The sun sent a trickle of sweat down Torhild’s spine, but she offered a quick prayer of thanks for the green grass, which grew quickly during these long days. Every single blade in every scattered patch of grass was important. If in fall her father judged they didn’t have enough hay to see even their few animals through the winter, they’d have to butcher more than they wished.
Lisbet tucked a strand of damp hair beneath the kerchief knotted under her chin, and gave her daughter a sidelong look. “No daydreaming, Torhild.”
There was no point in telling her mother that she’d been thanking God for the recent rains that might—just might—grow enough grass to feed their animals, and let them harvest enough potatoes and turnips from their garden below to feed the small family. Torhild turned away, grabbed a handful of grass in her left hand, and swung her sickle, letting the cut blades fall to the ground. It would have to be raked and bundled and hauled to the racks, then carefully spread to dry in the sun. But not today.
“I will have to head down soon, Mother,” she said. “Remember? I’m working this afternoon at the inn.”
Lisbet regarded her wearily.
“I did tell you,” Torhild reminded her. “And I’m working tomorrow, so I’ll sleep there.” No one would mind if she bedded down in the stabbur behind the inn.
“And is sleeping all you’ll be doing after your chores are done?”
Torhild’s shoulders sagged. “It is Midsummer.”
“Oh, child.” Lisbet’s eyes were concerned. “Music, dancing, drinking …”
“It’s just a little fun.”
“I want you to have more than I have.”
“I know.” They’d had this conversation many times. But I won’t lie, Torhild thought. She wouldn’t promise not to attend the dance when she had every intention of being there.
“Don’t go,” Lisbet said. “Please, Torhild. There’s nothing for you there.”
But there is, Torhild protested silently. She needed to dance like she needed to breathe. Losing herself to the music provided the only moments when she forgot the shadows in her parents’ eyes, forgot the constant fear of going hungry. Every once in a while, if the fiddler was truly gifted, she danced to a place where she wasn’t even aware of her partner, of the steps … as if she had disappeared into a trance. It was the most wonderful feeling in the world.
“Sometimes I think the zealots are right about the fiddles,” Lisbet fretted. “That they are indeed the devil’s instrument.”
“Mother—”
“When you dance, you’re dancing with the devil!” Lisbet’s cheeks had flushed a ruddy red.
“Mother. You don’t actually believe that.”
“I did not when I was your age.” Lisbet’s eyes grew glassy. “But if the devil isn’t involved, devilish people are. Please, Torhild. Do not go.”
The grief in her mother’s eyes pricked Torhild’s heart. But I’m fifteen now, she thought stubbornly. She’d been confirmed a year ago. After making a solemn pledge to God, she was considered an adult, free to make her own decisions. And she had decided that tonight, she would attend the Midsummer dance with her cousin Gjertrud.
Torhild wished that the one thing that truly made her happy didn’t represent what most upset her mother. Her mother should understand! Torhild’s great-grandmother Gudrun had told her that Lisbet used to attend dances as well. “That’s how she met your father, did you know? He was a wonderful dancer. Once. Before.”
Before the wedding, Gudrun meant. Before a group of people who believed that fiddle music and dancing were evil had started a brawl just moments after her parents emerged from the church as a married couple. Before an angry zealot hurled Lars against one of the church boats so hard his thigh bone had snapped, and several bones in his left hand too.
The broken leg had not healed well. Lars couldn’t walk without a stick even now, and he limped badly. His fingers mended poorly too, with permanent angles God had not intended. Adding to the tragedy, Old Uncle Peder, the community’s beloved kjøgemester, had died that night. Folks said that after seeing his fiddle destroyed, and Lars badly injured, and the wedding feast ruined, his heart had simply given out.
“Your parents had such dreams,” Gudrun had said. Her hands trembled with palsy, and her voice had grown raspy, but her mind was as sharp and her gaze as direct as ever. “They were no strangers to hard work, but they knew happiness too. Briefly. Be patient with them, Torhild.”
