by Margi Preus
Greta is silent, and I think of how Papa used to say, “Sometimes silence is an answer.”
The little brook we ride along chatters so much, there’s hardly need for us to talk anyway.
After we have ridden a little farther, we come upon a church.
“Astri,” Greta says, “there’s a church.”
“Yes,” I agree, “there’s a church.”
“And it’s Sunday, too.”
That is apparent by the sounds of many voices in the midst of a hymn.
“We can’t stop now,” I tell her. “Wouldn’t it be a terrible sin, though,” Greta says, “to ride right past a church while Sunday services are going on and not stop?”
“We had plenty of church yesterday,” I remind her. “We did scriptures, said a prayer; we had a sermon. What’s left to do?”
“Let’s go in,” Greta says. “I need to seek forgiveness for something.”
“You!” I exclaim. “What need have you for forgiveness?”
“We are none of us as we ought,” she says, which raises my eyebrows, you can be sure.
“You go in, Greta.” I glance at the church—at its sharp steeple piercing the sky, and its carved dragons leering down from the roof with their poisoned tongues. “I’ll wait out here with Dapple.”
A jagged spear of lightning rends the sky.
“Don’t you think you’d be safer inside?” Greta asks.
No, I don’t. The way I look at it, I’m just as likely to get struck by a bolt of lightning inside as out. So I shake my head and help her slide down off the horse.
In she trots, and out I stay. For a while I stand by the stream that runs by the church, watching the rain make circles in the water. Each drop is like a snag in a silk curtain. I’ve seen silk drapes and even snagged one once, so I know what I’m talking about. Here I stand, watching the silky water snagging over and over and over, and each time it repairs itself, smooth again—a smooth, black ribbon.
The snags in my heart are so tangled and deep, I feel them there, twisted little knots that can’t be undone. I’ve stolen the gold and hacked off the fingers and snitched the soap and swiped the wedding food. I’ve lied to my own little sister and left Spinning Girl behind, and now I’m stealing the horse, saddle, and bridle from the farm boy who never did anything wrong except display a bit of greed.
Is it more wrong to steal from a guiltless person than from a bad one? Is it a worse sin to lie to my sweet sister than to steal from a cruel master? It hardly matters, for with one swing of my arm, with one downward swipe of the knife, I’m sure it matters not what else I do in life.
Still, I make a vow to tell the truth from here on out. I listen earnestly to the hymn being sung within, and inch closer to the door. Herein lies forgiveness, so they tell me.
It’s not long, though, before I get to thinking how churches are also the places where records are kept. For instance, baptism records.
Soon I’m creeping around to the side door and into the small room behind the altar. Sure enough, there is a big book that I can see is stuffed with papers, all looking official as can be. Trouble is, I can’t read, so I don’t know which is which or who is who. I am scratching my head over this when a throat is cleared behind me.
I turn to regard the parson himself, regal in his cassock and ruff. I give him a little curtsy and say, “Hello, Pastor. I suppose I’ve grown since you last saw me, somewhere between twelve and fourteen years ago. But I’ve heard tell you never forget a soul in your parish, so I suppose you haven’t forgotten me, either.”
“Oh, no, certainly not,” says the pastor, uncertainly. “But remind me of your parents.”
“My mother died, and my papa went off to America,” I tell him. There. That’s the truth, at least.
“Ah, yes …” he says. I see him trying to think who that might be.
“And now Papa has sent for me to join him in America, and I’ll be needing a document saying I was born in this parish. I’m sure you can provide me with my record of baptism.”
“That may be, but I must warn you that this emigration fever is like a contagious disease! You should stay here and support yourself honestly.”
“Aye, but my papa has sent for me,” I tell him.
“Ah, yes,” he says, opening the book. As he pages through the papers, he rattles on about how we should not believe everything we hear from America, and how it is neither the paradise nor the land of Canaan people dream about, while I nod and say “Aye” and “Ja” every so often.
In the meantime, Greta appears, no doubt looking for me.
“I know it’s been a long while since I was last in church,” I tell the pastor, winking at Greta, “but you know how terribly far up in the hills our place is, and the work that never ended. It was quite a journey to get to church, but my mother did it when I was born nonetheless, for she didn’t want to put my soul at risk, not for anything. Oh, she always said you were the best parson in all the land, she did …”
As I speak, Greta casts a dark look my way.
The parson comes up with a piece of paper in his hand. “It must be a very long time since you’ve last been to church, so you’d better have a good look at this document to see if it’s the right one.” He shows it to me, and I purse my lips, studying it.
“Here’s my name.” I point to the words I think are a name. “There it is, the whole thing.” I’m hoping he’ll say what it is, and sure enough, he reads it off.
“Margit Anna Olafsdatter,” says he.
“That sounds right,” I say.
“And your father’s name?” he asks me, clutching the paper close to his chest.
“Olaf …” I answer.
“That’s his Christian name. And his surname?” he asks.
