Christmas Eve
Order
Forgotten
Winterfrost
Mischief
Something in the Air
Winter Nap
Restless
Panic
Search
Epiphany
Confession
Gone Again
Chase
Discovery
Small
Breakfast Underground
Rounds
Remorse
Visitors
Action
Swept Away
Witness
Sent
Crossing
Askø
Facts
Ulf
Spoken Truths
Promises
Obstacles
Plans
Persuasion
More Mischief
Reunion
Home
Acknowledgments
From the outside looking in, it might have appeared to be an ordinary Christmas on the Larsen family’s farm, nestled among the flat, snowy fields of an island called Lolland in the south of Denmark. The scent of kringle fresh from Mor’s oven mingled with the woodsy smell of the wispy white pine that Far had brought indoors just hours before. Packages with neatly tucked corners and perfectly tied ribbons lay tempting beneath the tree.
Bettina Larsen secured small white candles to the tree’s now-drooping boughs as little Christmas nisse decorations on the mantle conspired to lift her spirits. They tumbled and teased in their tiny brown coats and boots, their red stockings and pointed caps.
There was a fine duck roasting in the oven. There were family and friends and neighbors stopping by. Lively music filled the house as the Larsens circled the tree, hand in hand, their voices raised with songs the children learned early and the old would never forget. And despite the heaviness that weighed upon Bettina’s heart this Christmas, there was a hint of a smile as she watched her baby sister twist herself up in ribbons and bows. What a gift baby Pia had been almost a year earlier, bringing new life to a home that had just said farewell to an old one.
Yes, it looked like an ordinary Christmas Eve, but it wasn’t. Bettina wondered if there would ever be an ordinary Christmas without Farfar.
And then came the phone call. The phone call, which brought the news. The news, which was followed by the flurry of suitcases and last-minute instructions. Feed the animals; keep the wood-fired furnace going; call if you need us. Everything will be just fine.
It should have been an ordinary Christmas on the Larsen farm, nestled among the flat, snowy fields of an island called Lolland in the south of Denmark. But it wasn’t. And if it had been, well, we wouldn’t have much of a story to tell, now, would we?
In spite of the chaos of the evening before, everything appeared to be going quite well the night after Christmas Eve. Bettina made a respectable supper for herself and baby Pia from holiday delicacies left from the previous day’s celebration. She stacked the dishes neatly to dry after washing them — just as Mor would have done if she were there.
After supper Bettina took care to bundle Pia tightly before braving the bitter December air to feed the horses, goats, and chickens. In less than a week, the family would celebrate Pia’s first birthday. There would be a big celebration with layer cake and neighbors and loved ones. Sorrow and joy played a game of tug-of-war inside Bettina’s heart. This had always been Farfar’s most beloved time of year. He loved Christmas, and he would have loved that Pia was born so close to his favorite holiday. Bettina remembered how he had taught her to fold red and white paper hearts when her tiny fingers were barely coordinated enough to crease the paper. He’d taken her to the barn and shown her how to twist slick yellow straw into sleek little juleboker or Christmas goats, with tightly braided horns. But in the year since Farfar had died, Bettina’s joy for the holiday had disappeared, stored away inside her like the paper hearts and straw goats in the attic. Christmas at the Larsens’ could never be the same without Farfar.
And yet time moved forward and, with or without Farfar, Christmas came as it always did. And Bettina had smiled. Some. And she had sung holiday songs. And to her surprise, she’d heard her own laugh when Pia had come downstairs in Mor’s arms, dressed in a nisse costume, her right thumb in her mouth and left thumb in her ear. If ever there was a real-life nisse, Pia was it. Of course, nisse were among the many things that were debatably real in the life of a Danish twelve-year-old. But to Farfar, there had been no debate.
