West of the Moon (20 page)

Waiting beside me, the little man who lost his hat overboard strikes up a conversation.

“From what valley do you come?” he asks, and I tell him. Then he asks who my parents are, and I tell him. Then he asks my name, and I pause.

“Margit …” I say, and watch as he purses his lips. “Though most people know me as Astri,” I finish.

He claps his hands and says, “Nay!” and I say, “Aye.”

“I handled mail from your father,” he says. “I handled all the mail for the valley.”

“Is that so?” I pull the needle through the stocking as casual as you please, while my heart ricochets around inside my chest—
ping-ping-ping
—as if within an empty vessel.

“Letters, like. Or packages. You must know this, as they
were all addressed to you. In care of your aunt and uncle, of course. Coming all the way from America! Tell me, what tidings did he send? Has he had good fortune there? Found a good place to farm? How is it going for him?”

“Surely you know yourself, if you handled the letters,” I say.

“I don't read the letters, mind you. Certainly not!” he exclaims. “Oh, my, no! Not I. I noticed they were fat, that's all, as if—mind you, I don't know as they did—as if there might have been money inside. So I thought maybe your father is doing well over there, and wondered where he might have settled. You know, we're wanting to find a place ourselves—a place where the farming is good.”

I stare at the little hole I am stitching, and it seems that through that hole I can see how it all played out: Papa sending the money for Greta and me to join him in America, and Aunt thinking she would just borrow it for a bit, just long enough to host a wedding fine enough to impress the neighbors. Oh, it will all pay off in the end, that's what she would tell Uncle. That's what she would think, all right.

“From whence did the letters come?” I ask the postmaster, calm as you please.

“Oh, my. I wrote some of the names down in case I got there myself one day. Thought I might look him up.” He pulls out a slip of paper and rattles off a string of words that sound
like nonsense. He might just as well be saying “Twigmuntus, Cowbelliantus, Perchnosias.”

“I'll write them all down for you if you like,” he says.

“I'd like that very much,” I tell him.

And so he does, writes it all down in scritches and scratches, and this I study with knitted brow, a way of pretending to read that I learned from the goatman himself.

I thank him kindly, and as soon as the postman moves away, I race to find Greta.

The Black Book

reta is in our bunk, her eyes closed.

“Little sister!” I whisper, forgetting to use her name as we had agreed. “Wake up! I have news. Good news!”

Even in this dim light I can see her face is flecked with pricks of perspiration. How pale it is!

“Are you seasick?” I whisper.

Greta's eyes flicker open, and I spring back. Her eyes are glazed and strangely bright. There is a kind of agony there that I did not ever want to see.

“Don't worry, Margit,” she whispers, “I'll be—” She closes her eyes against pain or nausea—I don't know which.

I want to believe it is nothing, that it will pass. But I've seen enough of this kind of sickness now to know what is wrong with Greta. And so I kneel by the bunk and whisper prayer after prayer.

I beg: “Please, God in heaven, make her well. Here I am on bended knee.”

I argue: “Why isn't it
me
that's sick? I should be the sick one. Why should Greta suffer, she who's never done one bad thing in her life?”

I bargain: “If You spare her, I will never do a bad thing again. Not one more lie shall pass my lips.”

And finally, there's nothing left for me to do but hold the bowl while Greta vomits and vomits again and keeps vomiting though there is nothing left inside her. I smooth her hair and help her lie back on the bed, dab her brow and kiss her hot face. All the while feeling wild with the need to do something.

If I ever needed magic, I think, it is now. A potion. An elixir. The troll's ointment that heals all wounds.

And then I know what I have to do.

I go to our little chest of belongings and, with pounding heart, dig down until my fingers touch the cool cover of the Black Book. “I care not what happens to my immortal soul,” I whisper, “if it will save little sister.” With a glance at Greta for courage, I pull out the book and open it.

Lines, squiggles, slash marks, circular swirls. I know these make words. I can see there are words there. Maybe if I concentrate very, very hard, I'll be able to read them. Perhaps it will be like Pentecost—there'll be the rushing of wind, and tongues of fire will sit on my head, and I will be able to read. But the words and letters swim on the page—my eyes full of tears. I can't read. Even spectacles would not help.

Still,
someone
knows how to read. Someone here. I hide the book behind me and bellow over the shipboard noise. “Fellow passengers,” I shout. “Who here knows how to read?”

A number of hands go up.

