Fiddling with Fate

by Kathleen Ernst

  The older gentleman said something and hurried away. “He’s getting the index,” his colleague said.

  While waiting, Chloe pulled a volume from the shelf, flipped through … and was instantly distracted. The book included old black-and-white photographs of families and farms, maps showing individual buildings on a property, pages and pages and pages of genealogical records. “Roelke, look,” she murmured, pointing to a woman wearing a black dress and the area’s distinctive white headscarf who stared stiffly at the photographer. “This wasn’t my grandma, but she might have known my grandma.” Chloe felt as if she were inching closer to her goal.

  The gentleman returned, plucked Volume 5 from the shelf, thumbed through, then planted the open book on the counter. “Here. The family.”

  Chloe honed in on a single name: Amalie Sveinsdatter, b. 1905. “That’s her!”

  The man looked delighted. “So … this is the farm name.” He moved his finger. “Fjelland.”

  “Fjelland,” she repeated with a renewed sense of wonder. “Can you show us the farm on a map? We need to check this out.”

  “Checking this out” turned out to be a bit more complicated than Roelke had hoped. Reaching Fjelland would require another ferry ride to Kinsarvik, then a drive north. “Twenty minutes?” the librarian guessed. Roelke automatically doubled the estimate.

  After more research and a couple of phone calls, the librarians identified the current Fjelland occupant as H. R. Valebrokk. “But no phone,” the man said.

  “No phone?” Roelke repeated. In this day and age, that seemed unusual.

  Chloe spread her hands with a Watcha gonna do? look. “We’ll go anyway, and take our chances. I don’t have time to write a letter and wait for an answer.”

  “Weren’t you expected at the museum today?”

  “Not really. Ellinor said I could ‘check in with her if I wanted.’” Chloe hooked air quotes with her fingers. “She thought Torstein was going to keep me busy, so I can’t blame her.”

  At this point Roelke didn’t know what to make of Ellinor. Truth was, though, he didn’t know what to make of most of the people they’d met since arriving in Norway.

  When they left the library, Chloe looked ready to do a schottische or whatever, right there in the street. “Soon I’ll be walking the ground my ancestors walked!”

  “I hope so.” Roelke didn’t want to kill Chloe’s joy. He also didn’t want her to be disappointed.

  As they neared the hotel they saw a line of vehicles waiting to board the next ferry to Kinsarvik. “I want to change into nicer clothes,” Chloe said. “If I’m quick we should have enough time to catch the 9:55 boat.”

  As they hurried through the hotel lobby, though, a young staffer called after them. “I have a phone message for you. It actually came in last night.” She handed over a note: Please call home.

  Not good, Roelke thought, watching the excitement in Chloe’s eyes turn to fear.

  “Oh God,” she exclaimed. “It’s probably about Aunt Hilda. I’ve got to call my dad.”

  “It’s only …” Roelke checked his watch and did the math. “Four a.m. in Wisconsin. Are you sure you want to—”

  “Yes! I need to know.”

  At the pay phone, Chloe impatiently went through the steps of placing an international call. Finally she slammed the receiver back. “Dad didn’t answer,” she muttered. “Now I’m really worried. I’m going to call Kari.”

  Chloe’s sister answered on the third ring. “It’s me,” Chloe began. “What?… Yes, I do know what time it is. What’s wrong?… I got a message to call home, and Dad didn’t answer, and … what? Oh.” She glanced at Roelke with a mystified shrug. “And there hasn’t been bad news about Hilda?… Oh. Okay, I’m really sorry I bothered you.” She hung up. “Everything’s fine at home. My dad’s staying with Kari and Trygve for a few days for a change of scenery. I don’t understand …”

  Roelke grabbed the note. No name had been written on it, just Room 15. His gut clenched. “Maybe it’s for me. I’m calling Libby.” Except for Chloe, Roelke’s cousin Libby and her two children were pretty much all the family he had.

  When he made the call, though, all he got was Libby’s groggy assurance that all was well. Roelke forced himself to loosen his grip on the receiver. “Sorry I bothered you, Libs. Give the kids a kiss from me.”

