I remembered one day when she was six or seven; it was late in summer and the sun burned like an ember, painting the sky in shades of gold. I was outside at St?rsetgjerdet, coaxing our cows inside for the night. They were a couple of skinny things, even in summer; bad stock, my father said, but I loved them anyway.
“Come, then.” I called them in from my spot a few steps from the barn door. “Come so, Dokka, come so, Staslin.” The animals regarded me with large, dark eyes but did not heed me at all. Their heads just dipped back into the grass while their jaws worked slowly, tirelessly. Their udders, swollen with milk, swung back and forth below their bellies. I was growing impatient and was about to get the switch when I heard the barking of a dog, loud and insistent—angry sounding, and close. I stopped and shaded my eyes with my hand while scanning the steep hill for signs of the animal as the barking came ever closer. It was chasing from the sound of it, and I wondered what it was it had found; a fox perhaps, or a hare.
The ruckus came from behind the tree line and so it was hard to tell, but soon the barks were joined by other sounds, snapping twigs and rustling branches, and I figured it had to be something big and was prepared to see a moose calf come jolting out of the woods. Instead, I saw my sister come bursting into the open, running as fast as her little feet could muster, straight up that steep hill. Even from the distance, I could see the panic in her eyes, the terror drawn on her features. She did not run home, though, but ran straight by. She was blind with fear—too scared to think!
Soon I could see the dog as well: a slick-looking mongrel with bared teeth and a black coat, chasing her up the hill.
“Little Brynhild!” I called out. “Little Brynhild!” But she did not heed me. Soon another patch of wood swallowed her up, and the dog followed suit, crashing through the underbrush. I lifted my skirts as high as they would go and set out after them as fast I could. My heart was hammering all the while, and my lungs soon ached for breath.
“Little Brynhild!” I cried as I reached the dense growth of spruce and pine. “Where are you? Answer me!”
I did not get a reply, but I could hear the dog’s angry barks before me and continued in the sound’s direction. I saw all sorts of things in my mind as I ran: sharp teeth slicing through soft skin, blood beading on a plump leg. I heard the sound of bone crushed between jaws.
Finally, I could see them before me: the girl stood close to the waterfall, on top of the steep embankment. Behind her, the river ran red with iron, rushing past her with the sound of a storm. One wrong step and she would fall. Little Brynhild’s face was flustered and she had lost her headscarf; her brown hair had escaped the braid I had made and hung about her face in slick tendrils. She was clutching a pine branch in her hand, longer than her arm, and was waving it aimlessly at the crouching dog, which was growling and showing its teeth, creeping ever nearer.
“Tsjuh!” I called out, and grabbed a lichen-covered rock from the mossy ground. My aim was off, but it did not matter; I was out to scare, not to harm. “Tsjuh! Go home!” I cried at the growling beast, and grabbed another rock from the ground. The dog startled when the rock hit close to where it crouched. Little Brynhild, having heard me, took up the words:
“Tsjuh!” she cried out. “Tsjuh!”
I threw more rocks and clapped my hands loudly as I moved in closer. The dog seemed confused then, and looked between us as if unsure of where to strike; but it was still angry, still showing those teeth. I knew that what you have to do is make the dog scared of you, so I bellowed from the top of my lungs as I rushed toward the animal, clapping my hands wildly. Finally, it rose and jumped away so as not to be trampled by the angry creature that came rushing forth. The dog paused between the trees, looking back, hoping perhaps that there was still hope for quarry, but I bent down and got a branch of my own, a rotten thing with moss hanging off it, and started hitting it against the ground, shouting all the while from the top of my lungs.
Finally, it slunk away and disappeared into the woods, finding me too much of a hassle to take on, perhaps. I turned to Little Brynhild and scooped her up in my arms. The girl shivered against me, but there were no tears.
“It wouldn’t go away!” she cried.
“You must not let it see that you’re afraid.” I scolded her with a voice hoarse from shouting. “They can smell it, the dogs, and then they’ll come for you.”
“I wasn’t afraid,” she lied while her arms wound tight around me and she cleaved to me for protection.
“Why did it chase you, then?”
“Because it wanted to bite me.”
“Is that so?” I had no time to lecture her just then. She was still shivering, was still stiff as board, and she was not a toddler anymore so I could already feel the strain in my arms, even if I was strong. “Maybe the dog is mad,” I said. “Do you know who owns it?”
I could feel her nodding against my neck. “He only laughed when it chased me,” she said. “He didn’t even try to stop it.”
My jaws tensed up with anger, but I found no words to give her.
I carried her all the way back home.
Receiving the letter reminded me of that day. It was the same sense of imminent danger—and the same instinct to lift my skirts and run to her aid, screaming.
That same night, as we lay in the loft, I had sworn that I would always protect her, and I felt called upon now by her words of distress to fulfill that very promise.
“The world is not kind to those who are different,” I whispered into Rudolph’s hair as we rocked gently back and forth on the step. “But then again,” I continued, “she may not always be so kind to it either.”
4.
Brynhild
Selbu, 1877
How old are you, Little Brynhild? Sixteen?” Gurine’s blue eyes were kind. She had just been looking into my mouth to inspect the damage done to my teeth. We were perched on wooden chairs in the kitchen, next to the flour-strewn table. Outside the windows, the sky was gray, but the fields had turned green and the birch trees sprouted leaves. Summer had arrived and the barn was empty while the animals were grazing up in the mountains. Usually I spent this time of year up there, tending them on the summer farm. Not this year, though. Not while I was still so poor. Instead, I stayed behind with Gurine, cooking for the farmhands and the family, cleaning, scrubbing, and sweeping floors. Mother was distraught by this. She had been hoping I would go to the summer farm and not have to see much of Anders that summer. I did not care much at all.
“Seventeen,” I murmured, and rubbed my jaw, still swollen even after all those weeks. I had seen my face for the first time since it happened in the mirror in the farmhouse. The bruising had started to fade, turning a ghastly yellow.
Gurine’s face was concerned under the faded headscarf. “I wasn’t surprised when you didn’t come to work, but I worried when you weren’t in church. You never miss church.”