
Finn tightened his lips and, squinting, side-armed a flat, black stone and this time it skipped three times. He brightened when he looked at me.
“That’s nothing,” Leifur said, easily shooting one out so fast it jumped seven times.
We all cheered.
“Time to quit while you’re ahead,” Stefan said and we started out toward the west side of the island. He stopped for a moment to pick up an eagle’s feather then handed it to Freyja. She took it and ran the smooth edge against her hand and cheek. She held it up, twirling it, but soon grew bored with the feather, handing it back to him to put in his pocket.
Away from the shelter of the east side, the wind blew much harder, whipping our hair across our faces. Stefan stooped so Freyja could climb onto his back then boosted her up. We leaned in close to one another to hear what was being said as we kicked our way across the pebbly shore.
Finn paused to look up at the sky. “We should go back,” he said, “the wind is picking up.”
“We will, but first I want to show you the graves,” Stefan said, leading us away from the shoreline toward the bush. He’d said earlier that his father grazed sheep on the island and we could see them at the edge of a small meadow. The ewes turned their heads sharply when they saw us, bleating for their lambs. Our eyes were drawn up to a nest at the top of a dead oak that looked like a giant basket in the sky.
“What a terrible place to build it,” Leifur said. “There is no shelter here at all.”
“Their wingspan is so wide they can’t fly into the bush,” Finn said, shading his eyes from the sun. “That’s why they build at the top of a dead tree.”
“Look.” Freyja pointed over Stefan’s shoulder.
Two bald eagles stood silently on the graves, golden eyes staring down their beaks at us. They bobbed across the ground then effortlessly took flight. Their strong wings moved slowly, lifting against the wind, and within seconds they were soaring over the water. They made a wide circle back overhead again, landing at the top of a tree not far away.
“Predators,” Finn said. “They don’t hide. They hunt.”
I felt another shiver. It reminded me of the day we gathered to pray as Pabbi lowered our baby brother’s body into a grave at the edge of the yard. I remembered what our Amma had said: “There is no need to fear dead people, it is the live ones you have to watch.”
Stefan let Freyja down and took her hand. Two dead lambs lay at the foot of the graves, their eyeballs plucked out, bellies torn open. A ewe lay dead at the water’s edge, feet sticking up, half buried in wet sand.
Freyja squealed, covering her eyes. “Did the eagles kill them?”
“Probably the mother died first and then her lambs.” Stefan sighed. “This happens every year.”
“The eagles killed them,” she cried.
“No,” Stefan said softly, but I heard in his tone that he would have told her that no matter what.
We leaned in to read the names on three crosses, but they were too weather-beaten. Stefan picked up a fallen grave marker and wiped the sand from it then carefully pushed it upright into the ground. He closed his eyes for a moment and, lips barely moving, silently recited the fishermen’s prayer.
“Did you know them?” Leifur asked.
“No, they died long before father came here.”
Finn was growing anxious so we started back toward the boat. As soon as we left the graves, the eagles began circling again.
“If I were your father I’d shoot them,” Leifur said.
“You always want to shoot things.” Freyja pouted, dragging her feet as she looked back at the dead lambs.
“The Indians believe the eagle offers protection,” Stefan said, looking up at the treetops bending with the wind. “Best we leave them alone.”
When the skiff came into view, there was a sense of relief. We all climbed in. Leifur pushed the boat away from shore as Stefan readied the sail, and we were all glad to leave Ghost Island.
The wind came in gusts now and the water churned, sending a light spray up over the bow as we chopped through it. We were more than three quarters of the way home and could see Finn’s house when the wind shifted and began pushing us off course. Every time Finn pulled on the tiller to correct, the boom would swing back as the wind fell out of the sail.
“We should come about,” Finn called. “We need to start tacking to catch the wind.”
Stefan agreed and, crouching in the middle of the boat, held a line in each hand to pull the sail across. Finn turned the boat sharply and the sail began flapping furiously, creating a horrible racket overhead. Later I would learn this was the safest moment of the whole maneuver, but at the time, I closed my eyes and covered my ears, so I didn’t see what happened the moment the wind caught the sail. I only heard Stefan call, “heads down.” There was a thud, a surprised wail and, though I didn’t hear the splash, I imagined it in nightmares for many years afterward. I didn’t see Freyja in the water, not until the boat was past, but felt the jolt as Stefan sprang up and dove in after her.
Finn’s head turned and in a split second he made a decision.
“Release the sail,” he screamed as he steadied the rudder.
Leifur scrambled across to grab the line, jolting it as he’d seen Stefan do, and then the sail let go and began flapping again, the boom centering in the middle of the boat.
“Pull it down,” Finn yelled.
Now we were at the mercy of the waves that pushed us toward shore, increasing the distance between us and the two heads that bobbed in the waves. Leifur picked up the buoy tied to a long rope.
“Not yet,” Finn hollered, looking past Leifur. “We are too far. Use the paddles.”
