She bit back a retort, shoved past her brother, and resumed the climb. After a moment Erik caught up to her. “Sorry,” he muttered. “For a musician, an evening like this isn’t about fun. Fiddlers aren’t always kind to one another.”
“You’ll do well,” Britta told him, because he was good.
Mølstertunet, home to two families, was an old farm perched on the hill. In the courtyard, women were setting out baskets and bowls of food. Shrieking children chased each other in circles. A hardingfele cacophony drifted from the barn as fiddlers tuned and practiced. Erik disappeared toward the barn, fiddle case in hand.
Britta carried her basket to the feast tables, where an old woman was scolding a bearded man in a fancy suit. “… come here looking to make a profit? Our heirlooms are not for sale. Be gone.”
The man’s smile was patronizing. “Oh, come now. I’ll pay well for any of those.” He gestured to a row of ale bowls standing ready. Some, intended for strong drink, were small. Mid-sized bowls would pass from hand to hand, while the largest would be filled for people who had cups to dip. All were beautifully carved, and most were rosemaled. “In Kristiania I’ve got buyers eager for your primitive country antiques.”
“I said they’re not for sale!” the woman snapped.
The man snorted with derision. “Your loss.”
As she watched him walk away, the old woman shook her head. “That’s the third time this month someone’s come sniffing around, wanting to buy anything old. We could use the money, but it doesn’t feel right to sell things my grandparents made to some stranger.”
Britta thought of her own heirlooms back at the farm—the handaplagg and other linens, the ornate cupboards her grandfather had carved. She wouldn’t dream of selling her treasures, either.
Soon the first fiddler was announced, and the program got underway with a Rudl, a popular couples dance. Courting pairs smiled flirtatiously, the women’s skirts flaring with every whirl. Children skipped and hopped among them. Older men and women joined in, their steps more practiced. The fiddle’s melody rose over the sounds of heels stomping the floorboards and laughter from men clustered near the ale barrel. The barn smelled faintly of sweet hay and horse sweat.
It was pleasant to be among strangers who expected nothing from her, and Britta was soon tapping her foot. When a grinning blond man wearing farmer’s boots offered a calloused hand, she took it. She had almost forgotten the pleasure of moving in tandem with a good partner, almost forgotten how it felt to lose her worries, almost forgotten the pure joy of being buoyed by the music. Moving from partner to partner, she danced until she was breathless.
Chest heaving, she treated herself to a cup of ale. Then she spotted Erik standing with the other musicians, all holding fiddles and bows. Some were at ease, joking with friends seen only infrequently. But her brother’s face was hard.
She joined him. “What’s wrong? Did you get your name on the list to play?”
“I did. But I had hoped he would not be here.” Erik jerked his chin toward a young man leaning against a beam, legs crossed at the ankles, the picture of ease. He wore old-fashioned knee breeches and a red vest over a white shirt. The fiddle he cradled in his arms was old-style too, small with a curved back.
Britta wiped sweat from her forehead. “Who is it?”
“A well-known thief,” a young man standing nearby muttered. Beneath a shaggy thatch of sand-colored hair his face was pitted with smallpox scars.
She didn’t understand. “What?”
Erik waved a hand to silence her. “Perhaps he won’t try again.”
The performer brought his tune to a close. The kjøgemester stepped up to the small performance platform and announced the next musician. The man Erik had been glaring at sauntered to the front. When he launched into his first piece, Erik growled.
After a few measures, Britta understood why. “But that’s—”
Erik shoved his fiddle and bow at her before elbowing his way into the crowd, with his friend right behind. Britta’s unease turned to dread as she rose on tiptoes. Some people kept dancing; others paused.
Erik reached the platform. “Stop!” he yelled. “That is my tune!”
A perplexed murmur rose from the crowd. The fiddler lowered his instrument and bow. “I don’t know what you mean.” A smug smile quirked the corners of his mouth. “This tune was born in my own home, friend.”
“That’s not true! You heard me play it in Aga last fall, and—”
“Did you steal the tune?” a musician on the sidelines demanded.
