He tucked the feather quilt more tightly under his chin. He had made a fire in the woodstove before he'd gone to bed, but it must have died down after two or three hours. He tried to calculate the time judging by how cold it was in the room. The rays of light shining through the slit in the curtains were no indication of the time of day. It was early in the spring, and it would soon be light day and night. If it weren't for all the fog and storms, this would be heaven. He mentally hummed part of his mother's favorite hymn, "God shall wipe away all tears, and there is no night there." Decades had passed since he last heard her sing that song, but he could clearly see her standing by the wood burning stove singing it as she prepared supper. But she sang it most often in winter when darkness reigned nearly twenty-four hours a day.
His mother had been a cheerful person, but the winter darkness had become increasingly difficult for her to endure during her final years. She had spent her last days heavily medicated in a mental hospital. He never figured out what had driven her over the edge like that. It couldn't have been the winter darkness alone. He had long since ceased to attempt to understand her problems. He preferred to think of her in happier times. She was happiest in the spring and near her wood burning stove.
These thoughts kept him awake, but he knew he should go back to sleep for he would soon have to get up to face a long day of work on the farm, and he was far from rested. But one thought led to another, and he couldn't stanch the flow. He thought of all the work his father had put into this farm, removing all the rocks, planting trees, building the house, the barn, the boathouse, and the various utility buildings. He remembered stories his father had told of how all the building materials for the house had been brought by boat from the mainland, and how a storm had suddenly blown up that day, and they had been afraid that all would be lost, possibly even their lives. But they had made it, and the house had been built in the course of two or three months, but another major storm hit just when they were ready to put up the roof. The history of this place was inextricably blended with a history of storms.
Christian's thoughts strayed back to his mother again and how tough it must have been for her to be left alone to care for four small children, her husband's aging parents, the farm and the animals, while her husband was away fishing most of the winter and early spring. Life was so difficult then. There were more conveniences now, electricity and running water, and a small tractor, but life seemed difficult just the same. He remembered having to carry water for his mother from the well and how often she had had to do it herself in the winter, also when she was pregnant with his younger brothers.
That thought had barely surfaced when it brought with it happier memories of the fun times he had had with his brothers. They had gone fishing or had rowed to various islands to look for eiderdown, seagull eggs, blueberries, and cloudberries and had always competed to see who got most. He remembered how his mother would reward them with pancakes made with fresh eggs and milk (there were no mixes back then) when they got home at the end of the day, and the thought made him hungry. It must be morning soon.
The thought of morning reminded him of all the work he had to do that day. He had worked all his life. Even the pleasant memories of childhood were associated with work and necessary for survival, but they had never thought of it as work. Vacations were unheard of. What would one do if one didn't work? It was a matter of enjoyable work or hard work. There were no other choices.
The few times when they didn't have to work, they got into innocent mischief. They loved to dig up small, new red potatoes to eat raw, the apples of the far north. His father would pretend to be upset when he caught them at it, or when he noticed that someone had been digging up potatoes before they were ready to be harvested. Their survival through the winter depended on fish and potatoes, and the potatoes should be left to grow as long as possible.
But why was he thinking of all these things now when he desperately needed to sleep? The longer he lay awake, the lighter it became, the darker the memories that forced their presence on him. He remembered his father's temper, how angry he got if his mother didn't have dinner on the table the minute he came in. He remembered how he hit her at times and how sorry he would be afterwards. He remembered how his grandparents ordered his mother around and how she lived to serve them without a word of thanks from them or his father. He wished he had been more thoughtful and helpful then, but he had been a child and unable to see more than his own endless chores.
As he lay awake, he noticed that the wind had picked up speed and had begun howling inconsolably like a child in pain. Soon it would rain too. He would not get any planting done. The first drops started pounding on the corrugated iron roof and sounded more like big balls of hail. How many times had he and his father before him thought of insulating this old house? The rain came down more densely, and it sounded more like machine gun fire. The sea was also protesting, had gone mad with rage objecting to its boundaries and determined to exceed them.
All plans for outdoor work that day had to be cancelled. He would have to tackle all that has been neglected indoors, within. Storms can wash away all excuses or they can create them, depending on one's point of view, he reflected. They had created many excuses for his father too in his day, he guessed.
Insulated by his feather quilt, he listened to the storm and was no longer able to distinguish between the wild rush of the north wind and the anger of the sea. They had united against him, blended into one. Their source was invisible and unidentifiable. It would take more than a mere man to tackle them, and he was not a young man anymore.
The storm seemed to have changed its tune. It sounded more like weeping than howling rage and machine gun fire on his roof. He couldn't tell whether the weeping was sorrowful or joyful. There was a strange smell in the room that reminded him of hospitals and old folks' homes. A bright light was shining right in his eyes. The storm must have cleared away. He must have overslept. But it was an artificial and irritating light, and he was powerless to move away from it or to close his eyes and shut it out.
He heard a voice say, "He's lucky. Not many survive such a massive stroke." The voice seemed to come from nowhere. It wasn't a voice he recognized. He thought he saw his wife there and that she had leaned over and kissed him more gently than he could ever remember. He was sure he had finally fallen asleep and was dreaming. She had left him years ago. He tried to call her, to say her name. But he couldn't say a word or move a muscle. There was little left to do but listen to the arguments of the wind and the sea, and there were no excuses left for them to create.