World Away From Home (eBook)

THE LILY

(Sunday, 15 June 1873; Grof, Iceland)

“It’s not fair!”

“Do we need to walk, while the rest of the family is getting ready for church?” said Papa as he pulled on a sweater.

“I don’t know what to say,” said Helga.

Papa opened the door to their turf house. The bright light of early morning caused them both to shade their eyes. It was eight, but the sun had been up for six hours.

“You’ve never had a shortage of words.” “And I’ve never been this upset.”

“I’m sorry.” Papa walked alongside her down the narrow dirt road that ran across the moor. “Life has gotten hard.”

“I don’t mind when things are hard,” said Helga. “We are Vikings.” “But there are some things kids shouldn’t have to worry about.” “I’m fourteen and a half, so don’t treat me like a kid.”

“You’re right, but sometimes we have to make difficult choices.” “You’re the smartest man I know,” said Helga. She had to walk fast to keep up with him. “Can’t you come up with a better option?” “I’ve struggled with this problem all winter long, and I believe this is best.”

“What does Mother think?”

“She trusts me,” said Papa. He stopped and gently placed his hand on her shoulder. “Besides, we have a lot of friends and family who will go with us.”

“I don’t care who goes!” said Helga as she pushed his hand away. “I refuse to go!”

“Your brothers and sisters don’t want to leave the farm either, but they accept this as an adventure.”

“How can we leave this island? It’s our home! It’s been our home for a thousand years.”

“We can build a new home.”

“It won’t be the same.” Her steely blue eyes flared and she crossed her arms over her chest.

“You’re right, but we don’t have a choice.”

“We always have a choice,” said Helga. “Didn’t the pastor once say that when a door gets closed, God opens a window.”

“And this is our window,” said Papa, stroking his beard. “I don’t think so.”

“This past winter was the bitterest I’ve ever seen, and sea ice is still floating in the fjord. I even heard that polar bears crossed to the Westfjords from Greenland.”

“It’s summer.” She spread out her long arms. “The days are long. The fields are emerald green. And the wildflowers are blooming everywhere. Isn’t it beautiful!”

“It is beautiful.” He looked around. “And I’m grateful for the sunshine, but there’s still a strange chill in the air.”

“Didn’t Jesus say to not let our hearts be troubled?” “So you’ve been listening to the sermons?” he laughed.

“Yes,” said Helga. She turned serious. “And I think we should be happy where God has placed us. Jesus said to look at the lilies of the field, and how well God takes care of them. Won’t he also take care of us?”

“The crops have failed for two straight years, and this summer doesn’t look any better.”

“So we’ll eat less.”

“Your mother is six months pregnant, and soon there’ll be another mouth to feed.”

“We have plenty of sheep.” “Half our flock has died.”

“But last month’s birthing time was so good. There are lambs everywhere.”

“Yes, there are. But it’s too little, too late.” “What does that mean?”

“The decision has been made, Helga.” “And nothing will change your mind?”

“Nothing!” said Papa. He didn’t look at her. “Next week we must sell all our possessions.”

“Everything?”

“Everything we can’t take with us to Canada.” “Canada?”

“Yes, the ship leaves from Akureyri in a month.”

“So you have it all figured out.” Helga turned around and walked back toward the house. Papa hurried after her. “No one has it all figured out. But I’m doing my best to give our family a fresh start.”

“What if we don’t want a fresh start?” “It’s what we’ve got to do to survive.”

“Does everyone else know about your grand moving sale?” “Your sisters and older brother.”

“When were you going to let me in on the family secret?” She stopped at the front door and stared him in the eye.

“I wasn’t sure how you’d take it,” he said.

“Now you know,” she said as she ran toward the three-sided horse house. “And as for church, I’m not going with you!”

Papa let her go, knowing that trying to stop her would only intensify her emotions.

