by Margi Preus
“Once, there was a queen,” I begin, by way of explaining our predicament, “whose nose began to bleed. As she looked at the red blood on the white snow, she said, ‘If I had a daughter as white as snow and red as blood, it wouldn’t matter at all about my sons.’ The next thing she knew, she had a daughter, but her twelve sons turned into wild ducks and flew away.”
I look at Spinning Girl. “Maybe you were bewitched like that,” I muse. “If there was some way to make you all the way human again, what would it be?”
Of course there is no answer to that.
“In the case of the boys-who-were-ducks,” I continue, “it all hinged on bog cotton.” I toss a bit of fluff in the air and watch it get carried away by the breeze. “In order to break the enchantment, the daughter had to pick enough bog cotton to weave each of her brothers a waistcoat, scarf, and cap. She managed her task, impossible as it was. She turned all her brothers back into humans, although one of them still had a wing because of an unfinished sleeve.”
I turn to Spinning Girl. “It seems our task is as impossible as that, for somehow or other we have to find the goatman and get to the farm—and soon!”
Spinning Girl is not looking at me. Her eyes are cast down, and I follow her gaze. At our feet, in the white moss, is a drop of blood, red on the white reindeer moss. At first I think perhaps my nose has begun to bleed, but ahead of us there is another spot of blood. And ahead, another. And there, spattered on a flat stone. And there, a red stain on a patch of old snow, and on and on like this we go, following the drops of red on the moss and stones and snow.
And then—I almost let out a cry—a clump of alders, a patch of daisies, an opening in the woods. A place I recognize.
Here is a stone. Just a stone, but placed just so. It has no words carved on it, but even so, I recognize it. Under this very ground is where my mama lies.
I’ve never really understood why Mama wasn’t buried in the churchyard, but Papa said here was best anyway. Here we could visit her every day, and she could keep an eye on our doings.
Below us is the log cottage where we lived then. The smell of it wafts up the hill to me. It seems as if I can smell the hay in the barn and the cows and the new spring grass all dotted over with violets, and in the house the cold fireplace and the musty trunk, empty now, of course. I can smell it all and more. I can smell all the way back to my childhood.
It even seems for a moment that I can hear the scrape of chairs on the floor of the house, and the rustle of skirts. And women’s voices, hushed and intent.
Behind the voices, the distant lowing of cows, the cry of a rooster, a child’s ceaseless wailing. And an old woman sitting at the hearth, heating something over the fire.
I shake this strange memory away and tell Spinning Girl, “Stay here awhile.” She slumps onto the grass gratefully.
Then it’s only a short walk before I look down on Aunt and Uncle’s farm. The buildings of the farm below make a kind of circle around a central yard, which I can’t see from this angle but where I know there is a well, and worn paths from the house to the barn, from the house to the privy, from the house to the storehouse and the cow barn, the drying house, goat house, henhouse, woodshed, potato cellar, toolshed—all the outbuildings.
I might have been the mistress here one day myself if Papa had been born a few moments earlier. But Papa was not the eldest twin, and it’s the eldest son who inherits the farm—that’s the law. Still, Papa stayed on the farm as a cotter—an extra hand—until Mama died. Then the farm fell on hard times and couldn’t support us all. And why was that? Not for lack of soil or livestock; it was Aunt, who squandered anything extra on fine things for her daughters. “Their dowries,” she claimed, and filled their chests with linen tablecloths, pewter candlesticks, butter presses, ale bowls, lace curtains, and crisp, white aprons while our little family went hungry.
I creep down the hill and crouch behind a barrel in the shade of the cow barn, keeping my eyes peeled for Svaalberd. A lift of the lid and a dunk of a finger is all it takes to discover the barrel’s contents: beer. There are two barrelsful, which is something to wonder over. Another thing to wonder over is where everyone is. The farm seems strangely quiet, but perhaps they are all out in the fields, engaged in some chore.
Shh! There goes the goatman, creeping from chicken house to hay shed. As soon as he’s inside, I race across the yard and dart into the house.