“The forests are full of tales unheard, if only humans would pause their busyness to listen,” he would say, his voice thick with all the seriousness of a Sunday-morning vicar, but his eyes shining as bright as the eastern star. And never was Farfar as insistent about his beloved nisse as he was at Christmastime. “Although it’s our holiday, not theirs, our wee friends delight in celebration, too,” he would say. “Sure as I’m standing here, the nisse are out there, having their own Christmas party.” And then he would turn his head to one side and listen, as if he could hear tiny nisse boots on the haymow floor while they danced and sang long into the night.
Farfar would have rejoiced in Pia’s costume. He would have rejoiced in Pia, period. Everyone had said that it was tragic that little Pia would never know her grandfather, that she arrived not long after his passing. But Bettina had often wondered if they hadn’t met somewhere in the place in between, her beloved grandfather and her new baby sister. She pictured a magical encounter, a tiny hand wrapped tightly around a wrinkled old finger for just a moment before one let go to glide gently toward the world the other had left behind. She never spoke of it. It sounded like something only a dreamer would imagine. It sounded like something Farfar would have believed.
And now Pia was nearly a year old, speaking a language only she could understand. And she was on the verge of walking — though still too young to be of any help with the chores.
Bettina shifted her sister on her hip and pulled a warm woolen hat snugly over the baby’s blond curls before opening the door to the barn.
Felix, the Larsens’ gray-blue hound, greeted them, leaping and tossing his body in circles with excitement.
“Down!” Bettina commanded, imitating Far’s deep voice.
Felix jumped playfully at the girls, and when Bettina leaned down to scold him, he licked Pia’s face and darted away before she had a chance to react.
“Oh, Pia!” Bettina cried. “I’m so sorry!”
But baby Pia didn’t seem to mind the frantic dog’s attention. She giggled and wiped her face with a pink-mittened hand.
Inside the barn, Bettina discovered her work was going to be more difficult than she had expected. She knew how to do the feeding. That wasn’t the problem. Bettina had spent many an early morning and frosty evening helping Far. But carrying water and feed in buckets while keeping an eye on a baby — how would she hold her sister and carry a heavy bale of hay at the same time?
As she eyed the hay bales, Bettina came up with a plan. She quickly constructed a four-sided playpen of straw bales. Then she set her sister down in the middle. Little Pia’s wide blue eyes peered up at her older sister with uncertainty. Soon enough a passing kitten caught her attention. The tubby orange tiger kitty first jumped up on the edge of a bale and then joined Pia inside the new play area. Pia squealed with delight, calling, “Mee, mee!” and Bettina set about her work in the barn.
The horses snorted impatiently as she dug into bags of grain with the feed scoop. Their breath rose in puffs of white vapor from their wide, round nostrils and then quickly disappeared in the cold. Of all the animals in the barn, Bettina adored her father’s horses most and gave them extra attention, stroking their velvety noses while she spoke first to Hans and then to Henrietta.
“You must be hungry. You’re going to love this!”
Farfar could recall when horses were a necessary part of field work. But on a modern Danish farm, machinery had changed a horse’s place from one of work to one of pleasure. And no one enjoyed the horses as much as Bettina. She had been saving for nearly a year to buy a horse of her own. Every bit of chore money or birthday money had gone into an empty Earl Grey tea tin that she kept hidden under her bed. Just last night she had slipped the Christmas money she’d gotten in a card from Aunt Inge into the tin and made a wish that it would never be used for anything other than her very own chestnut mare.
The goats were shoving and fighting for position in front of the feed bunk before Bettina even got around to breaking a bale of hay for them. She spoke to the noisy creatures with less affection than she had shown the horses. Even after they’d been fed, they seemed more interested in chewing Bettina’s sleeves than the hay.
“Move over, you! Let go of that!” She pushed a big-bellied brown goat aside, but he came right back to chomp on her scarf. Bettina used her whole body to shove the nosy animal.
“Move out of my way!”
Finally, the goat gave up and turned his chewing attention to the wooden gate.
The chickens were the easiest to feed, as they were much less particular. Wherever their food landed, they would find it with their beaks, curved and sharp like the nose on a witch.