  They took the note back to the desk. “I think there’s some mistake,” Chloe explained. “We both called home, and nobody on that end made the call.”

  “I’m so sorry,” the staffer said apologetically. “I suspect whoever took the call put the wrong room number down. Since Klara was killed, everybody’s been …” Her voice trailed away. “I’ll look into it.”

  By this point, they’d missed the 9:55 ferry. “We lost a whole hour!” Chloe lamented as Roelke pulled into the parking line at the dock. “I’m glad everything was okay at home, of course. It’s just that … I might be about to discover a whole new family!”

  Roelke hazarded a glance at the woman he loved. “You know the farm’s probably passed out of the family, right?”

  “Of course.” Her scoff was so quick, so hearty, that he suspected she hadn’t even briefly entertained that possibility. “But Roelke, I’ll be there. The farm where my mother’s people lived. I can’t even imagine what that will be like, but … I bet it will be powerful.”

  Powerful in a good way, God willing, Roelke thought. They could only wait and see.

  After arriving in Kinsarvik, they followed the librarian’s directions. The route passed red barns and mustard-colored or white houses, all framed prettily against the mixed green of deciduous trees and conifers. Stone walls, sometimes bulging with the effort of containing the hills, often lined the roads. The day was overcast but dry, thank God. They didn’t need rain to bollix the trip.

  Chloe was wired, practically thrumming beside him. “Okay, slow down,” she said some time later. “I think we’re getting close. Supposedly there’s a sign on the left side of the road.”

  “That seems unlikely.” The terrain on that side was a wooded and almost vertical rise.

  “Nope, there it is.” Chloe pointed to a fading sign at the base of a narrow gravel track: Fjelland. “Pull over, okay? There’s small print in Norwegian and English beneath the farm name.”

  He did. She got out, peered at the lettering, checked her watch, and slid back into the car. “Well, it’s a little complicated.”

  Of course it is, Roelke thought.

  “The drive to the farm is a single lane. You can drive up during the first half of every hour, and down the second half.”

  Roelke frowned at the lane disappearing into the trees. “That does not sound—”

  “We can’t turn back now!” She turned to him, beseeching. “We can start up in ten minutes. Please, Roelke. I’ll take the wheel if you want.”

  He did not want. “No. I’ll drive.”

  The lane was barely wide enough for one vehicle. Slowly they snaked their way up the mountain in a white-knuckle series of hairpin switchbacks. There were no handy pull-outs, no guard rails. On the Volvo’s uphill side the rock face passed inches from the window. On the other, just beyond the tires, the ground fell away with gut-churning abruptness.

  After about fifteen minutes Roelke rounded a turn and confronted a tunnel disappearing into the mountain. “Good God,” he muttered.

  “Surely we’re almost there.”

  There was nothing to do but keep going. The tunnel was steep and narrow, lit only by widely spaced light bulbs dangling from the low ceiling. No paved or tiled surfaces, just craggy rock left by the dynamite that engineers had used to blast through the mountain. They did pass a few pull-outs in the tunnel, which was reassuring only until Roelke noticed the rubble piled into them. Apparently the pull-outs were intended not for driver comfort, but to provide an easy dumping ground for ro
ckfalls. Great, Roelke thought, gritting his teeth. Just great.

  By the time they emerged into daylight a mile or so later, his hands ached from clenching the steering wheel. He braked long enough to flex his fingers.

  “Okay, that was a little intense,” Chloe admitted in a small voice. “Thank you for driving.”

  Five minutes later a sign appeared: Velkommen til Fjelland. The road appeared to continue but another sign warned of a dead end. Roelke parked in a gravel lot and flexed his fingers again. Holy toboggans. He saw no sign of habitation. “Someone actually lives up here? How is that even possible?”

  She didn’t respond.

  He turned to her. “Hey, are you okay?”

  “I don’t know. Now that we’re here, I’m getting a bad feeling.”

  That was not what he wanted to hear. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know!” She shrugged helplessly. “What if whoever lives here doesn’t want to meet an American relative?”

