The Greenlanders - Jane Smiley [63]
One day in the spring, she called Katla to her and she gave her two lengths of wadmal for gowns, and another length for clothes for Hrafn’s sons. Then she gave her a handsome carved horn spoon in a clasped case, and praised her for her good work and faithful service. Now they went into the dairy and counted the cheeses and lumps of butter and tubs of sourmilk, and Birgitta declared that in the time of Asgeir Gunnarsson, there had been such an abundance of these things that another storehouse was needed in addition to the dairy, just to hold the summer’s produce. Then they went to the storehouse where the dried sealmeat was kept, and the store was greatly depleted, for the end of winter had passed and spring was only just begun, and Birgitta declared that, soon enough, dried sealmeat would mount to the ceiling, year around, so that ugly or rotten bits could be thrown away without a second thought. After this they looked into vats of seal blubber, both melted and pickled, and racks of dried reindeer meat, and other dried meats. Then they got out all the rolls of wadmal and all the hides and sheepskins, and Birgitta looked carefully at everything before having it put back. Then she walked around the farm and looked carefully at the buildings, and the livestock, and the two boats, and the wheeled cart, and the stone walls around the homefield, and then she walked across the homefield and gazed for a long time at Erlend’s field, which his servants were manuring, but which had for generations been the Gunnars Stead second field and had supplied Gunnars Stead with all that could be called wealth—everything above a sufficiency. She was at this for two days.
Now she was sitting at her evening meat, and she said to Gunnar, “A poor man is like a farmer who farms on a low island. When the river rises over his fields, he counts himself lucky to have his sheep, for he has moved them higher, and when the river carries away his sheep, he congratulates himself for leading the cows onto the roof of the cowbyre and letting them graze there, and after the drowning of the cows, he thanks the Lord that he has a boat to put his children in. When the boat is swamped and the children swept away, he considers himself lucky to be able to swim, and he loves his luck all the way until his strength gives out and he, too, goes under. But a rich man is a man with forethought enough to farm high on the shore, who never speaks of luck, and expects the river to flood every year.”
“This is probably true enough,” said Gunnar.
Now Birgitta looked at him, and said, “I asked Lavrans at Easter when his father used to carry the cows out of the cowbyre, and he said that this used to be at the beginning of the summer nights, but once or twice much earlier than that, close to the beginning of Lent. Now, we often cannot carry the cows out before the feast of St. Hallvard, and never as early as Lent. Once we carried the cows out in the week after Easter and counted ourselves fortunate to do it.”
“I have heard such things myself, but often old men misremember.”
“There is another tale you might care to hear.”
“I might.”
Birgitta lifted her eyes to his, and said, “More often than not, Lavrans’ father, this Kollgrim, did not carry his cows into the field at all, but led them, for in those days the hay always lasted through the winter, and the cows themselves went to it and finished it off in the spring.”
“This might indeed be true.”
Now Birgitta said, “A rising flood can take many forms.