Britta may have discerned her daughter’s thoughts, for she abruptly changed the subject. “Solveig, have you ever felt that you understood something without knowing why?” Britta hesitated as if groping to find the right words. “Perhaps you sometimes get a sense of things long gone, things unseen?”
Solveig sucked in her breath. She knew all too well the snatches of prescience her mother was trying to describe. As a child, she’d been bewildered to realize that she sometimes sensed things that her companions clearly did not—overpowering sensations of long-ago happiness or grief or anger. The feeling of joyful anticipation or uneasy forboding that occasionally consumed her, and were always born out.
“I understand what that burden feels like,” Britta said. “But your father … well. This conversation is not for his ears.” She tapped the book in Solveig’s hands. “And you understand that he must never know about this.”
“I understand.” Solveig watched a golden eagle glide silently past the cliff. “Mother? Why did you marry him?”
Britta caught her breath. She glanced over her shoulder at Amalie, dutifully hoeing weeds from between fledgling rows of peas and turnips. Finally she said, “As you know, my brother Erik was killed by a rival fiddler in 1888. My parents were dead, and my other brother was already dead too. I was alone, and desperate to keep this farm from being sold. Without Erik, I could not survive here. I needed a husband.”
There must have been other choices, Solveig thought. Better than taking marriage vows with someone like Svein.
Britta picked up her knitting and began a new row. “Twenty-four years have passed since Erik was killed. I’ve been married to Svein for almost as long. He had no property of his own, so of course he moved here.”
Solveig had always known that her mother’s marriage was not a good one. Svein’s religious beliefs were more fervent than those preached by the pastor at the new Utne Church. “You would have been better off without him.”
“Not here, all alone. And in fairness, Svein has worked hard. This farm has produced more since our marriage than it ever did before. He’s carried logs here on his back, and soon we’ll have a new home.” Britta nodded. “I came close to losing this place, so I am grateful.”
“You could have left here, found work,” Solveig dared. It seemed so obvious.
But Britta looked shocked. “I couldn’t abandon this!” Her expansive gesture took in the house and barn, the fjord and ring of mountains. “I promised my mother to safeguard this holding. The thought of letting everything go was unbearable.”
“But … was keeping this farm really worth sacrificing your happiness?”
“Do not judge!” Britta snapped. Then she sighed, and let her knitting fall to her lap. “This place makes me happy. I am rooted here.”
Solveig tried to imagine how it might feel to be so rooted. Did her mother truly not dream of new possibilities? Or did she simply not dare?
“You don’t understand.” Britta’s gaze grew distant. “Erik never understood why I stayed, either. He longed to wander.”
Solveig knew well the urge to wander. To wonder what lay beyond everything comfortable and familiar.
“I do regret Svein’s harshness toward you children,” Britta added. “Your brother is lost to me, already molded in Svein’s beliefs about good and evil. But you girls … I didn’t know how it would be. You’re a clever young woman who knows how to avoid trouble. But Amalie isn’t sturdy like you older girls. I know you’ve often shielded her. I’m grateful, Solveig.”
Solveig waved that away. Keeping an eye out for Amalie’s welfare was a deeply ingrained habit.
“I wish …” Britta began, then bit her lip. “Solveig, I wish you could go to dances. I know you’ve missed things, simple harmless things, that would have made you happy.”
Music, Solveig thought, with a familiar ache of longing. More than anything she wanted to learn how to play the fiddle. But Father believed that the hardingfele was the devil’s instrument. And in her family, the topic was not philosophical. Fiddle music had been at the heart of several tragedies.
Just as frustrating, fiddling was a man’s occupation. Women might play a langeleik, a rectangular instrument with only one melody string contrasting the drone strings. A langeleik was placed flat on a table to play, unlike hardingfeles, which seemed to become an extension of the musician’s body. Playing the langeleik had never appealed to her.
