Fifteen

Torhild—July 1870

Torhild straightened and swung one leg back over the goat she’d been straddling. The goat leapt indignantly away. Torhild stretched, rubbing her back. She sat on a stool when milking the cows, but most of the boisterous goats needed to be firmly held. She was always glad to finish with the goats.

When the evening’s milk was strained and set in pans to separate, Torhild turned to her son Erik, a sturdy seven-year-old who was spending the summer with her. “I’ll haul water to scour the pails. You go see to the animals.”

He looked worried. “Will you be all right?”

Torhild’s heart constricted. When had her little boy become her defender? Erik took his seter duties seriously, and she was grateful. Harder to bear was his growing concern for her. She suspected that not all the ills and evils he imagined came from wild animal attacks or avalanches or storms. Halvor and I must try harder not to argue in front of the boys, she thought.

When the buckets were scrubbed, she left the building that doubled as dwelling and dairy storage house. Erik was squatting on his haunches in the distance, watching over their two cows, several sheep, and half a dozen goats. The cows’ bells clanged dully as they nosed here and there in search of mushrooms. The frolicking goats’ bells added a lighter jingle.

She walked out to join him. “No sign of your father?”

The boy shook his head. He didn’t appear to be surprised or disappointed that his father had not arrived this Saturday night to see them, and to take the week’s butter and cheese back down to Høiegård. It would be nice to believe that Halvor was too busy with the farm below to make the climb, for since Lars had died, there was more work to do and fewer hands to do it. But Halvor was drinking more and more. He sometimes disappeared from the farm for days on end.

“Well, perhaps he or your brother will come tomorrow.” Torhild gently ruffled Erik’s hair. “I’ll come back to help when it’s time to bring the animals in for the night.”

She retraced her steps slowly, contemplating the low log-and-stone building. Rain dripped through gaps in the moldering logs. The turf roof leaked. Some people built their summer farms close to their neighbors’ seters, clustering the buildings so heavy chores like replacing logs or roofs could be shared. But Høiegård was isolated, so its seter was as well.

“I can’t do everything myself,” Torhild said. She thought about the wooden tubs of cheese waiting inside—sweet and salty brown brunost, soft goats’ milk gjetost, cooked kokeost. She had butter, too. Her cows and goats produced about two-thirds of their milk in the summer. She spent the long days transforming it into food they could sell in the village. But nothing could be sold if her husband didn’t come every Saturday, as promised, to leave empty containers and transport what she’d made. And make sure we’re safe and well, she thought, with a humorless laugh.

But perhaps, she thought, I should be grateful he hasn’t come. She liked being here, liked being mostly on her own. She liked watching yellow primroses and purple foxgloves bloom among the grass, and going to sleep to the waterfall’s lullaby. She liked watching baby swallows poke their heads from the row of nests beneath the eaves, and hearing stonechats’ clicking song when they perched on the rock walls. Her mother still ruled Høiegård. Being at the seter gave Torhild a taste of independence, and a break from Lisbet’s sadness.

“Torhild!” Halvor was trudging up the path, walking stick in one hand and a tall, sturdy pack basket strapped to his back.

So, she thought. He’s come after all.

She waited until he’d approached before speaking. “Is everything well? I expected you earlier.”

“I was delayed,” Halvor said. That was all, and he didn’t meet her gaze, staring instead at a buzzard circling lazily overhead.

Torhild stifled a sigh. “Come inside. You’ll want to spend the night—”

“No.” Halvor raked one hand through his hair. “I’ll pack up what you have and walk back down.”

Either Halvor didn’t want to spend time with his wife and younger son, or he already had other plans for the evening. Torhild really didn’t care which. “Come along, then.”

The log building was cloaked in shadows, but there wasn’t much to see—one box bed in the corner where she slept, a pallet on the floor for her son, a corner hearth, table, two churns, buckets, a few dishes, shelves holding bowls and butter paddles. A row of ambars, the wooden tubs where she stored butter, waited near the door.

