by Karen Swan
Their long, jangling procession was making steady progress, everyone moving with a kinetic energy as they reclaimed the mountain heights that had been closed off and impassable during the winter months. Patches of snow still clung to the highest peaks but they were ragged and torn now, like old, dirty skirts.
They had been walking for an hour already and she turned to look back, wanting to get a last glimpse of the village, a home she had never left before and now wouldn’t see again till the leaves began to redden and curl and a blue chill crisped the air. But already there wasn’t much to make out from this height. At 1,850 metres, the bushy torvtak roofs meant the cottages all but blended into their surroundings and it was only the grey wisps puffing from the chimney stacks and white sheets flapping on her mamma’s clothes lines that caught the eye.
Feeling free, she tilted her face to the sky and stretched her arms out wide as a warm wind wrapped itself playfully around her, lifting even her boyish bob off her neck. This was it. She was finally on her way. After seemingly endless weeks of drizzle and the mists lying low in the valleys, the sky had tidied itself up at last, parcelling up the clouds to reveal the mountains’ sharp angles once more. She caught sight of the pale speckled underbelly of a gyrfalcon wheeling high above them, hunting for lemmings, voles or shrews in the long grass.
‘Signy, come! Stop stopping,’ Margit called from her position at the head of the line. At seventeen, she was the joint-eldest girl but as the farmer’s daughter too, that made her the most senior member of their group. Sofie didn’t like it. Two inches taller and three weeks older than Margit, she felt that she should be the leader. That she was also commonly regarded as the village beauty reinforced her high opinion of herself; it somehow seemed to give her a status above her own low birth. Signy had noticed since early childhood that the first – and pretty much only – thing people said when talking about Sofie was her looks, be they gushing about her long raven hair or her pale blue eyes as though it somehow brought acclaim on them too. They never seemed to mention that she always forgot to close the goat pens or that she took more than her share of lunch. And besides, there was something in the set of her mouth that made Signy feel cold.
But Margit didn’t see it. She and Sofie had grown up side by side, sharing chores on the farm, sitting together with their slates in the small schoolhouse, sharing secrets as they churned the butter or tossed the hay; and besides, Margit was always at pains to minimize anything that reinforced Sofie’s lower status as the cotter’s daughter. It was her sweet, generous sister who kept the peace, even today, when Margit should have been riding on horseback; it was an honour reserved for the chief seterbudeia but Margit had seen the twist in Sofie’s lips as the rest of the townsfolk had waved and cheered them off – her, as the figurehead – and as soon as they had made the first turn out of sight, she had insisted Sofie take her place instead.
‘But the gyr – do you see it?’ Signy asked, pointing to the bird just as it suddenly dropped into a horizontal pursuit, speeding over the ground and gaining on the prey that would never be able to outrun it.
‘I see it,’ Margit smiled patiently. ‘But I also see Stormy taking herself back to the valley.’
Signy turned sharply. Sure enough, Stormy, named after her grey-cloud colouring, had wandered off the track and was picking a nimble path down the steep-sided grassy slope. And as the lead nanny goat, where she went, the others would follow.
‘Aiee!’ Signy yelped, grabbing a rock and throwing it, the missile sailing just above the goat’s curved horns and landing in the grass to her left. Stormy gave a forlorn, startled cry and immediately skittered her way back up onto the path again. ‘Yes. You stay with me,’ Signy said in the soothing voice she reserved for talking to the animals.
‘Good shot!’ a voice from behind her called. It was Kari, her wide mouth stretched in its usual delighted smile. She was walking at the back with her sisters Ashild and Brit. Their father Peder Jemtegard owned the farm next door; it wasn’t as big as Signy’s family’s, was more exposed to the harsh north winds and the soil wasn’t quite so fertile, but the two farmers were great friends and often helped each other out, especially during the harvest, working harmoniously side by side. Kari was the same age as Signy, albeit about to turn fifteen; she and her older sister Ashild had both been born in the same year which made them Irish twins apparently, but Signy didn’t see how that could be: they didn’t look anything alike and they were definitely Norwegian, for Signy’s own mother had helped with the births. Brit was the eldest Jemtegard girl at sixteen and their brother Nils was the oldest of them all; at nearly eighteen he had gone ahead with the men and boys who were transporting the heavier items, melting the stubbornest snow patches with harvested soil, repairing the path where snow-melt might have degraded it, and clearing any obstructions left from the winter such as fallen trees. Signy hoped they would get the first fire going too so that they could sit around the flames in a circle and drink snarøl together.
