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by Annelie Wendeberg

  ‘I had no clue I was such a weakling.’ I try to put some acid in my voice, but all I sound is tired.

  ‘Micka, I’ve been doing this for years. It would be a shame if I hadn’t improved my hiking skills in all this time.’

  He’s right, but it still rubs me the wrong way. I push his large feet from my bony armpits, pull on my socks and boots, and announce that I need to pee.

  Once I’m back inside and our backpacks secure the entrance, I stuff a handful of nuts into my mouth, slip into my now-empty sleeping bag, and drift off within minutes.

  I don’t know for how long I’ve slept, but my clattering teeth wake me. It’s no use to try to compact myself into a ball. I’m freezing cold.

  Rustling tells me that my noise woke up Runner. I hear a zipper being unzipped and feel an arm and a layer of his sleeping bag being draped over me. He scoots as close as he can and I’m left to confusing thoughts about me hating hugs and all. But I’m so cold that it might be time for a compromise. I unzip my sleeping bag, nudge the one half of my cover underneath his, press my back against his stomach, and doze off quite comfortably.

  We’re stuck in a tiny village high up in the mountains, with only three houses and two barns, surrounded by large meadows that will be dotted with cows and sheep as soon as spring arrives. The snowstorm was heavy, and it might take a month or two until Runner and I can pass over the mountains again. But for now, after we’ve rested and replenished our provisions, our path lies in the opposite direction — down and farther down.

  This place is very different from my own home. People seem busier and closer to one another. They laugh and chat more, and it’s odd to see them embrace Runner and even kiss him on the mouth. I’d believed him to be more of the distant kind. But here, everyone kisses anyone on the mouth to say hello. They hug a lot, too. I did the hugging thing, but turned my head away when the kissing was about to happen. They didn’t seem to mind because I’m a stranger.

  Now I’m sitting pinched between two sets of shoulders. An entire cow plus a vegetable field is spread on the table. Or so it seems. I’ve never seen such enormous amounts of food, wine, beer, and people in such a small room. I flick a finger across the kinked tabletop, imagining that the scents and noises can be moved like a cloth.

  Outside, snow flutters against the windowpanes, settles, and scoots down with a slug-trail, forming white mounds on the sills. The black night sky has little opportunity to peek through the white onslaught.

  And just when I think the room is impossibly overloaded, even more people enter. Two men with beads and coins in their braided beards, a woman with tinkling earrings and strands of silver woven through her raven-black hair, and two girls with colourful dresses and scarves around their heads call a cheerful, ‘Hello!’ The men shake snow off their long hair. One of them toes the door shut.

  Runner turns his head as the word “Gypsies” sounds over the chatter. The woman nods at him, then talks to the two girls. For a moment, it looks as if Runner knows them, but there’s no hugging and kissing, so I turn my attention back to my plate. The man next to me eats a hunk of fried udder as if it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. Fat dribbles down his chin and hits the potatoes on his plate. I’d rather stick to my ribs. The beer makes me lightheaded and I find myself laughing at jokes I don’t even understand.

  Rubbing my tongue against my palate, I try to describe the flavour of the room and the people. The hum of conversation tastes of candied apples, and the surroundings are spicy, but I can’t tell what spices. Nothing green, that’s for sure. Rugs decorate walls and floor. A large fire heats the room, and it’s not even used to cook the meat. Where I grew up, this would be considered wasteful. A slight unease trickles down my neck, caused by the loud chatter, the laughing, the large amount of food, the jokes, and colourful clothing. I’ve never seen anything like it, and I’m almost expecting someone to enter, point at me, and drag me out by my ears to whip me for quietly taking part in this luxury.

  I shrug and grab another piece of fried ribs. When I look up from my plate, I see Runner approaching the Gypsies. The woman is introducing the two girls who must be her daughters. One looks like she’s my age, the other is probably three years younger and is now taking Runner’s hands into hers. They stick their heads together and chat.

  There’s still space in my stomach for a few string beans, I think. They glisten with butter and slide down easily. Maybe a third serving will fit in, too. When I reach out to the string bean pot again, my hand freezes mid-way.