  “We don’t even know if the farm is still in the family,” he reminded her. “And we’ve come a long way to find out.” He opened his door. “Let’s go look around.”

  They followed a footpath that wound through the trees before abruptly emerging into a clearing. “O-o-oh,” Chloe breathed reverently.

  Roelke couldn’t find words. Down a slope were several log buildings with stone foundations and slate roofs. Beyond the narrow meadow in front of the farmstead, the land disappeared altogether. A deep turquoise fjord was visible far below the cliff. Mountains thrust toward heaven on the distant shore. Roelke counted four … no, five waterfalls plunging down the rock faces.

  Chloe grasped his hand. “I’ve never seen anything like it … and yet …”

  “It feels familiar?”

  She nodded. “It truly does.”

  At least she’s forgotten her bad feeling, Roelke thought. “Come on. Let’s walk around to the front.”

  The place appeared deserted, but someone was taking good care of it. Pansies and geraniums bloomed in pots. A vegetable garden beside the house showed tidy rows of green sprouts. Several sheep were grazing in a fenced pasture. They lifted their heads, staring with momentary curiosity before returning to the grass.

  The house was long and low—not new, but probably built earlier this century. “Look.” Chloe pointed at a mark carved in the lowest log near the back corner of the house. Two snail shell swirls created a stylized heart.

  “What is that all about?”

  “I think it’s a property mark.” She leaned closer. “Bumerker, they’re called. I read about them in that book Ellinor loaned me. They originated from the old Viking runic alphabet. People who couldn’t read or write adopted a symbol to identify their land or belongings.”

  Roelke nodded thoughtfully. “Well, hunh.”

  “This is sweet. I like it.” Chloe traced the figure with one finger. “Most of the samples I saw were geometric, not curved like this one. But this one seems familiar.”

  “Family memory stuff?”

  She shook her head. “No. I’m sure I’ve seen this symbol, or something very similar. Not too long ago, either.” She nibbled her lip, then shook her head. “I can’t place it.”

  They continued around the building. Boxes spilling petunias were mounted beneath the front windows. On a small patio, a wrought-iron table and chairs were perfectly positioned. Chloe stopped and pressed one hand over her chest.

  Roelke climbed the front steps and knocked on the door. He waited a minute or so, then knocked again. Please be here, he thought. Please. But no one came to the door. The yard remained still and silent.

  Finally he rejoined Chloe, who’d been taking pictures. “Nobody’s home,” he said reluctantly. “And I don’t think we should wander around without permission. If we leave now, we can drive down at the right time.”

  “I don’t want to leave.”

  He put an arm around her. “I know. We can come back.” If time allowed.

  “Let me just write a little note.” Chloe dug in her daypack for her notebook and pen. After composing the note she read it aloud:

  Hello H.R. Valebrokk,

  My name is Chloe Ellefson. I believe my mother Marit was connected to the family that lived here in the early 1900s, specifically Amalie Sveinsdatter. I would be grateful for any information about the family you can provide. I can be reached at the Utne Hotel until next Thursday.

  “I’ll add our home address too. If nothing else, maybe H. R. Valebrokk will write to me.” Chloe left the note by the door, pinned with a small stone.

  Then she paused, looking out over the meadow and fjord. She opened her arms as if embracing this place, this farm’s story. Finally she sighed, dropped her arms, and turned toward the path.

  Roelke fell into place beside her. “I’m sorry no one was here to talk to.” He knew it was an enormous disappointment.

  “Me too.”

  Once in the car, Roelke made a three-point-turn and headed back down the mountain. Before entering the tunnel he turned on the high beams and down-shifted the Volvo into second gear to help maintain a safe speed. He didn’t want to ride the brakes all the way through the tunnel. The lower gear would, he hoped, help keep the speed down on the descent.

  “I’m glad we came,” Chloe said.

  Already the car was picking up speed. He gently pumped the brakes.

  “… really hoping we can squeeze in another trip …”

  He pumped the brakes again … and there was no response. The pedal thumped to the floor.

  Roelke’s mouth went dry. Sweet Jesus. Had he lost all the brake fluid?

