In the Garden of Spite

by Camilla Bruce

  Little Brynhild had not been so easy to please as a child.

  “Come,” I said when I was done, then hoisted my son back onto my hip and brought him with me as I went to put the beater away. I carried him to the stairs and sat down on a step with Rudolph in my arms, cradling him tight while waiting for Clara. “Once there was a—” I started, but I was not in the mood to tell fairy tales. They reminded me of Little Brynhild too, and no matter how much I tried, I could not quash the worry that rose in me whenever I thought of that letter.

  It was written in my sister’s hand, that much I knew, but I did not know if they were her words, or if it was Mother who had asked her to write that plea for money. Not that it mattered—I had no reason to doubt the truth of the tale, and even if Little Brynhild had changed since I left, I could not imagine that she had lost that pride that always got her in trouble before. Whenever I thought of my little sister, that was what I remembered: how she always refused to bend her neck but held her head high and stubbornly clenched her jaws. When other children teased her, or a schoolteacher or neighbor scolded her, she never shed a tear but bit back the best that she could.

  It would have cost her to ask for that money—the situation had to be dire.

  The worry in the pit of my stomach moved again, made me feel a little sick. Without thinking, I tightened my grip on Rudolph, who wriggled and complained until I loosened my hold. “I am sorry, my sweet,” I murmured into his soft, dark hair. “I did not mean to hurt you.” I did not know if it was he I spoke to or the phantom child of my sister, who had seemed so close all day, as if she sat right there, in my lap, next to my son: a stubby little girl with a square jaw and eyes that cut, even when she was small.

  I remembered one day when she was six or seven; it was late in summer and the sun burned like an ember, painting the sky in shades of gold. I was outside at Størsetgjerdet, coaxing our cows inside for the night. They were a couple of skinny things, even in summer; bad stock, my father said, but I loved them anyway.

  “Come, then.” I called them in from my spot a few steps from the barn door. “Come so, Dokka, come so, Staslin.” The animals regarded me with large, dark eyes but did not heed me at all. Their heads just dipped back into the grass while their jaws worked slowly, tirelessly. Their udders, swollen with milk, swung back and forth below their bellies. I was growing impatient and was about to get the switch when I heard the barking of a dog, loud and insistent—angry sounding, and close. I stopped and shaded my eyes with my hand while scanning the steep hill for signs of the animal as the barking came ever closer. It was chasing from the sound of it, and I wondered what it was it had found; a fox perhaps, or a hare.

  The ruckus came from behind the tree line and so it was hard to tell, but soon the barks were joined by other sounds, snapping twigs and rustling branches, and I figured it had to be something big and was prepared to see a moose calf come jolting out of the woods. Instead, I saw my sister come bursting into the open, running as fast as her little feet could muster, straight up that steep hill. Even from the distance, I could see the panic in her eyes, the terror drawn on her features. She did not run home, though, but ran straight by. She was blind with fear—too scared to think!

  Soon I could see the dog as well: a slick-looking mongrel with bared teeth and a black coat, chasing her up the hill.

  “Little Brynhild!” I called out. “Little Brynhild!” But she did not heed me. Soon another patch of wood swallowed her up, and the dog followed suit, crashing through the underbrush. I lifted my skirts as high as they would go and set out after them as fast I could. My heart was hammering all the while, and my lungs soon ached for breath.

  “Little Brynhild!” I cried as I reached the dense growth of spruce and pine. “Where are you? Answer me!”

  I did not get a reply, but I could hear the dog’s angry barks before me and continued in the sound’s direction. I saw all sorts of things in my mind as I ran: sharp teeth slicing through soft skin, blood beading on a plump leg. I heard the sound of bone crushed between jaws.

  Finally, I could see them before me: the girl stood close to the waterfall, on top of the steep embankment. Behind her, the river ran red with iron, rushing past her with the sound of a storm. One wrong step and she would fall. Little Brynhild’s face was flustered and she had lost her headscarf; her brown hair had escaped the braid I had made and hung about her face in slick tendrils. She was clutching a pine branch in her hand, longer than her arm, and was waving it aimlessly at the crouching dog, which was growling and showing its teeth, creeping ever nearer.