No one is home, but what is this? The table is laid with a new lace tablecloth. On top of that sits the largest tub of sour-cream porridge I’ve ever seen. Surrounding it are
—platters heaped high with flatbread and rounds of crisp knäkkebrød;
—thinly sliced cured ham, smoked mutton, and spiced sausages;
—an enormous plate of scrambled eggs flecked with bright specks of green chives;
—a vat of pea soup;
—tiny new carrots and peas, steamed and glossy with freshly churned butter;
—and cakes of all kinds: almond, marzipan, and one slathered with whipped cream and dotted all over with cherries and plums (now one plum less)
and everything as pretty as can be.
I can’t stop staring at it all. But there’s movement out the window, and I duck down by the table. A glance tells me that Svaalberd is hobbling across the farmyard. He stops and swings his head from side to side, whether from puzzlement or pain, I cannot say. While I wait for him to decide where he’s headed, I slice into the marzipan cake and take a piece. It is so soft and sweet, something I have only heard of, never tasted, and I wonder how this abundance has come to pass.
In the story of the girl and the bear, when the girl left the bear’s castle to go home to visit her family, she found them living in splendor. They had everything they wished for: food and fine things and so much joy that there was no end to it.
I stare again at the table laden with food. At the fresh white tablecloth. The pretty lace curtains. The piece of cake in my hand. Is it enchanted, this cake? And all of this? Magic that will turn into vapor at any moment?
Just in case, I stuff the rest of the piece in my mouth.
With a start, I see that Svaalberd is stomping in my direction. I climb out the opposite window, alighting on the grass on the far side of the house.
Now, here’s an odd thing: All of my cousins’ everyday dresses are spread out in the grass as if the girls had been napping there and suddenly disappeared, leaving their dresses behind. Here their white stockings are lying like puddles of dirty snow. And here their everyday aprons. There’s a sour taste in my mouth now, like you might get if the cake you just ate was baked from deviltry.
Then I notice the buckets and the soap and the cloths for drying, and realize they must have been washing here and left their clothes to dry in the sun. There is a lump of soap right there, probably the very soap I helped make out of ashes and tallow but never was allowed to use. Well. As I’ve now become a thief, I don’t see the harm in taking one more thing, especially something I made myself. Into the sack it goes.
Peeking around the corner, I watch as Svaalberd exits the house and crosses the yard. That is when I notice something that explains everything: several long tables lined up end to end in the middle of the yard, all covered neatly in crisp white tablecloths, the edges fluttering in the breeze.
And then I know where everyone is.
Past the tables, down the hillside, winding along the road from the valley below, comes a moving river of dark colors and white splotches. The dark colors are men’s jackets and women’s skirts; the white splotches are the women’s bright aprons and blouses. I can hear the fiddle now; its happy tones waft up the hill toward the farm.
Even from this distance, the glint and glimmer of the bridal crown makes me catch my breath. A bridal crown! Which of my cousins is the lucky bride? I wonder. I squint and pull at the corners of my eyes to see which girl it is, but all I can see is the glittering of the silver crown upon her head. However did Aunt pay for that? And how did she pay
for the pounds of rice and raisins and sugar for the pudding and the barrels of beer? She would have had to sell something. But what did she have left to sell?
What looks like every living soul in the valley troops along behind the newly married couple up toward the farm, where they will have a feast of sausages, pea soup, and pudding, the beer from the barrels in the shade of the barn, and the cake with one slice missing.
The crunch of footfalls sends my heart catapulting into my throat. Svaalberd! Where is he now? I peek around the side of the house and see him crossing to the privy. Well, I know what to do about that!
The very moment he steps inside, I run across the yard, slam the door, and throw shut the iron latch—the latch that works only from the outside and that keeps the door from banging on windy days or lets others know the little house is unoccupied.
Just in time, too, because the procession is nearing the farm.
Then I race across the yard and fling myself under the table. In the meantime, old Goatbeard pounds with his fists, cursing a blue streak. But the fiddler plays, the women are “Don’t you look fine?”–ing, the men “Oh is that so?”–ing. Children chase each other in play, shrieking with delight. Not a soul hears poor old Svaalberd banging on the outhouse door.
