And those cows. No matter how often she emptied their udders, they always filled with milk again. Again and again, twice a day, forever and ever. She had no say in what happened at the farm. The seasons, the animals, and her boys' nature determined everything. The wind keened when it vibrated in the metal strip in the front door. The sound struck a chord at her temples. Soon they would throb.
Charlotte reached into the old woman's juniper canister and took out a handful of the needle-like leaves and dried berries. She ran to the smoke house, ducked to enter, and fastened the door from the inside with a block of wood at the top. She leaned against the wall, so that the piled sod cushioned her shoulders and the lava rock probed her vertebrae. A leg of smoked lamb hung above the fireplace, and the cold hard smell of moist earth rose from the packed floor.
Her head throbbed, an animal trying to break out of prison. She reached into her pocket for her mother's old letter, the one she'd saved for years because it gave her hope, and placed it on the manure chips in the fireplace. Around it, she scattered the juniper leaves and berries, then took a wooden match from the box on the lava rock ledge. She struck the match and touched the flame to the corner of the paper, watched the fire curl around her mother's foolish words. She's alive. As the fire released the juniper aroma, she leaned forward and breathed deeply until the headache released her temples.
A canister of cream from the morning milking stood on the floor. The old woman must have brought it here. Charlotte peered into the churn, saw some leftover cream, grasped the handle, and sloshed it up and down, until it finally clotted into yellowish lumps. She scraped the butter off the sides of the churn.
Old People Talk to Cows
Charlotte and the old woman were sipping daisy tea from coffee-stained mugs. The hinge of the bedroom door squeaked, and Henrik stood in the doorway, his eyes puffy with sleep. His underpants hung by one button from his undershirt. In one arm he held his eyeless teddy bear. Bone King, he called it. Her mother had sent it.
He sat down at the table, and the old woman made him breakfast. He pushed the thick gray oatmeal cereal down with his spoon so that the milk rushed into the hollows like the lakes in a glacier. With his other hand, he scratched his head. The old woman came up behind him, pulled apart two handfuls of hair, and talked into his scalp.
"I see you in there, you devils."
From the shelf, she took her mixture of butterwort leaves and margarine. She made it from the sticky plant that grew alongside the road and trapped insects on its leaves. Holding Henrik's head firmly against her belly, she rubbed the salve into the boy's scalp. He jerked his head away.
"Still, boy."
From the cage of her embrace, he called. "Raisins."
"They'll give you lice," the old woman said.
Charlotte stirred a second bowl of oatmeal for Henrik. Then she fetched a handful of raisins from the pantry. Henrik set the raisins down on the table. He took one and dropped it onto a peak of oatmeal.
"This is the farm. Now I'm traveling to Reykjavík. Hop. Hop. Hop. Then onto the ship," he sang.
He picked some raisins out of the milk. Charlotte knew he'd take them to the tussocks and feed them to his bones. The old woman needn't look so sour. She didn't know about the special meaning of raisins during war, how you could wake up in the middle of the night dreaming about touching their wrinkled little skins and mincing their sweetness between your front teeth.
For the old woman the war had meant some German Heinkels strafing the land, dropping an occasional bomb, taking a village boy's leg off. When the Hudsons flew out to sea, you knew a German torpedo had found its mark. Survivors hung onto the ship's wreckage, unlikely to be saved.
"We had so little to eat. That's why I spoil the boy with raisins," Charlotte said.
"We were lucky. Kids got goodies, learned how to chew gum and eat chocolate at the same time. And the smoking—" The old woman rolled her eyes at the memory of vanished bliss, dropped her voice to a whisper. "A tipsy girl could straddle a man in a Quonset hut without falling off—but it took practice."
Charlotte had seen some children in the village who looked a little different from the other villagers. "War's never easy," she said.
After Gisela's last visit, Charlotte stopped writing her friend for a while. Then gradually she started again, rarely mentioning how the wind had taken the roof off the shed or how they'd lost a cow, recording instead for Gisela every detail about Berlin from her mother's letters. Like nourishment she took in Gisela's news of stores on the Kurfürstendamm, rebuilt churches, and how the bombed-out front tower of the Kaiser Wilhelm church was left unrestored as a reminder of the war.
Charlotte carried Gisela's latest letter down the cow path to the meadow, leaned into the wind, held the paper with both hands and reread descriptions of Gisela's sister's picnic in a park in the American zone. It had been hot. Not a leaf moved on the trees. If Charlotte closed her eyes, she could see it and feel it. Touching Gisela's letter in her pocket, she walked quickly back to the farmhouse. She sat down at the desk and wrote.
My mother writes that a lot of the flowers are still in bloom in Berlin. The Lustgarten must be so beautiful. Hmmm, I can almost smell the lilacs and elder.
About Lena, my mother goes to the Red Cross every day, looking for her. I don't think she'll find her, but then what if she did? What would I say to her? "I'm sorry I gave you away to the nuns." If she's one of those smart types who does her fingernails and talks about hemlines, I wouldn't know how to talk to her.