  “Tsjuh!” I called out, and grabbed a lichen-covered rock from the mossy ground. My aim was off, but it did not matter; I was out to scare, not to harm. “Tsjuh! Go home!” I cried at the growling beast, and grabbed another rock from the ground. The dog startled when the rock hit close to where it crouched. Little Brynhild, having heard me, took up the words:

  “Tsjuh!” she cried out. “Tsjuh!”

  I threw more rocks and clapped my hands loudly as I moved in closer. The dog seemed confused then, and looked between us as if unsure of where to strike; but it was still angry, still showing those teeth. I knew that what you have to do is make the dog scared of you, so I bellowed from the top of my lungs as I rushed toward the animal, clapping my hands wildly. Finally, it rose and jumped away so as not to be trampled by the angry creature that came rushing forth. The dog paused between the trees, looking back, hoping perhaps that there was still hope for quarry, but I bent down and got a branch of my own, a rotten thing with moss hanging off it, and started hitting it against the ground, shouting all the while from the top of my lungs.

  Finally, it slunk away and disappeared into the woods, finding me too much of a hassle to take on, perhaps. I turned to Little Brynhild and scooped her up in my arms. The girl shivered against me, but there were no tears.

  “It wouldn’t go away!” she cried.

  “You must not let it see that you’re afraid.” I scolded her with a voice hoarse from shouting. “They can smell it, the dogs, and then they’ll come for you.”

  “I wasn’t afraid,” she lied while her arms wound tight around me and she cleaved to me for protection.

  “Why did it chase you, then?”

  “Because it wanted to bite me.”

  “Is that so?” I had no time to lecture her just then. She was still shivering, was still stiff as board, and she was not a toddler anymore so I could already feel the strain in my arms, even if I was strong. “Maybe the dog is mad,” I said. “Do you know who owns it?”

  I could feel her nodding against my neck. “He only laughed when it chased me,” she said. “He didn’t even try to stop it.”

  My jaws tensed up with anger, but I found no words to give her.

  I carried her all the way back home.

  Receiving the letter reminded me of that day. It was the same sense of imminent danger—and the same instinct to lift my skirts and run to her aid, screaming.

  That same night, as we lay in the loft, I had sworn that I would always protect her, and I felt called upon now by her words of distress to fulfill that very promise.

  “The world is not kind to those who are different,” I whispered into Rudolph’s hair as we rocked gently back and forth on the step. “But then again,” I continued, “she may not always be so kind to it either.”

  4.

  Brynhild

  Selbu, 1877

  How old are you, Little Brynhild? Sixteen?” Gurine’s blue eyes were kind. She had just been looking into my mouth to inspect the damage done to my teeth. We were perched on wooden chairs in the kitchen, next to the flour-strewn table. Outside the windows, the sky was gray, but the fields had turned green and the birch trees sprouted leaves. Summer had arrived and the barn was empty while the animals were grazing up in the mountains. Usually I spent this time of year up there, tending them on the summer farm. Not this year, thou
gh. Not while I was still so poor. Instead, I stayed behind with Gurine, cooking for the farmhands and the family, cleaning, scrubbing, and sweeping floors. Mother was distraught by this. She had been hoping I would go to the summer farm and not have to see much of Anders that summer. I did not care much at all.

  “Seventeen,” I murmured, and rubbed my jaw, still swollen even after all those weeks. I had seen my face for the first time since it happened in the mirror in the farmhouse. The bruising had started to fade, turning a ghastly yellow.

  Gurine’s face was concerned under the faded headscarf. “I wasn’t surprised when you didn’t come to work, but I worried when you weren’t in church. You never miss church.”