  The girl sits on Runner’s lap. Both talk and laugh and hug. I’ve never seen him so engrossed by anyone. She’s whispering in his ear, pressing her face to his neck. His cheeks are shiny, his eyes glistening, and he seems nervous and excited at once.

  I make an effort to blink really hard, but there she is, still only a small girl. Her arms are skinny, her chest flat, and her face that of a child. She’s barely twelve. My skin crawls. All that hugging and mouth-pecking suddenly makes me sick. I try not to stare, but I keep my eyes on Runner for the rest of the night. All the while, my brain is ringing with what my mother repeated throughout my childhood: “Men always only want one thing, Micka.”

  When everyone is fed and tired and the room gradually empties, the Gypsies bid their farewell. The girl gives Runner a kiss on his mouth and he holds her to him, mussing her hair, kissing her in return.

  The beef ribs and string beans want to get back out of my stomach. My mother’s “Certain girls get what they ask for” echoes in my head.

  The Gypsy woman walks up to Runner, leans close to him, and speaks into his ear. He’s positively blushing, smiling, beaming even, and then he’s coughing into his hand.

  Did she just…

  Runner catches my gaze. ‘Micka, you look ill. Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ I croak through clenched teeth. ‘Tired.’ If I open my mouth too far, I’ll puke.

  He waves at a broad-chested woman with short grey hair. ‘Martha, I think Micka is getting sick. Look at her.’

  She looks down at me, her eyes widen. ‘Good Lordy!’ She lays her palm on my forehead, hums, and says. ‘Exhaustion, I’d say. Into bed with you, little one.’

  I’m almost grateful Martha calls me “little one,” as it provokes me enough to move my stunned muscles.

  She shushes me into the tiny room where Runner and I are sleeping, squeezes my shoulder, and offers to help me undress. Shocked, I shake my head. As soon as she’s out of the door, I fetch my hunting knife and position myself at the window. Do adults believe that kids deserve this when they behave in a…whatever kids-like way? Was that the reason for everybody back home to ignore what the Old Geezer did to little boys? I don’t even know what his name was. The Old Geezer was like a keyword for really bad shit.

  Only a few moments later, my worst suspicions are confirmed. Runner stomps through the deep snow, shovels some of the cold stuff into his hands, and rubs his face with it. Clouds of white condensation exit his mouth when he makes his way around the house toward three yurts that hadn’t been standing there when we arrived.

  Breathing heavily, I press my fists against my eyes until lights flicker in my vision. Thinking of my dead brother helps against the panic. ‘Karlsson?’ I whisper. ‘I’m scared.’

  What am I going to do now? Does this woman sell her daughter often? The whole procedure appeared so…so normal to everyone. If I help the girl tonight, she’ll still have to endure this pig of a mother for another three years until she’s of age. She might get punished if I try to help her. Maybe I’ll get punished. I’ll lose the apprenticeship. But who wants to spend another second in Runner’s company, knowing what he’s doing? How could I have been so blind? His helpfulness when I was cold. Here, Micka, sleep in my sleeping bag. Here, Micka, let me hold you. Here, Micka, let me warm your feet.

  How can I be so naïve? Shit, I don’t want to feel helpless and much too small. But the girl…much smaller. I don’t even want to think of it. But the image of him
lying atop of her makes me retch, holds my feet in place and, at the same time, drives me forward. The latter urge wins. I blink the shock aside and coax my brain into working mode. I never moved a muscle to help Marreesh, but tonight I’ll chop off balls, I swear. A job at the composting facility would be very welcome after this crap.

  What do I need? I turn away from the window and scan the room.

  My coat is draped over a chair. My boots are drying in the corridor. My skin itches so badly I want to pull it off. My hands are so sweaty it’s hard to maintain my grip on the knife. I wipe my palms on my pants, pull on my coat, slip into my boots, and follow Runner’s deep footprints to one of the yurts. When I hear a deep moan — which I identify as male, and hence, his — bile fills my mouth. I spit in the snow and, before my little courage fails me, I kick at the entrance and shout, ‘Get off her! Get the fuck off of her!’

  Snot and tears are already pouring down my face, but I don’t care. My feet are firmly planted in the deep snow. With my heart aching and my fists balled, I’m ready for anything.

