“What do you have for me?” Halvor was clearly impatient to be back on his way. Torhild silently fetched the week’s bounty. “Not as much as I’d hoped,” he grumbled as he began settling the containers into his pack.
Torhild didn’t answer. The animals produced what they produced.
“One more thing.” Halvor shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He was still well-muscled, although the beer and akevitt were softening his middle. “Torhild, things are bad. The boys will need new shoes—”
“I can’t cajole the animals into increasing their milk.”
“But you can give over to me anything of value.”
“I have nothing of value to give,” she protested, but her heart beat faster. They’d had this conversation before. Halvor was looking for something to sell. Lisbet kept the family’s bridal crown and silver jewelry locked in the stabbur and slept with the key beneath her pillow. That left only one thing.
Halvor’s face hardened. “You have your father’s fiddle!”
“I don’t. And if you didn’t spend so much on ale—”
With the back of his hand, Halvor knocked Torhild against the shelf. Pain exploded in her left cheek and jaw.
Amid the cacophony of tumbling tin and wood she heard a wordless cry. Erik, her little boy, hurtled across the room and knocked his father off-balance. Only the table kept Halvor from falling to the floor.
Torhild snatched Erik’s arm and pulled him away. “Don’t you dare strike him,” she hissed at Halvor, cheek throbbing, eyes narrowed. “Do not dare.” She gave the panting boy a little push toward the door. “Go back outside.” Erik hesitated, then scurried away.
Then Torhild and Halvor stood alone, glaring at each other. Telling him she didn’t have the fiddle was a lie, and she knew that he knew it was a lie. But she’d decided years ago to protect the fiddle.
After her father died, Torhild had hidden his hardingfele in the stone wall. She wanted Big Gunnar to keep it in thanks for the pleasure he’d given her father at the end of his life. But her father’s friend had never returned, and she’d never again seen him playing at a community gathering. Finally she’d brought the fiddle up to the seter and hidden it in an old butter churn that, needing repair, had been shoved into a back corner. She hoped Lisbet had forgotten about the fiddle altogether.
But clearly Halvor had not. “I know you have it!” He scowled.
“Go.” Torhild reached toward the table and curled her fingers around the handle of a knife. “Now. And do not ever raise your hand to me again.”
Perhaps it was the knife, or perhaps it was shame, or perhaps something else entirely. For whatever reason, Halvor hefted the pack and walked out. Torhild stepped to the door and watched her husband walk across the clearing and disappear down the trail.
Erik had returned to the grazing animals. She started to go to him, then realized that she was shaking. Her knees bent and she sat abruptly on the doorstep, staring at the knife still clenched in one hand. I wouldn’t have used it, she told herself.
She touched her cheek and winced. Things with Halvor had not been good for some time, but he’d never hit her before. They had reached a new place in their marriage. She instinctively knew there was no going back, and she had no idea what to do now.
Torhild forced her fingers to let the knife fall. Was there anything she could say to convince Halvor to drink less and work more? Perhaps she should ask her mother for advice …
No. She couldn’t confide in her mother, for she knew what Lisbet would say: Give him the fiddle. It’s the devil’s instrument. A fiddle had brought anguish to Torhild’s parents. A man trying to “discover” Hardanger music had indirectly caused Gjertrud’s death. Now a fiddle represented heartache for her.
But fiddle music had also, once, brought her parents together. It had eased her father’s final journey. It had given her great joy at dances. She would never give the fiddle to Halvor. It’s hiding place would remain secret.
Suddenly she smiled, remembering her other secret. She hadn’t yet told Halvor that she was pregnant.
Although Torhild adored her two sons, she had always longed for a daughter. This time she knew, simply knew, that she was carrying a girl. She smiled, imagining herself showing her daughter how to make cheese and spin wool. She would share Great-Grandmother Gudrun’s stories of the old days. She would advise her girl to heed unexplained impressions. And she would teach her daughter to dance.
