Winterfrost (4 page)

But knowing
why
the goats hadn’t eaten brought little comfort to Bettina’s troubled thoughts. How had something so odd gotten into the feed? Fresh rosemary didn’t grow in the garden in the dead of winter. It wasn’t even something that was kept in the barn. Someone had to have mixed it in with the oats. But who? Who could have — who
would
have — come into the barn in the night?

Bettina filled the goats’ feed buckets with fresh grain, but not before taking a good whiff just to be sure. Nothing unusual. Just goat feed.

Baby Pia stood at the edge of the straw playpen and babbled wordlessly toward the hayloft as her sister finished the chores. As soon as the animals were fed, Bettina didn’t waste any time. She snatched up her baby sister and whisked her off into the house. She would have to introduce Pia to the winterfrost later.

The truth was, Bettina didn’t like being in the barn anymore. She didn’t like that she felt wary of every creak and groan in the rafters. And she especially didn’t like the strange nagging feeling in the back of her neck, the feeling that someone was watching her every move.

Inside the Larsens’ cozy home, baby Pia played with her dolls on the carpet until her contented coos turned to pouts for Bettina’s attention. Soon pouting turned to short bouts of fussiness, and when Pia rubbed her eyes with two chubby fists, Bettina knew. It was time to nap. Putting her sister down to sleep was a task Bettina had done for Mor many times. There was a sort of routine involved, and Bettina knew just how to go about it.

First, she gathered Pia’s pink cotton blanket and the well-worn stuffed goose from the crib upstairs. Then Bettina scooped up her baby sister, who was now yawning deeply. Finally, the pair settled into Mor’s wooden rocking chair, and Bettina sang softly and clearly while they rocked.

“
Solen er så rød, mor
,

og skoven blir så sort . . .”

It was a nighttime song about the sun setting red in the sky and the forest becoming dark, and of all the Danish lullabies, it was Bettina’s favorite. She couldn’t say she actually remembered Mor singing it to her, but when Mor sang it to Pia, she felt a calm deep in her bones that could only come from having heard the same soothing melody when she was a baby. Now, as Bettina sat rocking and singing to Pia, she felt the child’s body slowly relax and then melt comfortably into her lap. Before the third verse was finished, Pia was sleeping soundly.

Just to be certain, Bettina repeated the lullaby once more, then rose slowly and cautiously, watching Pia’s face with every step. Bettina relaxed a little when Pia didn’t move a muscle. The child was fast asleep. Bettina carried her sister to the pram that sat waiting by the back door. Inside the little carriage, Pia’s bunting was open and ready for Bettina to lay the baby inside. Pia sighed softly and turned her face to snuggle in the warmth of the bunting, but her eyelids never fluttered. Bettina tucked a thick wool blanket around all sides of the pram and then draped one final layer over the top before opening the back door. She wheeled the carriage outside and, just as Mor would have done, positioned the pram where she could see it clearly from the kitchen window.

“Children need fresh air,” Mormor would say, and every Danish mother and grandmother would agree. Rain or shine, winterfrost or no winterfrost, Danish babes must be set outside to nap. Only the harshest of weather conditions, say a thunderstorm or a blizzard, would keep the sleeping children indoors.

Being out in the winterfrost once again filled Bettina with wonder. She lingered long enough to appreciate how each pine needle seemed to sport its own feathery white coat. But Bettina was not dressed for the outdoors like Pia, and she shivered in the damp stillness. She returned to the house, leaving her sister to take in as much fresh air and as many sweet dreams as a baby could possibly absorb in one afternoon.

Inside, Bettina made herself a cup of tea, which was really a cup of hot water, a small amount of tea, and a heaping scoop of honey. If Mor had been home, she would have scolded Bettina for taking so much honey. But Mor wasn’t home, and after successfully getting Pia down for her nap, Bettina was feeling very grown-up and felt she could decide for herself how much honey to put in her tea.

She settled on the sofa near the picture window, where she had a clear view of Pia’s pram but not much else. The fog that had created the winterfrost had not lifted, and even the Pedersens’ farm was lost in the haze. Somewhere the snowy fields met the gray-white sky, but the line between the two smeared like a wet painting hung too soon. The frosted treetops of the forest blended so perfectly with the low-hanging clouds that they, too, seemed to have become one. Bettina rested her head against the sofa cushions and stared out into the whiteness that Lolland had become.

She thought of Mormor and her broken hip in Århus. Mor had reached her by now. She thought of the goats and then of the tiny forest animals, and she wondered if they had found the grain behind the barn. She gazed at the white landscape and imagined two gray rabbits coming upon the oats and nibbling contentedly on the newfound treat.

Within minutes Bettina’s eyes closed, and Lolland disappeared.

For the second time in a single day, Bettina woke from a deep sleep feeling confused and a bit uncertain. How long had she been asleep? A quick glance out the window told her that Pia’s carriage was still outdoors and the blankets around the little girl hadn’t moved at all. Bettina turned on a light, and the dusky room filled with a warm glow, urging Bettina toward a more coherent frame of mind. It was time to wake Pia and begin dinner preparations. Bettina took her now-cold tea to the kitchen and opened the door to the back garden.

