The beginning of a daughter of mine.
Now it had come to nothing.
I used my hands to rip away moss and dig a hole in the soft, cool dirt. I was not sure how much good it would do, but I wanted to protect her from scavenging foxes. It did not get very deep, as I had no strength to give. I pulled off one of my woolen stockings, the cleanest piece of cloth on my body, and wrapped my daughter in it. My belly had just started to curve so there was not much to wrap. It felt slippery in my hands, though. Slippery and warm. The scent of iron was strong and fresh—it was animal scent, the scent of slaughter.
Down in the hole she went. Into the fragrant soil, next to a coiling root. As I pushed the damp dirt back on top of the remains, I marveled at the way it covered her up, smooth and soft, as if the girl were erased by blackness.
As if nothing were down there at all.
I smoothed the earth on top of the grave, but I did not weep, oh no—he had kicked all the tears out of me too. “If I put it there, I better get it out again,” he had said before his foot hit my belly. Then he grabbed hold of the little bit of lace I had on my blouse—the very best I had—and yanked me from the ground to plant a fist in my jaw.
No, I would not weep for that man.
After I buried my daughter, I lay still for a little while longer, bleeding, while I looked up at the tall pines moving uneasy against the pale sky. Clouds came drifting with the dawn: wisps of slate gray that chased one another and snapped at one another’s tails. Like wolves, those clouds, rushing across the sky, waiting for the red sun to rise. I waited for it too, down on the ground, curled up, ruined and empty inside.
This was what we were worth, the dead child and I. We could be torn asunder, cast away and laughed at while we bled. We were nothing but vermin and stains to those people. I wanted to be a wolf too, to snarl and bite and tear apart, and taste the blood of those who laughed.
Instead, I staggered to my feet and stumbled on. I did not even look back.
I would rise, if only to spite.
Vermin always survive.
* * *
—
Daylight had long since arrived when I finally made the last, slow climb up to Størsetgjerdet, my father’s small tenant farm. A sour smell of wood smoke greeted me, and the bleating of our single goat. Just a few steps left and I barely made it—it felt like crossing a mountain. Crusted blood striped my calves, my clothes were stiff with it, and yet I was still bleeding.
The single room inside the small house was dark, the ceiling low. Mother was out, but Father was there, sitting by the stove. He had his knife in his hand and whittled chips of wood into the flames. The scent of thin coffee reached me by the door and made my aching stomach convulse.
My father looked up, his gray beard thick and tangled. He took me in, top to bottom. “What mess have you gotten yourself into now?”
I found the pail by the door and threw up, heaved and sputtered into it.
“Looks like she’s rid herself of the mess.” Olina’s voice sounded behind me. I could hear her uneven steps on the floor as she came to gloat. Her fingers grasped my stiff skirt, tugged at it almost gently. “Not so haughty now, are you?” Her voice was not as spiteful as I had expected. She was tall like me but slender and spindly; her left leg was stiff as a twig. There was nothing to do for that. My sister would never leave home.
Bright light flooded the dark, smoky room when Mother arrived, carrying water. My head was still curved over the pail as I did not trust the heaving to be over, but I heard her familiar shuffle behind me and my shoulders sagged with relief. The floor shook when she set down her heavy load, and then I felt her fingers splayed on my back. “Can’t you see she’s sick, you fools?” She pushed Olina back and my sister made a complaining sound. “Standing there like a cow,” Mother snapped at her. “And you”—to my father—“is that all you can do? Sit there whittling while your daughter is bleeding?”
“She’s no child of mine,” he said, as he always did when displeased.
“Olina, help me get her on the bed.” Mother did not hear him. I cried out when their hands came to touch me and force me away from the pail.
“Good God, child, who did that to you?” Mother paled when she saw the state of my face. Even Olina’s eyes widened and she bit her lower lip. I tried to answer, but fresh pain was throbbing at my temples, and my swollen jaw made it hard to speak.
“Get her on the bed, on the bed, bring the pail.” Mother barked orders while she and Olina forced me to move my legs and cross the floor. They took me to the bed in the corner, the one I shared with Olina. I slumped down on top of it, smelled the musty hay and sour sweat, blood—always the blood. Mother went to heat water; Olina sat on the three-legged spinning chair, staring at me, her mouth hung open as if she had never seen an uglier animal than me. Then suddenly there was a thudding sound and the quiet hum of steel.
My father had risen from the chair and thrown his knife across the room. It was embedded in the timber above my head, stood there, quivering. A curse.
Father had made his opinion known.
* * *
—
The first few days were a haze. I remember wet cloth on my face and an aching all over, a searing pain in my back and belly. Something was wrong in me. I could taste it as a bitter cloying on my tongue; I was festering from within. The blood on the rags Mother brought me turned from red and black to pink and yellow, and it reeked.
I often lay awake, too weak to talk but not to listen, staring at the ceiling. I knew the patterns and swirls of the timber by heart, just as I knew every inch of that room. The awkward angle of the small cooking stove, haphazardly installed. The open shelves on the wall above the table with cups, plates, and tins filled with printed psalms and letters. A large chest under a window for storage. The narrow stairs to the loft where we slept as children. The rickety spinning wheel placed in a corner. The four mismatched chairs with flaking paint. There were three clotheslines strung across the ceiling, heavy with musty garments. Two beds. One bench. Oh, how I loathed that place, and even more so when I found myself trapped there, too sick to move an inch.
Listening in on my family did nothing to soothe my pain.
“She won’t last,” Father said from his place by the stove.
“Don’t you have any work to do?” Mother was sitting by the table, preparing moss for drying. It would help soak up the blood. “She will or she won’t. It’s up to God now.”
“Will he hang if she dies?” Olina was stirring the pot of gruel. She would want me to taste it later. The thought of it made my stomach churn.
“No one will hang.” Father sucked his pipe.
“Maybe we should tell someone,” Mother muttered.