“Oh, he’s not a sir,” I tell the parson. “He’s just an honest farmer …”
“Margit?” Greta says. “We’d best take our leave.” She takes my hand and starts pulling me away.
“Say, now!” the parson barks, and you can be sure I snatch the paper from his fist as we go out. “I’m not at all sure—” he shouts at us.
But we are already on Dapple’s back. I am already urging Dapple forward with my heels. And we are running—yes, finally running—now through the heather, now along a path. The whistling of wind fills our ears, and the jingle of Dapple’s bridle, his hoofbeats, and his breathing, hard and fast, while I cling to him and Greta clings to me. Birds start up and fly, spinning and wheeling in the air above us. A river rushes alongside, tumbling over stones, running and running, down to the sea.
Trifles
n the story of the girl and the bear, the North Wind carried the girl east of the sun and west of the moon and set her down under a castle. It was there that her prince was being held captive by the troll with the nose three ells long.
“The girl in the story must have sat under that castle wondering how she would get in,” I say to Greta, “just like us.”
For here we sit on the waterfront, Greta and I, looking at the America ship. It’s not far by rowboat, but as unattainable as a castle as far as we’re concerned, for how are we to get aboard?
All along the waterfront people unload their wagons and pile up heaps of trunks and bundles and barrels, chests and boxes, casks, chickens, and children. There are plenty of families with gaggles of little children. The boy who came by the goat farm—I’ve seen him, too, with a lot of Hallingdalers, all jolly as can be. He doesn’t recognize me, and I’d like to keep it that way. Oh, and there’ll be a parson aboard, it looks like, and his wife. I’ll have to steer clear of them, too, I suppose, if Greta and I ever get ourselves on board.
But even if we do, how will we ever manage?
I hold in my hand a list of provisions recommended for one adult for ten to twelve weeks of sailing, which a kind soul has read off to me:
—70 pounds of hard bread
—8 pounds of butter
—24 pounds of meat
—10 pounds of side pork
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br /> —1 small keg of herring
And then there are potatoes, rye and barley flour, dried peas and pearl barley, sugar and coffee. At least we know we can do without that last item!
Further, we are to bring along such things as a water pail, a cooking pot, dishes, and eating utensils.
So far, we don’t have any of these things.
“Well,” I tell Greta, “the girl in the story got herself into the castle, and all she had was a tablecloth, a flask, and scissors. Only three things.”
“They were magic things, though,” Greta reminds me. “All she had to do was say, ‘Tablecloth, deck thyself with fine things,’ and the cloth would be covered with all the best things to eat. She had a flask that never ran out of drink, and scissors that clipped in the air, and everywhere they snipped, bits of velvet and silk made themselves into fine clothes. Do we have anything like that?”
“We have quite a few things,” I tell her. “Many more than three.”
After an accounting of our things, we find that we have
—a horse, saddle, and bridle;
—a skein of well-spun yarn;
—a hairbrush;
—and a key.
“And we have another thing,” Greta says. “Something I stole!”
“You? A thief?” I can’t help being astounded. “What is it?”
“It’s a book.” Greta wiggles and, reaching up her skirt, pulls out a little book bound in blue cloth.
“Where did you get this?” I ask.
“Papa sent it,” Greta goes on. “I think he sent it to us, but you know Aunt … She always thought everything should belong to her.”
“A book!” I say. “Why would Papa send us a book?”
“I don’t know, but Aunt was very interested in it, and she was very angry when it disappeared, too!” Greta says.
I turn the book over in my hand, open it, page through it. “Why?” I wonder.
Greta shrugs. “I don’t know. But I heard Aunt speaking to Uncle about how they must keep the book themselves, and so … I stole it! That’s why I wanted to stop at the church. To ask forgiveness.”
“You hardly need forgiveness for stealing something that already belongs to you!” I tell her.
“To us, Astri!” she says. “It belongs to us.”
“Well, we won’t sell this book, that’s sure!” I say. “Everything else, we sell.”
We make quick work of selling the horse, saddle, and bridle, and I make sure we get paid in town money, too. With the money from that and with help from the birth certificate, I am able to buy my passage as Margit Anna Olafsdatter.
“Now you must call me ‘Margit,’” I remind Greta. “Don’t forget.”
“Well, Margit,” Greta says, “we have three things left. The yarn, the brush, and a key.”
“A key that doesn’t unlock anything,” I say. “Nobody wants that!” Then I remember the coins. I jingle them in my pocket. “We do have a few coins!”
“We could buy something with them,” Greta says.
I think of the innkeeper’s admonishment to use the coins wisely. “They won’t buy much,” I tell Greta. “I have another idea. You take the yarn and see what you can get, and I’ll see what I can do with this hairbrush.”
So Greta trots off, and I sit down on one of the chests piled there at the waterfront and start brushing my hair. After a time comes a girl in nice clothes, and her cheeks all rosy and pink.
“Would you mind picking those up for me?” I ask her, pointing out some coins lying in the dirt.
“Where did these come from?” she asks.
“Why, from my hair, of course,” I tell her.
“Your hair! How does that happen?”