But her mother’s acknowledgment of Solveig’s unattainable dream was an unexpected comfort. Although part of her was still frustrated with Britta, another part—a new part, tender as the first sprouts poking through the earth in spring—was pleased to be having such a conversation.
“That child,” Britta murmured. Solveig followed her mother’s gaze and saw Amalie squatting in the dirt with hoe lying idle.
“That’s enough talk for now,” Britta said. She stuffed her knitting away and got to her feet. “But we will look for another opportunity to talk. I don’t want to waste time, especially since you will soon leave for the seter.”
Solvieg held up the book, savoring their shared secret. “Until then, I’ll hide this away.”
When Solveig’s father and brother returned to the farm that afternoon, an unexpected guest was with them. “You’ve met Gustav Nyhus,” Father said.
“Welcome, Gustav,” Britta said. “You’ll want to spend the night, I imagine. It’s a long walk back down the mountain. Amalie, set an extra place at the table.” The words were right, but Solveig heard the sudden tension in Mother’s tone. Gustav was perhaps fifty or fifty-five years old, with a long gray beard and deep-set eyes. He had the wide tough hands of a boatman, and he always smelled of cod. The fisherman was a widower who sometimes attended the Utne Church. He and Father were friends. She’d seen them deep in conversation in the churchyard after services. And when her father held his own meetings, preaching from a stump to whomever was passing by, Gustav often joined him.
Gustav was a dour man. During the meal he showed no interest in the farm or the family. He didn’t make eye contact when Solveig served the brined herring and flatbread. Her father steered the conversation from the weather to the changing price of stockfish to the local pastor’s inadequacies. “I’ve heard plans for a Midsummer dance above Utne,” Svein said grimly. “And the pastor says nothing!”
“It’s a disgrace,” Gustav agreed.
When the table was cleared and dishes washed, Solvieg reached for her shawl. “I’ll tend the animals,” she murmured to her mother.
Gustav rose. “I’ll come with you.”
Startled, Solveig groped for words. Finally she stammered, “But—I—there’s no need to …” Then she noticed her father’s scowl. “Very well.”
They walked to the barn in silence. Solveig crossed her arms uneasily over her chest. I don’t want this, she thought, even though “this” had yet to be defined.
She didn’t expect Gustav to help milk the cows and goats, and he did not. Instead he grabbed a pitchfork and tossed animal waste onto the pile waiting to be spread on the barley and wheat patches. Neither spoke until they were walking back to the house. “Your father,” Gustav said abruptly, “believes we should marry.”
Solveig clutched the shawl more tightly around her shoulders. She waited until they had reached the house before speaking. “Thank you,” she said carefully, “but I have no wish to marry at this time.” She went inside.
That night she lay awake, listening to Amalie sleep beside her, and to the snores coming from the pallet of sheepskins and blankets Mother had made for Gustav by the raised hearth. Solveig didn’t regret what she’d told him. But she knew the matter was not closed.
When she woke the next morning, Gustav was gone. Solveig slipped from the house to begin morning chores.
This time her father followed. “Solveig,” he snapped. He grabbed her arm and jerked her around to face h
im. “I brought Gustav here for a reason.”
Solveig forced herself to meet her father’s furious gaze. “I do not wish to marry him.”
Svein gave her arm a hard shake. “You want to be a burden for the rest of your life? I feed you. I clothe you. One day your brother will take over this farm, and his wife will take charge. What will you do then?”
I’ll fly away, Solveig thought. I’ll find work in Bergen. I’ll emigrate to America. I’ll—
“God intends you to marry,” Svein muttered.
She blinked, willing back tears as his fingers bit into her skin. The wild look in his eyes frightened her. “Father, I—”
“Your perversity is a sin!” He pulled her, stumbling, to the small rowan tree growing beside the barn and broke off a narrow branch.
Ten days later, Solveig and her brother took their livestock up to the summer farm.
“It will be nice for you to be away,” Mother whispered when Solveig said goodbye. “I will come up when I can, and Amalie too.”