Charlotte
The pen felt thick between her fingers. She rubbed her aching eyelids. Her mood spiraled downward into a new mystery. Would she discover a daughter and mourn a lost baby?
She addressed the envelope and sealed it, placed it next to the letter to her mother. Ragnar would make a trip to the village next week.
In the cowshed, Ragnar's and Tryggvi's pants lay soaking in the tub. She rubbed Tryggvi's pants over the washboard until her knuckles stood out cold and red.
It will be all right. Tryggvi will ride into the mountains on Red.
She fed the pants into the wringer, watched the thick gray water ooze out of them, talked to the water.
I won't lose him like Lena.
Henrik stood in the doorway, holding a small bucket of potatoes. He was staring at her. He set his bucket down, and one of the potatoes rolled across the floor. He ran after it, picked it up and disappeared into one of the cow stalls. She heard him talking quietly to himself, then raising his voice, then edging into shrillness.
Io. Io. I pray every night that God will make you human again.
Wiping her hands on her apron, she went to him. He had both hands on the stall railing and tears glistened on his cheeks. She put her arms around his shoulders, rested her chin on his hair. "Who are you talking to?" she asked.
He shrugged himself free.
"Nobody."
"Do you sometimes talk to Skjalda?"
He pulled his head forward then back, knocking against her chin.
"Only old people talk to cows!"
"I see," she said, rising to her feet.
He followed her to the washroom, approached the tub, and put his muddy fingers into the water.
"Stop it."
He jumped back. Together, they carried the basket of clothes to the clothesline. Solemnly, he held up Ragnar's pants for her. She clipped them to the line. Holding the empty basket, Henrik led the way to the house. When had she begun to follow her children?
The Tug of the Ocean
The fog pushed against the windows. In the hall, Tryggvi and Ragnar spoke in the quick, hard voices of people preparing to leave. Charlotte held her cup of coffee with both hands, felt its warmth against her chest, and followed them out to the steps.
She pictured the sheep skittering away at the sight of them. Tryggvi and Ragnar would surround them, so they had no place to go but down the mountain toward the sheep pens for sorting. Charlotte could foresee the horror the lambs faced once
they arrived back at the farm where they'd been born back in April.
Henrik would begin crying at the sight of Nonni of Butterdale, striding across the tussocks cradling his gun. One shot to the head, and the skinny legs would buckle. The old woman would catch the blood in a pot. In slaughter season everything became guts, fat, and fleece. The old woman would take the intestines to a separate cutting board and press out the filth, then wash them. Ragnar would treat the heads with respect. He would cleave them down the middle to form two halves. Outside he'd singe off every scrap of wool. After he'd removed the brain, he'd wash and brush the heads, and place them in the old woman's pot, flat side down. They'd simmer in a frothy brew, steaming up the windows.
Thinking of Tryggvi's trip to the mountains and all its consequences, she wished he wouldn't go. It wasn't worth the risk. But even if he didn't go, the smell of hot sheep eyes and singed skin would still fill every corner of the house. When the old woman lifted the lid of the pot to skim off the froth, Charlotte would picture life inside a ewe's womb. At Sunday dinner, they'd eat the heads served cold with mashed carrots and turnips.
Charlotte stood on the steps shifting her weight, wishing they'd leave soon, so she could begin waiting for them to come back. Finally, father and son each raised a hand in a goodbye gesture. In the horses' quivering rumps, in the thickest part of their twitching tails, she foresaw a hard trip up the mountain, horse and rider slipping, hurtling faster and faster downhill. Her child's broken body would land on a cold ledge, next to the skeleton of the old woman's soldier.
The fog closed around the horses' tails, then seemed to wrap itself around the hillside.
"Hair of the hidden people," the old woman said.
The horses wouldn't see the earthquake rifts and chasms. The earth changed itself, so that it could trick creatures and trap them in its innards.
The old woman reached into her pocket and held up dried berries between thumb and forefinger. "Chew it."
Charlotte took some. The old woman popped the rest into her own mouth.
For a long time, they stood on the steps, moving their mouths over the bitter skins, grinding the hard little seeds that stuck in their teeth. The fog had thinned into wisps, streaking the green hillside with tufts like sheep's wool caught on barbed wire against a green pasture.
"May God bless the hidden people—our friends," the old woman said, crossing herself. But Charlotte knew how she meant it. If Tryggvi or Ragnar needed help, the hidden people would emerge from the mist, arms outstretched. She'd learned that from Henrik.
He clutched her skirt. "Next year I want to go with them."
She vowed to keep him close all day. That afternoon, he helped her with the wool. He soon grew tired and sat in front of her, the skein looped over his sagging, out-stretched arms.
"Almost done," she said, chasing the wool around his arms while he stared disconsolately at the living room wall. But suddenly he sat up straight and pointed at Max's small painting of the market place in Berlin. The skein of yarn fell to the floor.