Each of us grabbed one and began cutting into the water. I kept my eyes glued to the spot where they were, and started praying. Thankfully, our mother had insisted that we all learn to swim. Blinking hard, I could see Stefan’s hands holding Freyja’s as they both tread water.
We were all screaming for them to hold on, that we were coming.
“She got scared and stood up,” Finn said, the muscles on his lanky arms bulging. “I should have made her sit with me.”
Freyja was struggling, her head tilted all the way back, chin pointing up to the sky. She bobbed as Stefan tried to calm her down. We heard some of it as we drew closer, the occasional steady word from him, her frantic cries that carried across the water. Then his voice rose, calling her name, as her head went under. He pulled her back up but she went under again. This time when she surfaced he pulled her close. Gasping like a drowning cat, she began clawing at him, trying to climb on top of his head.
I started screaming again.
Leifur kicked off his shoes, grabbed the buoy, slid it up to his shoulder and dove in.
Finn told me through clenched teeth to keep paddling. There was nothing more we could do as Leifur swam toward them. Freyja pushed Stefan under. Up he came, arms flailing, then he leaned onto his back and kicked her away with his feet. Freyja struggled for only a moment then sank below the surface.
Stefan paused to catch his breath then dove under. Right when we thought both were lost, he re-surfaced, left fist clutching the front of Freyja’s shirt, lifting her head out of the water. He turned over onto his back and slid her up onto his chest and began paddling backwards with one arm toward Leifur, who was moving through the water at a surprising pace. We’d never considered our brother a strong swimmer but that afternoon his determination changed the way I viewed him for the rest of our lives.
I made a silent promise t
o God that if He let Freyja live, I would never let anything terrible happen to her again.
Leifur thrust the buoy at Stefan, who grabbed it with his free arm and rested for a moment, then began kicking as Leifur pulled them along.
“Keep paddling,” Finn reminded me. He grabbed the line and began pulling them through the waves.
“She’s not breathing,” Stefan said, gasping as he grabbed the gunwale.
Finn was right there to pull Freyja out of the water. I thought she was dead. Her eyes were wide open but unmoving, lips the color of a bruise.
Finn immediately turned her upside down like a newborn lamb. Then he began shaking her. He could have easily killed her, I know that now, but by some miracle it worked. Freyja started coughing and soon she was whimpering and retching. She began crying for Mother as I took her in my arms and rocked her like a baby.
Stefan and Leifur pulled themselves into the boat, exhausted, and flopped on the deck. They lay on their backs, chests heaving, eyes closed.
Finn began to shake and kept muttering to himself that all this was his fault, then he leaned over the gunwale to throw up.
Stefan was still panting. He turned his head to look up at me. “I had to let her go otherwise she would have drowned us both.”
I was so thankful he’d saved her I couldn’t muster one word.
“Nykur tried to take me,” Freyja rasped. “He grabbed my foot and pulled me down. I saw his face.”
We all instantly knew Nykur. The malevolent water horse that was always trying to steal children who misbehaved had tried to take my sister.
It was a somber journey back to shore with the boys paddling through the rough waves with the sail at half-mast.
“We must keep this a secret,” Leifur said, digging into the water. He glanced back at me to be sure I was listening, then at Freyja who stared vacantly out over the water. We all agreed that under no circumstances would we ever tell the adults what had transpired that afternoon on the lake.
Finn and I were the last to wamble off the boat. What I didn’t see then because my back was to him, but I see clearly now, is Finn stopping for a moment to bend and pick something up. It was the soaked eagle’s feather from Stefan’s pocket. He stared at it for a moment in astonishment and wonder, then, as I turned to see if he was coming, he slipped it into his trouser pocket.
Years later, I would sometimes see Stefan staring at Freyja and sense that he was playing the events of that day over again in his mind. At the time I couldn’t see it but now I do. There was something between the two of them even then.
Freyja nearly drowned twice that afternoon, first because of impulsiveness, and then when Stefan had no choice but to push her away to save them both.
CHAPTER TWO
Be kind to friend and kin and win for yourself thereby
long enduring praise of men.
—Völsunga Saga
Footsteps jolt me back to the present. I hear the squeak of soft-soled shoes on the hospital room floor. It feels good to be back. Nobody wants to die before they are ready, and I plan to hold on for at least another week.
Books that I’ve kept hidden from everyone say that astral travel can be quite exhausting, but I always feel better afterwards. The excitement of it causes my heart to race wildly; it’s as if I’ve just woken from an exhilarating dream.
What a thrill it is to know that events from my life played out exactly as I remember them. Watching it all again I feel all the same emotions, but I also see things I didn’t the first time and even sense how everyone was feeling.
But now I smell lemon verbena perfume. The woman who stands beside my bed reaches up, separates the thick brown window drapes, and I hear little wheels whir across the metal tracks.
She is fiddling with the butterfly latch on the window. I’ve struggled with the same latch many times. Why hasn’t that blasted maintenance man fixed it yet? She’ll have to push the window in and turn at the same time.