With empty water buckets swinging at hip height from their shoulder harnesses, the three Jemtegard sisters would supposedly scoop up anything that was dropped by the rest of the party ahead of them, but Signy could hear from the ripples of laughter that splashed over her intermittently that they were far more focused on their conversation than on retrieving stray pots.
‘Hey!’ Signy cried over her shoulder, daring to take her attention off Stormy for only a fraction of a moment. ‘Can’t you walk any faster? I can’t hear you all the way back there. What’s making you laugh so much?’
‘Your walk!’ Ashild called cheekily, making the others start laughing again. She was the naughtiest of the trio, always in trouble with her mother for not putting the clothes through the mangle or dropping stitches or dipping her finger in the risengrot bowl and licking it.
‘Hey! I can throw behind me too, so watch out!’ Signy called over her shoulder, her eyes dead ahead.
‘Yes?’ Ashild teased. ‘Try it then.’
Without hesitation, Signy picked up a small rock by her feet and, listening for just a moment to hear their voices and locate them more precisely, she tossed it up and over her shoulder. A second later, there was the loud, unmistakeable clatter of rock upon tin. She turned to find Ashild looking down into one of her water buckets in astonishment. ‘I don’t believe it.’
Kari and Brit cheered, laughing again at the sight of their sister’s face.
‘Hey, girls!’ Margit called from the front. ‘What are you doing back there? Who is watching the goats?’
Eeesht, the goats! With a wink, Signy turned again, reaching ahead with her stick to show the animals which way was forward. If only she could keep a thought in her head for more than a moment at a time!
They walked for another hour, the steep pass up the mountain gradually levelling out as they moved into the hinterland of a wide, circular valley. Summer, it seemed, had already set up shop here as the land spread out in vast hillocky swathes of green, the encircling mountaintops like a caldera trapping the heat. Signy was sure she could feel her skin browning in the sunlight already, and the yellow grasses of spring which had emerged from their long winter sleep beneath the snowpack less than six weeks ago were now a vivid intense green. Everything had woken up, it seemed: Clouded Apollo butterflies flitted in intricate games of chase, Common Swifts swooped to catch flies, red squirrels and pine martens scampered along the branches of the randomly dotted aspen and alder trees, and bright pink foxgloves swayed in clusters, like silken arrows. In the near distance, she saw a narrow carpet of dotted white flowers and she knew it was the heavy-headed lollipop buds of cottongrass tracing the banks of the stream that would be their water supply and bath for the next few months.
To her delight, a white twist of smoke was dancing into the air, heralding the menfolk’s arrival too and they all upped their pace, eager to get to the farm and rest at last. The herd, sensing arrival, widened out, spreading from their line into an excited flock, bleating and bellowing their
approach so that the men looked up.
Nils, sitting astride a roof of one of the buildings, waved to them and Signy waved back frantically. He was easy to spot even from a distance, his blonde hair marking him out like a white flag.
‘Hei!’ she cried, faltering slightly on the uneven ground. She wished she could break into a run but to do so would only scatter the herd and the last thing anyone wanted was yet more walking today. Still, she wasn’t great at checking her impulses and she fell into a sort of jog that had Sofie tutting she would ‘set off’ the horses too if she didn’t calm down.
