On the last day, standing side by side, the Pedersons overlooked the few sailing-ships in the Vågen; and devouring the chilly breeze, which was purer by far than the air in most port cities, the water streaming blue and grey, they promised to be brave and true to each other. Half a dozen undermanned herring-boats were heading out to sea in hopes that the silver wealth might have come back; they went slowly, slowly sailing, their brass bells faintly ringing.
And so the emigrants ascended the gangway, Øistein and Kristina and all the other young women with their white collars buttoned up to the throat, stern old men, wide-eyed children, all the families leaving behind their white-painted wooden houses, disconsolate fishermen altered into hopeful farmers, butterwives who’d sold their fat sweet cows for next to nothing (the buyers being apprised of their circumstances), beneficiaries of the short passage on the pretty ship Hyndla, bound for Québec, the leavetakers’ view of them interrupted by many tall cables. Among them stood Kristina’s Aunt Liv in her lace shawl and collar, sternly seeing them off, and at the last sadly bending her head like a good cow before the axe. Øistein hastened into steerage to guard their place and possessions. The smell was nauseating, but he could certainly get used to it. Glancing around him, he found that he knew no one except for Reverend Johansen, who had intended to leave last spring but stayed to care for his mother in her final illness. Well, there were so many families in the narrow white houses of Stavanger! And from the sound of their speech, some people must be from Hjelmeland or Suldal. The reverend and Øistein nodded to one another. Kristina would be pleased. When she came down, her husband pushed his way back onto the foredeck, ostensibly to wave farewell to Aunt Liv and Cousin Eyvind. He looked down and saw a fish skeleton hanging complete just beneath the surface of the oily harbor. Swans, gulls and pigeons bickered on the pier, the coy sun gilding the cobblestones for an instant. The young man now gazed across the water and up the street, into the house where he and Kristina had lived. Øistein had always been remarkable for his eyesight, and so he made no mistake when he perceived how upstairs the windows parted, and in the widening column of darkness between the pairs of triple panes, a pallid face, never before seen, gaped its mouth at him. But two other men jostled him, and he swung round, ready to defend himself if need be; the men apologized, and they all agreed that three weeks belowdecks would be superior to attic-dwelling forever in Stavanger. Cousin Eyvind waved his hat at Øistein and went away. Aunt Liv sought to make herself conspicuous for that instant, but the crowd half crushed her. She too used to stand in the sheds with her hands buried in the silver hoard of herring. And before anyone expected it, the Hyndla was underway, the glamor of separation now gracing those tiny, narrow white houses which shone so softly through the beech trees.
At first the instants of their voyage were distinct, like mackerel-bubbles in dark seaweed at dawn. Kristina told herself that she must never forget this creamy dawn sea so black and orange around those low Norwegian islands which resembled translucent flints knapped and polished down by giants. Øistein held her hand. Once they reached America, they might not find such leisure again, at least not until they were old. The water seemed viscous, and the red sun-shield shone over the islands. All day they sped toward the short passage, which Captain Gull had explained was a trifle narrow in spots, this being the reason he had not replaced the Hyndla with a larger ship (doubtless, thought Øistein, the true reason must be that Captain Gull lacked the means — and thank goodness for that, since otherwise he would have increased the fare, perhaps even up to Nils Kielland’s price). It was peculiar, to be sure, the way they kept on following the coast northward, when America lay to the west; but no doubt the master knew what he was about. There came another dawn to the black sea, the ship foaming through ribbons of green-chambered white lace on either side; and still the ship lay never so far off the coast as to be out of soundings. By now several children had vomited, making the stench of dirty feet and fish-oil even less pleasant, but Kristina reminded herself that she was not some rich girl who can afford to get queasy in her stomach from a surfeit of butter. And wasn’t this preferable to the stink of the herring-barrels? She went among those young mothers who wore lovely lace at their throats — attic-sharers, no doubt, from those square-windowed wooden little houses — and tried to be helpful; sometime she might need the same. Then she attempted sitting on the edge of her bunk, but the ceiling was too low. Pulling out her trunk, which had formed a very close acquaintance with three others beneath the bed, she seated herself on it and began to knit a pair of socks for her husband, who had gone above in hopes of establishing a business association with some other men. Presently she grew melancholy, because somebody was flatulent and the ship tilted nauseously on the rushing grey ocean, with hasty low sunlight glancing unpleasantly into the scuttles, and something unknown to her whistling and piping outside. Kristina was a landswoman; she had never been on a ship before. An icy feeling established itself behind her breastbone, or maybe higher up than that — almost up to her collarbone, in fact, but there and only there, like burning cold metal inside her; she felt that she could not get warm; well, no, it wasn’t just there anymore; her wrists were freezing where they emerged from the sleeves; her toes were numb. Just as she had begun to wish they had never set out for America, a shaft of sunlight turned the royal grey water into blue, revealing many forested islets, cormorants and seals. So the weather came and went, in conjunction with her moods, and they approached the short passage, after which every passenger would be compelled to resume the weariness of getting a living.
Early next morning the helmsman was fixing their position by means of careful sextant angles, as Øistein approvingly perceived. This must be the place where they would turn straight west, out into the Atlantic.
But why’s that fellow folding in the spinnaker sail? a Hjelmeland man said, as if to himself. Two tall sailors approached him. They inquired: Is it to tell us our business that you’d be wishing?
Øistein was sorry for the Hjelmeland man, but ours is a hard world, and so he turned away.
The Hyndla was shortening sail, for a fact. Perhaps her master had determined to take in extra water or supplies.
Greeting Øistein, the reverend gazed over the side and remarked: I almost became a fisherman like my father.
Then you escaped a bad destiny.
So it seems. But where did the herring go?
We fished them out, that’s all, said the Hjelmeland man. Greed and folly. And if they ever come back, we’ll do it again.
Without a doubt, said Øistein.
The rising sun-shield’s three or four reflections skipped across the water like a stone; then there were nine of them, and they merged into a vermilion road between wrinkled dark islets. The topman was yanking in the throat halyards of the foresail, and Øistein went down to see whether Kristina needed anything. She looked nauseous but smiled at him, knitting a sweater.
Come on up, wife, and see the eider ducks swimming.
His wife beckoned him closer. When he leaned down toward her, she whispered in his ear: That Dorthe Magnusson from Suldal has been complaining since dawn. When she went topside to take some air, someone stole a pound of tea right out of their trunk.