THE TIME-HONOURED manner in which the official letter is delivered to Su∂eroy (Enok travelling on its coat-tails) — indeed the only postal service the islands knew — is this:
First the skydskaffer in Tórshavn makes out the roster, choosing, on every island, runners and boat-owners who have not been called upon recently. No one enjoys giving up a day for skyd duty but fortunately official letters are rare, and so are travelling priests or sheriffs, who also have the right of skyd transport. Enok certainly has no such right and will be expected to put his back to an oar. The skydskaffer, a pompous fellow and a relative of Otto’s (a fact that has Enok wondering if the letter is a fabrication), hands the sealed leather pouch containing the letter and the roster-card to young Lars Larsen, runner for the Streymoy leg.
‘Make sure that lazy man in Kirkjubøur sets out smartly,’ says the skydskaffer, ‘and signs the paper before he hands it on. Off with you, then. If the big man can’t keep up, leave him behind. This is king’s business.’
Lars loves the duty and would run it every time if asked. He runs into the low mist on the tops, sure-footed even in this icy dark, leaping small streams and rocky outcrops, scattering the few shaggy sheep still in the outfield. Here and there patches of snow glow eerily. It will not be light until mid-morning, well after they have arrived in Kirkjubøur. At the brow he turns south, shouting to the labouring Enok to hurry, then disappears into the mist as he runs the five kilometres along the cliffs and down the steep southern slopes to Kirkjubøur, on the coast. Enok, strong as he is, cannot keep up. He arrives, puffing and coughing, just as the farmer whose turn it is, prepares to row out.
‘Excellent,’ says the farmer, eyeing Enok’s size. ‘You can take an oar and save my youngest son half the distance. He hasn’t the strength yet for the return trip. And a sail will be no use to us in this weather.’
While the crew waits for the last rower to don his woollen coat and sheepskin boots, Enok speaks quietly to Lars. ‘Take a message to Clara. Tell her I will come back at Christmas to sing the kvæ∂i. Ask her to find a house for it.’
Lars grins. ‘The old man’s house, of course. Niclas Patursson.’
‘No, perhaps not. He does not approve.’
‘Well, he is old. I will approve! And Clara will be happy. Is she your sweetheart now?’
‘Enough of sweethearts!’ Enok’s words come out sharper than he intended and he gives the boy a friendly pat. ‘Thanks, friend. Tell Clara I’m sorry to leave so suddenly.’
The boy scuffs his boots against the pebbles of the beach. ‘I wish I was coming. Never seen Su∂eroy. Nor even the northern islands. You have clapped eyes on the whole world.’
Enok laughs, his spirits restored. ‘Well, a good chunk. And you will too, is my guess. God speed, friend.’
The six oarsmen set out across the sound to Skopun on the island of Sandoy, while Lars waves them off. No doubt he will run all the way back just for the fun of it.
At Skopun the new skyd takes charge of the letter (Enok is not a notified skyd and will not do) and the two run steeply up the hill, into mist again, past the lake, then beside the stream for two hours, thankfully downhill, over to Sandur on the south coast. Three hours of running. Enok is tired. And wet. A spiritless kind of daylight has finally arrived, and with it a soaking rain. Two more islands to go.
The Sandur skyd, whose turn it is to row to the next island, remembers Enok. ‘Ho, Enok Rasmussen av Su∂eroy!’ he shouts. ‘I would recognise that frame any day of the week! Here is our ballad singer returned. Take an oar, man. This skyd duty is a bloody curse, for I have important work on the farm.’
‘Jesus, man, I am far cut,’ pants Enok.
‘Then stay behind — there’s no room for passengers. I have a cousin on Skúvoy will row back.’
Clearly there is ample room for a passenger, but Enok is in no position to argue. He climbs aboard, happy enough at least to sit down for a while. Once out in the channel they set a sail, which helps, but the oars are needed. The current is against them. Another three hours and they reach Skúvoy in pitch dark. Enok climbs wearily up the icy stone steps to the village, sinks onto a pile of hay in the farmer’s shed and falls asleep without eating.
Next morning the clouds run high and grey across the sky behind a stiff breeze from the north. On this tiny island there is only one farmer of any note, so the skyd duty always falls to him. He grumps his way down the stone steps to the tiny jetty, where Enok, chewing on a strip of dried fish, is throwing stones at the diving skua. Down fly the screaming birds, undeterred by the stones, beaks and talons ready to rake the intruders.
‘Jesus, man,’ muttered Enok, ‘let us get under way before I am torn to ribbons! How do you live with these demons?’
The farmer is not inclined to talk. He jerks his head at the boat, indicating that Enok should get aboard and prepare the sail. Mercifully, the wind will allow them to scud down under sail — just the two of them manning the small craft, with a minimum of rowing. The sea runs with them — choppy, but no big swell. Enok sits amidships ready to luff the sail, and closes his eyes against the stinging spray. He remembers the story of Sigmund Bresterson, the ancient hero of the island they have just left, who was perpetually in scrapes with the church and the law and who had to escape across to Su∂eroy by swimming this very sea. When he crawled ashore, Thórgrim the Evil killed him for the jewelled treasures he carried. Enok has always loved the saga, which his stepfather recounted with great style. As a child he imagined that the jewelled ring his father had found in the sea, and which hung even now on a thong around his neck, had come from that treasure, dropped by the hero as he waded ashore.
Enok thinks about swimming and how neither he nor Napoleon — nor any Faroese he can think of — have ever learned. And how the gods in the old stories could always swim prodigiously, and many of the heroes too. And how his own father walked into the sea on the very coast they are now approaching, knowing that he could not save himself if suddenly he changed his mind. Enok trails his hand in the cold grey water and shivers. He loves the sea — is never happier than when sailing on it — but the thought of swimming through it, of letting that deep expanse hold him up, fills him with dread.
His chance to learn the skill comes more quickly than he imagined. Enok, unable to keep up a silence for long, begins to expound one theory after another to the dour farmer. First a new way to secure the sail so it will respond more readily to the wind, and then a different kind of knot. The farmer eyes him sourly and says new theories are invented by the devil. Enok smiles and shakes his head, which seems to enrage the farmer further. Next it is the fishing tackle.
‘But you should surely use a long-line in these waters,’ says Enok. ‘You would catch many more.’
The farmer grunts. ‘What was good enough for our fathers is good enough for me.’
‘You won’t even try?’
‘If you can’t show respect, shut your mouth.’
The farmer’s response should be warning enough, but Enok has to pursue the matter.
‘We use a long-line in Sumba. Would you let Su∂eroy go ahead of Skúvoy?’
The farmer spits into the sea and then changes tack abruptly. The swinging boom knocks Enok clean out of the boat. For a moment the farmer watches the thrashing boy, then he throws him a rope.
‘See if your famous new theories can get you back aboard,’ he growls, making no attempt to slow the boat or change its direction. Enok clings desperately to the trailing rope, half submerged, his fingers slowly numbing and losing their strength in the icy water. He has never felt such fear, the black sea closing over him. There is no way he can haul himself aboard. In that darkest moment it is Anahuia he thinks of, and his two unseen boys. He would call to them if he had breath to do so.
At the moment when he feels his fingers loosening and the sea about to claim him, the farmer pulls in the rope and helps to heave him over the stern. ‘Now perhaps you will learn to trust your elders and your betters,’ he says with some satisfaction. That is the last word he speaks to the shivering Enok. They run ashore at Hvalba and Enok, wet and exhausted, starts walking south to Sumba.