“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.” Continue reading Snippet Four, Troll Valley →

They were still discussing it around the wash table outside the mud porch when we got to the house. Bestefar was dipping water from a pail into the washbasin, and as he rolled up his sleeves, loosened his shirt and started to scrub the dirt off he said, “Peter, I think Otto’s got a point. The problem with you is you ain’t got brains enough to know when you’re smart.”

Papa folded his arms and twisted his mouth. “You know how many men try that sort of thing every year and lose their shirts?”

“Ja, some of them fail. But none of the ones who don’t try, succeed,” said Bestefar, lathering his arms with a cake of soap. His hands were red-brown as an Indian’s to the wrist, the arms paint-white from there on up. “Look at me. If I hadn’t been willing to take a chance, I’d still be fishing sild in Norway.”

“You tell him, Ole,” said Otto. Continue reading Snippet Three, Troll Valley →

CHAPTER I THRESHING

It really was my fault. There’s no getting away from that.

It started during the threshing.

I remember I was angry till I saw the red caps. Then I was frightened. As always.

Regular people, my brother Fred had explained to me recently, laughing, do not see red Norwegian caps (luer) with long tails and tassels dancing in the grass whenever they lose their tempers. All around me the caps rushed and gamboled in my sight, like flaming fox tails among the fields. I never saw the folk who wore those caps, nor wished to. They danced, it seemed, just underground, moving through the earth like fish in water.

So I’d learned to stop and take a few deep breaths whenever I got angry. The red caps usually went away then.

“Chris! Auggie! Fred! You think those shovels were made for leaning on?” Continue reading Snippet Two, Troll Valley →