Helga raced with long legs across the open fields that looked over the choppy fjord until she fell onto the bright grass and wept. She tore the ivory clasp from her dark chestnut hair and flung it into the blue sky. Her fingers tore apart the neat braids that her mother had carefully woven the night before. She shook her head until her hair floated wild in the breeze that blew boldly from the sea.

She looked up at the horse house.

It was empty.

Thirty-two of the horses, plus the foals, had been taken up to the highland pastures last month. They had been released into the wild to roam freely among the rocky cliffs, between the gorges and the glaciers. Ten were kept in the lower pasture below the horse house. There was Fluga, the fastest mare they had, and Floki and Flugnir, two palomino stallions. They were eating peacefully on the north end of the field. Ragna, a chestnut mare, and Stormur, a spotted silver-gray stallion, were playing some sort of tag, racing about with a swift effortless flow that transfixed Helga.

But it was Flosi she was looking for. Where was he?

Helga put her fingers in her mouth and blew a long, sharp whistle. Then she waited, listening attentively as she scanned the landscape. She knew Flosi had heard, and she had no doubt he would come. She looked about once again, but still nothing.

Then she heard a three-beat gallop in the distance, and a bright whinny. She moved forward as Flosi came toward her, nodded his head, snorted and nuzzled into her shoulder. Helga threw her arms around his neck and kissed him on the forehead. Flosi snorted again.

Helga led him up to the horse house and gave him a fistful of hay.

He whinnied until she gave him more.

“Such a good boy,” she said as she brushed down his perfectly white coat until it shined. “You’d never make me leave my home, would you? You love this farm with all its grass and flowers and everything.” She scratched the side of his neck, and Flosi nuzzled her. “I love you,” she said as she nuzzled him back. Then she ran a wide-toothed comb through his thick, coarse mane and long tail until he looked as grand as any horse she had ever seen.

Helga slipped on his bridle and saddle as Flosi stood perfectly still. Then she went to the back of the barn and took a leather case from a wooden shelf. It held a small notebook, a fountain pen, and a bottle of brown ink that Fridrika and Asgeir had given her for her last birthday. She had written several poems in it during the past six months. But none of them seemed right. Whatever the problem, she hadn’t been satisfied so she’d torn out the pages and burned them. The rest of the pages were empty, but she was convinced that today she would create her first original and legitimate poem, one that would make her a real poet like her great-grandfather Tomas or the saga writers of old.

When Helga was much younger, Mother had a dream that her daughter would be a poet. Helga said she didn’t know how to write a poem but her mother shrugged. “When the muses are ready, they’ll lead you down that path. Then you will know there are words on the wind that swirls about you. But if you are not fast enough to catch them, they will all blow away.”

Ever since that moment Helga had been fascinated with words. She’d listened to Papa recite the ancient sagas on long winter nights and read every book in the family library and memorized any poem that sounded challenging.

She tucked the case in a saddle bag, climbed on Flosi’s back, and headed west toward the sea a half mile away. Helga leaned forward and held on tight with a broad smile on her face as her hair blew in the wind. At the shoreline she turned north and they trotted more slowly along the golden sand, wondering whether she should run away into the hinterlands above her farm and never return. She let out a sigh and rode a little faster. On her left, whitecaps danced like fairies on the fjord. On her right, towering basalt columns rose from the water as Flosi splashed through the shallow waves to get around them. She looked up to see a dozen black and white puffins nesting on sharp ledges high above. They grunted and growled.

“How can such pretty birds sound so disgusting?” she said to Flosi. He whinnied.

“I agree,” she laughed, urging him forward.

A few moments later she passed a mossy cliff with a single thick strand of silver water falling through the shadows and crashing into an oval pool of clear water. She climbed off, dipped her hands into the glacier run-off, and took a deep drink. Flosi lowered his head and drank too. She dipped her hands in again, but this time splashed the water on her head. It soaked into her hair and ran down her face.

She reached over and patted her horse on the shoulder and kissed him on the forehead. She climbed back on her saddle and said, “Let’s get...