“The sea level’s dropped and there seems to be a real high pressure on the way. And Mona says we should cut the grass when it’s still juicy and full of nourishment. I count on her completely.”
“Well, maybe,” says the verger doubtfully. “If you’ve got enough grass. Here we let it grow as long as it will get, and even then it’s barely enough.”
When it comes to church customs, the pastor sticks to the local traditions. When it comes to agriculture, he sticks to Mona. The Örlanders are part-time farmers. In season, the fishing is more important to them. Mona is a farmer’s daughter from the grain fields of Nyland. She knows better than anyone on the Örlands when to cut the grass and harvest the crops. For example, her potato tops are plump and ready to blossom when the last of the Örlanders are still planting their last seed potatoes. No one questions her expertise, not even the verger, who is a born traditionalist. On the contrary, he is pleased that there will be no collision with his own haymaking or the Holmens’, since the pastor clearly means to have his cut and into the barn before it’s time for the rest of them to mow.
The pastor’s wife may think that the vicarage’s hay meadows are on the small side, with poor soil, but in fact they have many advantages and lie enviably close together on Church Isle. For the villages in general, hay meadows are spread out all over the map. Farmers have their land in the village, in outlying fields, and on the larger islands. In some cases, fishermen with one or two cows have no meadow at all but have to gather grass around their cottages and out on the islands where the farmers don’t harvest the meagre sedge that grows among the rocks.
Mona gets Petter to sharpen the scythes that evening, and early the next morning the verger arrives and has coffee. Mona goes out to the cows and the men to the meadow, still wet with dew, which is how it should be when the mowing begins. They decide how to proceed. “Best you go in front,” says the pastor politely, but before very long the verger gives up. The pastor works like a mowing machine, long sweeping strokes, a supple back, good stride. During the midday meal—pike and potatoes with white sauce, fruit cream—the pastor explains that he used to work as a summer boy on his uncle’s farm on Åland. Cutting grass is something he’s been doing since he was eleven years old. Naturally he’s developed a certain technique.
Mona is never sunnier than in haying season. It’s the best time in a farmer’s year. The workers need to be kept well fed and in good spirits. But much is done differently on the Örlands. For example, they don’t stack the hay on pikes but let it dry on the ground in long windrows, which are turned in the sun till the grass is dry enough to store. If the weather is good, you take in first-class hay with this method, but if it rains and the hay gets turned too many times, its quality declines dramatically. Mona figures that the farmers on the Örlands have transferred their fishing mentality to farming—it’s all a question of luck and the weather gods. If the fishing goes well, so much the better. Getting in the hay before it’s lost its vigour, well, that’s another piece of good luck.
She looks at the pasture grass, where no one has ever sowed a seed of clover or timothy and thinks that drying pikes would stand quite far apart on these fields. But when they’ve been mowed and she goes out to do the evening milking she is met by a fragrance without compare. “Petter, come here,” she calls. “Bring Sanna!” They stand on the steps and breathe. The smell of the grass is strong and sensual. Every plant gives off its aura and essence, building an atmosphere that awakens waves of longing and desire. Sanna sits perfectly still on Petter’s arm, and he puts his free arm around Mona. “That there is such a thing in the world!” he says. “I’ll put Sanna to bed. Come as soon as you can.”
The next morning they decide to go out with their plant book and identify every plant growing in the meadow, but the telephone rings, and a new flock of sailboaters tumbles in. They’ve sailed all night and are filled with the beauty of the experience. Water, coffee cream, directions to the Co-op, general chatter, it all takes time. Off on errands, but some of the fragrance lingers, reinforced by memory. Every day it changes a bit—more hay, less grass—but what hay! The sea level is still low, the sun shines, there is a light breeze. A dry spell so perfect that Mona ventures out after only two days to start turning the windrows, in the afternoon when the hay on top is completely dry. The windrows are so light and fine that it’s a joy to let the breeze help as she turns them with her rake. At times the windrows seem to turn themselves. She walks beside the verger’s Signe, who works the neighbouring row. It’s not heavy work and they talk as they go, about the animals and their hope that the weather will hold and folks will finish their haymaking well before they start getting ready for the herring fishery. Signe tells her how it used to be, when they all went off to the fishing camps and stayed until well into September. She talks more than she could have in the verger’s company, and before the day is over, the hay is turned and the smell has changed—more barn, less heaven. Both of them are pleased and sweaty. “Almost makes you want to jump in the sea, if it weren’t for all those sailboats,” says the pastor’s wife. But Signe says that you jump in the sea if you want to kill yourself. Otherwise you wash in the sauna!
For the next few days, Mona is deeply nervous. She runs around doing her chores and suddenly stops to look at the sky. This strangely beautiful weather can’t last, it’s only natural for the sea level to rise a bit at the shore, it’s starting to get cooler and there are banks of clouds above the outer skerries. Everyone who came to church on Sunday was astonished that the pastor’s hay was already mown. If it rains on the hay now, everyone will say that they were in too great a hurry. She passionately wants to show them that this is the time to cut grass, not when the hay is overgrown, and with all her might she tries to keep the clouds away. “Stay out there!” she commands them silently. “Don’t you dare come in over these islands!”
The verger, who is her friend and admirer, states with all his authority that the granite is now so warm that the rain will go around it. “Even if it rains at sea, that doesn’t mean it will rain on land.” He is wise and experienced, no nonsense about God’s will. Why would he want it to rain on her hay! She walks down to the meadow one more time to check. If it doesn’t rain, it needs only one more day. At least one, because the humidity is higher now and the hay is drying more slowly. She noticed that with the laundry she hung out.
The pastor’s wife is far too experienced to hope for beginner’s luck, but the pastor is entitled to believe in a miracle. Although a little rain drifts in during the evening and, in mourning, she gives up the hay for lost, there is no great downpour. In the morning there is a damp mist in the air, but no more rain. Towards evening, the sun peeks out, the water recedes a bit from the cliffs, and the breeze freshens and blows away the mist.
Just one day late, they phone for the Holmens and Brage Söderberg’s horse, who comes swimming across the inlet behind Brage’s boat. “A sea horse!” says the pastor. “Now I’ve seen everything!” There is a dilapidated hayrack in the parsonage shed, and Brage, aware of conditions on Church Isle, has brought some harness, and soon they have the sea horse harnessed up and ready. Brage cannot stay, but he can see that his horse is in good hands. The pastor handles it well, and his wife chats easily about all the horses she grew up with. Meanwhile, unnoticed, the Holmens have arrived in their boat and wandered up to the meadow with a pitchfork and a rake. They greet the others warmly, and the pastor is once again charmed by members of his congregation. There is intelligence in these two smiling faces and a lively interest in their clear eyes and in the expressive words from their lips.