Torhild understood. She truly did. Her father was a kind man who kept busy and didn’t complain. But it was impossible for him to heft a hoe or scythe for very long. It was impossible for him to climb ancient trails high into the mountains to fish for trout in cold streams in summer, or to hunt for the reindeer or ptarmigan that would make such a difference in the winter. It was impossible for him to pass an hour without wincing, face muscles taut, eyes hooded with pain.
That left Lisbet to do all of her chores and half of his. She didn’t complain either, but her shoulders were perpetually bowed with fatigue, her mouth pinched with frustration and worry. Torhild was an only child, and as she’d grown she’d tried to take up more and more of the burden, but times were very hard. The great herring fishery along Norway’s western coast that for years employed many Hardanger men had collapsed. Crop yields were declining on the small patchwork plots along the fjords. Famine was spreading through Norway, and many desperate people were emigrating to America.
I don’t want to go to America, Torhild thought as she sliced the curved blade through another handful of grass. I just want to go to the Midsummer dance.
And she would.
Torhild worked as long as she dared before hurrying down the steep path. She hated leaving her mother alone, but they had no choice. The coins Torhild brought home from the inn were sometimes all that stood between the family and starvation.
She began hearing the waterfall as she approached the small log building where she and her mother separated milk, churned butter, made cheese, and slept while at the seter. Her father’s father and brothers had built the stone foundation and log cabin years ago. “You’ve got enough to do without hauling water from some distant stream,” Grandfather had decreed gruffly. “And you’ll need a pool to help keep milk and cheese cool.”
“He pities us,” Lisbet had said to Lars, Torhild’s father. He had turned away without answering. Torhild had been very young, and it was the first time she recognized the disappointment in her mother’s tone, and the regret in her father’s eyes.
Well, I’m glad our seter is near the waterfall, Torhild thought now. Quickly she hauled water to the cow and their three goats, which they’d secured in the seterfjøset—a crude animal shelter—before leaving to cut hay. It was a shame to deny them pasture, but Torhild had no younger sibling to mind them, or the means to hire help. Then she packed their butter and started down the trail to Høiegård.
Torhild always loved the moment when she left the wooded path and could see the farm clearing below. The narrow meadow in front of the cabin ended on a cliff. The view made her want to dance.
Patches of rye and barley had sprouted behind the log barn, and her father was hoeing weeds. His forehead wrinkled as she approached. “What’s wrong?”
She scuffed the toe of one shoe in the dirt and shot him a quick glance. “Mother was just talking to me about the sin of dancing.”
Lars looked away. “Your mother was once a fine dancer. All the boys wanted to dance with her.”
“Yet she scolds me. She said the hardingfele is the devil’s instrument.” Torhild pinched her mouth closed, wishing she hadn’t said that last thing—not to her father, who had good reason to believe it. “I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for.” Lars hesitated, then seemed to make a decision. “Come with me.” He hobbled inside and went to his corner cupboard. “Open the door.”
Torhi
ld hesitated. These special cupboards were considered private. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, yes,” Lars said impatiently. “The bottom shelf, in the back …”
Peering inside, she saw something wrapped in an old blanket. She pulled it free and set it on the table. Lars pulled away the cloth to reveal a small wooden hardingfele case.
She eased up the lid and regarded a beautiful fiddle. “Father! Is this yours?”
“It is. It belonged to my uncle, and I once thought I’d learn to play.” He regarded his crooked fingers, shook his head. “That never came to be, but I often loan it to a friend of mine. You know Big Gunnar.”
“I do!” The fiddler’s nickname was a joke, for he was short, and skinny as a scythe handle. He visited Høiegård every once in a while, and greeted Lars warmly after church. Torhild had often heard him play at dances. “He doesn’t have a fiddle of his own?”
“He did.” Lars’s voice held an edge. “Some zealots came to his house and smashed it.”
