Stories: Follow Your Heart by Alison Carter

The days were very short now and Birgit Midjord dreaded the coming of darkness. Her mother scolded her for it. “Child, you are young and have no business worrying about the sun going down. When I was your age, I hardly thought about the length of a day or whether it was June or December.” But Birgit, now twenty, had been feeling for some time that the islands were like a cage around her – a cold, northerly cage that she had to escape one day soon. She owned an atlas and it opened with barely a touch of the hand to the double page on which the Faroe Islands were depicted. The islands, her home since birth, were small, scattered, rocky and cold. They were so far from any other place that the double page contained nothing else. She had to turn to the previous page to see Scotland, to run her finger along a line from Inverness to Nairn to Elgin and wonder about them – places with different people and different buildings and unknown excitements. Christmas of 1898 was coming and that kept Birgit just cheerful enough. The fishing would stop for several days and her father would be home for a good length of time, his feet up on a stool and his gravelly bass voice filling the house. Birgit’s father ran a fleet that caught and sold cod, flounder and ling abroad. He did well and Birgit’s mother was content with her lot, but Birgit knew that this was because Kristina had known hardship, and her life was so much better than it had been. Birgit, on the other hand, wanted to travel. “I blame that atlas that Uncle Christian gave you,” her mother would say. “He should have kept it. If you stopped dreaming you’d be fine.” Her parents had plans for her, she knew that: the choice of a husband from among the fishermen, a home, a clutch of children. The atlas had been given to her at Christmas years ago. Birgit had been nine that year, and it had also been the first Christmas when she hadn’t found the white almond in her risengrød. Every Christmas Eve on the islands, every family ate risengrød, which was a simple rice porridge, sweetening it with syrup or sugar. Her mother, and mothers in every household, hid a single almond in the serving bowl of risengrød. It was an almond carefully scalded of its skin to make it white. Whoever found the nut in their helping won a prize, which was always a marzipan pig. Birgit loved Christmas. It was always a happy time. Her strongest memory from her early years was the moment, every Christmas Eve, when she found the white almond and held it up. “Me!” she would cry, and her parents and aunts and uncles would express their astonishment. “Birgit again!” they’d say. “She has the good luck now.” She would receive her marzipan pig and keep it by her bed until it was almost too dusty to eat, and then she would eat it. On Christmas Eve when she was nine, Uncle Edvin’s little son found the almond. He was the first cousin to be born after Birgit and was seven years younger. After that, each of her cousins, all younger, mysteriously had become the winner of the marzipan pig, one after the other.

One afternoon 10 days before Christmas, Birgit came in from the hens to find a young man in the kitchen. He was fair-haired and slight with a narrow mouth and sharp cheekbones. Her father was there, too. “Ah, Birgit,” he greeted her. “I’ve no idea where your mother is, and our guest needs something warm to drink.” “I can heat milk,” she offered. “Thank you,” the young man replied. “It’s no trouble.” Her father stood, leaning against the dresser opposite the table where the young man sat, talking about fish. Birgit learned that the man was over from Iceland and he was arranging some kind of deal with her father. He seemed young for the job; buyers were usually older men. As Birgit moved about, poking the stove and pouring the milk, she avoided going too near where he sat. It felt as though touching him by mistake as she passed might cause some kind of shock. He looked at her only twice: once to take the milk and then again when she left the room. Later, her mother said that the young man’s name was Stefan and that her father was doubtful about him because of his youth, but that the fish supply deal was a good one. And then, three days later, a storm got up. It was unusual weather for the islands because the climate (to Birgit’s increasing disgust) was predictably mild. This storm was dramatic and heavy and promised to last. “We’ll see the seas churned up too much to go out fishing,” Birgit’s father declared. “Even when this wind finally drops, the sea will have its memory.” Arner Midjord liked poetic language and Birgit was often embarrassed by him. Her mother said that Stefan would be staying with them until his boat could leave. There were only two inns in Tórshavn’s harbour and they were filling up as families came to town to visit relatives for Christmas. The inns could still squeeze in the Icelandic crew, but Stefan had to find alternative accommodation. “We have the little room over the store,” Kristina suggested. If she noticed her only child’s eyelids flutter, or the way Birgit suddenly could find nowhere to put her hands, she did not remark on it. Stefan was polite, shy and eager to impress Mr Midjord. He told them how sorry he was to impose,and that he hoped to leave soon and allow them a family Christmas. “There’s no chance of that,” Birgit’s father replied. “And you’re not imposing. This year there was going to be just the three of us. All the cousins will be elsewhere on the islands.”