Sixteen
I must spend more time with elders, Chloe thought as she rejoined Roelke. Especially elders who still loved to dance. Bestefar had demonstrated steps he’d learned as a child, moving unsteadily but with joy. The visit hadn’t made Chloe forget Mom’s death and her own tangled family history, or Aunt Hilda’s injury, or Klara Evenstad’s death. But it had provided some balance, and at least partially filled a depleted inner well. She felt ready for the next challenge.
“Something weird just happened,” Roelke muttered.
And there it is, she thought. “Okay, tell me.”
His story left Chloe incredulous. “You followed Ellinor? You actually tailed the director of the Hardanger Folkemuseum?”
“I didn’t have a whole lot of options,” he observed testily. “Don’t you think it’s strange that Ellinor complained about being ‘chained’ to the office all day, and then finds time to visit Kinsarvik?”
“She must have had a good reason. Maybe she just needed a break after dealing with the cops and the press and everything.”
“This wasn’t ‘a break.’ The guy she met was waiting for her. It was prearranged.”
Chloe opened her mouth, then closed it again. A mom nearby shrieked at her children, who were chasing gulls. A boy threw a Frisbee for his joyful dog.
Finally Roelke asked, “So, did you get what you needed from the interview?”
She was glad to change the subject. “More than I could have hoped for, actually. I’ll have to write up my notes to share with Torstein while everything’s still fresh in my mind. He believes that different isolated areas in Hardanger have produced unique variants of the same dance. That’s what he’s trying to document. And in theory, I might be able to discover if immigrants from different communities brought their variants to Wisconsin, or if the New World dances are distinct.”
“Well, hunh.”
“And guess what? We were invited to attend a dance being held on Saturday, up in the mountains. It’s not a public event, so the invitation is a real honor.” Chloe remembered belatedly that Roelke did not dance. “The music should be good,” she tried, “but if you’d rather not go …”
“No, I’ll go.” He reached for her hand.
She nodded toward the trail map he was holding. “What’s that?”
“I was hoping we might find a bit of spare time to forget all the trouble and just enjoy ourselves.”
Chloe imagined picnicking with Roelke by some remote waterfall. “That would be heavenly,” she agreed wistfully.
“But not right now,” Roelke said. “Do you still want to see the church?”
“Definitely.”
As they walked through the gate in the stone fence surrounding the churchyard, Chloe made a conscious effort to open herself to whatever might be hovering unseen in this place. She sensed a mélange of emotions, centuries of grief and joy and devotion. When they entered the church, she was struck again by a sense of familiarity. I do know this place, she thought, and if I try hard enough …
“Good afternoon!” A diminutive white-haired lady tucked knitting into a basket by her chair and popped eagerly to her feet. “You are Americans? I’m a volunteer. It will be my pleasure to give you a tour.”
Chloe felt Roelke’s questioning gaze. She responded with a tiny shrug: No, I’d rather wander through on our own. That didn’t seem to be an option.
The guide was enthusiastic and
informative. “Because of the sheltered harbor, Kinsarvik has been a gathering place since the days when Vikings sailed the fjords. There has been a church here since the twelfth century. The first wooden church was replaced with this stone building about a century later, making it the oldest stone church in all of the Hardanger region …”
Chloe trailed silently in the woman’s wake. The church was both humble and magnificent. Plastered walls and heavy wooden beams balanced ornate carvings and painted biblical scenes. As she admired rosemaled panels, Chloe wondered if her mother had ever visited Kinsarvik.
“And here in the nave we have the remains of medieval frescoes.” The guide pointed to a faded figure looming on the wall. “The painting was done on wet plaster, and depicts St. Michael weighing souls …”
Chloe caught her breath, suddenly transfixed. Not by St. Michael, but by what appeared to be two devils lurking at the man’s feet. “I’ve seen these before.” These two creatures … she knew them in detail.