“Let him play!” one of the dancers bellowed.
“That tune is my brother’s!” Britta exclaimed. She’d heard him develop it as autumn had blazed down the mountain—experimenting with this fingering, that tuning, practicing until he’d perfected the rippling melody. But a growing roar drowned her out.
Suddenly mothers were dragging children from the floor. Unmarried girls tugged their young men’s arms in an effort to keep them from the brawl. A man near her sent another stumbling with a thrown punch. Britta had no idea if the antagonist had a stake in the competition or simply liked a good fight.
“Erik!” Britta shrieked, trying desperately to see. He’d disappeared into the melee of blows and shouts and oaths. She bit her lower lip until pain made her whimper.
An eternity passed before a few wiser heads prevailed, and several sturdy farmers waded into the fray. They grabbed whoever was handy, dragged them to the big doorway, and shoved them outside. Waiting women with arms akimbo unleashed their own verbal assault: “Shame! There’s no excuse for brutish behavior! Don’t you dare go back inside until you sober up!” Grousing or subdued, the men obeyed.
As the brawl died down Britta waded into the throng with the fiddle clutched against her chest. Erik and his adversary were at opposite ends of the platform, panting, each held in check by friends. “You’re bleeding!” she cried, horrified by the dribble of blood on Erik’s cheek and a spreading stain on one arm. Someone had drawn a knife.
He swiped angrily at his face. “It’s nothing.” He snatched his red knit hat from the floor and slapped it against his thigh.
The kjøgemester mounted the steps. He had the look of a working man, not easily intimidated. “That is enough. There will be no more fighting. Still, a serious charge has been raised.” He glowered from Erik to his adversary. “Is the tune you started playing your own?”
The smug smile had been wiped from the young man’s face, but he had some bravado left. “It is.”
Erik’s eyes narrowed. “It is not!”
Britta understood why Erik was furious. Many tunes were widely shared, each fiddler adding embellishments to make it his own. But it was disgraceful to claim another man’s melody—especially in a competition for original tunes! “It is my brother’s,” she insisted. “I was with him as he coaxed it to life over many evenings.”
“Of course his sister would rise to his defense,” the thief crowed sarcastically.
“Enough!” the kjøgemester yelled. “Let me confer with the judges.” He huddled briefly with several other officials before returning to the platform. Dancers and fiddlers pressed close. In the sudden stillness Britta heard doves cooing from the rafters.
“We have no way to determine the truth,” he began, “so I announce a kappleik. A formal, judged contest of skill and talent will be held in three weeks. It will be open to these two fiddlers and anyone else who wishes to enter.” The kjøgemester gestured to one of the judges. “My friend here has offered his farm in Telemark …”
Telemark! Britta thought with dismay. Telemark was a neighboring county. Erik’s participation in the contest could take him much farther away from home than Voss. She needed him on the farm, not traipsing off again!
Erik lifted his chin and addressed the kjøgemester. “I will be there.” Only then did Erik look at her: Please un
derstand. I must do this. There was desperation in his gaze, and yearning too.
I’ve lost, Britta thought. Erik’s music meant more to him than the farm. More than her. It was his passion, his calling. There was nothing left to say.
She nodded and produced a shaky smile, trying to hide her presentiment of disaster.
June 1888
“Thank you,” Britta said to the fisherman as she stepped from his boat at the dock in front of the Utne Inn. The basket of spun and skeined wool she carried down from Høiegård hung from one arm.
“I can stop after I lift my nets,” he offered. “I’d be glad to take you back again.”
Britta shook her head. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m not sure how long I’ll be.” She’d have to take her chances.
After snugging her shawl around her shoulders, Britta strode toward the stone seawall. Just beyond, sunshine gleamed a welcome on the freshly painted inn and its picket fence. She didn’t often visit the inn. It was difficult to leave the farm, and besides, she’d grown up hearing about Gjertrud. Her mother’s cousin had thrown herself from the inn’s highest window after some cruel city man had disgraced her. The image gave Britta shivers.