  ‘Micka?’ Runner’s voice. Asshole.

  ‘I said, get the fuck off of her!’

  Soft footfalls approach, then the rug — or whatever it is that serves as a door — flaps open, showing a flustered Runner with a colourful shawl wrapped around his hips. His chest is furry and a line of black hair points from there to where his privates are. The rest is naked. ‘What the hell is going on?’

  ‘Probation is over,’ I spit.

  ‘What are you talking about? What the hell are you doing here, anyway?’

  ‘I’m not an idiot. You flirted with that tiny girl the entire evening. How old is she? Twelve?’ I’m only slightly aware that he used a banned word. Hell. Does he believe he can get away with everything?

  ‘Thirteen.’

  ‘Thirteen! You fucking pervert!’ My voice fails, I shrieked too loudly.

  Runner’s expression is cold. He opens the door wider and I can see inside. A candle is lit on a small table. A woman is lying on a mattress on the floor, her upper body naked, her heavy breasts tattooed. The silvery streaks in her raven-black hair sparkle in the candlelight.

  Runner inhales and says with a voice that fights for control, ‘The girl you are talking about is my daughter, Ezra. And this…’ He indicates the bed. ‘…is her mother. She was so friendly to invite me tonight.’

  It feels as if the world falls deaf. Even the snot under my nose is frozen. I take a step back. I’ve forgotten about the deep snow. My view tilts and before I can say ‘Oh!’ I’m buried in the cold stuff. I can probably melt a big hole into it now, I’m so hot with shame. My fury is evaporating.

  An outstretched hand is offered. I don’t take it. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll…go.’ And off I run. I’m such an idiot. I’m such a fucking idiot!

  I lie awake until dawn. Runner doesn’t return. I would have been surprised if he had.

  ———

  Hunger and the scents of frying pancakes and fresh barley coffee pull me out of bed, although I’d prefer to hide until much later.

  Martha stands at the stove, scraping at sizzling yummy things in her black cast-iron pan. My mouth is flooding. ‘Hey,’ I mumble when I see Runner. I’m so ashamed I don’t dare look at him.

  ‘Sit, please.’ He indicates the chair next to him as he rises and gets plate, fork, knife, and cup, which he sets down in front of me. I don’t know why he’s doing this, but I guess he’s being nice now so he can deliver the heavy blow without a bad conscience.

  He turns on the tap, boils water, and mixes something in a large bowl. When he sets the bowl on the floor in front of me, I scoot away from him.

  ‘Allow me, please.’ His face looks…I don’t know…sad, maybe?

  Feeling awkward and ridiculous, I move my chair back to where it stood, but not one millimetre closer.

  He holds out his hands. An offering, but I’m too puzzled to react. He moves closer, pulls my socks down, takes my feet, and splashes them with water. I’m very ticklish there, but not today. I guess one needs a trace of humour left for that.

  ‘Why are you washing my feet?’ I croak.

  ‘It’s a custom…’ he explains without looking up, ‘…I learned at a place where people don’t use words to ask for forgiveness. They believe that words have little weight.’

  He takes the soap and lathers the soles of my feet. ‘I was angry at you last night,’ he continues. ‘To be honest, I almost burned a fuse, because I couldn’t fathom how anyone could think I would abuse a child. My own daughter!’ He freezes for a moment and stares at his hands. ‘I should have known better, considering…’ He clears his throat. ‘Kaissa set me straight, helped me understand your reaction. I’m an idiot, because it was evident.’

  Seeing my nonplussed stare, he adds, ‘Kaissa is the woman I slept with.’

  My feet twitch in his hands. Too much information for my taste.

  ‘I thought that was obvious.’ He cocks his head. ‘I’m apologising for my ignorance.’

  ‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ I croak. My feet feel like they are wilting off my ankles.

  ‘You’ve been abused, probably even raped.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t… I wasn’t… ’ I exhale a growl of embarrassment. ‘I’m a virgin. No one raped me. I want my feet back.’

  Puzzled, he looks up at me. Then he rinses the soap off my feet, dries them with a towel, and puts my socks back on a second before I bolt from the kitchen.