One afternoon 10 days before Christmas, Birgit came in from the hens to find a young man in the kitchen. He was fair-haired and slight with a narrow mouth and sharp cheekbones. Her father was there, too. “Ah, Birgit,” he greeted her. “I’ve no idea where your mother is, and our guest needs something warm to drink.” “I can heat milk,” she offered. “Thank you,” the young man replied. “It’s no trouble.” Her father stood, leaning against the dresser opposite the table where the young man sat, talking about fish. Birgit learned that the man was over from Iceland and he was arranging some kind of deal with her father. He seemed young for the job; buyers were usually older men. As Birgit moved about, poking the stove and pouring the milk, she avoided going too near where he sat. It felt as though touching him by mistake as she passed might cause some kind of shock. He looked at her only twice: once to take the milk and then again when she left the room. Later, her mother said that the young man’s name was Stefan and that her father was doubtful about him because of his youth, but that the fish supply deal was a good one. And then, three days later, a storm got up. It was unusual weather for the islands because the climate (to Birgit’s increasing disgust) was predictably mild. This storm was dramatic and heavy and promised to last. “We’ll see the seas churned up too much to go out fishing,” Birgit’s father declared. “Even when this wind finally drops, the sea will have its memory.” Arner Midjord liked poetic language and Birgit was often embarrassed by him. Her mother said that Stefan would be staying with them until his boat could leave. There were only two inns in Tórshavn’s harbour and they were filling up as families came to town to visit relatives for Christmas. The inns could still squeeze in the Icelandic crew, but Stefan had to find alternative accommodation. “We have the little room over the store,” Kristina suggested. If she noticed her only child’s eyelids flutter, or the way Birgit suddenly could find nowhere to put her hands, she did not remark on it. Stefan was polite, shy and eager to impress Mr Midjord. He told them how sorry he was to impose,and that he hoped to leave soon and allow them a family Christmas. “There’s no chance of that,” Birgit’s father replied. “And you’re not imposing. This year there was going to be just the three of us. All the cousins will be elsewhere on the islands.”

Birgit sat opposite him and was soon telling him how much she longed to travel. The ideas flowed from her as though they had known each other forever. “I want to go south to where the sun shines at least sometimes,” she told him. He listened, not saying very much, until she asked, “So you’ve been in Germany?” He looked startled but said nothing. “You know all about Christmas there,” Birgit went on. “The marzipan pig and so on.” He looked at her for what seemed like an age, until her stomach began to melt into lava. “Well, yes. I come from Germany in a way,” he replied finally. “You do?” She stared. “I was . . .” He hesitated. “I was at university there, in Leipzig.” She badgered him with questions. Was it warm there? Did the sun shine? What did people wear? He gave her little bits of information. “And you speak the language,” she added. “Um, I suppose you could say that I have two first languages,” he replied. “Icelandic and German.” Birgit spoke mainly Faroese, which was very like Icelandic. The Midjords had been using Faroese with Stefan, while he used Icelandic. All of them sprinkled in bits of Danish to be better understood. “But you live in Iceland?” Birgit asked. “Working for the fish people there as you do?” Suddenly she knew what she wanted more than anything in the world – for Stefan to say he intended to settle somewhere quite different now that he had seen the world a little. “You know all about Germany,” she added. “I’ve only seen it in my atlas.” “Oh, I live there normally,” he said. “I have family there and, of course, I studied.” • • • Birgit began to think of Stefan as her Christmas angel. He had come with glad tidings of hope. She loved him and he might, if she were very lucky, carry her away on his golden wings. He was not one of the local men who smelled faintly of fish even in church and who talked only about fish. Stefan was from other places, and if she could marry him then the world was their oyster. Birgit examined Leipzig in her atlas, measuring the distance from Tórshavn using string and her old school ruler, and found that it was more than a thousand miles away. On the map it was surrounded by other towns and cities, and it was wondrous to see. It was not usually Birgit’s job to make the Christmas risengrød, but she begged her mother to allow her to do it this time. “But why?” Kristina asked, looking closely at her child. “You have been