—
I had the night off on Christmas Eve to make the steep walk up to St?rsetgjerdet and spend it with Mother and Father. There was enough snow on the ground that I had to use snowshoes, following a track between tall pines and naked birches; I was not the first one who had walked up there that day. I figured it was my brothers. They usually came up to wish their parents a happy Christmas and gift them some coffee beans and sugar.
Dusk was already bleeding into night when I arrived. Through the window, I could see a single candle burning on the table. Mother would be there but not sewing today. She would not work at all on Christmas Eve. A pale oval obscured the light: Olina was expecting me. It was not much of a life for her, stuck in that house with Mother and Father. Even I was a welcome respite, no matter that she did not like me much.
She swung the door open as I arrived and ushered me inside. The fireplace was well stacked, with proper logs, no less. Father was no woodsman, so the fuel often ran out. Someone must have taken pity and gifted them a load. Peder perhaps. He often grew sentimental around Christmas and wanted to honor his father and mother. Never mind the time Father struck the axe in Peder’s calf rather than the log because he had annoyed him some way or the other. It was a nasty cut and bled badly—Peder lay in bed for days. He still had a scar to show for it, white and angry like melted tallow.
Father was deep in the bottle before I arrived; he sat by the fire and did not even look up when I came inside. The set of his shoulders was tense, and that worried me. He was mulling over something then, growing angrier as he sat there sipping, smoking, and tending the fire with a stick. Mother had had something to drink too; I could tell from the rosy glow in her cheeks. Even Olina had added something to her coffee; I could smell it on her breath.
I took off my shoes and left them to dry, hung my shawl on the line, and placed a painted wooden tin by the table. The snow melted like teardrops on the wool, dripped down on the floor. Soon the whole room would smell damp. I joined my mother and sister by the candle.
“Did Peder and Ole stop by?”
“For sure.” Olina motioned to the coffee grinder on the table. “They brought coffee and tobacco for us.”
“How are things down at the farm this Christmas?” Mother asked. “I saw his parents at church. They both looked worse for wear.”
I shrugged and poured myself coffee. “They have other sons. They are hardly the first couple to lose a child.” I did not like either one of them, and not only because of Anders. The farmer was a hard man who treated his cattle badly, and his wife was too haughty to clean. She did not have much when she married, yet she still saw fit to look down on us maids.
“It’s different when the children are grown,” Mother said. “You know them better then; you are used to them. When they are small, you always expect something to happen. Grown children are the worst to lose.”
“How do you know?” She had never lost a grown one.
It was Mother’s time to shrug. “I had sisters. Brothers. It took a toll on my mother.” It was strange to see her just sitting there, leaning on her elbows. No mending in her fingers, no wool in her lap.
“Wish we had lost some,” muttered Father. “Much good they do us. Nothing but trouble—”
“Oh shut your mouth,” Mother snapped. “Let me have my Christmas Eve in peace.” She pushed the worn Bible toward me. Paper like silk; the most precious thing she owned. “Read something for us, Little Brynhild. It’s a holy night.”
I opened the book and read from Luke. As I read about the cruel king and the birth of a savior, the snow started falling outside the window, making the night seem almost peaceful. I thought about the farm, where there had been butter, cheese, fish, sausages, and sour cream on the table that day. From the look of the empty pot, my family had eaten porridge with lard. I pushed the book away. What good could those words ever do? None of us could eat the gospel.
“Read on,” Mother urged me.
“It won’t do any good.”
“You used to be so fond of the Bible and couldn’t get fast enough to church.”
“I changed.”
“Yes”—her gaze was upon me—“ever since that night.”
“What night?”
“You know which night. You changed since that. There’s no laughter left in you—”
“It’s true.” Olina nodded, looking much like an old woman in that moment; hands folded, chin bobbing. Her hair, the same brown color as mine, was fastened at the nape of her neck with a knitting needle. “You never were much fun, Little Brynhild, but you weren’t always this angry.”
“She is ashamed,” muttered Father. “She is ashamed for what happened, and she should be too.”
Before I even knew what I did, the coffee grinder was no longer on the table but in my hand. I hurled it across the room but missed his stupid head by an inch or two. The precious machinery flew into the wall and gauged a deep wound in the wood. I stood by the table, heaving for breath while the red fog slowly subsided. “Watch your mouth, old man, or I’ll be coming for you next!”
He looked at me with eyes like a snake. The pipe was still in his hand, but the stick he had tended the fire with had fallen to the floor. “Next, huh? Who did you come for first?”
“Stop it!” Mother’s lips were thin, her nostrils flared. “I will not have any fighting at Christmas!”
“She is not right, that girl.” He shook his head. “And that beating left her mad as a dog.” He eyed me warily while picking up his stick. “She’ll kill us in our sleep one night, mark my words.”
“No madder than you, old fool.” Mother went to pick up the grinder. I wished that it had struck him. I wished that he were dead. “Sit back down, Little Brynhild.” Mother gave me a look. “Bad enough if you have ruined the grinder. Wherever will we get a new one?”
I slowly sat back down on the chair. My jaw throbbed with pain. “It’s what he gets for talking like that.”
“You know what he’s like.” Mother sat back down as well. The handle had come off the grinder and she tried to put it back on. “Pay him no mind.”
“I won’t have another word about that night.”
Another look from Mother then. “Well, there isn’t much more to say, is there? You are still here and the boy is dead.”
“Strange, that,” Father muttered while shoving the stick deep into the fire, “how he is dead and you are still here.”
“It means there’s still some justice in this world.” Mother’s hands forced the grinder apart and coffee grains littered the table.
“I’ll seek service at R?dde in the new year.” My voice was steady again. “I meant to tell you a while ago.”
Mother looked up, surprised. “I thought you didn’t want to go.”
“I changed my mind.” I rubbed my tender jaw.
“Are they still giving you a hard time, down at the farm?”
“Not at all, but it’s become such a dreary place since he died.”