Torhild had heard the tales. Many fiddlers in Hardanger had been visited by fanatics determined to destroy the precious instruments. Rumors even claimed that one renowned fiddle maker lived in a stone cottage high in the mountains where the believers were unlikely to find him. “Does Mother know?”
“She knew I had it, back before we married. After … after what happened, she told me to give it away. I couldn’t bring myself to.” His lips twisted in a deprecatory smile. “Then Big Gunnar lost his fiddle and couldn’t afford another, so we worked out an arrangement. He’s playing at the bonfire tonight, so he’ll be by to pick it up. If you and Lisbet are at the seter, he comes to the house. Otherwise I’ve got a spot in the stone fence by the stable where I leave it.” He fixed her with a steady gaze. “There’s no need for your mother to know.”
Torhild was astonished. How could her father have kept such a secret? Why was he telling her this now? She wanted to ask more questions … but she was out of time.
“I must get to the inn,” she said, “so I’ll put this away.” She quickly tucked the fiddle back out of sight. “And I’ll fix you something to eat before I go.” She found some brunost, and flatbread to go with the cheese, and poured her father a mug of ale. “You should eat outside. It’s dark as night in here.”
Lars accepted the plate and mug, but he didn’t retreat from the gloom. After a moment he said, “I promised your mother that I would build her a new house. Before we wed, I promised her that.”
Torhild had been about to fetch her good apron to take to work, but the pain in her father’s voice made her pause. Their house was an old årestove, with a raised open hearth in the middle of the floor providing their only source of heat and place to cook. A little light filtered through the hole in the roof, which when not in use was covered with a pig’s bladder stretched within a wooden frame. The upper parts of the windowless walls were black from years of accumulated smoke. Low earth-filled benches built against the walls were used for sitting or sleeping. Box beds had been built in two corners, short and wide and filled with straw. Torhild and her parents slept beneath sheep skins and rustling quilts filled with dried sedge grasses.
On every farm Torhild had ever visited, a newer log house with a proper chimney had been constructed decades earlier. If the årestove still stood, it was used only for big jobs like butchering or brewing. But Torhild had grown up in this house, and she gave it no particular thought. She’d helped her mother decorate the walls with fresh kroting each winter. One of Gudrun’s beautiful Hardangersaum runners graced the table. Their home was not cheerless.
For a moment now she stood still, unsure what to say or do. Then she gave her father an impulsive hug. “We have a home,” she said firmly. “Think of all those who are emigrating because they don’t.”
He kissed her cheek. “You’re a good girl. You’ll make someone a good wife one day. But I hope not too soon?”
The question embarrassed her. Her cousin Gjertrud, only a year older, was already eyeing every boy she met with interest. Torhild wasn’t ready for that. “No, Father. Not anytime soon.”
That seemed to satisfy him, for a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. “Off you go. Have fun at the dance tonight.”
Torhild hurried to meet a neighbor who’d promised to take her to Utne in his Oselvar, a small boat that could be rowed or sailed as weather dictated. He dropped her off in front of the Utne Inn and waved away her thanks. “I was going fishing anyway.” Everyone used the fjord for errands and travel, and offering transport to those in need was a common custom.
To her surprise, Gjertrud was waiting on the shore. As daughters of sisters, Torhild and Gjertrud had grown up together. Gjertrud was employed full-time at the inn, and had recommended that the proprietress hire Torhild when extra help was needed. Torhild loved having someone to share her secrets with—not that she had many! Still, whispering and giggling together as they emptied night jars and hauled kitchen scraps to the pigs lightened the tasks. Gjertrud was a pretty girl with long, wheat-colored braids and bright blue eyes. Today her cheeks were flushed rosy.
“Come!” Gjertrud grabbed her hand and towed her toward the inn. “They’re waiting for us in the kitchen.”
“Then why are you—”
“I had to tell you about the new guest! He’s come all the way from Bergen.”
“What for?” Torhild asked as they scurried around the building to the back entrance.
“He wants to learn about our music and dance! His name is Edvin Brekke. And oh, Torhild, he’s so handsome. And smart. You know how some of the guests act like they don’t even see us? Well, Edvin stopped me just to say good morning.”