With the animals fed and watered, Bettina had only to stoke the fire in the big stove in the wood room, and then she and Pia could return to the house for the night. Like many old Danish farms, the Larsens’ house and the barn sat next to each other. The house stood close to the road, and the red-brick barn stretched out the back toward the forest. Between the two, firewood filled a small room floor to ceiling. Far and their neighbor Rasmus Pedersen had spent months chopping wood, supplying the two families with ample fuel for the cold winter. A wood-burning stove warmed the home and kept the barn at a comfortable temperature for the animals, especially on cold Lolland nights.
Bettina gazed at the pile of wood. There was more than enough wood to keep the entire family warm until spring. Of course, Bettina’s parents would be gone just a few days, not all winter. Far would be back in less than a week. And Mor had only taken the train as far as Århus.
Bettina’s thoughts returned to Christmas Eve. The family had barely finished their meal of Christmas duck and rice pudding when the kitchen phone jingled. But instead of cheerful holiday greetings on the line, it was bad news. Mormor had fallen. She needed surgery on her hip. And with no one to sit with her at the hospital, decisions had to be made carefully and quickly. Mor would make the trip, stay until Mormor was released, and then bring her back to Lolland, where she could heal with the loving attention of her family.
Mor being gone a few days would have been no problem, except that Far was already planning to leave in the morning. Each year on Christmas Day, Far journeyed to Skagen, at the northernmost tip of Denmark, to visit old Uncle Viggo. It wasn’t exactly a trip he looked forward to, as Uncle Viggo was cranky and smoked the stinkiest of pipe tobaccos and rarely left his damp, musty cottage by the Kattegat Sea. But every year Far went for the week between Christmas and the new year. And every year he returned with enough tales of odd Uncle Viggo to entertain the family for weeks. Putting off the trip was not an option. Uncle Viggo would have thrown a conniption that could have been heard all the way to Sweden.
“A hospital and a stuffy old cottage are no place for a baby,” Mor had fretted.
“Bettina can handle the barn chores and taking care of Pia,” Far had said matter-of-factly. “After all, Pia’s hardly an infant. And Bettina cares for her every day. Besides, the Pedersens are right next door if the girls need anything.”
Mor looked uncertain, but when Far added, “Isn’t that right, Bettina?” Bettina spoke right up.
“Of course. I’ll take care of everything.” It was a great deal of responsibility, but Bettina was undaunted. She was, after all, the mature and responsible older sister.
Mor was still a bit hesitant, but Far’s certainty and Bettina’s confidence eased her worries. While the situation wasn’t ideal, it was the best the family could do on such short notice. Bettina was quite capable, and the Pedersens next door would look in on the girls regularly. Besides, nothing ever happened on the sleepy island of Lolland in the dead of winter. What could possibly go wrong?
As Bettina stuffed the firebox full of wood, the heat from the fire rose and warmed her frosty cheeks. Another kind of warmth swelled deep beneath her coat and layers of clothing. It was pride. She had taken care of the meal, the house, the animals, the fire, and baby Pia. If she’d had any worries of being alone and in charge (which she didn’t), they would have melted away like chocolate left too near the fire.
Yes, everything appeared to be perfectly in order on that Christmas night. Mor was taking care of Mormor, whose hip would heal with time. Far was off to appease a lonely and demanding old uncle. And Bettina was putting her baby sister to bed and turning out the last light in the red-brick house on the Larsen farm. Everything appeared to be just fine.
But something was out of order.
In their haste over the holiday meal, in their rush to get Mor and Far on their way, in their concern for Mormor, the Larsens had forgotten one very important Christmas tradition. And someone close by was not very happy at all.
Young Klakke peered out from a small crack in the hayloft window, not daring to move and hardly daring to breathe. What was happening with the Larsens? He simply had to know — even though it was nearly daylight and, under normal circumstances, he would have been well out of sight. But today’s circumstances were anything but normal. And his curiosity proved stronger than any warnings that Gammel had tried to instill in his young mind about the dangers of breaking the rules.