By lifting one corner of the tablecloth, I have quite a good view of the proceedings: There is Aunt, her face flushed with triumph as she nods smugly to the women, smiles haughtily at the men, and laughs indulgently at the children, who are wiping their sweaty faces on the table linens. And there are my cousins, trying to out-pretty each other in front of the boys. Meanwhile Greta runs back and forth, carrying trays and plates and bowls from the house to the tables.
Aunt invites the guests to the table and then turns to the parson. “Will you lead us in the table prayer, Reverend?” she asks ever so sweetly.
Everyone bows their heads in preparation for prayer. Even Svaalberd is quiet. Perhaps he’s praying someone will let him out.
I suppose I should be praying, too, and praying for all I’m worth, but I’m watching for Greta. And here she comes out of the house carrying the marzipan cake—Aunt’s eyes flash toward the missing slice, then narrow to slits as she stares at Greta.
The parson begins his prayer: “Gracious God in heaven.”
“The devil in blackest hell!” a voice calls from the outhouse.
Heads remain bowed, although eyes flicker upward. Still, the parson goes on. “We humbly beseech you—”
“By Lucifer, open this cursed door!” Svaalberd shouts.
“—to bless these thy gifts—” continues the parson.
“Curse you to all eight hells!” Svaalberd hollers and, with a crash and a clatter, bursts open the door. Out he flies, head-first like a billy goat, and runs down the little slope and comes charging, arms spinning, into the crowd.
Uncle steps aside to avoid being knocked down, and the wild-eyed goatman flies past him, then staggers about in the middle of the farmyard, his face purple with rage. He curses, shakes his shaggy head, and waves his bloody, bandaged hand.
“You wretched lot who locked me in the privy should be ashamed!” he cries.
The wedding guests stand as if turned to stone.
“Here I have come now to seek restitution. That girl you sold me turned out to be a worthless wench who never did a decent day’s work.” (That is a lie.) “She stole my money.” (That is true.) “And she—”
Aunt interrupts him. “You must have done something to deserve it, you old goat,” she says.
“What did I do to deserve this?” he screams, flinging off his bandages and waving his bloody stumps at the crowd. Blood spatters on white blouses and aprons. Women shriek; men back away; children cower.
Only Aunt stands her ground. “Now, Svaalberd,” she says, “you’d best go home and take care of that wound. You can see we’ve got a festive occasion—”
“Which you’ve spent plenty on, by the look of it; I can see that, all right!” he shouts. “Festivity or no, I need a new girl. I’ll take”—he points one of his mutilated fingers at the bride, who clings, trembling, to her new husband, also trembling—“that one.”
“She’s only just married,” Aunt says.
“Then this one,” Svaalberd says, seizing Katinka’s long braid.
“No!” Aunt cries, rushing to her. “She’ll be married herself soon.”
Meanwhile, I’m scrambling along under the long table as fast as I can go, my eyes on the far end, at Greta’s little white stockings surrounded by grown-up legs. In the meantime, I can hear Svaalberd making his way along the line of girls toward Greta.
Aunt has an excuse for each one:
“She’s half-deaf.”
“This one’ll never give you a day’s work.”
“That one’s lame.”
“I need a girl to replace the one who’s run away!” Svaalberd shouts. “I need a girl!”
“You can have the youngest,” Aunt says. “You can have Greta.”
Which one of us, I wonder, wriggling along—all bruised knees and pounding heart—which one of us, me or the goatman, will reach her first?
“Where is she, then?” Svaalberd booms.
I imagine everyone’s head swiveling, looking around for tiny Greta, so easily swallowed up in a sea of adults. So much smaller than you’d think for a girl of eight.
“Why”—it’s Aunt’s voice again—“she was there just a moment ago.”
I see Aunt’s hand reaching for the edge of the tablecloth.
“Again you try to cheat me!” Svaalberd roars.
