But Jens Krag had told him the truth, or would when he gave him a chance to say anything at all. Krag was not a liar, and he knew it. He walked back into the front room with a bottle and two glasses, fighting the tears that stung his eyes. He filled the two glasses, threw his own drink down his throat without waiting for the other. It might have been water for any effect he felt. He refilled his glass and stood over Krag, a menacing figure.
“Now — what happened?”
Krag took his drink down gratefully. It brought color to his face and made the telling of the tragedy, while not easy, easier. He was relieved that Knud Christensen had not gone completely berserk at the news. He had known Knud since the Christensen child had been the only one. He had seen him grow and knew the boy who was now a man, while slow to temper, could be frightening when finally aroused. He looked up into Knud’s white face and then looked down at the carpet, his heavy veined hands slowly twisting the empty glass, speaking hesitantly.
“The storm came up so suddenly... It had looked threatening, but we were sure we would be back before anything serious. The herring were running, we were netting them like mad, our lockers were almost full, and nobody wanted to leave until we had filled them completely. It hasn’t been so good lately, the fishing I mean, and—” He seemed to feel Christensen’s increasing impatience and hurriedly went back to his story. “When the storm really struck, we all pulled our nets and headed in. We were off the lighthouse when it really hit. We were within sight of each other when the snow came, but in that blizzard we couldn’t see a thing. I was afraid we’d run into each other, but we had to keep moving. Without the engines we would have been swamped in a minute. Then, suddenly, the snow stopped and I saw we were almost on top of your boat. I veered away and then I saw they were in trouble. The engine must have failed. They were losing way and bouncing around completely out of control. There was nothing we could do to help them in that sea. Then—” He paused.
Christensen’s eyes were cold on Krag, as if accusing the man of the crime of surviving when his two brothers had not. “Then?”
“Then I saw Niels starting to raise sail—”
“Raise sail? In that sea?”
“There was no choice! He had to try something, didn’t he? Without power he wouldn’t have lasted a minute—” Krag suddenly seemed to realize they still hadn’t lasted. He swallowed. “Anyway, he had barely started when the wind caught the sail and — and the mast snapped.” He spoke hurriedly now, anxious to finish and be done with it. “It threw Niels overboard. He was swept away in an instant. There was no chance to do anything to save him. He was gone almost at once—”
Christensen’s voice was like doom. “And Gustave?”
Krag swallowed once again; he knew Knud Christensen’s feeling for his youngest brother. But it had to be said. “The wind took the boat into a trough, swinging it, tangling Gustave in the shrouds, and then — then it seemed the boat just seemed to open where the mast had split the deck, and — and the next thing she was gone, just like that.” He seemed to be relieved to have finished the painful and thankless job of telling Knud Christensen the story. He sighed and filled his glass, drank gratefully, and then set the glass down carefully on the floor. He came to his feet, still avoiding Christensen’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Knud. Everyone’s sorry.”
“Sorry...” Christensen was staring past Krag through the window at the blackness beyond. The storm seemed to have abated. The sound of the wind had died down. “Everyone is sorry...” It was all his fault if they foundered because the engine failed. They had discussed the need for the new engine, but he had felt the farm requirements came first. His one vote against their two, and he had won. A great victory... He spoke, still staring through the empty window. “They were the only boat lost?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.” Krag retrieved his sou’wester, pulling it on, moving to the door. “I have to be going...”
“Wait.” Christensen brought his attention from the window to the man at the door. His face was expressionless, carved in granite. “Do you know where the boat went down?”
“Fairly close,” Krag said, pleased to be on more familiar ground. He was sure he understood the reason for the question. “We could see both the light and the harbor entrance. She wouldn’t drift much with her lockers full the way they were, and it’s too deep there for much undersea movement from the waves. As soon as it’s calm I can locate the place well enough for Father Rasmussen to hold a proper service.”
“A proper service,” Knud repeated. “A proper service...” he said once more, and turned without another word to climb the steps toward the bedroom. Krag sighed and went out into the windy night, closing the door softly behind him.
It was not the first service of its kind that Father Rasmussen had held nor, as he sadly knew, would it probably be the last. He stood in his own small dory, bobbing lightly on the calm sea; about him the boats of the other villagers were grouped. The air was bitter cold, but calm. Above, the sky was a deep blue, as if the heavens were compensating, this fine Sunday morning, for the two lives that had been taken in fury a few days before. Everyone standing silent at the rails of their boats was bundled in sweaters. Father Rasmussen wore a heavy pea jacket over a turtleneck sweater. Some of the villagers had managed to get some hothouse flowers; others had brought small wreaths woven from fir boughs in their own homes. As the final sad words of Father Rasmussen’s all-too familiar service ended, they leaned from the rails of their boats and tossed their offerings from gloved fingers into the pulsing sea. There were a few moments’ silence, all eyes following the drifting flowers, the men all aware that but for the grace of God it could be they, themselves, under the sea and the floating wreaths above them; the women thinking how fortunate it was, in a way, that the Christensen boys never did marry, for at least now there were no grieving widows to suffer loneliness and loss. Then there was the sound of Father Rasmussen’s outboard being started, and the other boats followed suit, slowly pulling away, heading back to the village.
Krag moved to his boat’s controls, happy to no longer be standing beside the silent and somehow frightening Knud Christensen. He pressed the starter, revved the boat’s engine, and swung the wheel in the direction of the harbor. And then became aware that Christensen had moved silently to stand at his elbow.
“Jens—”
“Yes?”
“Pull into my dock. I have to get something. Then I want you to take me out again.”
“Of course, Knud.” A personal gift to the dead, Krag thought; something too personal to be offered to the sea before the audience of the villagers. He wondered how long Christensen intended to grieve. “What is it you want to get?”
“My diving gear.”
“What!” Jens Krag took his eyes from his boat’s way a moment to stare incredulously at the man at his side. “That’s crazy! What do you think you’ll find?”
“My brother.”
“But that’s mad! You couldn’t live five minutes in that water! This is January, for God’s sake!”
Christensen calmly reached over and changed the position of the wheel. The boat obediently changed course, chugging evenly toward the Christensen dock. “When we get there,” Knud said conversationally, quite as if Jens Krag had not spoken at all, “you will wait for me and take me back out to where the boat went down. Do you hear?”