  “What’s going on?” Chloe swiveled on the seat. “Roelke?”

  “I need you to be quiet.” He had to focus. The car was already going too fast to shift into first gear. He reached between the seats and yanked up the parking brake. But after only a tiny hesitation the car continued accelerating.

  Think. He had to slow down. The tunnel was straight. He could keep the car under control as they barreled through. But once out in the open, they’d quickly hit one of those monstrous hairpin turns and fly off the mountain.

  Okay. Maybe he could slow the Volvo by scraping the car ever so carefully against one wall.

  He slid left—his side, of course, not Chloe’s. Holding his breath, he eased the Volvo against the wall. The car shuddered. His side view mirror disappeared. Metal screamed against stone in a shower of sparks. Chloe gave a terrified squeak.

  Roelke steered the car back to the tunnel’s center. His heart pounded in his chest. Sweat rolled down his forehead. Riding along the wall wouldn’t work. The rock faces were too uneven to calculate. He didn’t want to blow a tire and lose what scrap of control he had left.

  Think, dammit! They had to be nearing the tunnel’s lower end. They were about to sail off a cliff and Chloe was in the car. Chloe …

  The high beams picked up the edge of a pullout on the left. He had two seconds to consider trajectory. At this speed the car would spin when he jerked the wheel. So—not here. Not with Chloe on the side that would hit the wall.

  Hadn’t the first pullout they passed on the way up been on the other side? Yes. He strangled the steering wheel, trying to steel himself. No choice, he had no choice—

  The right-side pullout flashed into view. Now. “Don’t brace,” he barked. He wrenched the wheel. Tires skidded as the Volvo’s nose careened into the pullout. Don’t brace-don’t brace-don’t brace. He glimpsed rubble piled in the pullout, heard the screech of skidding tires.

  His side of the car slammed into the wall. “Oh, Chloe,” he said, because he understood the profound wrongness of her dying on the mountain where her ancestors had lived.

  Twenty-Five

  Solveig—August 1919

  Solveig was skimming pans of milk, listening to the soft sounds of her paddle moving cr
eam, when she heard her younger sister shout her name. She hadn’t been expecting a midweek visitor. “Amalie!” Solveig called from the doorway. “Is there some trouble at home?”

  Amalie shrugged out of the pack basket she’d carried and rolled her shoulders. “I wanted to tell you that Gustav came to talk to Father a few days ago.”

  “Gustav Nyhus?” Solveig asked slowly. Seven years had passed since she’d had the awkward exchange with the older man, declining his wish to marry her. Aside from murmuring God dag if she passed Gustav in the churchyard, she hadn’t spoken to him since. A year later he’d married a young Kinsarvik woman. Solveig had said prayers for her happiness, but she’d also been relieved that Gustav was no longer looking for a wife.

  Amalie’s eyes clouded with concern. “Gustav’s second wife died in childbirth last month, did you know?”

  “No,” Solveig said slowly. “I hadn’t heard.”

  “He and Father had a long talk by the woodpile. Mother and I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but …”

  “Yes, I see.” Solveig rubbed her temples. This wasn’t good.

  “And I won’t be able to help here at the seter anymore,” Amalie added. “Mama has made arrangements for me to work at the Utne Inn. Hotel, I mean.”

  Solveig’s eyebrows rose in surprise. The old inn was a hotel now, and busier than ever because steamships were bringing more tourists every year. But when Britta had broached the idea of Amalie working there months earlier, Svein had opposed it: “She’d mix with all sorts there. Many wouldn’t be God-fearing folk.”

  Amalie turned, looking wistfully over the landscape. She was fifteen now, an ethereal beauty with fair hair and luminous blue eyes. She was still fanciful, still inclined to daydreaming. “Idle hands do the devil’s work!” Svein thundered whenever he caught her.

  Now Solveig asked cautiously, “Father approved of this?”

  “Not right away.” Amalie glanced over her shoulder as if fearing that Svein might be on the path behind her. “But Mother insisted you could manage alone here, and that the money I’ll earn will be useful.”