hand over hand. "Don't weigh much more than you do, I'd say not over a hundred pounds." He hauled the crate steadily up over the edge of the bluff and they looked solemnly at it, his father unwinding the rope from around his waist. The water-smooth boards were tightly nailed and caulked with a resinous substance so hard Arne couldn't scrape a bead of it off with the blade of his barlow knife. He put the knife away, brushed dried mud from the black stenciling, and read aloud, slowly.
"Dr. N. C. Ayres, Department of An—Anthro—don't know what that word is—Vanderbilt University, Nashville, Tennessee." He looked up in disappointment. "You reckon it's schoolbooks?"
"Hard to say. Filled with books, that crate ought to be a sight heavier. What we need do is, Birka'll write a letter to the university, recommend this Dr. Ayres come up here and claim his property."
"We don't get to keep it?"
"Wouldn't be right, long as we know who belongs to it. You see that, don't you, Arne?"
"Yes, sir." Arne brushed more dried mud away. His lips moved. He smiled incredulously.
"What else does that say there?"
"Only word I can make out for sure is 'Iceland.'"
"That beats all."
"Mama's from Iceland!"
"Born there; but she were raised up in Maine State."
"I'll bet she can read this."
"Maybe so." His father slapped a mosquito that alighted on the side of his neck. "Time for us to get on home. Let's lug this crate back to the wagon."
2
They put the crate in the barn and, two days later, Birka dispatched a letter to Dr. Ayres at Vanderbilt University. Until the letter went out Arne had been able to tolerate his curiosity, going into the barn only three or four times a day to look at the crate and run his hands over it, trying to imagine what might be inside.
Then he began to dream about the crate. In one dream he was caught in a fast current of the Cumberland River, swimming hard, lunging for a handhold, the crate floating always just out of his reach.
In his spare time, of which he had little now that the rains had stopped and there were a dozen chores to do every day, he hung around the kitchen. His mother, still not fully recovered from her sickness, rested often; but even when she was sitting down her hands were busy, rolling out dough for dumplings, peeling Irish potatoes, knitting the beautiful sweaters that were highly prized in their community. They talked, most often, about Iceland, a country in which Arne had shown almost no interest before the crate.
"We left when I was eight years old," his mother told him. "I know the language well, because, although we were never to return to Iceland, my father had us read from the old books— Njáls Saga, the Book of Settlements —every night. But I don't remember so much about the village where I was born."
"Thjórsá?"
Birka smiled and corrected Arne's tortured pronunciation. "That was also the name of the river. It was green along our river, good farming there. But not so far away were deserts of lava, and the Mýrdalsjökull glacier."
"What's a glacier?"
"Like a mountain of ice, but growing, changing, moving very slowly."
Arne tried to imagine this phenomenon. Something huge, alive, threatening. "Why did you come to America, because you were afraid of the glacier?"
Birka handed him a slice of raw potato, and shook her head.
"No. We left Iceland because my father had a terrible fight with a neighbor. There was always bad blood between them; a feud, you might call it. They would quarrel over a piece of land, sheep, over nothing. For the love of quarreling, I think. This is what my mother used to say, in her bitterness. Let me tell you, we had hard winters there, cold and dark—three months of darkness."
Arne loved the sun, the long days that left time for play after work. He looked bleakly at her. Birka smiled.
"Then in summer, the sun almost never stopped shining. Summer in Iceland is a time of being—reborn, released from that terrible darkness. There are weddings,
"Dr. N. C. Ayres, Department of An—Anthro—don't know what that word is—Vanderbilt University, Nashville, Tennessee." He looked up in disappointment. "You reckon it's schoolbooks?"
"Hard to say. Filled with books, that crate ought to be a sight heavier. What we need do is, Birka'll write a letter to the university, recommend this Dr. Ayres come up here and claim his property."
"We don't get to keep it?"
"Wouldn't be right, long as we know who belongs to it. You see that, don't you, Arne?"
"Yes, sir." Arne brushed more dried mud away. His lips moved. He smiled incredulously.
"What else does that say there?"
"Only word I can make out for sure is 'Iceland.'"
"That beats all."
"Mama's from Iceland!"
"Born there; but she were raised up in Maine State."
"I'll bet she can read this."
"Maybe so." His father slapped a mosquito that alighted on the side of his neck. "Time for us to get on home. Let's lug this crate back to the wagon."
2
They put the crate in the barn and, two days later, Birka dispatched a letter to Dr. Ayres at Vanderbilt University. Until the letter went out Arne had been able to tolerate his curiosity, going into the barn only three or four times a day to look at the crate and run his hands over it, trying to imagine what might be inside.
Then he began to dream about the crate. In one dream he was caught in a fast current of the Cumberland River, swimming hard, lunging for a handhold, the crate floating always just out of his reach.
In his spare time, of which he had little now that the rains had stopped and there were a dozen chores to do every day, he hung around the kitchen. His mother, still not fully recovered from her sickness, rested often; but even when she was sitting down her hands were busy, rolling out dough for dumplings, peeling Irish potatoes, knitting the beautiful sweaters that were highly prized in their community. They talked, most often, about Iceland, a country in which Arne had shown almost no interest before the crate.
"We left when I was eight years old," his mother told him. "I know the language well, because, although we were never to return to Iceland, my father had us read from the old books— Njáls Saga, the Book of Settlements —every night. But I don't remember so much about the village where I was born."
"Thjórsá?"
Birka smiled and corrected Arne's tortured pronunciation. "That was also the name of the river. It was green along our river, good farming there. But not so far away were deserts of lava, and the Mýrdalsjökull glacier."
"What's a glacier?"
"Like a mountain of ice, but growing, changing, moving very slowly."
Arne tried to imagine this phenomenon. Something huge, alive, threatening. "Why did you come to America, because you were afraid of the glacier?"
Birka handed him a slice of raw potato, and shook her head.
"No. We left Iceland because my father had a terrible fight with a neighbor. There was always bad blood between them; a feud, you might call it. They would quarrel over a piece of land, sheep, over nothing. For the love of quarreling, I think. This is what my mother used to say, in her bitterness. Let me tell you, we had hard winters there, cold and dark—three months of darkness."
Arne loved the sun, the long days that left time for play after work. He looked bleakly at her. Birka smiled.
"Then in summer, the sun almost never stopped shining. Summer in Iceland is a time of being—reborn, released from that terrible darkness. There are weddings,
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