But by the middle of June, the trail was clear of snow, she had wool to sell, and she’d been alone for six weeks. She’d had no word from Erik since he left for the kappleik in Telemark. She’d soon have to take the animals to the seter, and then she’d be even farther from Utne—from other people, from news. Finally she’d hiked to her closest neighbor’s farm and bartered an offer to help make soap for the loan of a young son to watch her livestock overnight.
Now she went inside and asked for Mother Utne, who would pay a few kroner for the yarn. Britta planned to buy coffee and a little sugar before heading home.
Mother Utne fingered a skein the color of charcoal. “I’ll take everything you have. It’s a pleasure to knit with such fine yarn.”
Britta hadn’t realized how hungry she’d become for an encouraging word. “Thank you. And … I also came in hopes of getting some word about the fiddle kappleik in Telemark.” She assumed that everyone up and down the fjord had heard about the challenge. Mother Utne talked with every passing traveler. If anyone would have news, it would be her.
But the older woman’s eyes crinkled with sympathy. “I’ve not heard a thing.”
Britta tried to stifle her disappointment. “Well, I’m sure Erik will be home soon. I’ll hear all about it from him.”
“Must you head home right away?” Mother Utne put a hand on her arm. “I believe we have a bit of cod soup left in the kitchen. It would be a shame to waste it. You go sit down.”
Mother Utne was every bit as generous as Torhild had said. “That’s kind of you,” Britta said gratefully.
She heard voices as she approached the dining room. Two men she didn’t recognize, one fat and one skinny as a fence rail, sat at the window table. Both were dressed in black suits. Their hands were not broad and scarred as fishermen’s and farmers’ were. Their clothes were not threadbare, like those of the drovers and peddlers who sometimes came through Hardanger. City men.
Svein Sivertsson was also relaxing at the Utne Inn. The big man was sitting in a corner with a newspaper, a plate of buttered lefse, and a tankard. Perhaps his landlord had sent him on some errand. At least I could make my own decision to leave the farm, Britta thought. As she’d tried to impress upon Erik: Høiegård might be a poor holding, but it was theirs, and they were their own masters.
Britta wasn’t sure if she should speak to Svein. They hadn’t spoken since his awkward proposal two years ago. Apparently sensing her presence, he looked up from the newspaper. She thought he was going to speak, or perhaps wave her over, but he only nodded. The gesture was polite, although Britta saw a hint of regret in his blue eyes. She returned the silent greeting and chose a table far enough away to discourage conversation.
A maid brought the soup, delicious with chunks of cod and bits of dried onion and dill. However, even that couldn’t distract Britta from her worries. What if Erik decided that he wasn’t coming home? Could she manage everything herself?
No. She could not.
She was grateful when the two city men’s spirited conversation intruded on her depressing thoughts. “But what is Norwegian culture?” the skinny man asked his companion. “After centuries of Danish rule and decades of Swedish influence, does pure Norwegian culture even exist?”
“It does.” The fat man spoke with confidence. “But it is difficult to find, and harder still to document. That’s why this survey expedition is so important! We must seek out the mountain farmers. Rustic peasants who have not been exposed to foreign customs, and who still practice traditions dating back to ancient times.”
I hope those two don’t climb to my mountain farm, Britta thought. She knew that Denmark had ruled Norway for almost three hundred years, and that Norway had been passed to Sweden in 1814. She’d heard men in the Kinsarvik churchyard speaking vigorously of the need for “true Norwegian independence.” But she didn’t fully understand the issue.
“I hope you’re right,” the first man said dubiously. “I fear we’ve lost it all—folk costumes, speech patterns, handicrafts … the very character of true Norwegian heritage.”
“We can find it. Right here, in the Hardanger region,” his companion insisted. “And when we do, we must revive it. Winning true independence will be a hollow victory if the very character of our beloved Norway slips from our fingers!”
The kitchen door opened. Mother Utne caught Britta’s eye and beckoned. Something in the older woman’s expression curdled Britta’s unease in the pit of her stomach. She pushed back her chair with sudden care. Dread slowed her steps. All too soon she had crossed the room.