“Why …” Torhild began, but they’d reached the kitchen. She’d have to hear the rest later.
Not many people visited Hardanger, and most who did traveled on foot. But Utne was a main stop on Norway’s skyss route, a long-established boat-and-stagecoach web that linked a few rural communities to each other, and to Bergen and Christiania. The Utne Inn had been established well over a century earlier to provide hospitality to those hardy adventurers who did brave the fjord region. It was a white frame building with a steep roof—simple enough, but known for outstanding hospitality. That was ensured by Torbjørg Utne, who presided over her family’s inn. Mother Utne, as she was called, had exacting standards, but she was fair—and often generous—with the girls she hired to clean, help cook, and serve.
This afternoon she set Gjertrud to shelling peas for Cook, and Torhild to cleaning cod. “Did you bring a clean blouse and apron?” Mother Utne asked.
Torhild nodded. “I did.”
“Then you will serve our guest this evening.”
Torhild pretended not to notice Gjertrud’s frustrated pout.
Later, when Torhild carefully carried a plate of baked cod with lefse and peas into the dining room, she understood why Gjertrud had hoped to serve. The newcomer sat at a table by the front window. He was perhaps twenty-five, with a thin face and sandy hair worn long. The narrow white scar curving over his right cheekbone only added a mysterious hint of adventure. He was idly tapping the tablecloth with long fingers. His fine dark-wool suit looked expensive.
No wonder Gjertrud was so excited. This man looked nothing like Hardanger’s husky, rough-palmed fishermen and farmers.
Torhild approached his table. “I have your dinner, sir.”
“Ah, yes. Thank you.”
She put the plate down and turned to go, but he circled her wrist with one hand. “No need to leave so quickly. What’s your name?”
Torhild felt his grip like a hot iron, and pulled away. She didn’t like his lazy smile any more than she liked his familiarity. “Torhild, sir.” She grudged him that only because she didn’t want him reporting a churlish serving girl to Mother Utne.
“You must call me Edvin.”
“If you’ll excuse me …” She b
acked away until she felt safe, then returned to the kitchen.
Gjertrud was waiting. “What did you think?” she whispered eagerly.
“He is handsome,” Torhild allowed. “But he is also a bit too sure of himself.”
Gjertrud flapped a dismissive hand. “You’re just not used to his city ways. Men are different in Bergen.”
And what do you know of Bergen men? Torhild wondered—but silently, because she didn’t want to argue with her cousin. “Please, Gjertrud. Watch yourself.”
When the dishes were scoured and the kitchen tidy, Mother Utne excused them for the night. Gjertrud and Torhild combed and rebraided their hair, straightened their stockings, and tied on their best aprons. Then they made their way up the hill behind the inn. A huge bonfire served as a beacon beneath the deep blue sky that would not, tonight, fade to black before brightening toward a milky dawn. It was the summer solstice.
Torhild heard Big Gunnar’s hardingfele—her father’s fiddle—calling as they approached the gathering. How sad that his own instrument had been destroyed! She felt a sudden shiver, wondering if the zealots might present themselves here to disrupt the Midsummer celebration. But she’d never seen them at a dance. Perhaps the tragedy of her parents’ wedding dissuaded local believers from accosting fiddlers in public. Much easier, she thought with disgust, to surprise a man when he was home alone.
Well, tonight was not for gloomy thoughts. Several couples were already dancing on the wooden floor that had been erected on the sloping ground. The fiddler stood on the edge of the stage. His tune beckoned new arrivals as well as those who’d already stepped into an energetic Springar, a couples dance in triple time. People—some known, some strangers—were clustered in noisy knots nearby. Men were already passing jugs, but Torhild ignored them. She just wanted to dance.
“Torhild!” A boy she’d known all her life was grinning at her, holding out his hand.
She took it without hesitation. “See you,” she called to Gjertrud, who laughed.
Fiddling with Fate Page 9