“I beg your pardon?” The docent looked nonplussed.
“A photograph,” Roelke interjected. “Pictures in a guidebook.”
“Ah.” The woman nodded and resumed the tour.
Chloe tried to appear attentive, and when the guide wound down, she thanked her profusely. “Is it all right if my fiancé and I sit here? Just for a little while.”
“Of course.”
Chloe and Roelke settled into a pew. “What’s going on?” he asked quietly.
“More of the same. I know this place. Most especially that.” She gestured to the faded fresco.
He rubbed his chin, eyeing the painting. “Not the most pleasant of images.”
“No, but … it’s all right. The devils seem important, somehow, but they don’t scare me. I just sort of feel like I belong here.”
He looked startled. “You belong here?”
“I don’t mean I want to move here. But even if I don’t learn another thing about my mother’s birth family, I’ll always believe that she descended from people who worshipped here. And that’s pretty amazing.”
He nodded. Chloe leaned her head on his shoulder, soaking in the memories of a place she’d never been before.
Then Roelke said, “Maybe we should get married here.”
That brought her upright again. “What?”
“We haven’t known how to handle the wedding. Well, maybe this is why. Maybe we’re supposed to get married here.”
Chloe had not seen that coming. “But … what about our families?”
“I don’t know.” He spread his hands. “Maybe we could have a private ceremony here, and then do something else when we get home. A reception for everybody.”
“A private ceremony here,” she repeated. “Roelke, that’s an amazing idea. I love it. But only if you’re truly sure.” He was Catholic. He had no Norwegians on his family tree. Their wedding couldn’t be all about her.
“I’m sure. I can tell it would make you happy. Besides, St. Michael is on the wall.”
Chloe caught her breath. “That’s right! I didn’t make the connection.” After learning the previous autumn that St. Michael was the patron saint of police officers, she’d given Roelke a medal bearing the archangel’s likeness.
“So, there you go. I won’t be left out.”
“Then … let’s do it.” Chloe felt a little breathless. She wanted to linger in the moment … but more practical thoughts were already pinging through her brain. “Do you think we can pull it off? We don’t have a lot of time. I expect there’s paperwork. Getting a license or something. I have no idea what will be involved.”
“Me neither.”
Chloe nibbled her lower lip, thinking. “But you know who would know? Reverend Brandvold. Maybe we could even ask him to perform the ceremony.”
“Well, we better head back to Utne, don’t you think?” Roelke got to his feet. “We’ve got a wedding to plan.”
Chloe had wanted to wander through the cemetery, see if any of the old gravesites let off any particular vibes, but the sudden urgency of exploring the procedures required to marry in Norway took precedence. Another time, she promised herself, and turned to the ferry dock.
Back at the Utne Hotel, Chloe stopped at the desk and rang the bell. After a moment Barbara-Eden appeared. “I was wondering if there are any messages for me,” Chloe explained.
Barbara-Eden rummaged beneath the desk. “Yes, a fax came in.” She produced a shiny, curling piece of paper. “And you have a couple of phone messages, too. One from Pastor Brandvold, and … one from Torstein Landvik.” Her eyebrows rose in surprise as she handed the slips over. “You know Torstein?”
“We’re collaborating on a research project.”
“Oh. That sounds interesting.” Barbara-Eden’s expression changed as Ulrikke Moe, the proprietress, joined them. The girl bobbed her chin before scurrying away.
Ulrikke watched her go before asking Chloe, “Do you have everything you need?”
“Yes, thank you.” Chloe smiled politely and turned away, eager to read her messages. She retired to the front parlor and started with the message from Torstein Landvik: I’ll be at the ferry dock tomorrow at 12:30. Hope we can meet.
Maybe he has another field assignment for me, Chloe thought. It sounded promising.
She turned next to the fax from Rosemary Rossebo, Mom’s genealogist friend, which was not promising:
Chloe, I’m still unable to find any reference to Amalie Sveinsdatter in records of ships leaving Bergen. I started with 1920 and have gone back five years. It’s possible that Amalie lied about her identity.