  “Father wouldn’t let me go,” I was quick to explain. I would not let her think I was a coward. “I wanted to come, but he said I couldn’t be seen like this, and I was—” Still bleeding, but I could not bring myself to say that aloud.

  “You shouldn’t be here, though.” There was fear in her voice. “Why ever did you come back here?”

  “Father said I couldn’t be home anymore. I had to work.” That was not what Gurine asked, though. She asked because of Anders.

  The old woman gave me a look and lifted a lukewarm cup of coffee to her lips. “Did Paul say that because he was afraid people would think you are lazy, or because he wanted to punish you?”

  “Punish me, I think.”

  “And the . . . ?” She raised her eyebrows, motioned to her stomach with her hand.

  “Gone.” I cradled my own cup of coffee in my lap.

  “Well, that’s a good thing, then.” Gurine pursed her lips. “You should have that tooth pulled too, what’s left of it.”

  “Have no money for that.” I shrugged. “It was a poor tooth anyway. He did me a favor knocking it out.”

  “Hush.” She looked stern. “Don’t say such a thing. He has done you nothing but harm. You’re not still pining for him, are you?”

  “No, no—I’m not.” I would rather see him buried, but I did not say that.

  “That’s something, then . . . And you’re sure that it’s gone?” Another motion to her belly.

  “Yes.” It did not bother me to say it. I had had many nights to teach myself how to answer that question. It was only a lump of flesh, after all—nothing to ache for. I handled flesh all the time; skinned and cut, bled and cooked. That tiny lump that slid out of me was no different from any other slick meat. No different from the pigs I cut with Gurine, the hares I skinned, or the kids’ legs I cured with salt. Just flesh—nothing special at all. It might not even have lived through birth. Children die all the time.

  “You shouldn’t be here, though. I’m sure that if Paul knew for sure who it was, that he—”

  “I don’t mind. I can stay on. I don’t see him much anyway, as long as I’m in here.” I looked around at the large iron cookstove with the black pans resting on top; the bucket of potatoes in the corner, skin wrinkly and tough after winter storage; the blue chairs with peeling paint; the soot-stained ceiling and timbered walls; and let out a breath of relief. “Anders never comes to the kitchen.” None of the men ever did.

  “But why would you want to?” Gurine’s blue eyes peered at me.

  “It wouldn’t be better anywhere else; everyone knows what happened. At least this way they’ll know I’m not ashamed.” I watched a gray kitten Gurine had let in stumble milk-drunk away from a bowl by the stove. I reached out a hand to let it sniff my fingers and felt the silken fur as it went by.

  Gurine looked worried. “They might think you’re still hoping—”

  “Maybe, but I can live with that.” The kitten had jumped onto the windowsill and tried to catch an orange butterfly on the other side of the glass. The cat’s childish antics made me hurt inside.

  Gurine shook her head again. “You should seek service elsewhere and leave Selbu behind.”

  I nodded; on this we agreed. “I hate this place.”

  “Hate is a very strong word that shouldn’t be used lightly.”

  “Nevertheless, I do. I am tired of always being laughed at.”

  Gurine sighed, put her hand on mine, and squeezed. “Where do you want to go, then?”

  “Big Brynhild says it is better in America. No one cares who your parents are. I think I could do well over there. Big Brynhild calls herself Nellie now.”

  “That’s a fancy name.” Behind her on the stove, water began to bubble in a pot. It was for the potatoes. We should have peeled them long ago.

  “I could take another name as well.”

  “You know it’s an expensive journey.”

  “Big Brynhild did it. She worked for years to do it.” The kitten had all but given up on the butterfly and hit the floor with a thump. It went back to the bowl in search of more milk, its tiny tail straight in the air.

  “If I were your age maybe I would go too.” A longing came into Gurine’s voice. “They say there’s plenty of land, and big cities.”

  “Big Brynhild seems happy enough.” I bit my tongue to curb the unbidden jealousy that flared to life when I said my sister’s name.

  “It’s a good dream.” Gurine rose and started for the stove, where the water was bubbling in the pot. I rose too and tightened the apron at the small of my back, where it still ached.