Halvor shrugged from the pack and began removing empty containers, every one carved by Torhild’s father and scoured after each use by Lisbet. For a moment Torhild’s parents and the relative security of childhood felt very close—Lars bent close to the fire on a winter night, quietly carving; Lisbet vigorously attacking the woodenware with hot water and soap and a handful of rushes.

“What do you have for me?” Halvor was clearly impatient to be back on his way. Torhild silently fetched the week’s bounty. “Not as much as I’d hoped,” he grumbled as he began settling the containers into his pack.

Torhild didn’t answer. The animals produced what they produced.

“One more thing.” Halvor shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He was still well-muscled, although the beer and akevitt were softening his middle. “Torhild, things are bad. The boys will need new shoes—”

“I can’t cajole the animals into increasing their milk.”

“But you can give over to me anything of value.”

“I have nothing of value to give,” she protested, but her heart beat faster. They’d had this conversation before. Halvor was looking for something to sell. Lisbet kept the family’s bridal crown and silver jewelry locked in the stabbur and slept with the key beneath her pillow. That left only one thing.

Halvor’s face hardened. “You have your father’s fiddle!”

“I don’t. And if you didn’t spend so much on ale—”

With the back of his hand, Halvor knocked Torhild against the shelf. Pain exploded in her left cheek and jaw.

Amid the cacophony of tumbling tin and wood she heard a wordless cry. Erik, her little boy, hurtled across the room and knocked his father off-balance. Only the table kept Halvor from falling to the floor.

Torhild snatched Erik’s arm and pulled him away. “Don’t you dare strike him,” she hissed at Halvor, cheek throbbing, eyes narrowed. “Do not dare.” She gave the panting boy a little push toward the door. “Go back outside.” Erik hesitated, then scurried away.

Then Torhild and Halvor stood alone, glaring at each other. Telling him she didn’t have the fiddle was a lie, and she knew that he knew it was a lie. But she’d decided years ago to protect the fiddle.

After her father died, Torhild had hidden his hardingfele in the stone wall. She wanted Big Gunnar to keep it in thanks for the pleasure he’d given her father at the end of his life. But her father’s friend had never returned, and she’d never again seen him playing at a community gathering. Finally she’d brought the fiddle up to the seter and hidden it in an old butter churn that, needing repair, had been shoved into a back corner. She hoped Lisbet had forgotten about the fiddle altogether.

But clearly Halvor had not. “I know you have it!” He scowled.

“Go.” Torhild reached toward the table and curled her fingers around the handle of a knife. “Now. And do not ever raise your hand to me again.”

Perhaps it was the knife, or perhaps it was shame, or perhaps something else entirely. For whatever reason, Halvor hefted the pack and walked out. Torhild stepped to the door and watched her husband walk across the clearing and disappear down the trail.

Erik had returned to the grazing animals. She started to go to him, then realized that she was shaking. Her knees bent and she sat abruptly on the doorstep, staring at the knife still clenched in one hand. I wouldn’t have used it, she told herself.

She touched her cheek and winced. Things with Halvor had not been good for some time, but he’d never hit her before. They had reached a new place in their marriage. She instinctively knew there was no going back, and she had no idea what to do now.

Torhild forced her fingers to let the knife fall. Was there anything she could say to convince Halvor to drink less and work more? Perhaps she should ask her mother for advice …

No. She couldn’t confide in her mother, for she knew what Lisbet would say: Give him the fiddle. It’s the devil’s instrument. A fiddle had brought anguish to Torhild’s parents. A man trying to “discover” Hardanger music had indirectly caused Gjertrud’s death. Now a fiddle represented heartache for her.

But fiddle music had also, once, brought her parents together. It had eased her father’s final journey. It had given her great joy at dances. She would never give the fiddle to Halvor. It’s hiding place would remain secret.

Suddenly she smiled, remembering her other secret. She hadn’t yet told Halvor that she was pregnant.

Although Torhild adored her two sons, she had always longed for a daughter. This time she knew, simply knew, that she was carrying a girl. She smiled, imagining herself showing her daughter how to make cheese and spin wool. She would share Great-Grandmother Gudrun’s stories of the old days. She would advise her girl to heed unexplained impressions. And she would teach her daughter to dance.