“It’s this brush, you see.” I turn the brush so it catches the light. “It makes gold coins fall from your hair.”
“Nay!” she exclaims, but turns around, presenting me with the back of her head. “Brush my hair with it!” she demands.
So I start to brush, and after a few strokes, what do you know? A couple of coins drop from her hair.
“Oh!” she cries, then spins around and plucks the coins off the ground. “But these are just ordinary skillings. These aren’t worth chicken feathers!”
“Of course not!” I tell her. “You have to brush for quite a while before the really valuable stuff falls out.”
“Let me try it!” she says.
“No,” I tell her. “That’s enough for now.”
She fusses and pleads, and finally there’s nothing for it but that she simply must have the brush. “What do you want for it?” she asks.
“Oh, it’s not for sale,” I tell her. “It’s been in my family for ever so long.”
She simply must have it, though.
I name a price. That won’t do, she says, she has to save all her money for America. That’s what her papa says. I ask who her papa is, and she points to a man on the wharf and says he’s a fisherman.
Well, then, I tell her I’ll trade it for a cask of herring, some smoked fish, a sack of dried peas, and a cooking pot.
Greta returns, dragging a small chest behind her. Inside is a nice thick sheepskin and a large wheel of cheese.
“That was a good trade!” I have to admit.
“It was the gold in the yarn that convinced the housewife,” she says with a wink.
So now we have some things. Other things … Well, there’s the baker who has so much bread it can’t be long before it goes moldy. A farmer who has so many potatoes he can’t possibly keep track of them all. The very stout man who could do with a bit less butter, and the woman who is so fluttery she should not have another bite of tinned partridge. When they look away for a moment or turn their backs, Greta and I are there to lighten their loads.
Oh, it’s just a trifle. A trifle here and a trifle there. But as we well know, a trifle can be enough when luck is on your side.
Still, we don’t have Greta’s passage. “We have one more thing we could sell,” I say.
“No,” Greta says. “We won’t sell the magic book. For that is a book of projidjuss power, and once you learn to read it, there’ll be no end of wonders wrought. Anyway,” she says, “I have another idea.”
So here we are, two young girls, down on the wharf. Gulls screech and wheel; fishmongers call out their catch. Ships creak and groan as they pull against their heavy anchor lines, the ships’ tackle clattering against the masts and yards.
There’s the pounding and pattering of feet, clicking of heels, clip-clopping of horses’ hooves, rattling of wagons coming and going.
Voices call out to one another with greetings or orders. A light but steady rain ticks against the cobblestones and the canvas awnings, taps against the clay roof tiles, and patters on the boxes and crates, sacks of potatoes, kegs of herring, kettles, pans, mattresses and sheepskins, and the dozens and dozens of chests and trunks lined up on the wharf, ready to be loaded onto the skiffs that will take these things out to the ship.
A chest is being hoisted onto a skiff when a sudden downpour halts all work for a moment. The passengers scurry under awnings or into nearby shops. Even the dockworkers and ships’ crews stop working during the worst of the rain, covering their heads with oilcloths and dashing for cover.
As for one wee girl, no one takes much notice of her as she crouches behind, or between, or perhaps even inside one of the many trunks that line the wharf, waiting to be carried aboard.
The Winds
hen the girl in the story went to find her bear-turned-prince, she had to ask each of the four winds to carry her, in order to get all the way to the castle that lay east of the sun and west of the moon. But the only one of the winds who had ever blown all that way was the North Wind. He had once blown an aspen leaf thither. After that, he’d been so tired that he couldn’t make a puff of wind for many a day.
Still, he said to the girl, “If you really intend to go there, and you are not afraid to come with me, I will take you on my back.”
Yes, she was willing. She must go there if it was possible, one way or another, and she wasn’t a bit afraid, go how it would.
So the next morning, the North Wind puffed himself up and made himself so big and strong that he was terrible to look at. Away they went, at a terrific speed, as if they were going to the end of the world. The wind made such a hurricane that when they came out on the big sea, ships were wrecked by the hundreds. Still, onward they swept and on they tore, and no one could believe how far they went, and still farther out to sea, and eventually the North Wind became so weary that he drooped and drooped until at last he sank so low that the tops of the waves touched his heels.
“Are you afraid?” he asked the girl.
“No!” She wasn’t.
As for me, I am too sick to be afraid, too sick to be homesick, too sick to remember the sadness I felt as the ship wove its way down the long fjord toward the sea and how we watched the blue hills and gleaming peaks recede, never again to see our homeland.
I’ve had enough time to think on this voyage, and all that thinking, combined with the motion of the sea, makes a big sickening mass of trouble in my stomach. The ship lurches; my stomach lurches; my soul lurches; and my sins come out my mouth and over the rail and into the sea.
I know that God is supposed to be everywhere, but there is no possible way He would follow us out here, to this truly godforsaken place. Between each swell, there is a trough, and at the bottom of the trough is hell, or near enough. There is no God down there, watching as I vomit over the side rail.