Mother Utne drew her into the kitchen, where a man stood with hunched shoulders and head bowed. But she recognized the pox scars on his cheeks, the sandy hair. This was Erik’s friend.
“Britta,” Mother Utne began, “this young man came to the kitchen looking for directions to Høiegård.”
Britta advanced on the fiddle player. “What’s happened to Erik?”
“I’m sorry to tell you that …” The fiddler dared glance at her, quickly looked back at the floor. “Erik is dead.”
A thumping sounded in her ears. “Tell me.”
“We went to the kappleik together,” the young man mumbled. “Erik played very well and was judged the winner of the competition.”
How happy that must have made him, Britta thought. She should have been there to share his triumph.
“Most of us spent the night at the farm, but Erik was eager to start for home,” the fiddler continued miserably. “He said you’d be worried.”
Something hard and sour filled Britta’s throat. She hadn’t expected Erik to spare her a thought.
The fiddler shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I left early the next morning. And not an hour down the road, I … I found him. His body. He’d been stabbed.”
Britta put a hand to the wall. Had death been quick, or had Erik been left to suffer alone in the dark? Had he known that someone was following him, or had the killer been waiting? She had the odd sense that if she tried to imagine what had happened, the image would form. Her mind shied away.
Erik’s friend stooped and picked up something she hadn’t noticed—a familiar wooden fiddle case. “This was lying nearby.”
Britta didn’t want the fiddle. Fiddles had brought heartache to her family, over and over and over. But the young man shoved it at her, and she found herself cradling the wooden case in her arms. She managed to whisper, “Thank you for coming.” The fiddler fled.
“My dear, I’m so sorry.” Mother Utne spoke softly. “Go back and sit by the fire. I’ll bring hot tea.”
Britta felt numb. She put down the fiddle case, afraid she would drop it. It took effort to pivot, to
walk back into the dining room. The city men were still jabbering.
Then she turned and approached Svein Sivertsson. He folded his newspaper with a rustle and pushed to his feet.
“Pardon me,” Britta said woodenly. “Can we talk?”
Twenty-Two
When Roelke stopped at the hotel desk after lunch, a staffer handed him a message: Reverend Brandvold called. If possible, he’d like you to visit this afternoon. Should this wait for Chloe? Roelke decided against it. The minister might not even be available by the time Chloe got back from Voss.
Fifteen minutes later, Roelke presented himself at the little house on the hill. “Hello!” the minister boomed when he opened the door. He leaned to one side, as if expecting to see Chloe hiding behind Roelke. “You are alone?”
“Chloe went to Voss with Ellinor Falk,” Roelke explained. “Something to do with fiddles and folk dance. She won’t be back for hours.”
Reverend Brandvold gestured Roelke inside. “I’m glad you came anyway. I’ve got something.”
Please, please let it be good news, Roelke thought. “Something about Amalie Sveinsdatter?”
“My archivist friend in Bergen found her baptism record.” The pastor looked triumphant. “And, she was baptized right here in the Utne parish church.”
Utne, Roelke thought. Of all the places the Stoughton Historical Society could have sent Chloe, it had been to Utne. Something about this place makes me feel at home, Chloe had said. She’d been right all along.
As if reading Roelke’s mind, Pastor Brandvold said, “I imagine Chloe will be pleased. Scholars came to this area a century ago in search of the cultural heart of Norway. And,” he added wryly, “any pieces of folk art they could find.”
Roelke thought of Chloe’s stolen heirlooms with another wrench of anger. Chloe’s ancestors hadn’t sold those antiques when they might have. But now …
“Anyway, it seems certain that Chloe has roots in Hardanger. My friend is mailing the information, but he called with the basic details.” Reverend Brandvold picked up a tablet by the telephone. “Amalie Sveinsdatter was born on March 11, 1905, and baptized two weeks later. Her parents were listed as Britta Halvorsdatter and Svein Sivertsson Fjelland.”
Fiddling with Fate Page 19