"It's moving," he said, covering his eyes, then peering at the painting through his fingers. "It's me. I'm running away from that thing."
"Silly boy," she said, picking up the yarn.
Then she raised her eyes to the painting and tried to see what he saw. He was right. The green and white figure was chasing the small white one.
His eyes blazed. "You left me alone at the market."
"It's not you."
But she sensed that he didn't really mean me, but somebody so close to him that it hurt.
She placed an arm over his shoulders, drew him close. "I won't leave you."
He cuddled against her breast. "Tell me a story."
She took a deep breath.
"Tom was a lonely farmer who lived on a cliff by the sea."
"Like Papa?"
"Papa's not exactly lonely—doesn't talk much—but not lonely."
"But he's a farmer," Henrik said, putting his thumb into his mouth, leaning against her, sucking vigorously.
"One day, Tom was walking home across the moor. He'd been cutting grass in the outer fields. Down below the ocean crashed on the rocks. He saw the tide was coming in. Then he saw something he'd never seen in that place before. A figure sat on a rock. It appeared to be a woman wearing a hood and looking out to sea. The waves rose higher. He hurried down the hill. Soon the rock would be covered, and the woman would be washed away.
"He ran to her, caught her arm, but she moved away, tried to fling herself into the water.
"He grabbed the hood, but she got away and slid into the sea. Tom was left standing there, holding the hood.
"The next day he walked past the ocean. Again she sat on the rock. He climbed over the rocks toward her. When she saw him, she wailed, 'Give me back my hood.'
"Her red hair blew around her face. Her green eyes matched the color of the sea on a sunny day.
"'Only if you come home with me and marry me.'
"She wailed again. But he wouldn't give it back. 'Marry me, and I'll give you back your hood.'
"He extended his hand, and together they walked up the hill to his farm. He led her into his kitchen, brought her a chair, and made her some tea. When she raised the cup to her lips, he saw the webbed fingers for the first time. He was fascinated. He watched her drink the tea and decided she was beautiful. He even liked the small stiff hairs that grew at the corners of her mouth."
Henrik sat up straight, extended his arms, and spread his fingers.
"The next day he brought her to the church. But after the wedding ceremony, on the way back to the farm, she stopped, looked at him and said, 'Give me back my hood.'
"'No—later, after we've been married for a while.' She didn't ask again. She was also in love. Besides she knew where the hood was—she'd seen Tom lock it in the big chest at the top of the stairs. At first she thought about it, but gradually she forgot about it.
"Soon she was expecting their first child. The woman was so happy to have a little daughter that she almost forgot about the hood. Her next child was a fine boy. The time she spent with her two small children was the happiest time of her life.
"But one day, when she was reading to the children, a barking sound came from the sea. The woman ran to the window. For the first time in many years, she remembered the hood and ran up the steps to the chest. But, of course, it was locked. She cried and frightened the children. At last, their father came back from the fields.
"'Mamma isn't well,' the little girl whispered to him.
"That night there was a knock at the door. The little boy opened it. On the steps stood one of the men from the village.
"'We've just killed three seals. Can you help us skin them?' he asked the boy's father.
"But before Tom could speak, their mother made a hoarse barking sound in the back of her throat. The children began to cry. Their mother ran past the villager out the door. They called to her, but she ran towards the beach. They all ran after her. Finally they found her on the beach staring at the bodies of the three seals.
"She bent down and closed the seals' eyes and made a sign of the cross over them.
"Then she fainted. Tom picked her up and carried her home. He put her to bed and heated some milk for her. Her son and daughter rubbed her cold feet and prayed that she would get well and be their mother again.
"Finally she got well. She took care of her children, made food for them, played games with them, read to them. But then it happened again. A barking sound came from the ocean, and she ran upstairs to the chest, but this time it was unlocked. The children heard her rummaging through the things in the chest. At last, she appeared. She wore a tight-fitting gray hood on her head. Her head resembled an animal's head.
"'Mamma, you look funny,' the little girl said.
"'She looks like a seal,' the boy said.
"But when they saw her face, they stopped laughing. Her lip was quivering. The long hairs around her mouth twitched. Without speaking, she went fir
st to the girl—straightened her hair, then to the boy—stroked his cheek. They wrinkled their noses because suddenly she smelled of fish. Then she walked out the door.
"They missed her terribly. The father did his best to raise the children. When they were old enough, he taught them to fish from a little boat in the inlet. But they always longed for their mother. Then one day, they went out too far on their boat. The wind came up, and they couldn't get back to shore. They clung to the sides of the boat crying.
"A seal swam up to the boat and began circling it, never taking its round black eyes off the children. She sang these words, 'Pity me. For I have two children on the land and two in the sea.' They lost their fear and brought the boat back to shore. When they looked out to sea, they saw the seal's profile against the horizon."
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