Their summer farm was what was known as a setergrender, composed of a cluster of small huts, all of them built from solid, unplaned timbers that were almost black with age. They each had only one door, two windows and a stovepipe sticking through the traditional grassy torvtak roofs; the huts were grouped together in an avenue, with three on one side and four on the other, with a stables, haybarn and stabbur set across the back. The site had originally been chosen by her ancestors within this pasture not just for its level ground and proximity to the stream but also for the proliferation of rocks and smooth boulders that had been left on the ground there from the last ice age. Although the farm was nearly two hundred years old, Signy knew every building had been designed for its corners to stand on the bigger immovable boulders, with other rocks then brought in and cut into slabs that could fit along the perimeter base where required. This enabled the floor of the hut to be lifted off the damp ground, reducing the risk of rot, while the small rocks nestling in the grass outside, flanking the small avenue, doubled as stools for the girls.
Two downy birch trees were staggered either side of the path, their spreading canopies not quite close enough to touch. Signy had loved to play in them as a little girl, sitting on a branch out of the way of the busy adults and watching as her father walked over the grass-turf roofs, making repairs, just as Nils was doing now. But her father was not so agile any more. His bones hurt him most days and he walked slowly through the yard. He had ridden his horse here today, something her mamma had said would hurt his pride even more than walking would do to his joints, but as they neared, Signy could see him heaving a new, bigger whetstone into position with Ottar Doving, Sofie’s father.
It had always seemed to Signy that Ottar was everything his daughter was not: humble, placid, kind. As Signy’s father’s cotter – or lease tenant – he always fulfilled the contractual obligations upon him with good grace and never the bitter resentment of his daughter. A tailor by trade, he nonetheless never seemed happier than when he worked his two weeks during the haymaking season, his one workday in the spring, the day of roadwork during håbolla (the quiet period between seeding and haymaking), and he always volunteered for the buføring. Sofie on the other hand would have far rather he concentrated on making dresses that flattered her, for she had confided to Margit that she was quite determined to win herself a wealthy husband. Not for her a life on the land, she wanted velvets and silks, a telephone and motor car.
‘Pappa,’ Signy cried as they arrived at the farm.
Haken Reiten turned and straightened up. ‘My girls,’ he replied happily, holding an arm out for Signy to run to, a frown flickering over his face as he saw that it was Sofie and not Margit on horseback. ‘But what is this?’
Ottar, hearing his landlord’s tone, turned too. ‘Sofie?’ he asked, shame in his voice.
Margit’s mouth parted and her cheeks pinked as she saw her father’s displeasure. He was a fair man but stern and he took etiquette seriously, maintaining that he and his forebears had worked hard to get to the position where such an honour was their right.
‘Sofie stumbled and twisted her ankle,’ Signy said quickly, not to protect the older girl, but Margit; she knew her sister could never lie to their father. ‘Margit offered her place to prevent further injury.’
‘Is that so, Sofie?’ Ottar asked his daughter.
Sofie, who had been sitting imperiously on the horse, nodded as the rest of the men turned to stare. ‘Yes. I’m sorry, Pappa. I couldn’t place any weight on it.’
Haken held out his other arm and Margit walked into the crook of it, giving Signy a sheepish look. ‘That’s my Margit,’ he said proudly. ‘Always thinking of others. And you, Signy – did you keep control of the herd?’
‘Well enough, Pappa. We have arrived with the number we left with.’
He chuckled. ‘Very good. Then you have done well.’ He squeezed her around the shoulder. ‘But the hard work starts here. You know that, huh?’
‘Of course,’ she said, resting her head on his shoulder, watching as Nils jumped down from his position on the selet roof and walked over to the horse.
‘Here,’ he said, holding out his arms. ‘I shall help you down. Which ankle is it?’
‘Oh, this one,’ Sofie said, patting her right thigh and gratefully shooting him a dazzling smile.
‘Then swing that leg over and slide down; I’ll catch you.’
Sofie did as he instructed, slipping into his arms like a foot into a stocking. Seemingly, she weighed very little, for Nils didn’t immediately return her to the ground, keeping her hovering for a moment, eye-to-eye, nose-to-nose, before he carefully set her down as though she was a china doll.
Sofie, remembering to pretend her right foot was injured, held it a few inches off the floor.
‘Here, put your arm around my shoulders and we can get you over to that rock,’ he said, helping her over, his other arm around her waist. Signy watched the way Sofie’s black hair swung with every false hop, occasional winces and convincing little cries coming from her every few moments.
