“I could take another name as well.”
“You know it’s an expensive journey.”
“Big Brynhild did it. She worked for years to do it.” The kitten had all but given up on the butterfly and hit the floor with a thump. It went back to the bowl in search of more milk, its tiny tail straight in the air.
“If I were your age maybe I would go too.” A longing came into Gurine’s voice. “They say there’s plenty of land, and big cities.”
“Big Brynhild seems happy enough.” I bit my tongue to curb the unbidden jealousy that flared to life when I said my sister’s name.
“It’s a good dream.” Gurine rose and started for the stove, where the water was bubbling in the pot. I rose too and tightened the apron at the small of my back, where it still ached.
“In America,” I told Gurine, “I could marry well. I’m sure of it.”
* * *
—
She watched me, Gurine, with those blue eyes, when it was time to eat. Looked at me as I watched the men cross the yard through the window. They were working on the barn this summer while the cattle were away, tearing down walls and building new ones.
The salted herring and the cold potatoes were already on the table with stacks of flat bread; all that was missing was the porridge and the lump of butter. Anders and his father—another Anders—were the last ones to come inside, discussing something or other. The farmer’s hand rested on his son’s shoulder. Before they went in, they whipped the caps off their heads, as not to offend the Lord.
“Will you carry the porridge, Little Brynhild?” Gurine’s voice was soft, her eyes sad.
“Of course.” Gurine was too frail to carry much at all.
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
“I don’t mind.” I lifted the deep wooden serving tray, filled to the brim with gray, pasty porridge. It was heavy for sure, but my hands did not shake. I slipped out the door and heard Gurine behind me, following with the butter.
“Here.” She got in front of me and opened the door to the next room, where half a dozen men were seated on benches by the table, nibbling on fat fish and breaking pieces of flat bread between grimy, callused fingers. It went quiet when I came in. They all looked at me, as I thought they would. Their eyes were wary, as if I were a dog that could not be trusted and they waited for me to bare my teeth. I approached with the tray and placed it on the table. A few of their spoons dipped into the porridge as soon as I let it go.
“Thank you, Brynhild.” The farmer himself spoke. “It’s good to see you back on your feet.”
I nodded in his direction and did not look at Anders beside him. I could see his hands, though: strong and rough, marred by fading bruises. Bruises from hitting me. The men did not look at me after the farmer spoke. Their heads bent as they shuffled the food into their mouths. They thought that was it, then—that I was safe and would not bite. That I would take my lesson and learn from it, be humble and meek and know my place.
That was what they thought.
* * *
—
“It’s good to see you regaining your strength,” Mother said the next Sunday. I had gone home with my parents after church and would return to the farm in the morning. I sat outside on the stone slab that served as a step by the door, scrubbing out a black-scorched pot. Mother carried wash from the creek; the heavy weight made her wiry frame bend. “How is it down there at the farm?” She dropped her load in front of me.
“I’m still a little sick, but I can do my share of the work.”
Mother sat down beside me, smelling faintly of fresh river water. “He always had a hungry eye, that boy down there. I’ve seen him in church, looking down the aisle as the girls arrive.” I could see her scalp through her thin hair. She had lost most of her teeth in the lower jaw, none of them knocked out as far as I knew. She shook her head as she stared out on Størsetgjerdet: the timbered shed and the tiny barn, the small well house farther up, and the dark, dense woods that surrounded the place. Then her hand circled my wrist and squeezed so hard it hurt. When I turned my head in surprise, her gaze bore into mine. “Little Brynhild, now you’ll listen to me! You nearly died from that beating; he nearly killed you, that boy, and he still could! You shouldn’t be anywhere near him . . .”
V
So, what is this to you, you may ask? This isn’t the story you expected. You were expecting a repenting sinner’s last confession. Expecting me to cry on the page, admit my wrongdoings and beg your forgiveness. Instead you get this: childhood memories. I am sorry about that—sorry to disappoint, but the truth of it is, I cannot recall a world without Pepper-Man in it, and him being in it was the beginning of it all.
We will get to the bodies eventually.
* * *
I remember elementary school as a string of days of aching belly and sleep deprivation, a fear that my classmates or teachers would somehow see through me and figure out how I spent my nights. See it and punish me, like Mother did. You’d think it would make me shy, wouldn’t you? Think it would make me seek out the shadows, but it didn’t. It made me angry.
It wasn’t easy to blend in with a companion like Pepper-Man. The other girls in S— were sensible creatures stuffed in ruffles and lace. They had well-groomed hair and polished manners. Much like Olivia: good to the core. Mother was most adamant I kept quiet about it all: my visits in the woods, the sharp nibs at my flesh, and the gifts of bones and feathers that I got. I was never to speak of, draw, or in any other way express my wraith’s existence.
“They’ll think you’re mad,” she told me. “They’ll think you’re mad and then they’ll lock you up.”
I didn’t want that, of course, so I tried the best I could to abide by her rules. But it wasn’t easy. I was straddling two worlds: the one everyone could see, and the one that was forbidden. No child should be subjected to a fate like that. It wears you so thin, is such a burden. There is shame in there too, in that sense of being wrong.
And I was always worried that Pepper-Man would hurt someone. He was a wild thing on a leash, my friend, something I ought to, but could not, control.
It was quite a mission for a very young girl. A dreadful responsibility.
I remember Mother’s pale face when yet another parent had been at our door with her crying daughter in tow. I’d seen Pepper-Man watching her one day when he walked me to school. This girl, Carol, had been out playing in the schoolyard with the sunlight illuminating her butter-colored curls. Pepper-Man paused by the wrought-iron fence and looked at her for a very long time. The hunger I saw in his gaze then worried me so much I decided I’d rather just hurt her first, before he had time to braid her a crown and sink his teeth into her neck.