Son of man, he said, get up from where you kneel. Go into the night. You have the power of the LORD in your way. His might shall be your might, his words shall be your words. You are the LORD’s anointed. You have been chosen from amongst the throng. You have been pulled from the mire, called from before the ages. Everything will turn to dust and the ground will split before you. Be not afraid for he is with you. And he shall be so even unto the end of the age. Amen.
My family who live in Norway sent me a card last Christmas. It had a picture of a stable on the front. No nativity scene. The whole thing was covered in snow. Inches deep all over. They told me they missed it here. They missed tea and cake. They had made new friends there, but no one could replace family they said. No one can suffice. It was nice to hear.
Simun used to love having tea and cake in the afternoon. He used to love having the cake. He got fat in his teenage years. He wasn’t useful for anything. No one took him fishing. No one taught him how to make and mend things. Anfinn had taken Tomas fishing when he was 13. Simun didn’t like Tomas being away apparently. Tomas agreed to never leave him for such a long time ever again.
Anyway, Simun always visited everybody. Directly after his dinner he would pick a different house every day and go for an hour or so. No one resented it. He was so pleased with whatever cake was put in front of him.
They had both been together for their afternoon cup of tea that day. They had been with Silja. Silja is dead now too. She was an old lady in the village. A distant relation of my own father although no-one knew quite how she was realted. She had made the one you know. It was fresh for them arriving. Simun had eaten too much of it. Tomas gave Simun half of his own slice while Silja wasn’t looking. Simun didn’t care whether she saw or not. He couldn’t know if she knew or not. Tomas told it her it was delicious. So sweet.
It was cold that day. I remember. One of the coldest days of recent years. The wind was strong and blew in from the North. Directly North. One of the boats in the neighbouring village had broken free from it’s ties. It had drifted far into the fjord. No one could go out for it. The swell was so bad that day. It had stayed drifting in the waves. It didn’t crash and didn’t go out to see. They managed to get it back the next evening. We only heard the story a few weeks later. One of the men from the factory told me. He had been out to retrieve it.
I don’t like to remember weather. It never seems to be accurate the way you remember it. I know it was cold that day though. They’ve written it down. Coldest day in thirty three years.
I visited the graveyard the other day. I went with flowers. They came from my own garden. It’s hard to grow them here. There are wild flowers. Small and delicate. They survive through everything though. It’s their size, they don’t get affected by everything around them. They hide nestled amongst grass and rock in a few inches of topsoil. You have to look really close to see them. Sometimes, in summer, the hills change in patches. Colour mottles the tundra, high up. It breaks up the mosses, framing it’s own beauty amongst the bleak colours. The green is vibrant here. It’s brown and murky, especially in winter.
Anyway, i visited the graveyard. There are only a few headstones. The names are all familiar, passed down through generations. They multiply every so often. The inheritors get put in the same plot and carry on the game. Each name is tribute, or an obligation to the father, grandfather, uncle, whoever came before. A purposeful negation of the outside world. A sense of belonging. A defiant stand perhaps. A national symbol. A familial brand. A seal. It’ll keep you from the others, or push you right into their arms.
You don’t get it I suppose. I understand, it’s obscure to you. Sorry.
Jogvan told me the other day he found some dead hares in his garden. They never normally stray from way up the mountain. It seemed natural to him they were there. Thought they were after his plants. I’m not sure. They were covered in their own blood. Drenched. I should tell you the story of Ehud. You might know it. Book of Judges. He killed a fat king. He was chosen cause he couldn’t use his right hand. His knife was concealed on his right. The guards didn’t check him. They left the king sitting on the toilet. They were embarrassed. Ehud plunged the knife in so far, it was swallowed up to the hilt in the kings fat. Then the people forgot about God. Tomas, when he was 13, started to believe in ghosts. He saw them everywhere. Simun never believed him. He never understood. Tomas saw people we knew when we were young. Apparently. It will get cold at the weekend. Snow, probably. The weather has been terrible. The sheep won’t get shorn yet. They look like they need it. The weather never takes them by surprise. It’s never bleak for them. To be honest, I don’t know why people bother. It feels like we’re stuck here. Islands. Why bother in the first place. Don’t get me wrong, I like it. Well, I wouldn’t be able to live anywhere else. There’s work here. You need to do stuff. It means you live. You provide and you get bored, you get fed up. We’re meant for survival. We’re not meant for leisure. My wife died a long time ago. She had cancer. Everybody gets it. That poisonous parasite, sucking everything for nothing. Building itself up for no reason. It fills a void. It hurts too. She was in a lot of pain near the end. We kept having to go to Denmark. They didn’t really understand it then. I suppose they still don’t. I cried a lot when she went. Nobody knows that. I was only 35. Simun remembered when my wife went. He doesn’t remember much. He knows she’s not around. I guess he misses her. I can’t do this any more. I’m avoiding things. Simun and Tomas died that evening. A terrific loneliness.