Solveig grabbed their oldest cow’s halter and led her to the trail. The backs of her legs still hurt, but she’d managed to wrench away from Father before he’d struck too many blows. All she wanted to do was leave the main farm, and her father, behind. The cows were eager, knowing fresh grass awaited. The sheep bleated with apparent happiness as well. The goats danced and pranced.
The procession moved up the mountain with a constant jingle-jangle of the animals’ bells. When they arrived in the high meadow, Solveig felt something tight inside ease. She loved the seter, and this year she’d been given responsibility for the summer farm.
Her brother stayed only one night. “I’ll be back on Saturday to pick up your butter and cheese,” he told her the next morning as he shrugged into a pack basket. He lifted one hand in farewell and strode down the trail.
“Well.” Solveig turned back to the low log building where she would work and cook and sleep this summer. Everything needed cleaning, but soon enough she’d have her buckets and churns, strainers and paddles, bowls and ambars arranged on the shelves just where she needed them.
First, though, she wanted to hide the book her mother had given her. In the past week or so they’d snatched a few quiet minutes when Svein was elsewhere. Britta shared a story, and Solveig wrote it down. It took a long time. But these stolen moments with her mother made Solveig content. And her mother’s ability to save a bit back from the family account, and secretly buy the notebook, had given Solveig an idea. In the fall, after she closed the seter, she’d be expected to take some of the cheese and butter to sell in Utne. If Mother can take some money for herself, Solveig thought, I can too. The prospect of saving even a few kroner was tantalizing. And she would ask the pastor for an attest—a letter of recommendation she could use if she one day looked for work in Bergen … or even America.
Now she considered where to hide the book of stories. Her father might visit the seter at any time to bring supplies or check production or patch a leaky roof. Best to get into the habit of securing the book out of sight.
The back room of the cabin had been built against the mountain wall, which helped keep cheese and milk cool. Over the years a few broken domestic tools had been shoved into a far corner, including an old churn with dry staves. “This will do,” Solveig murmured. She lifted the dasher and lid, peered inside … and her jaw dropped with astonishment. Standing inside the hollow churn was a small wooden fiddle case.
She pulled the case free, carried it into the main room, and opened the lid to reveal the hardingfele. Where did you come from? she demanded silently. But almost as quickly, she knew. This must be the fiddle once owned by her long-dead Uncle Erik, who’d inherited it from his grandfather, Lars. Her mother must have hidden it here when she married Svein. Solveig had always assumed that Erik’s fiddle was long gone, perhaps even destroyed. It pleased her to imagine her mother defiantly tucking away Erik’s hardingfele.
And now, Solveig thought with a sense of awe, it is mine. The spruce fingerboard had been overlaid with horn, and she traced a finger over the precise pattern formed by imbedded pieces of clam shell. She turned the fiddle to better see the intricate designs inked on the curving sides.
But after so many years of neglect, the instrument was warped. The thin wood held several small cracks. The brittle strings had snapped. Solveig had no idea how to bring the instrument back to life.
Nonetheless, she was determined to try.
Twenty-Four
Hardingfele music haunted Chloe’s dreams. The final chord didn’t fade until she woke that morning.
It was very early, but sunlight was streaming through the window and she felt restless. The news about Amalie that Roelke’d shared the night before had kept her awake. Most exciting was establishing Amalie as a one-time resident of the general Utne area. But the farm name listed—Fjelland—was meaningful too. Mountainous, Chloe thought again. The name conjured high meadows and stupendous views. It explained why she’d chosen to go to college in West Virginia, why she’d loved Switzerland, why the Hardangerfjord felt like home.
She had a new plan. Her primary goal had shifted from finding some record of Amalie to connecting with a living relative. Chloe wanted to identify the location of the farm where Amalie had been born. That meant finding a Bygdebok—a book written about the history of a specific Norwegian community. Her mom, über genealogist, had often talked about the wealth of information contained in Bygdebøker, including who lived where, and when they lived there. With luck, Chloe thought, the local library will have copies of Bygdebøker for the region.