She pulled baby Pia’s carriage back into the house and shut the door.

“Time to wake up, little one,” Bettina cooed, removing the warm pink drape from the pram. When she did, she gasped and her hands flew to her mouth.

Baby Pia was gone.

That very afternoon, high in the hayloft, Klakke wasn’t sleeping well at all. Nothing had gone as he wished these past two days. He’d not yet forgiven the Larsens for their neglect. He’d had his nisse revenge, but messing up the barn and tampering with goat feed hadn’t brought him the satisfaction he’d expected. Klakke liked Bettina, and her uneasiness in the barn only brought regret to the young nisse.

Even the winterfrost hadn’t completely lifted his spirits. Stuck in the barn until dark, he was certain that at any moment the sun would come along and burn its way through the clouds. If that happened, the fog would be gone, taking the beautiful winterfrost with it. And no one could say when another would come.

For hours Klakke tossed and turned and dreamed, until at last he woke, curious to see if the wonderful winter landscape remained. It was not yet dusk. Common sense told him to stay hidden, but once again his youthful impulses won out.

Outside, Klakke was pleased to find that the sun had stayed behind the clouds the entire day. The winterfrost had survived! Slowly, Klakke felt his grudge against the Larsens fade. He was beginning to feel like his old cheerful self again. Klakke darted across the all-white barnyard to the forest’s edge, whistling and kicking up his feet as he went. He still didn’t understand why the Larsens would neglect to leave his rice pudding on Christmas Eve, but in the still beauty of the winterfrost, Klakke’s anger cooled and he was able to think clearly. The awful oversight likely had something to do with Mr. and Mrs. Larsen leaving in a hurry. Perhaps the family had been too distracted to remember their poor nisse. Well, he could forgive them just this once. He knew that Gammel would say that forgiveness is the kindest of paths to take. Klakke was finished with his tricks. He was ready to behave himself again.

By the time Klakke finished parading around the farm, he found himself at the edge of the Larsens’ back garden. It was late afternoon, pushing evening, and there were no lights on in the house.

Curiosity pulled him into the Larsens’ garden, where in the summer he loved to gaze at the beautiful flower beds, but where he seldom dared to go. What if someone was looking out from the big windows in the brick house?

In a particularly bold move, Klakke ventured through the neatly trimmed hedges, now heavy with frost. He took a cobblestone path from the garden shed to the back patio, where he only hesitated a moment before climbing two small stone steps. He realized that he was closer to the house than he’d ever been before, but a deep sense of wonder drove him on, toward something on the patio that he’d seen often.

He never could say exactly why he did it. It wasn’t an act of revenge, for he really had forgiven the Larsens for their neglect. Rather, the winterfrost seemed to have a strange effect on the mischievous little nisse, pushing him toward the house, toward the pram, and right up to baby Pia.

Klakke climbed up the side of the pram without jarring it at all. When his eyes fell upon little Pia, he drew in his breath in both wonder and awe. The human baby was sleeping like a snow angel, so sweet and innocent. Her round pink cheeks puffed out with each breath.

And then, although he didn’t set out that December afternoon to do what he did, he lifted her gently from the pram.

And Klakke stole baby Pia.

Bettina stood only a moment in stunned silence before she ran back outdoors.
Pia could not have gone far
, she thought. Bettina was clearly flustered and not thinking rationally. For if she had been, she would have realized that Pia could not have gone anywhere at all. The child couldn’t even walk.

Bettina’s mind and heart seemed to be in a race against one another, both pounding so crazily it felt as if an undirected orchestra had taken residence inside of her. Her stockinged feet responded to the awful music as she darted aimlessly about the patio and garden in search of her baby sister. Gradually, logic prevailed. There was no way Pia could have climbed out of her carriage and wandered away on her own. And then a thought like the dull thud of a bass drum brought the music to a sudden halt:
If Pia didn’t leave on her own, someone must have taken her!

Like the steady, unstoppable evening shadows in the forest, panic set in. Bettina searched the frosty patio for footprints and found none besides her own frantic tracks heading here and there and in circles. Anyone taking the baby from the pram would have left tracks. It made no sense at all. What was she missing?

Bettina’s eyes darted around the garden. In all directions, the delicate winterfrost appeared undisturbed. Not a branch or a twig had been shaken.

Bettina was just about to search the barn when she noticed a small spot near the stone path that led into the forest — a spot that appeared darker, less sparkly than its surroundings. She followed the path and examined the area closely. The seedlings that grew low at the edge of the forest were bare. Something had knocked all the frost off the tiny branches. And yet there were no footprints, no other clues to follow. She eyed the patio and let her eyes follow the path to the place she knelt. What was small enough to disturb only the tiniest branches but large enough to carry off a baby — all without leaving footprints in the snow? Some sort of bird? An animal that could hop great distances?