She sighed when she realized what I meant. “So that’s how it is, then?”
“It is.” I stared up at the ceiling through the darkness.
“And now he won’t—”
“No.”
Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You know I can help you get rid of it—”
“No!” Even in my wretched state, I was not about to let this opportunity slip. “I can make him—I’m sure of it.”
Gurine, however, was not so sure, and nothing I had said since could make her feel any different. She did not think I could make the marriage happen—but I could! I had to believe that I could. Hansteen liked me, and I had always been diligent at church. He would put the blame where it belonged for sure. Anders should have known better than to kiss a young maid in the barn. Hansteen would make him—and then he had to—and then I would never eat gruel again.
The men by the barn were moving now, carrying heavy tools. Anders carried an axe. They were to work on the western field today, mending fences.
“They are headed up,” Gurine observed with a warning in her voice. It meant they had to pass us by and she wanted me to slip inside the storehouse. I did no such thing. I stayed put, righted my headscarf, and tilted my chin up as they drew closer: a gaggle of filthy men, hair greasy and shirts stained. I could see their muscles working as they walked toward us, how they bulged and strained under their clothes. Their lips were all drawn out in hard smiles.
“What is wrong with you, Little Brynhild?” Ivar said, mocking me. “You look like you just licked a lemon.”
“What would you know about that?” I replied. “I’m sure you’ve never even tasted one yourself.”
Ivar laughed. “They’re fine enough with a little sugar, or so I’ve heard. You should try some of that.”
Before I had time to reply, a man called Gunnar spoke. “I think she’s gotten enough sugar for a while. Enough that she has started to swell.” He kept his eyes on the ground in front of his feet; a smile played on his lips.
I drew my breath to reply to him when I noticed that Anders had fallen behind the others. His gaze met mine, as cold as before, but at least he approached me and that was something. “Leave us alone, Gurine,” he said. The old woman got to her feet and gave me a worried glance before she shuffled across the yard with her head bent, leaving the two of us alone outside the storehouse. The men had continued up the hill, though a couple of them looked back over their shoulders. Gunnar was still smiling.
Anders let his hand with the axe drop down by his side. His brow looked slick despite the chill in the air. His eyes did not meet my gaze. “Have you come to your senses yet, Brynhild?” The axe swung slowly back and forth. “It’s bad enough that everyone knows—”
“I didn’t say a thing,” I said quickly. I wanted to stay on his good side if I could. I wanted him to be my husband, after all.
“Women talk.” He shrugged.
“I don’t.” And neither did Gurine. “I think it’s you who have told them.” I looked after the men.
Another shrug then. “Be as it might, I didn’t come to talk about slippery tongues.”
“No?”
“I wanted to know if you still think it’s mine, that child you carry—”
“It is! There hasn’t been any other.”
He swallowed hard and would still not meet my gaze. “I suppose you still think we should marry, then.”
“I do!” Could it be that he had come around? My heart beat faster in my chest.
He shifted on the ground before me; the axe still swung back and forth. “Why don’t you come to the dance on Saturday night? We can talk then, down by the lake.” He did not smile, did not look me in the eye. “It will be easier then, when there aren’t so many people around. We can sneak away, just the two of us.”
I nodded while all sorts of feelings battled inside me: some worry, some hope, and a bottomless want.
He lifted his gaze; it lingered on my belly, although there was not much to see yet. “I’ll see you on Saturday, Brynhild. Alone.” His gaze slid away from me. He heaved the axe over his shoulder and walked on fast to catch up with the rest, leaving me behind by the storehouse.
Gurine appeared in the open door to the farmhouse; she had heard every word, of course. She used her bony hand to shield her eyes from the sun as she stepped outside and came toward me while slowly shaking her head.
“What is it now?” I was annoyed. “Things are finally going my way. He wants to meet me—you heard what he said!”
“Yes, and I don’t like it . . . Be careful, Little Brynhild.” She took hold of my arm. “I don’t trust that man at all.”
2.
Even before my skirt turned wet, I knew that I was bleeding. Though I had never felt it before, I knew what that pain at the bottom of my spine meant. I knew that the child would leave me.
I do not know if I already bled when he left me by the water’s edge, or if the bleeding began when I slowly tried to rise. I knew I could not faint down there. It was May and the nights were still cold. I had to stand up and move my feet, get myself back home. I would not die, I told myself. I would not die—I would survive. I would survive if only to spite him. He wanted me dead; well, look: I was walking, if slowly and on shivering legs. I was walking in pain, away from the lake and across the dirt track to the safety of the woods. I wiped blood off my face with the hem of my skirt; tears and snot soaked the dark fabric too. A sharp edge was the only thing left where my tooth used to be; another tooth was clean split in half.
I did not feel that pain yet.
I could not stop the violent shivers, or the deep sobs that came ripping from my chest. Hoarse noises poured from my throat as I lumbered along like a wounded bear. The nosebleed stopped, so perhaps it was not broken, but my jaw was swollen and tender to the touch. Then it was the real pain—the only one that mattered. Before long, it came in ripples and aches as my belly convulsed to rid itself of the damaged cargo. I leaned against a spruce, pressed my shoulders to the rough bark, and tried to breathe through the contractions like women in labor do, although this was no birth. When it eased up some, I stumbled on and lifted my gaze, but there was nothing to see except for more trees, heavy branches crowded with lichen, ghostly white in the pale night light. The thick moss that covered the ground looked blue and the air smelt of wet soil and sap. Størsetgjerdet was still miles off, the way home steep and hard. I thought I might die before I made it that far.
I held on to trunks as I walked, careful to keep out of sight from the farms. No one was to see me like that. I would not let anyone laugh at me, even if it meant I perished in there, hidden by the trees. I paused again as more pain ripped through me, and my thighs were slick with fresh blood. I lay down on the mossy ground, folded my elbows under my chest, and spread my legs. Perspiration washed the blood from my brow, hot and thick, as I lay there panting, bleeding. The convulsions lasted for hours, maybe—minutes, I could not tell. It was fast, though, as births go. Anders had been thorough in beating the child out of me. When the cramping finally stopped, I fell over to my side and lay there for a while, gazing skyward. Every breath I took was a struggle as my ribs ached and burned. When I had gathered enough courage, I looked down on the mess on the ground. I could not tell it with my eyes, but I felt it was a girl, curled up in the hot blood.