odd this past week, Birgit.” “Just let me make the porridge. One day I’ll have to make it for a husband, after all.” One day when I live a thousand miles away, she thought, but did not say so. Her mother agreed. Birgit blanched and skinned the almond. All that she could think about as Christmas Eve approached was Stefan, and in her mind it became clear that, if she lifted the perfect almond from her plate and won the pig, she would have the good luck that came with it. She painted mental pictures of ships to Germany and of German houses – a life of going from city to town and town to city with Stefan by her side. Birgit’s hands shook as she served up the risengrød, but she was sure that nobody was looking at her. Her father was pointing out to Stefan his ridiculous stuffed fish in a frame on the wall. Birgit walked round the table handing out the bowls, and then she sat down and forced herself to eat slowly. “My goodness!” she said as she lifted her spoon with the nut in it, veiled with milk and perfectly shaped. “I got it this year!” The marzipan pig was fetched and Birgit placed it beside her plate. It seemed smaller than she remembered, and she was disappointed to find that she did not experience any sensation of the world shifting on its axis. But, Birgit told herself, she had done all she could. It was time to clear away the dishes and for her father to fetch his violin. Stefan left the kitchen to put his jacket in his room because he said he was too warm. Kristina stood in front of Birgit, her hands on her hips. “What in the name of Saint Olaf was that about?” she demanded. “What was what about?” “I give you charge of our little Christmas tradition and you award yourself the prize? Are you five years old? “If you were going to fix the outcome, you might have made sure the guest got the prize!” Birgit stared at her mother. She wanted to explain it all – how she had fallen in love, how she longed to go, how she dreamed of foreign lands, how Stefan was a gift sent by God. But it all sounded ridiculous in her head so she said nothing. “Put water on to boil,” Kristina told her. “We’ll want tea.” She turned away to scrape leftovers into a bucket. “You could just tell him what you think of him,” she added. “That’s another way.” Birgit was sure those were her mother’s words, spoken into the slops, but she could hardly believe she’d heard them. “What did you – ?” she began, but stopped quickly. The men were back, the violin was out of its case and Birgit was left to stew. • • • The sea stopped raging on the morning of December 26 and Stefan’s crew told him that they could think about setting off home. Birgit’s father said that the deal to supply the fish had been completed to his satisfaction. Birgit sat in the kitchen and took deep breaths, telling herself that she would adjust back to life, that she had been an infatuated child and a silly girl. She had awarded herself a marzipan Christmas pig as though it achieved anything. Stefan came in with his bag. “It’s calm,” he told her. Nothing is calm, Birgit thought. Everything is horrible. She felt dreadful, tormented by the idea that she would never see him again. “I lied,” he said. “Lied? About what?” She blinked. “Germany. I’ve never been there. I knew the story about the pig in Germany – schwein gehabt, you know. “And when you talked so much about wanting to see foreign lands and sunshine, I told you I had lived abroad to give the impression . . . ” He sighed. “I am sorry. I’m just Stefan from Iceland and the only other place I’ve been is here.” He swallowed. “I wanted to get your attention.” Birgit looked at him, with his half-empty bag slung over his narrow shoulder, and knew that it was not travel and sunshine that she wanted. It was this man. “I did want the white almond,” he said almost to himself, then he smiled briefly. “I thought I might get the luck that it brings.” “Luck?” she echoed. He looked down and spoke to the coir mat on the floor. “A love.” Her heart jumped. She reached out and took his bag from his shoulder. She laid the bag beside him on the floor and took his hands in hers. He kept his eyes on hers. “I would like to see Iceland,” she said. Birgit caught sight of her mother behind where Stefan stood, passing quickly and silently across to the other side of the doorway. She heard Kristina hush Arner and both of them creeping up the stairs. “You would?” Stefan asked. “You have hot springs,” Birgit said. His face lit up in a smile. “We do. So hot you can’t go near them, Birgit.” “They sound wonderful.” She saw the marzipan pig on a table in the corner. She had forgotten to take it away to her room. “Let’s share the marzipan Christmas pig,” she suggested. He drew her closer, looked towards the door to check nobody was watching, and kissed her quickly and shyly. “In a moment,” he said. The End.