Peregrine
ERLEND FOURNIER
I was shakier than I wanted to admit to Fuglestad and Asta, but I forced myself to remember what I needed to do. I needed to purchase a diggings—a place for the three of us to live. Preferably, this transaction would be done with an unscrupulous sort who wouldn’t balk at taking gold from a teenager nor ask any questions about where my gold came from.
The groggery-keeper.
He was a kindhearted dramseller who used to gladly take my kroner and provide our theater parties with his delicious intoxicants. The yellow-haired man was up on a ladder when I entered the bar-parlor. He had a jaw shaped like a coal scuttle and boughs of pine draped over his arms. Velvet ribbon, sprigs of holly, and Christmas candles decorated the shelves and tables.
Pine and holly in October? “What’s all this?”
The man turned around. “It’s for the announcement.”
“Announcement?”
“About the Christmas Race.”
“But it’s only October.”
“Thing’s gonna be big this year. Folks from all over are comin’ for it. You should see the posters.” He withdrew one from under his register. “Fully colored advertisements! Just like the circus.”
“It’s October.”
“They’re building up the excitement early.”
Though my limbs were still trembling, I had to admit the posters were lovely. Unlike previous years’ advertisements, red-and-green-colored ink decorated these bills, and a large illustration dominated the foreground: a horseman dressed not in the traditional bunad, but in a modern-looking white coat. He led a steed by the bridle—not a fjord pony pulling a sledge, instead a taller, more athletic animal.
But I needed my diggings, not holiday distractions.
I gave him a gold-piece. “I was hoping you might tell me if anyone around has property for sale?”
“The only proper estates belong to the Mikkelsens, the Adamsens, and the Lundegaards. And they all plan on staying around for a while.”
“It needn’t be anything luxurious.” In fact, simple was likely all I could afford in order to retain enough to get through the winter. “The smallest, simplest thing is what I’m after. Four walls and a roof.”
“Four walls and a roof?”
I nodded.
“What’s it for?”
“Myself.”
“You’re seventeen, right?”
“Eighteen.”
“Having trouble with your folks?”
I almost gave him another gold piece to shut him up. “I need to purchase something immediately. And I’m willing to pay generously.”
“Alderman Adamsen has a seter up on Old Viking Road. His family hasn’t kept cows since 1865, and I believe he’s been wanting to let it go.”
“When can I meet with him?”
Alderman Adamsen had a pink, condescending face and a head of lemon-colored hair coarse as a boar’s. He took me well outside of Muskox Hollow—not as far up Old Viking Road as the Fuglestad farm, but far enough up the mountain path to see the whole town sprawled out below.
A little stone house stood half-buried in the hillside; it had a grass-covered roof supported by thick timber beams. I rocked back on my heels, taking in the jagged white peaks rising upward in the distance. The whole scene enchanted me.
I followed the man as he showed me the structure—the moss-adorned fence line, the crumbling red barn. I needed to make a good impression. As alderman, Adamsen determined not only whether I could buy this land and therefore my freedom, his opinion of me would surely be made clear to everyone in the valley. Though I relished my mountain-dwelling future, I’d still rely on Muskox Hollow to purchase provisions and supplies. As I’d learned from Papa, even the wealthiest men couldn’t afford to be shunned.
“This isn’t common, you know.” Adamsen’s eyes regarded me with suspicion. “Being paid in gold horseshoes.”
Perhaps he’d heard about the ruckus between Nils and me. Perhaps he’d heard the other rumors as well.
“Most men won’t sell property to a seventeen-year-old.”
“I’m eighteen.”
He faced me, the pores on his nose deep as pits. “Nonetheless.”
“It’s real gold,” I said.
“Unusual currency often requires an extra fee. An exchange rate, you could say.”
Papa used to say bargaining was for the lower classes. Men of means should pay the full price. I lifted my chin. “I will gladly pay whatever amount you feel is fair.”
He smiled.
Finally, it was happening—the beginning of what I wanted: a life with Fuglestad and Asta, the end of childhood.
Signing the title deed, a curious sentiment overcame me. I signed my first name Erlend. But when I got to the last name, I stopped when I wrote the F. Feeling my heart catch, I paused momentarily, and then followed through with a strange compulsion. I signed my name: Erlend Fuglestad.
Yes, I’d spent quite a bit more than I planned, but I still had enough for a horse, a cariole, and supplies to make it through the winter. Since Papa intended on closing the theater, he wouldn’t mind if I nabbed a few items.
A cozy home all to ourselves would inspire Fuglestad to forget nonsense worries about dreadful things that came in twos and threes. And maybe this unfortunate episode with his latest injury would prove to be only a minor setback. Our destiny called—I could feel it in my chest like a drum.