There, she has it figured out.
I take in a deep breath. The air always smells freshest in June. Somewhere outside, likely in the shrubs under the window, white throated sparrows sing. Sunshine warms my face. Small gestures matter most to the dying.
Slowly I open my eyes and focus on her face, see that she is relieved I am still alive.
“Good morning, Asta, how are you feeling?” she asks. “Do you recognize me?”
“Of course,” I say. “Thora.”
Soft white curls frame her face, and her eyes are bright as ever, though she is thinner than I remember. We attended nursing school together. I am so glad she has come to sit with me.
“You are like a sister,” I say.
She pats my hand and leaves a tender kiss on my forehead.
The old woman in the bed next to mine stirs.
“Who is she again?” I ask.
“Mary Strong from Dog Creek.”
Thora slowly turns the bed crank until I am nearly upright. She slides her hand behind my shoulder blades and pulls me forward.
“Her family stayed with her all night,” she says, adjusting the pillow. “I think they went to the café for breakfast.”
I knew a Mary Strong once. Most people are terrible at remembering names, but I only have trouble with faces. She could be one of many Mary Strongs who live on the Reserve not far from here. Indians and Icelanders are the same in that we like to reuse names. It vexes the English who find it impossible to keep us straight.
“What day is it?” I ask. Without my spectacles, I cannot see the calendar on the far wall. I can see Jesus, though.
“Friday, the first day of the fair,” Thora says.
I lift my hand slowly to point at the four-by-five-foot framed painting of Jesus hanging on the wall at the foot of Mary’s bed. His palms are up, eyes turned toward heaven, and he is surrounded by a golden light.
“What if Mary wakes up and thinks she’s dead?” I ask.
Thora glances back. Rolling her eyes, she covers her mouth, letting a giggle shiver through her shoulders.
Maudlin, I know. But as nurses, given all we’ve seen, we cannot help but view death as a natural part of life. It never is trivial though, watching someone die.
Thora lifts a glass to my lips, but I push it away. “I can’t drink that shit.”
She raises her eyebrows and tsks. The same way our mothers did every time one of the boys cursed. “Now you sound like Amma,” she says.
I laugh. It’s not the first time I’ve heard this.
“Town water . . . too much chlorine,” I say.
“It’s not so bad.”
“For washing floors.”
Through the open window I can hear the cars slowing at the stop sign, turning the corner away from the highway into town. “Is it busy today?” I ask.
“It will be soon,” she says.
A nurse is coming down the hall carrying a tray. She places it on the table beside my bed. I haven’t lost my sense of smell yet, so breakfast is an easy guess. Oatmeal and applesauce. Black tea. No salt. No sugar. No fat. No flavor.
No wonder I’m having a difficult time thinking straight. A brain needs fat and protein.
“Has she been turned?” the nurse whispers to Thora.
“An hour ago.”
“Do you need anything else, Asta?” the nurse asks, loud and direct.
“You can go water my tomato plants,” I say.
She cocks her head. “Asta Gudmundsson, you make me laugh.”
Good. I hope my final words are witty, memorable.
“Ow-sta,” I say. The English nurses can’t wrap their tongue around my name. They call me “Ass-ta.” Who wants to be called that?
The nurse adjusts my bed even though she doesn’t need to and calls me Ass-ta again.
“Any pain?”
“Not much,” I
say.
Nothing exotic is killing me. I am an old woman and my body has simply given up. Even though my appetite is gone, my liver can’t keep pace. I see by my swollen legs that my kidneys must be failing. My lungs are raspy and wet, but my heart is strong as ever. It will be the last to let go. How do I feel in my head? Like a teenager. I’ve always felt that way, even during the dark times.
The nurse checks on Mary who is still alive but unresponsive.
“Let me know if you need anything,” she says to Thora before hurrying out the door.
I motion for Thora to sit on the chair. She pulls it close and places her hand over mine. Her eyes brim with love and it makes me tear up, but I know crying will steal my energy. I push back the emotion so I can talk.
“How old am I again?” I ask.
“You’ll turn eighty-eight in a few days,” she says.
I never imagined I would live this long.
“We were only fourteen,” I say, remembering the day we met. “Everyone was amazed by how well our fathers got along,” I say. “They had opposite personalities, clashing political views.”
“Oh they disagreed, I remember that.” Thora laughs. “But there was always respect.”
“Like you and I.”
When your days are numbered confessions come easy.
“I was selfish,” I say. “There were years I was so preoccupied with everything that I couldn’t think clearly. I am sorry for those times I pushed you away, didn’t confide in you the way I should have.”
She looks momentarily confused, then smiles softly. “Do not fret. You have always been so easy to love.”
I cannot help but think of her brother Finn and the terrible misfortune that befell him. Our friendship was never the same after that.
“What is it?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I say, and we relax as old friends do. I would challenge her to a game of chess but that would be cruel. Not once in all those years did she ever defeat me. I smile to myself. Only one person ever could.
Be Still the Water Page 2