With more luck, Amalie’s childhood home might still be in the family.
But the library wouldn’t be open for hours. Chloe sat up and considered her sleeping fiancé. She didn’t want to disturb him, but after five minutes of fighting the twitchies, she gave up. “Roelke? Are you awake?”
“Not really,” he mumbled. But he stretched, knuckled his eyes, and sat up with his usual Let’s go alertness. His ability to wake up quickly was a trial for Chloe, who preferred to hit the snooze button four or five times before accepting the inevitable.
Today, though, it came in handy. “I can’t sleep, and they haven’t started serving breakfast downstairs yet. Want to go for a walk? I’d like to go up to the old dance site Reverend Brandvold told us about. I can go by myself if—”
“Nope.” Roelke tossed the sheet aside. “Let’s go.”
They left the hotel dressed for hiking and, once on the high road, had no trouble finding the path. It skirted an orchard where apple trees had been pruned into narrow columns. The air was perfumed by creamy pink-tinged blossoms, and a small bird lilted a song nearby. The still morning felt fresh. “I’m going to start getting up early every day,” Chloe vowed.
“Sure you are,” Roelke said, but without malice.
Beyond the orchard the trail wound into the forest, easing into a series of switchbacks. Fifteen minutes later they emerged into a rocky clearing. “This must be it!” Chloe said.
“There’s the platform.” Roelke strode over to inspect the crumbling wooden structure. “What’s left of it, anyway. Do not try to climb on that.”
Already enchanted, Chloe didn’t need to climb on anything. She quivered with the joyful energy left by generations of people who’d barely scraped a living from the rugged landscape. This is what I need to capture back in Stoughton, she thought. How important music and dance were to rural people who worked hard for every morsel. Closing her eyes, Chloe heard a hardingfele’s call, heavy shoes pounding against the wooden floor, laughter and voices. She smelled woodsmoke from a crackling bonfire, sensed the anticipation of courting couples exchanging knowing glances in the blue twilight—
“You still with me?” Roelke’s voice penetrated the vision.
She blinked back to the moment. “Yes. I was just imagining everything.” She pointed beyond the danc
e floor to a spot overgrown with ferns and shrubby evergreens. “The men built bonfires there.”
“It’s happening again, isn’t it. Just like in Kinsarvik.”
“Yes.” She nodded. “And at the barn at the Voss Folkemuseum. I think some of my ancestors might have come here to dance.”
“Do you want to linger, or head back down?”
Much as she did want to linger, Chloe cocked her head toward the trail. “Let’s go get some breakfast, then head to the library. I want to identify Amalie’s farm!”
Two hours later, Chloe checked her watch for the seventeenth time. “They’re late.”
“It’s three minutes till the hour,” Roelke said. “Try to be patient, sweetie.”
The Utne Library was a gracious white frame building just down the road from the hotel. Chloe and Roelke waited on the front step. Amalie may have stood right here, Chloe thought. She was getting closer and closer to some real answers.
Finally the door opened and an elderly gentleman who walked with a cane welcomed them inside. “I’m from America, looking for family records,” she explained.
He clearly wanted to help, but when his English proved inadequate, he enlisted the aide of another librarian, a pretty young woman with a funky asymmetric hairstyle. She wore a linen suit, impossible heels, and the assured confidence of a recent college graduate.
Chloe showed her Amalie’s baptism information. “I’m hoping to find her farm. Is there a Bygdebok for the area?”
The librarians led them to a shelf, and the young woman pulled out a book and read the title page: “‘Odda, Ullensvang, and Kinsarvik, in old and new times.’ There are nine volumes.”
“Nine?” Chloe echoed, hoping she’d misunderstood.
“The series covers the whole district,” the young woman explained. “They didn’t do a book for each little parish. And there’s a lot of information. Each study began with the earliest available tax records, and then church records were added.”
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