Eric D. Lehman
After a dinner of fried salted cod and potato mash, Martja Rasmussen took her son Jannick to the fireside and told him very firmly and softly that she was going to die. He was only twelve years old and so the full impact of words like “the doctors from Torshavn” and “a few weeks longer” did not sink in immediately.
“I’m telling you this because when I am gone, you will have to keep the house for your father while he is at sea.”
“But he’s always at sea,” Jannick complained.
“Yes, my heart. It is a great responsibility. But you are all grown up now…” Martja’s voice cracked. “And know how to make sure the house is in order.”
At last, Jannick realized what was happening. “But what will you do, Mother? Will you go up there?” He pointed a small finger in the direction of the high green hill at the center of their island. His mother had told him stories about the Wind Barons and their wild romps and furious angers since he could remember. They were the absolute rulers of all, and to show their power, they brought the furious winds that scoured the Faroes with storms.
Jannick’s face was set with earnest concern, but Martja laughed at her son’s question.
“No, my heart.”
“I thought they took the ones who were tired of living into their ice caves and kept them safe.”
“I’m afraid that won’t happen to me.”
“That’s not fair!”