Seventeen

Britta—November 1886

Britta took no comfort from her mother Torhild’s funeral. The November wind knifed through the Kinsarvik churchyard. Her brother Erik was leading the hymn-singing and graveside scripture-reading, but he paused every few minutes to wipe his running nose. The few mourners stood in a miserable ring around the lampblack-stained coffin resting beside the grave. Britta’s father Halvor was long dead, and her oldest brother too. Drunks, both of them. Halvor had passed out on the way home to Høiegård one frigid night four years ago, when Britta had been just twelve, and died of exposure. Two years later her older brother had stumbled from a pier and drowned.

She turned her head toward the old Kinsarvik Church. She wished they could say goodbye to her mother inside, but that luxury was reserved for dignitaries, not a widow from a struggling farm like Høiegård. And perhaps that’s well, Britta thought, picturing the painting of St. Michael weighing souls with devils at his feet. How would the saint weigh Torhild’s soul? Britta blinked hard against threatening tears. More than anything else, Torhild had loved to dance. Maybe, Britta thought, that’s where Mother found her strength.

There were some, even now, who found fault with dancing and music. But Britta and Erik were observing a ceremonious burial. They’d led the small procession down the long trail from their farm to the shore. From there the mourners went by church boats to Kinsarvik. Bells had been rung. Psalms had been sung. On Sunday the pastor would toss some dirt on the grave and say his own words.

Erik stopped speaking. They’d brought a keg of burial beer, and he offered a toast to Torhild before drinking from a carved bowl. When he handed it to Britta, she gripped the horsehead handles, sipped, passed it on. She hoped the drink would last until the bowl came back to Erik. Running out before everyone got a swallow would disgrace the family.

Not that my mother would have worried about such a thing, Britta thought. Torhild had managed the farm and kept her small family fed when Halvor had not. No matter how tired or worried, Torhild always found time for her daughter. Torhild had told stories during days-long flatbread baking sessions or as they sat spinning wool by the fire. Some were family stories. Some were old tales she’d learned from her mother, Lisbet, who’d learned them from her grandmother, Gudrun. “We honor them by remembering their stories,” Torhild had explained. “One day you will share them with your daughters and granddaughters.”

But Britta wasn’t sure if her mother had died proud or with regrets. The day before she succumbed to a long, lingering illness, she’d spoken of something never mentioned before: fear. “It will all be up to you and Erik,” she’d whispered. “You must keep Høiegård going. It’s a poor farm, but if you lose it, you will have nothing. That frightens me.”

Britta, who’d been sitting on a stool pulled close by her mother’s bed, didn’t say that she was terrified of that as well. “I’ll try, but Erik …” There was no need to finish the thought. At heart, Erik was not a farmer. He was a musician, a fledgling kjøgemester who’d already been called to perform at several weddings. He played the instrument that had belonged to their grandfather, Lars. It was smaller than the newer fiddles, but it served him.

Many men fiddled and farmed. Bondekunster, folks called men like Erik—Norwegian farmer-artists. But Erik was working less and less on the farm, wandering away for days or even weeks at a time to meet other fiddlers, learn new tunes, play for new audiences.

“Erik has a bit of his father in him,” Torhild had agreed. “But his heart is good. I should have been harder on him, perhaps.” She lifted one hand in a gesture of futility. “You’re the youngest child. And a daughter. But it’s up to you now, Britta. Keep an eye on Erik. Remind him of his duties. And find a good man to marry.”

Now Britta looked around the circle of shivering mourners. There wasn’t a man among them she could imagine marrying. A young man she knew only slightly had surprised her with his presence here, but he was a loutish fellow who loved to fish, not farm. Even now he was staring out over the fjord as if impatient to be away. The only other single man in attendance was Svein Sivertsson, a widower ten or more years older than she was. Britta didn’t know him well, but she saw him here at weekly Sunday services. The big man was a husmann—a farm laborer—and as a younger son with no right of inheritance, he would likely never be more. Big hands and broad shoulders suggested that he was a good worker. He was also quiet and dull. I hope to do better, Britta thought, glancing at Svein.

He was staring at her across the circle, over Torhild’s coffin. The intensity in his hooded eyes made her uncomfortable, and she quickly looked away.

Rituals completed, her brother cleared his throat. “We will now recite the Lord’s Prayer …”

When the coffin had been lowered, Britta cast her fistful of soil upon the lid and sent a silent farewell to her mother: I will do my best to honor your wishes and your memory. Then she turned away, almost breathless, fighting a sudden surge of panic. She bowed her head, trying to calm her racing heart … and realized she was standing near Gudrun’s grave.

Britta walked over and placed one mittened palm on the moldering wooden marker. She’d never met Gudrun, but somehow, thinking about her today brought the comfort she’d been craving.

I come from a line of strong women, Britta reminded herself. They’d done what they needed to do. She could do the same.