Great, Chloe thought.
It’s also possible that Amalie didn’t leave from Bergen. In 1920, fourteen ships carrying immigrants left Kristiania (Oslo), and only three from Bergen. She might have even left from Trondheim.
Ju-u-ust great, Chloe thought.
Rosemary signed off with a promise to keep searching. Chloe blew out an aggravated sigh. She’d hoped to have at least a nugget of new information by now, but Amalie was proving elusive.
The message from Pastor Brandvold was cryptic: I might have something for you, but can’t find it. I’ll be home this evening if you wish to come by. He’d included his phone number and address.
Perfect timing, Chloe thought, and headed for the payphone.
Pastor Brandvold lived up the hill from the church in a small white home with gray slate shingles. Chloe and Roelke arrived just as the sun was languidly sinking. “Pretty,” Chloe observed, for the small yard was neat as the proverbial pin. Lamps glowed behind lace curtains hung in the windows. Crimson geraniums bloomed in yellow ceramic pots flanking the front step.
The pastor opened the door before she could knock. “Thanks for the call,” Chloe said as he ushered them inside. A black cat appeared from a side room and rubbed against her ankles.
“Katt, don’t be a pest,” Reverend Brandvold scolded.
“He’s not.” Chloe crouched to pet Katt. “You said you might have something …?”
“First, I’ve looked through my copies of the Norwegian Police’s emigration records. I started in 1920 and worked backwards for four years without finding a listing for Amalie Sveinsdatter.”
Chloe stifled an inappropriate expression of disappointment. “My genealogist friend back home hasn’t found a ship’s listing for her either.”
“We had reason to think she was newly arrived in Wisconsin when she surrendered her baby,” Brandvold said thoughtfully, “but perhaps she actually traveled much earlier than 1920.”
If that’s true, Chloe thought, we might never find record of her passage. She exhaled slowly. “Well, thank you for looking.”
“There’s one more thing.” He rubbed stubby fingers together, looking suddenly ill at ease. “When we talked earlier, the name Amalie Sveinsdatter sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn�
��t place it. After thinking about it, I decided I saw the name on a letter from America—”
“A letter from Amalie?” Chloe gasped. “From America?”
The pastor waved his hands as if trying to tamp down her burst of excitement. “I bought a collection of regional materials at an auction last fall. I think I saw the letter there. I remember thinking that Amalie was a lovely name. But I spent the afternoon searching,” he concluded sorrowfully, “without finding it.”
“Oh.” It was all she could manage.
“Given how important it is, I thought you might want to look yourself.”
“But if you haven’t found it …” Chloe glanced uncertainly from the pastor to Roelke and back again.
“Come to my study.” Pastor Brandvold led the way.
Chloe stepped inside and contemplated the messiest room she’d ever seen. A desk, file cabinets, and bookshelves were barely visible beneath all the stuff. Piles of papers, old books, photograph albums, and God-knew-what-else covered every horizontal surface. Cartons, evidently awaiting excavation, were stacked on the floor.
Roelke, who had followed her into the room, looked horrified. Officer Roelke McKenna did not like clutter. At least it’s not teddy bears and knickknacks, Chloe thought. Those would have sent him running.
“I know, I know.” Pastor Brandvold walked heavily to his desk, moved a shoebox from the chair, and sank down. “It’s overwhelming. I try to be organized. I sometimes hire students to catalog what’s here, but they never stay long enough to do much good.”
Can’t imagine why, Chloe thought.
“I started collecting pastors’ accounts of early tourists. There weren’t many travelers until the late 1800s, but those who had money often stayed with clergy. But my collection kept growing. I just can’t bear to see anything relating to the local area thrown away. Often parishioners bring me things. It’s all important, don’t you think?”
Fiddling with Fate Page 15