Klakke opened the window just a smidge wider. Why were the Larsens gathering in the barnyard at this odd hour? He scooched forward for a closer look.
Watching the Larsens was not a new pastime for Klakke. In fact, it wasn’t a pastime at all. It was his job. The family had been his responsibility for years now. And though he spent his nights trekking about in the forest, he was usually asleep in the highest part of the Larsens’ barn long before the sun crept up over the frozen fields of Lolland. This was his place. His home. He looked after the family and the animals, doing what little kindnesses he could for such a small being.
And the Larsens? Well, they had always been quite kind to Klakke as well, though they knew very little of his existence. They had never seen him. And they certainly didn’t know his name, which was as it should be.
Klakke knew some of the Larsens believed in nisse. The children always believed. Until a certain age, anyway. And the old grandfather had undoubtedly known Klakke was there. But the younger Mr. Larsen and his wife? And the girl Bettina? Klakke couldn’t be sure about them, but he knew one thing to be true — Mr. Larsen was no fool. A Danish farmer with any sense at all would do well to recognize that his barn could be home to a nisse, and should that be the case, he’d best stay on the nisse’s good side.
Klakke knew he should have been deep in the cover of the hayloft on this Christmas morning. But at the tender age of sixty-two, Klakke was a young nisse and his sense of curiosity overpowered what little common sense he’d managed to store up. At the moment, he was glued to the crack in the hayloft window. His plump little fingers held it open just enough to see the family in the barnyard below.
The older Larsen girl, Bettina, stood in the doorway of the house with the little one they called Pia. Both waved as their mother and father left the driveway in the family’s small red car and headed toward town. Klakke was clever and observant, and when he saw the large suitcases they took along, he quickly deduced that Mr. and Mrs. Larsen would be away for more than a day.
The door of the house closed, and the Larsen sisters disappeared inside. Klakke let the hayloft window close, too. There was
nothing more to see out there.
Klakke wished he could venture out to tell Gammel about the Larsens; perhaps Gammel could explain why the Larsen parents were acting so strangely. But he dared not go where he might be seen. So Klakke settled into the straw feeling very unsettled and also very hungry.
For the Larsens had neglected their nisse last night. Christmas Eve, the one night each year when all Danish families — believers and unbelievers alike — acknowledge even the possibility of a nisse by placing a bowl of warm, bubbly rice pudding in the barn after the holiday meal. That small gesture was all it would take to appease their nisse friend for another year. And every year, without fail, the Larsens had left the bowl of pudding in the barn, topped with a nice clump of golden butter — because melted butter pleases a nisse more than just about anything.
Klakke remembered how Bettina had hollered with delight in years past when she found the empty bowl in the mow the next morning, every buttery drop of pudding licked clean. He scoffed at the adults who rationalized among themselves that the pudding had been devoured by hungry barn cats. But the young and the wise knew differently. To them, it was more than a holiday ritual — it was a time-honored fact. Take care of your nisse, and your nisse will take care of you.
The Larsens had never strayed from tradition. Not once had Klakke been overlooked on Christmas Eve.
Until now.
For the first time in twelve years, Klakke questioned having left his home in Falster, his parents, and his beloved twin sister, Klara, to come to the Larsen farm. Had he left his family only to be forgotten by the Larsens?
Klakke grumbled as a barn cat hopped up into the hayloft and stopped to look at him, as if wondering why he hadn’t crawled into his bed of straw to disappear for the day. The mother cat, whose tail had been tugged a time or two by the mischievous nisse, had learned to be cautious. Taking her chances, she meandered over to Klakke and rubbed her chin against his small booted foot.
Klakke wasn’t in any mood to play. He waited until the friendly feline was right on top of his boot, and then he flung the startled cat forward. She flew several feet and then landed, as always, on all fours, offended but unharmed. She gave Klakke a sideways glance and then disappeared over the edge of the mow floor to the safety of the barn below.
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