I told you about the shards and the kitchen sink on that evening. And the door. But I never told you about the bathroom. I remember the details. The white tiles. The yellowing grout between them. The edge of the bath where the silica had been picked away. The curtain hanging half off the rail. It had browned at the bottom. Disgusting when you see it but not when you live with it. The window fogged up. The sill with a patch of red on its left side. The red dripped down the wall where the paint had flaked near the bottom. The hot tap on the bath had some on it too. The bath was green and still clean though. The mat was folded on the floor, half of it on the wall. It had two wet footprints still on it. A magazine lay beside the toilet quietly proclaiming the Danish prince had found a new woman. A picture of him and his previous wife on the front cover was torn in two. The crack beside the door. The ill fitting frame. The toilet seat up. The watercolour on the wall. The wallpaper border with roses and peonies on it, ripped slightly near the end of the wall. Shower-gel sitting with a lid off. Empty bottle of shampoo and scrunched up toilet paper in the bin. The paper had been stained red. The plug hanging over the side of the sink. Hints of red around both taps.I noticed the light cord last of all. It was coiled in a stringy mess on the floor. The fixture had been ripped out of the ceiling. The dust was lying amongst the cord on the floor. Electrics hung down.
The cycle begins again. One thing leads to another in my head. They’re often unconnected. I hate that. Sometimes the memories correspond though. It brings a sense of sanity and comfort. Things just appear every now and then though. I remembered a line from a hymn the other day: ‘In full effulgence beaming’
Simun and Tomas grew up separately. Tomas led his brother through puberty. Simun never left it really, he only got there because of Tomas. They had been playing one day. They were still little. They took each others hands as they climbed away from the back of the house. The hut didn’t stand far from where they were. Simun’s foot had gotten trapped. Tomas reached down and pulled it out. They continued up the hill but Simun’s foot began to hurt, so Tomas carried him back down.
In the hallway, Simun took off his shoes and socks. The toes were red and one of them was bleeding from the side of the nail.
They say it took too long for Tomas to learn to read. Simun never did learn. The teacher here was called Anna. She was a kind woman. You need a lot of patience and understanding to do that job. I could never have filled her shoes. She said Tomas was very intelligent.
The fish used to come in here and get moved to the next village. They stank. You could smell each one. Each scale. I used to work on the boats but gave it up a long time ago.
God, some times it hurts me. I never had anyone to talk to. It stings in my body. And it travels everywhere. It moves out of me to the objects I touch. When I touch them again I can feel it radiating. My hands move so slowly sometimes. I like to move them slowly and feel them grow bigger. When I read I get the same feeling. I stare blankly at the words on the page. Everything in the periphery loses it’s perspective. Everything gets close. I can feel my neck crane forward. I can feel my body become a homunculus. The pain stretches and distorts me.
Years drop through my mind. Every so often one catches and sticks. The stories of those two brothers frame the memories. Like a context.
I remember the other friends they had. Simun used his brother as a proxy to interact. Never did anything on his own. Tomas did get tired of this eventually. Simun stayed at home during the final years. He never read any more even. I struggle to actually think what he did do. At least, he seemed to be happy where he was. Tomas never fully deserted him. Even in their last moments.
Violence to me seems such an incongruous thing. There is a beauty in its simplicity. It has a developed nature. Sure, it is primitive but there is refinement. Planning seems to condone it, justify it, improve it. It’s all cliché, I know. But cliches bring comfort, they bring their own justification. Just because it’s been said before. I mean, I don’t know really. I have trouble expressing myself.
Old age is hard to come to terms with. Hard and hardening. Trapping.
The lorry just came in the other day with the oil delivery. It ambled up the hill towards my house. One of the wheels at the back slipped off the road. The driver managed to steer it back on. It just shows really. They never come here other than times we need them. I’m fed up.
Simun was simple. You get that. He never belonged or separated, gathered or cast, thought or slept. His actions were undefined. Neither nature nor nurture, just action or inaction. No stimulus or result. For him, he was experience. Just weighed up in the sum off his life. Things happened and he acted. He did feel, that much is obvious. He never understood though. Never grasped. When you see it, you know. It hurts you because that’s not you. You want it and you don’t.
Wishing gets you nowhere. Praying doesn’t either. People need connections, I can say that with true conviction. I’ve seen them without. They implode, they dissolve. Oh, God.
Wiping myself down I noticed the size of my stomach. I got fat early on in life. Always thought it would win me over or get me some illness. Never affected me.
They found the door lying open. The two women came up the drive and within minutes after they were screaming. The mirror had been smashed in the hallway and shards were lying everywhere. Apparently, the sink was overflowing too. There was a creaking sound. Nothing seemed portentous at first. Oh, God.
God is a funny idea. An opiate of the masses perhaps. There is no release in an earthquake or a tsunami. You have someone to blame though. The streets part or the waters rise. Seems natural blaming someone. There is unity in blame too. One foe against one people. It’s never one people though. The almighty floundering against his creation. Seems like it’ll never happen. Babel proved all that. But towers still get built everywhere.
The air here is never salty and the walking is good. The birds collate themselves further along from here. The live out on the water they say now. Hunting, eating, defecating and sleeping. All whilst the waves push them around. Beautiful creatures.
The weather will turn bad this weekend, and we’ll stay indoors. Make the best just now.