  “In America,” I told Gurine, “I could marry well. I’m sure of it.”

  * * *

  —

  She watched me, Gurine, with those blue eyes, when it was time to eat. Looked at me as I watched the men cross the yard through the window. They were working on the barn this summer while the cattle were away, tearing down walls and building new ones.

  The salted herring and the cold potatoes were already on the table with stacks of flat bread; all that was missing was the porridge and the lump of butter. Anders and his father—another Anders—were the last ones to come inside, discussing something or other. The farmer’s hand rested on his son’s shoulder. Before they went in, they whipped the caps off their heads, as not to offend the Lord.

  “Will you carry the porridge, Little Brynhild?” Gurine’s voice was soft, her eyes sad.

  “Of course.” Gurine was too frail to carry much at all.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “I don’t mind.” I lifted the deep wooden serving tray, filled to the brim with gray, pasty porridge. It was heavy for sure, but my hands did not shake. I slipped out the door and heard Gurine behind me, following with the butter.

  “Here.” She got in front of me and opened the door to the next room, where half a dozen men were seated on benches by the table, nibbling on fat fish and breaking pieces of flat bread between grimy, callused fingers. It went quiet when I came in. They all looked at me, as I thought they would. Their eyes were wary, as if I were a dog that could not be trusted and they waited for me to bare my teeth. I approached with the tray and placed it on the table. A few of their spoons dipped into the porridge as soon as I let it go.

  “Thank you, Brynhild.” The farmer himself spoke. “It’s good to see you back on your feet.”

  I nodded in his direction and did not look at Anders beside him. I could see his hands, though: strong and rough, marred by fading bruises. Bruises from hitting me. The men did not look at me after the farmer spoke. Their heads bent as they shuffled the food into their mouths. They thought that was it, then—that I was safe and would not bite. That I would take my lesson and learn from it, be humble and meek and know my place.

  That was what they thought.

  * * *

  —

  “It’s good to see you regaining your strength,” Mother said the next Sunday. I had gone home with my parents after church and would return to the farm in the morning. I sat outside on the stone slab that served as a step by the door, scrubbing out a black-scorched pot. Mother carried wash from the creek; the
heavy weight made her wiry frame bend. “How is it down there at the farm?” She dropped her load in front of me.

  “I’m still a little sick, but I can do my share of the work.”

  Mother sat down beside me, smelling faintly of fresh river water. “He always had a hungry eye, that boy down there. I’ve seen him in church, looking down the aisle as the girls arrive.” I could see her scalp through her thin hair. She had lost most of her teeth in the lower jaw, none of them knocked out as far as I knew. She shook her head as she stared out on Størsetgjerdet: the timbered shed and the tiny barn, the small well house farther up, and the dark, dense woods that surrounded the place. Then her hand circled my wrist and squeezed so hard it hurt. When I turned my head in surprise, her gaze bore into mine. “Little Brynhild, now you’ll listen to me! You nearly died from that beating; he nearly killed you, that boy, and he still could! You shouldn’t be anywhere near him . . .”

  I scoffed and tried to pull my hand away. The pot had fallen to the ground. “I didn’t die.”

  “But you could have.” Her gaze burned in the dusky light. “You lay in that bed for weeks. Not talking, not eating, bleeding down in the hay—”

  “But I rose.” I finally managed to free my hand and rubbed it where it hurt. “I got up, and it wasn’t even a week before I ate—”

  “Don’t you think I know death when I see it? It was plain on your face! You could have died, believe me! You have to find service elsewhere.” She sounded angry, but for once, she was not. It was fear for me I saw in her eyes, and it was a strange thing to witness. No one ever feared for me that way.

  “I shouldn’t have been so stupid,” I murmured. “Shouldn’t have—”

  “Well, you did, and nothing to do for that now. Just don’t let him get another chance to finish what he started.”

  “My jaw might be broken.” I rubbed the tenderness.