“Meadow Elves,” by Nils Blommer (1850)

I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up to see Miss Margit’s face, faceted in my tears. That face, longish and stern, with the gold blaze in the black hair above her right eye, could be gentle when she chose, and her gray eyes would soften with a sweetness that had nothing of sentimentality in it.

“What’s the matter, Kjære?”

I told her, between sobs.

She sat, elegantly careless of her black dress, in the straw beside me. She took my left elbow and fingers in her hands. I shuddered as I always did when someone examined my deformity. There is no nakedness like it.

My arm was permanently bent. More than anything else it resembled a plucked chicken’s wing. The useless fingers curled back toward the elbow, and the flesh hung loose and flaccid on the forearm. I never willingly rolled up my sleeves where anyone could see, which hid the worst of it, but I was an obvious cripple. I had learned early to expect the quick-glance-and-look-away that people use for politeness, or pity.

“You think you are to blame that your papa is unhappy?” Miss Margit asked, stroking the arm, making me shudder.

“If it weren’t for me—ʺ

“If it weren’t for you your family and Mr. Lafferty would find another way to persuade him. Your papa hasn’t the strength to withstand them. If he must be overborne, it’s just as well he do it for love. It’s a kindness you do him, Christian.”

“It doesn’t feel like a kindness.”

“Well that’s just feelings. Your feelings know nothing. That’s not what they’re for. They are intoxicants, to be enjoyed in moderation.”

“I don’t understand.”

She stroked my cheek. “What do you wish right now?”

“I wish I’d never been born.”

“Nonsense. How would that help your papa?”

“I wish I were like other people.”

“Whatever for? Look at me. Am I like other people? I should hope not. But I am very happy.”

“You’re not ugly.”

“I’ve been called a monster. But we were talking of your papa. What do you wish for him?”

“That he wouldn’t have to choose—between us—me—and what he wants to do.”

“Yes, everything would be so much simpler if you didn’t have to choose.”

“Why shouldn’t he be happy?”

“And what makes you so sure that getting what he wants would make him happy? Look.”

She pointed with a finger at the wooden stall partition across from us and, as I watched, two jet-black, pencil-thin lines shot up the slats from the straw bedding, about an inch apart, extending themselves vertically like swift-growing vines. About four feet up they turned, one going right, the other left. Three feet on they turned downwards again, disappearing at last behind the straw. Now two doors were outlined in the wall where no doors had been.

“Lukke opp,” said Miss Margit.

When the doors swung open they should have shown us the next stall. But I knew they wouldn’t.

I don’t remember when I first understood that Miss Margit was one of the huldre folk. We’d call them elves or fairies in English, but such names offend them. According to legend they all had a deformity (tails or backwards feet or something of the sort), but I’d never seen hers. Nothing is so strange that it can’t seem mundane if you grow up with it, as people who’ve had radios and automobiles all their lives ought to understand. As early in my life as I could recall, Miss Margit had opened doors for me. She didn’t do it often, or in the presence of others. I’d never had the boldness to ask for it.

Through the right-hand door I saw a sweet, misty green meadow, lit by that luminescence that means recent rain, although I saw no mud. Butterflies flickered among the rich flowers. Deep, mossy woods stretched into the distance toward low clouds, and blue mountains beyond. In the meadow, gentlemen and ladies in bright clothes danced together to a melody I could not hear.

The left-hand door revealed a swampy, rotting land where earth and water were gray alike. Decaying trees sent up twisted limbs, pocked by starveling leaves that clutched at bilious light. Hunched and furtive shapes moved in the shadows, nightmarish in the dimness.

“If you had to choose a door to enter, which would it be?” asked Miss Margit.

“The one on the right.”

“You’d regret it, for that land is poisonous to humans. The very scent of the grass would put you to sleep a hundred years.”

“But I couldn’t choose the left one.”

“Very true. The left-hand door is equally fatal. Worse than that, your choice of it would testify to cynicism, which is a great sickness of the spirit.”

“So both doors are wrong. It’s a trick.”

“Not at all. Your choice of the right-hand door indicates a healthy soul. That diagnosis is the only certain outcome of any choice.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You’re not supposed to know what I mean. I’m giving you an education. Education is a different thing from understanding. Education is the rack of pegs you hang your understanding on, when you finally acquire some. That will come of itself, with no help from me.”

I’d heard this sort of thing a hundred times from her. “I should have known the right-hand door was wicked,” I said.

“I didn’t say it was wicked. I said it was bad for humans. Not the same thing at all. Why should you have known?”

“The people there are dancing. Dancing’s a sin.”

Miss Margit smiled as she rose. “Maybe for Norwegians,” she said.

“Mother says it is. Dancing’s just an expression of our baser instincts.”

“Your mother is half right.”

“Anyway, I know dancing’s bad because the red caps do it.”

Miss Margit kneeled to look me in the face. “Red caps?” she asked.

“I see red caps dancing in the grass, whenever I get mad or scared.”

Her stare frightened me, fettered me. It was like a wolf’s. “Christian, why have you never told me this before?”

“I thought you knew about these things. And I didn’t know till just the other day that other people don’t see them too. I mentioned it to Fred, and he laughed at me. I think I convinced him I was just joking.”

She closed her eyes. “I should have expected it,” she said. “I should have asked.”

My mouth had gone dry. “Is it terrible? Am I going crazy?”

“No, no, Kjære. You’re not seeing anything that’s not there. But the fact that you see them means I must protect you. It’s only right, as I expect it’s my fault.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m your godmother. That gives us a bond, linking you to the Other World. For that reason I should have looked for something like this. It can’t be denied I’m someone it’s dangerous to know.”

“What will you do?”

“I will think about it. Don’t be afraid. The caps can do you no harm for the time being. I’ll look after you. All will be well.”

She rose and stepped through the right-hand door.

Both doors clapped shut and vanished.