In that bleak early morning, though, I was all alone as I hoisted the rug onto the line that traveled all the way from the building to the fence and got the beater out from the shed. No one knew whom it first belonged to; we all used it to clean the few rugs that covered the worn floorboards in our apartments. My rug had been bought from a fellow Norwegian, woven from scraps of fabric, mostly blue and gray. I dreamed, of course, of thick rugs with oriental patterns; flowers snaking across vivid red and emerald green, but that was not something we could afford, and so I settled to take care of what we did have the best that I could.
Rudolph laughed as I started beating the rug before me; he always did like the sound. It scared him but thrilled him too. He all but clapped his little hands and the sound of his joy filled the chilly yard. I could not help but laugh a little too, just from the sound of that childish laughter. Soon I did not even feel the chill, as my vigorous beating had me sweating and huffing. Underneath the blue plaid headscarf my hair was drenched through, but I went at it a little longer than I had to, just to keep him laughing like that.
Little Brynhild had not been so easy to please as a child.
“Come,” I said when I was done, then hoisted my son back onto my hip and brought him with me as I went to put the beater away. I carried him to the stairs and sat down on a step with Rudolph in my arms, cradling him tight while waiting for Clara. “Once there was a—” I started, but I was not in the mood to tell fairy tales. They reminded me of Little Brynhild too, and no matter how much I tried, I could not quash the worry that rose in me whenever I thought of that letter.
It was written in my sister’s hand, that much I knew, but I did not know if they were her words, or if it was Mother who had asked her to write that plea for money. Not that it mattered—I had no reason to doubt the truth of the tale, and even if Little Brynhild had changed since I left, I could not imagine that she had lost that pride that always got her in trouble before. Whenever I thought of my little sister, that was what I remembered: how she always refused to bend her neck but held her head high and stubbornly clenched her jaws. When other children teased her, or a schoolteacher or neighbor scolded her, she never shed a tear but bit back the best that she could.
It would have cost her to ask for that money—the situation had to be dire.
The worry in the pit of my stomach moved again, made me feel a little sick. Without thinking, I tightened my grip on Rudolph, who wriggled and complained until I loosened my hold. “I am sorry, my sweet,” I murmured into his soft, dark hair. “I did not mean to hurt you.” I did not know if it was he I spoke to or the phantom child of my sister, who had seemed so close all day, as if she sat right there, in my lap, next to my son: a stubby little girl with a square jaw and eyes that cut, even when she was small.
I remembered one day when she was six or seven; it was late in summer and the sun burned like an ember, painting the sky in shades of gold. I was outside at Størsetgjerdet, coaxing our cows inside for the night. They were a couple of skinny things, even in summer; bad stock, my father said, but I loved them anyway.
“Come, then.” I called them in from my spot a few steps from the barn door. “Come so, Dokka, come so, Staslin.” The animals regarded me with large, dark eyes but did not heed me at all. Their heads just dipped back into the grass while their jaws worked slowly, tirelessly. Their udders, swollen with milk, swung back and forth below their bellies. I was growing impatient and was about to get the switch when I heard the barking of a dog, loud and insistent—angry sounding, and close. I stopped and shaded my eyes with my hand while scanning the steep hill for signs of the animal as the barking came ever closer. It was chasing from the sound of it, and I wondered what it was it had found; a fox perhaps, or a hare.
The ruckus came from behind the tree line and so it was hard to tell, but soon the barks were joined by other sounds, snapping twigs and rustling branches, and I figured it had to be something big and was prepared to see a moose calf come jolting out of the woods. Instead, I saw my sister come bursting into the open, running as fast as her little feet could muster, straight up that steep hill. Even from the distance, I could see the panic in her eyes, the terror drawn on her features. She did not run home, though, but ran straight by. She was blind with fear—too scared to think!
Soon I could see the dog as well: a slick-looking mongrel with bared teeth and a black coat, chasing her up the hill.
“Little Brynhild!” I called out. “Little Brynhild!” But she did not heed me. Soon another patch of wood swallowed her up, and the dog followed suit, crashing through the underbrush. I lifted my skirts as high as they would go and set out after them as fast I could. My heart was hammering all the while, and my lungs soon ached for breath.
“Little Brynhild!” I cried as I reached the dense growth of spruce and pine. “Where are you? Answer me!”
I did not get a reply, but I could hear the dog’s angry barks before me and continued in the sound’s direction. I saw all sorts of things in my mind as I ran: sharp teeth slicing through soft skin, blood beading on a plump leg. I heard the sound of bone crushed between jaws.
Finally, I could see them before me: the girl stood close to the waterfall, on top of the steep embankment. Behind her, the river ran red with iron, rushing past her with the sound of a storm. One wrong step and she would fall. Little Brynhild’s face was flustered and she had lost her headscarf; her brown hair had escaped the braid I had made and hung about her face in slick tendrils. She was clutching a pine branch in her hand, longer than her arm, and was waving it aimlessly at the crouching dog, which was growling and showing its teeth, creeping ever nearer.
“Tsjuh!” I called out, and grabbed a lichen-covered rock from the mossy ground. My aim was off, but it did not matter; I was out to scare, not to harm. “Tsjuh! Go home!” I cried at the growling beast, and grabbed another rock from the ground. The dog startled when the rock hit close to where it crouched. Little Brynhild, having heard me, took up the words:
“Tsjuh!” she cried out. “Tsjuh!”
I threw more rocks and clapped my hands loudly as I moved in closer. The dog seemed confused then, and looked between us as if unsure of where to strike; but it was still angry, still showing those teeth. I knew that what you have to do is make the dog scared of you, so I bellowed from the top of my lungs as I rushed toward the animal, clapping my hands wildly. Finally, it rose and jumped away so as not to be trampled by the angry creature that came rushing forth. The dog paused between the trees, looking back, hoping perhaps that there was still hope for quarry, but I bent down and got a branch of my own, a rotten thing with moss hanging off it, and started hitting it against the ground, shouting all the while from the top of my lungs.
Finally, it slunk away and disappeared into the woods, finding me too much of a hassle to take on, perhaps. I turned to Little Brynhild and scooped her up in my arms. The girl shivered against me, but there were no tears.
“It wouldn’t go away!” she cried.