  ———

  I haven’t been myself since Runner washed my feet. I’m not even sure if I’ve ever been myself, and have only now come to notice. How can a friendly and humble gesture hurt more than violence?

  I’ve seen Kaissa and apologised. It wasn’t easy, because I can’t remember the last time I said “I’m sorry” to anyone but my dead brother. I’ve met Ezra, and her resemblance to Runner, her boldness and honesty, hurt even more. It took me a while to realise what it is that I find so disturbing about her. She’s not bent. And she’s beautiful.

  When I look at myself now, I realise that the ugliness I’ve seen all these years is probably not ugly at all, and what I thought is making me special is only making me crooked. I’m like a gnarled old tree that wants to stretch to the light and doesn’t quite know how to do it. Meanwhile, I feel sorry for myself, and always only for myself.

  I haven’t talked to Runner since. When I see him at mealtimes, we barely acknowledge one another. I don’t know what to say. I’m growing smaller by the hour.

  Now, with everyone assembling for dinner, I stand with my back to the wall, watching. This small group of people is so different in many ways. The touching that I find hard to accept. The kissing and hugging. It gives me goosebumps.

  And then there’s all the stuff that makes my heart heavy. Never does a child weep alone, there’s always an adult kneeling next to her or him, hugging, or another child walking up and offering a dried pear or a wet kiss. The small gestures of respect are everywhere, gestures one can only notice if one takes the time to look.

  I feel myself sinking into self-pity, wondering why I grew up with so little love and respect. Then I realise that I don’t have much respect for people, either. I don’t love anybody. The others aren’t the problem. It’s only me being judgmental.

  And then I know what I need to do.

  Runner’s face looks like it’s carved in stone when I approach him with a bowl, a towel, and a piece of soap. The room falls silent. People wait for me to speak. But I don’t. I don’t know the right words to say.

  I kneel and look up at Runner, who blinks when I pull off his thick woollen socks.

  Today is our last day here, and in a way, I’m relieved. The kitchen always seems crammed and Runner’s gaze too inspecting or grave. I’m longing to walk through the silent and snowy countryside with only his back facing me and neither of us speaking more than necessary.

  Presently, I’m sitting on a pillow in Kaissa’s yurt. She insist
s on cutting my hair; she thinks orange is pretty.

  Kaissa wants to be nice. But why, I don’t know.

  ‘Ready?’ she asks, and I nod.

  She brushes my hair, then takes strand by strand as if the scrubby stuff needs testing before it can come off. I avoid her gaze in the mirror while goosebumps rake over my skin. Gentle touch makes me weepy. I grit my teeth and clench my butt cheeks.

  ‘How do you want it?’ Kaissa asks.

  I shrug.

  ‘Let’s see what I can come up with.’ The scissors go snip snip snip, but each time only a tiny bit of hair falls to the floor, on my shoulders, or on my nose until I blow them off. At this rate, it will take ages.

  ‘Are you a real Gypsy?’ I ask. I heard about them a few years ago and it sounded like something out of a fairy tale.

  ‘No, I’m not. I doubt there are any Gypsies left. A lot of people blamed them for the Great Pandemic. They were dirty, they said. Decorating a stake with a Gypsy’s head was considered heroic then. My grandparents and my parents were among those who believed all Gypsies must die.’

  ‘How come you look like one?’

  Her green eyes twinkle and she tugs a strand of silver-streaked hair behind her ear. ‘When I came of age, I expressed my disgust with my family by dressing up as a Gypsy and leaving for good. What began as a childish rebellion and a love for colourful clothes and wild adventures turned into a passion. I saw a whole culture disappearing forever, so I learned as much as I could about the Romani. Which isn’t much, sadly…’ She trails off and gets back to cutting my hair.

  ‘Are both your daughters from Runner?’

  She laughs. ‘No. The oldest, Katharina, is from my husband.’

  I begin to wonder which of the two men might be her husband when she says, ‘He left many years ago. The loneliness was unbearable. One day, I met Runner and his mentor. They were guests in my yurt for a few days. It was easy to seduce such a young man.’ She gives me a sharp gaze through the mirror. ‘He was on probation then. Your age.’