After a long moment, Kari put down the rifle. Then she untied Torden from the tree. She mounted him and took the reins, then gently kicked his flanks.
Torden turned and trotted off toward the mountains to the west, as if he knew exactly where he was going.
A biting, down country wind swept the last grey storm clouds from the sky. Dusk came cold and blue, settling in over the mountains. It was clear enough to see the rough texture of the emerging moon, and the faint outlines of the goshawks and harriers that crossed over it. They swooped in and out of the light, scouring the valley below for prey.
Kari rode her way westward through the highlands, taking the same route they’d taken on their way east. Their earlier tracks were gone, long since erased and smoothed over by the chafing wind. There was no sign of civilization or man out there at all, just mountains and trees and ice. It was as quiet as the bottom of the ocean; the only sound that broke the vast silence was the steady clop of Torden’s hooves in the frozen snow.
They rode up a low ridge and down toward a wooded gap. Then they entered the forest. Before long, Kari heard the sound of footsteps somewhere in the shadows before them. She pulled up on the reins, jerking Torden to a halt. A moment later, a wolf emerged from the trees just ahead of them, its yellow-gold eyes glinting in the darkness.
They stayed where they were and watched each other, both parties cautious and curious at the same time. The wolf was so close that Kari could smell its rancid breath and its wet, gamy hair. After a moment, in a show of intimidation, the wolf bared its teeth and began to growl. Kari held her ground, massaging Torden’s neck and whispering calmly into his ear, keeping eye contact with the wolf the entire time.
After another moment, the wolf stopped growling. Then it turned and trotted off, and Kari and Torden continued on their way.
Dawn came slowly, like someone was dripping milk into a bucket of ink. When the sun finally showed itself, there were no clouds to dampen it, and it turned the sky a pearly shade of blue. The snow began to soften, dropping in clumps from the boughs of the trees. Goldcrests and chaffinches passed through the valley on their way back north, singing their rusty song.
Kari rode westward through the hills, bleary-eyed and exhausted but somehow still awake. She’d ridden through the night, only stopping to water Torden at a creek and to refashion his bandages after they’d come apart. After they crested a low ridge and she saw the Stjørdalen Valley in the distance, she perked up, reinvigorated. She even felt tears forming at the corner of her eyes, never so happy to see her home.
She made her way to the paved country road that ran from Hegra to Trondheim. Then she took it all the way until she got to the dirt trail that led to their farm. Along the journey, she played out the scene of her arrival over and over again in her head. In it, she’d watch her father emerge from the barn, where he’d be tending to the animals. Seeing her coming, he’d drop what he was doing and run to her. When he reached her, he’d scoop her up in his thick arms and lift her into the air, grinning from ear to ear. He’d carry her inside, and everyone from the valley would come join them, celebrating her return with a feast.
She rode onward, trying to contain her growing excitement. Tears began to form at the corners of her eyes again, but she blinked them away, not wanting to appear weak or sentimental. She soon began to smell smoke, and at first, she thought her father had a fire going. The further she went, though, the more acrid the smell became, soon reminding her of the scent of burning hair.
Kari kicked her heels into Torden’s side, and he picked up his pace, galloping up the narrow cart path. The air grew hazy and grey, and the burning smell grew more pungent and sharp. Kari smacked Torden’s side and dug her heels into his ribs, and he thundered his way through the forest. Approaching their farm, she felt like she’d been kicked in the gut when she saw it razed before her, reduced to rubble and ash.
She jumped off the horse and ran toward what had been their house. One of its walls had fallen over into the yard, shriveled and black; another was completely gone, and the roof had collapsed, leaving little standing other than the chimney and part of the back wall. Kari stepped over the threshold of the front door and walked through the rubble, looking for signs of her father. She found part of his bed frame, a curled-up leather boot, and a burned jacket of his, but there was no sign of Erling anywhere.
After searching the house, she stumbled her way through the snow and over to their collapsed barn. Then she picked her way through its charred ruins. She found rake heads and hammer claws, the wooden handles of which had burned away. She found broken bottles and window glass, scorched black as coal. She found acrid lumps of burnt hair and gristle, too many to count. There was no sign of her father there, either, though she wasn’t sure whether she should be relieved or worried even more. For all she knew, the Germans could’ve shipped him off to Falstad, or worse; he could be lying in a ditch somewhere, or hanging from a noose.
Kari hurried her way back to Torden, who nickered and stamped in the snow, clearly uncomfortable. She took the reins and swung up onto his back, then dug her heels into his side, riding her way back up the narrow cart path. She soon approached the Jacobsens’ property; their farmhouse and barn had also been razed, and the tractor had been reduced to a blackened skeleton. She rode past the Prestrud farm after that, finding that it had also been burned to the ground.
She made her way back to the country road and set out for her Uncle Reidar’s farm. She inwardly cursed herself along the way, blaming herself for what had happened. Her head swirled with dark thoughts, and she started to feel like she couldn’t breathe. She pushed the thoughts from her mind, kicking her heels into Torden’s ribs and riding him onward as fast as she could.
Kari soon turned onto the dirt road leading to her uncle’s farm. She drove Torden on until she saw her uncle’s barn appear in the distance, and then the mustard-colored farmhouse just beyond it. Seeing her cousins Erik and Ivar in the yard, she yanked on the reins and pulled Torden to a halt, jumping down off the horse before he’d even come to a stop. Then she ran toward them through the shin-deep snow, stumbling a few times and eventually falling before struggling back to her feet and continuing on.
She opened her mouth to speak as she approached Erik and Ivar, but before she could say anything, she heard a voice call her name nearby.
“Kari?”
She turned to see her father walking toward her from the barn.
“Dad?”
She ran to him and jumped into his arms, fighting back the tears.
Erling held her tightly to his chest, fighting back tears of his own.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to Erica Hanson for her editorial assistance. I’m indebted to Hans Christian Adamson’s Blood on the Midnight Sun, Sigurd Evensmo’s A Boat For England, William F. Fuller and Jack Haines’s Reckless Courage: The True Story of a Norwegian Boy Under Nazi Rule, Odd Nansen’s From Day to Day, and Gunnar Sønsteby’s Report from #24. I’m also indebted to the stories of my grandfather, Roy Zachary (1919–2005), who served in the Army Air Corps during WWII; my other grandfather, Norman Kjeldsen (1921–1992), and his brothers, Curtis Kjeldsen (1918–2005), and Harold Kjeldsen (1926–1944), who all served in the U.S. Armed Forces during WWII; and their cousins, Hans Christian Kjeldsen and Tore Kjeldsen, who lived in Norway during the German Occupation.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kirk Kjeldsen received an MFA from the University of Southern California and is currently an assistant professor in the cinema program at Virginia Commonwealth University’s School of the Arts. He regularly teaches at the Deutsche Film- und Fernsehakademie Berlin (dffb) and the Polish National Film School in Łódź as well. His first novel, Tomorrow City, was named one of the ten best books of the year by the New Jersey Star-Ledger. He also wrote and produced the feature film Gavagai, directed by Rob Tregenza, which Richard Brody of The New Yorker called “an extraordinary and memorable film.” He lives in Germany with his wife and children.
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