“Let me ask this: Who is not afraid? Not afraid to face anything? A wild horse. A mad bull. The crack of lightning. Or”—I feel the darkness rolling out of my heart and out of my mouth—“the devil himself.”

I look around at the alarmed faces, at these people who wonder what kind of madness possesses me. Some of them bow their heads or look away. These I dismiss. To the others, the ones who return my gaze, I ask, “Who?” and stare into their eyes. I see fear, even just at my question. I look for eyes that show no fear: the blacksmith. He's not afraid of wild horses, for he knows how to deal with them. He thinks he's not afraid of the devil, but he can't know for sure. The Halling boy whose eyes are clear and honest: He looks at me frankly. Love has made him unafraid of anything. As I think that, I'm surprised that at this particular moment I should realize that he cares for me. And there, back in the corner, tucked so far back that she is almost entirely in shadow, is an old woman in a dark dress and shawl, a clay pipe clamped in her teeth. I don't remember seeing her before. But there she is, with those gleaming eyes.

One of these people will help me.

I hold up the book. A shudder runs along those present, as if a cold draft has passed through the decking.

“Where did you come by such a thing?” a woman hisses.

“It should be burned!” says another.

“No ordinary fire will burn it,” calls a deep-voiced man. “It will jump right out of the flames.”

“Pfft!” says a woman. “Rubbish! It's all rubbish!”

The blacksmith, who has lost his wife and little daughter to the Blue Death, steps forward and points his thick finger at me. “Why did you wait till now?” he says, narrowing his eyes. “Why didn't you bring it out when others were suffering?”

“I'm sorry,” I whisper. “I was afraid. Like all of you. But you'll see! Whether you believe in it or not, when it's your loved one who falls ill, you'll beg for help from it, or from anything else that might do some good. And now my own Greta has fallen ill.”

“The book should be kept, if it can help with the sickness,” someone says.

Others are of a differing opinion. “No!” shouts someone else. “It could bring ruin on us all and should be destroyed!”

I stand my ground, holding out the book and pleading with every ounce of my being.

The blacksmith recedes to his spot. He has no reason to help me, since I didn't help him, and I don't expect it from him. Bjørn stands up. For a moment I fear he will actually take the book, but then the old woman approaches, bringing the shadows with her.

I hold the book out to her with both hands.

“If you want me to help you,” she says, “you must first promise me something.”

“I don't have anything!” I cry. “Bits of food. Scraps of clothing.”

“It shouldn't be anything you have now,” she says.

“What do you want? My future earnings?”

The old crone shakes her head.

“All my future worldly goods?”

Again, she shakes her head.

“What? What do you want me to promise? My firstborn?”

The old woman's eyes light up. “That will do.” She takes the book in her gnarled hands and opens it. Her eyes dance along the page, although her twisted fingers can turn the pages only with difficulty.

I watch her—what a crazy old woman! “Fine,” I say. Anyway, she'll be long gone before I have any babies.

Glancing at Greta, I see her skin has paled, her lips are now a dusky blue. I sink down next to her, stroking her arms, her face, and murmuring to her.

“You may call me Mor Kloster,” the old woman says to me. “As for the girl, try to get her to take water, as much as she will.”

“Water? That's the best you can come up with?”

“Do as I say,” Mor Kloster snaps, “and quickly.”

I fetch a cup of water and carry it back carefully. “Drink, sister mine,” I urge, putting the cup to her lips.

Greta shakes her head. “I'm going to heaven to see Mama,” she says.

“No, don't go,” I beg. “Don't leave me.”

“Someday we'll all be together.”

“No, we won't.” It gives me a pang to say it.

“You'll die, too, Astri, someday.”

“Yes, but I don't suppose I'll be going to heaven.”

“Where are you going to go, then?”

“I'm going to America!” I tell her.

“But where are you going to go when you die?” she asks.

“Then I'll go to … Soria Moria.”

“That's where I'll go, then,” Greta whispers. “Tell me how to get there.”

Soria Moria

o get to Soria Moria, we have to go east of the sun and west of the moon. But that's a trifle for sturdy lasses like us,” I begin. “We'll make it by lunchtime, and when we get there, oh! It will be splendid! The table laid with all the best kinds of food: lamb with cabbage and cream pudding and marzipan cake. Lingonberries and cloudberries, Greta, big bowlfuls! And the most delicious drink ever tasted. I have some here. Try it!”