West of the Moon (10 page)

“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 moment. 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.

I
n 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.

“And the ruby earrings dangling from the bushes!” I say.

“And the jeweled necklaces strung between the branches!” she adds.

“And your golden curls, Greta.”

“What about your hair, Astri? What color do you think it is?”

I put my hand to my hair, which feels like sticky cobwebs. “What color is it now?” I ask.

“It's kind of … gray.”

“Gray! Like an old lady's?”

“No, gray like dusty old straw at the end of winter,” Greta says. “But only because it's so dirty.”

“The goatman never let me wash it—not once!” I complain. “He was afraid I would fall ill from having wet hair. And you know he couldn't afford to let me have a day off work just for being ill!”

“And Aunt never let you wash your hair, either.”

“I wonder why.”

“I think she didn't want you catching the eye of any young man who might come courting our cousins,” Greta muses. She curls up and pulls a corner of the tablecloth over herself.

“Do you really think so?” I take the wreath from my head and hold it up to the last glimmer of the dying sun. For a moment it had been as golden as the wreath the girl in the story had wanted so badly. But now the sun is gone and the color fading from the meadow.

What have I done? I wonder. What kind of trouble have I gotten us into? And what will become of us?

The Birch Tree

n the story of the girl and the bear, when the girl woke after she'd dropped the tallow on the shirt of the handsome prince, she found herself on a little green field in the middle of a gloomy, thick forest, and by her side lay the same bundle with her old rags that she had brought from home.