The tablecloth is thrown back, and while Greta and I cling to each other, we catch glimpses of Svaalberd choking Aunt, then Uncle leaping onto the goatman’s back. The goatman twists and turns and finally manages to fling Uncle into the watering trough.
Some men rush to help Uncle, others try to subdue Svaalberd, while still others have cracked the beer barrels and are quaffing their thirst while taking bets on the outcome.
Chairs are overturned, the porridge pot upended. Chickens come scuttling to peck at the crusts and crumbles that spill from the table. Even a goat prances over, climbs a chair, and is now on the table munching something. The almond cake, most like.
In the meantime, Greta and I make our long way under the tables to the end closest to the trees.
“Little sister,” I say to her. “We are going to America.”
She nods yes. Yes! she nods.
“Do you need to get anything before we leave?” I whisper.
She shakes her head no. It’s a stab to my heart that in the midst of all this plenty, she has nothing to fetch.
“Well,” I whisper, “we’re not leaving without some of this feast!”
Out we jump and join the chickens, who are grabbing cardamom buns, sliced ham, and sausages. Into the sack it all goes, and Greta and I head for the trees.
The beer has done its work, for men are throwing punches at each other, settling old scores. The bridegroom has joined the beer drinkers, and the bride is slumped in a chair, weeping. This is the last thing I see as Greta and I, our sack stuffed with food and treasure, dash into the woods on the far side of the farm. And the last thing I hear ringing in my ears is my Aunt’s shrill voice yelling, “There they are! The two girls! There they go!”
The Golden Wreath
ow fine would it be to have the winds carry you to the far corners of the earth, or anywhere you want to go, like they did for the girl in the story?
Or even to run, as you might imagine you would escape, through the cow pasture, then through the aspen grove, leaves flickering above you, and finally out into the sunny meadow, startling up swallows that swoop and wheel.
If you think that’s how it goes, then you have forgotten about Spinning Girl, whom we have retrieved from the cotter’s hut and now coax and cajole along as best we can.
Instead of running, we stumble, while I cast glances over my shoulder, expecting the entire wedding party to catch up to us at any momen
t. But we are small girls, and we find little grottoes and hiding places along the way. When the pursuers get too close, we duck within a cluster of big boulders.
Tucked in the cool shadows, we barely breathe. I clamp my hand over Spinning Girl’s keys to keep them still, while Greta holds a finger to her lips.
There are shouts and the pounding of feet, which run past us and away. Finally, after the voices fade, we three girls creep out from our hiding spot and start off again, moving west.
In a meadow near a small lake, we plop ourselves down on the heather. The sun is just a red-gold globe hovering low in the sky, so it must be very late. This time of year, the sun will barely sink below the horizon before it pops back up again.
Out of the sack comes the tablecloth. The cloth is spread with the spoils of the wedding feast, and oh! we’re as hungry as bears. While we stuff ourselves with sausages and cake, I explain to Greta what I know about Spinning Girl, and I tell her how things went at the goatman’s farm. Not all of it, but some.
Meanwhile, Spinning Girl weaves wreaths of primroses and bluebells. She’s handy with her fingers, that one. When she’s finished, she places a wreath on each of our heads.
“What I have been wondering over,” Greta says, “is how we are going to get to America.”
“Oh, as to that,” I tell her, “I have it all thought out.” I don’t, of course, but there’s no need to tell Greta that. “All we need,” I continue, “is a golden apple, a golden spinning wheel, and a golden carding comb, like the girl in the story had.”
“We have lots of golden things,” Greta says, gesturing to the meadow around us. “Look!”
In the yellow twilight, every tassel, frond, pine needle, speck of moss, and shred of heather is tipped with silver or threaded with gold. The lake beyond gleams like a plate of hammered copper. And just over the rise beyond the lake, the sun glows—“like Soria Moria Castle,” I say. “And that’s the direction we have to go to get to America.”
“Soria Moria,” she repeats, and peers off that way as if she might catch a glimpse of it. Then she exclaims, “But look! Look at my emerald bracelet!” She holds up her arm to show me an iridescent green beetle that clings to her wrist.