“You must not let it see that you’re afraid.” I scolded her with a voice hoarse from shouting. “They can smell it, the dogs, and then they’ll come for you.”
“I wasn’t afraid,” she lied while her arms wound tight around me and she cleaved to me for protection.
“Why did it chase you, then?”
“Because it wanted to bite me.”
“Is that so?” I had no time to lecture her just then. She was still shivering, was still stiff as board, and she was not a toddler anymore so I could already feel the strain in my arms, even if I was strong. “Maybe the dog is mad,” I said. “Do you know who owns it?”
I could feel her nodding against my neck. “He only laughed when it chased me,” she said. “He didn’t even try to stop it.”
My jaws tensed up with anger, but I found no words to give her.
I carried her all the way back home.
Receiving the letter reminded me of that day. It was the same sense of imminent danger—and the same instinct to lift my skirts and run to her aid, screaming.
That same night, as we lay in the loft, I had sworn that I would always protect her, and I felt called upon now by her words of distress to fulfill that very promise.
“The world is not kind to those who are different,” I whispered into Rudolph’s hair as we rocked gently back and forth on the step. “But then again,” I continued, “she may not always be so kind to it either.”
4.
Brynhild
Selbu, 1877
How old are you, Little Brynhild? Sixteen?” Gurine’s blue eyes were kind. She had just been looking into my mouth to inspect the damage done to my teeth. We were perched on wooden chairs in the kitchen, next to the flour-strewn table. Outside the windows, the sky was gray, but the fields had turned green and the birch trees sprouted leaves. Summer had arrived and the barn was empty while the animals were grazing up in the mountains. Usually I spent this time of year up there, tending them on the summer farm. Not this year, though. Not while I was still so poor. Instead, I stayed behind with Gurine, cooking for the farmhands and the family, cleaning, scrubbing, and sweeping floors. Mother was distraught by this. She had been hoping I would go to the summer farm and not have to see much of Anders that summer. I did not care much at all.
“Seventeen,” I murmured, and rubbed my jaw, still swollen even after all those weeks. I had seen my face for the first time since it happened in the mirror in the farmhouse. The bruising had started to fade, turning a ghastly yellow.
Gurine’s face was concerned under the faded headscarf. “I wasn’t surprised when you didn’t come to work, but I worried when you weren’t in church. You never miss church.”
“Father wouldn’t let me go,” I was quick to explain. I would not let her think I was a coward. “I wanted to come, but he said I couldn’t be seen like this, and I was—” Still bleeding, but I could not bring myself to say that aloud.
“You shouldn’t be here, though.” There was fear in her voice. “Why ever did you come back here?”
“Father said I couldn’t be home anymore. I had to work.” That was not what Gurine asked, though. She asked because of Anders.
The old woman gave me a look and lifted a lukewarm cup of coffee to her lips. “Did Paul say that because he was afraid people would think you are lazy, or because he wanted to punish you?”
“Punish me, I think.”
“And the . . . ?” She raised her eyebrows, motioned to her stomach with her hand.
“Gone.” I cradled my own cup of coffee in my lap.
“Well, that’s a good thing, then.” Gurine pursed her lips. “You should have that tooth pulled too, what’s left of it.”
“Have no money for that.” I shrugged. “It was a poor tooth anyway. He did me a favor knocking it out.”
“Hush.” She looked stern. “Don’t say such a thing. He has done you nothing but harm. You’re not still pining for him, are you?”
“No, no—I’m not.” I would rather see him buried, but I did not say that.
“That’s something, then . . . And you’re sure that it’s gone?” Another motion to her belly.
“Yes.” It did not bother me to say it. I had had many nights to teach myself how to answer that question. It was only a lump of flesh, after all—nothing to ache for. I handled flesh all the time; skinned and cut, bled and cooked. That tiny lump that slid out of me was no different from any other slick meat. No different from the pigs I cut with Gurine, the hares I skinned, or the kids’ legs I cured with salt. Just flesh—nothing special at all. It might not even have lived through birth. Children die all the time.
“You shouldn’t be here, though. I’m sure that if Paul knew for sure who it was, that he—”
“I don’t mind. I can stay on. I don’t see him much anyway, as long as I’m in here.” I looked around at the large iron cookstove with the black pans resting on top; the bucket of potatoes in the corner, skin wrinkly and tough after winter storage; the blue chairs with peeling paint; the soot-stained ceiling and timbered walls; and let out a breath of relief. “Anders never comes to the kitchen.” None of the men ever did.
“But why would you want to?” Gurine’s blue eyes peered at me.
“It wouldn’t be better anywhere else; everyone knows what happened. At least this way they’ll know I’m not ashamed.” I watched a gray kitten Gurine had let in stumble milk-drunk away from a bowl by the stove. I reached out a hand to let it sniff my fingers and felt the silken fur as it went by.
Gurine looked worried. “They might think you’re still hoping—”
“Maybe, but I can live with that.” The kitten had jumped onto the windowsill and tried to catch an orange butterfly on the other side of the glass. The cat’s childish antics made me hurt inside.
Gurine shook her head again. “You should seek service elsewhere and leave Selbu behind.”
I nodded; on this we agreed. “I hate this place.”
“Hate is a very strong word that shouldn’t be used lightly.”
“Nevertheless, I do. I am tired of always being laughed at.”
Gurine sighed, put her hand on mine, and squeezed. “Where do you want to go, then?”
“Big Brynhild says it is better in America. No one cares who your parents are. I think I could do well over there. Big Brynhild calls herself Nellie now.”
“That’s a fancy name.” Behind her on the stove, water began to bubble in a pot. It was for the potatoes. We should have peeled them long ago.