Those who remember live in the capital. Ever expanding. They migrate from all the small villages. They came through here a couple of weeks ago, some of them. The car they drove was the same. It could be a different driver though. Different family.
The Sigurddsson’s used to own a lot of the land here. They originally came from the west, but moved up here to farm. Hundred and something years ago. Family inherited but sold it off.
Those who live on the land now, I have no idea why they do. A few young couples, one older man, and I don’t even know the rest. Strangers.
They all know of what happened through the newspapers and what went on after it. The accusations. The inconsistencies. The family ties and connections. Everyone has a detailed understanding. Children don’t all know.
The pain of detail always keeps with me. The shards and the sink the women saw. I saw the tears though. I felt the pitch and tone of the voices and the cries. It keeps with me. The minutiae always have a way of keeping the memory jogging. The mind retains the constituent parts, paints a collage with them.
The weather is streaky now. Barely visible through the cold, the colour of the grass is changes over there. I reckon a fog will come and stay tonight.
I am the only person now left who remembers that evening. At least here. The quite windows and doors of those other’s houses are now either empty or filled with strangers. Comings and goings have slowed. They have everywhere. Cars and trucks don’t struggle along the road that leads here.
My cousins have all decided to look for work elsewhere. Some moved to Norway and live in Bergen. They do find it hard not living in a village. The streets are too full and too dirty. The rain and wind don’t wash the dirt away. There’s not enough grass to catch things at the edges of the roads. They told me through a friend that last week they heard a siren coming through the streets and it stopped right outside their door. They didn’t know who it was for. They had never seen the old woman lying on the stretcher as she was packed into the back of the ambulance.
But, still. There is no one left who remembers that evening. The years wash in and out. The loam they leave is unrecognisable. The children have all grown up now. They travel everyday to school but even that bus has stopped. The parents here now have their own cars and travel everyday too. It makes sense they should travel.
The grass doesn’t get cut anymore. Jogvan, is out later in summer. His age is getting to him. That stomach of his won’t let him reach the ground either. The stacks become smaller every year and soon now I think he’ll give up. We used to enjoy doing it and even up until the last few years there have always been people around to help out. We just forgot why we do it, I guess.
It had all started with a terrific loneliness they say. As if they could really know. That evening seemed to stand by itself. No one could really say they saw it coming at least with any certainty. Simun had been strange and too distant. The rest of us had never really understood him. I can say that with all certainty myself.
I have been growing old for too long really. There is no tunnel and there is no light. Peculiar things people make themselves think. It seems this way to me: we long for nothing. A destitute emptiness pervades all we do. Amongst our conversations, our recreation and procreation there is a nothingness. Interaction is an affirmation of that. Secrets don’t haunt us and don’t become us. We are born a secret. There is no glory or fanfare about our births or conception. The act is a pact made between strangers always.
Tomas had never completely understood Simun either. Well, that is what they say. His twin brother had always reflected something in Tomas. A violence which only seemed to bubble. Simun’s simplicity had always come from his sweetness. A saccharine fault. An irresponsibility perhaps. A fear.
The clouds are forming at the top of mountain. You can only see that from this side. When you pass through the tunnel to the other side the day is downcast and damp. Here we can see the real weather coming. We can see it’s precursors. The clouds on the ocean always tell stories. Never obtusely. They form a parable or a prologue even.
I don’t talk like they did round here. I was never educated though. I talked to the British during the war. That was a different island though. The circumstances necessitated a dialogue. It changed me. My sister however, she got pregnant and lives in Cambridge I think. I haven’t spoken to her in a few years. I heard word through some other relatives. Apparently she is not dead yet.
For all Tomas’s faults, he never gossiped. Which we all thought was noble. A diluted nobility perhaps. One day both he and Simun had been helping their father with his boat. Plugging holes I suspect. Tomas had thrown a tantrum. He was young at the time, ten or eleven. Simun had stared at him for along time. The father clipped Tomas on the ear. Simun lifted his own hand and mimicked his dad. Tomas, had apparently taken a tumble backwards. Simun was already laughing, but then lifted his hand again and struck himself. He started howling. He began to understand then. He understood about pain, retribution, agony, fear, hurt, stupidity, all in one move. The father carried him home while Tomas threw another tantrum.
That all happened some years ago. It seems to always happen some years ago. Memory takes a while to back around. It always comes tainted though. Varnished. I don’t know, but to me it seems anecdotal. It loses something in the translation perhaps. The years form it to become a lesson. I don’t know why.
There is a connectivity in pain. Always will be. Simun I think never understood they were brothers let alone twins. He knew something that day though.
Yes, I can see know. The clouds are forming up there because of the temperature. April is never right here. I’ve always lived here. The spring never seems right. There is a stubbornness that isn’t innate. The months are always short. Taut, like they’re walking an invisible thread. Balancing precariously before diving off into the relief of summer. I suppose they point forwards. The point backwards too. If memory is cyclical, you can see it here.
The fog will descend from the mountain and this side will be as bleak as the other come noon. I’ll have a cup of tea. Jogvan will come round. He’s convinced he’s dying. Pain in his lower back. His hair fell out in clumps he said.