She shot an exasperated look across at Margit, but her sister was watching on with such a look of sympathy, Signy was convinced she seemed to have quite forgotten this was all an act.
‘Is that better?’ Nils asked.
‘Much, thank you,’ Sofie smiled from her perch on the rock.
‘Shall I take a look at it for you?’
‘Oh no, no, that won’t be necess—’ she said quickly, but his fingers were already pressing on the soft tissue of her ankle. She gave a short yelp and pulled away.
‘It’s tender.’
‘Oh, it’s just a light sprain. I’m sure I’ll be fine by the morning,’ she demurred, looking to the ground.
He frowned, looking concerned. ‘Perhaps you should come back to the village with us.’
‘And leave my friends here to do all the hard work without me? Absolutely not,’ she said determinedly, prompting a proud smile from her father and the other men. There was no doubt about it, Sofie was an accomplished actress and Signy turned to see Kari, Ashild and Brit watching on with the same look of disbelief – Sofie had none of her father’s work ethic and was always the first to down tools, or complain of a sore back, or pretend she’d lost something.
‘Well, you should rest for the next two days at least,’ Nils said, looking unhappy about it. ‘Did you girls hear that?’ he asked his sisters and Signy and Margit.
‘Yes,’ they chorused, rolling their eyes. ‘No work for two days.’
‘Good. You’ll look after her, won’t you, Margit?’
‘Always.’
‘But I’ll ride back to check in a few days,’ he said, turning his attention to Sofie again. ‘If you’re still limping or in discomfort, you shall have to come back to the village with me then.’
‘As you like,’ she smiled.
Nils smiled back. And Signy, still huddled in the crook of her father’s arm, scowled.
Chapter Four
‘Okay, guys, just take another step to the left. I can’t quite see . . . yeah, that’s it,’ Lenny murmured. ‘Okay. Now, Bo, can you sit just a little higher up? You look like a bag of potatoes.’
‘Thanks!’ she laughed. But she straightened her legs, hoisting herself further up Zac’s back.
‘And, Zac, tip your head back, mate. You’re meant to look like her lover, not a packhorse.’
‘Ooh, r
oasted,’ Zac chuckled, tipping his head back. Bo pressed her cheek against him and they both gazed lovingly towards the camera. The piggyback was one of their signature images; they had been shot piggybacking on Philippine beaches, up the Spanish Steps, along the Great Wall, even on a rope swing over a lagoon in Borneo. Sometimes she would have her arms up in the air in a gesture of jubilation, triumph or joy but today, the cheek-to-cheek vibe worked better. It was cosier, more intimate. And right now, she wanted as much body heat as she could get.
‘Howzat?’ Zac asked after a moment.
Lenny lowered the camera and scrolled through the images as he walked over. ‘Yeah, good. I think this one’s the best.’
Zac put her back down again and they all put their heads together as he flicked one after the other.
‘The yellow jacket looks great,’ Zac murmured. ‘I knew it would.’
‘Yeah, especially against the snow and water,’ Lenny mumbled back. ‘I like that palette: white, navy and yellow. It feels Scandi.’
‘Swedish, to be precise,’ Zac said thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps her jacket should have been red?’
Bo smiled. The boys always took the photography so seriously, considering the framing, the backdrop, the colours – or palette as they insisted on calling it – as though this was art and not a snapshot for a blog.
Snuggling closer into Zac’s down jacket – in spite of their warm coats, they had mistakenly packed the gloves at the bottom of their rucksacks; it always took a while to readjust to all the layers the northern hemisphere required – she looked back at the view again; Geraingerfjord stood magnificently below her, its mirror-still indigo waters as dark as the cold eyes of a Great White. The cliffs rose so steeply they were only just off vertical, and even the heavy snow on the upper reaches was unable to cling on nearer the water line, exposing rock faces so black and bare, they were the very definition of bleak. To her left, the village of Gerainger sat at the tip of the fjord, nestled in a small basin where the two opposing mountainsides met in a dip, as though bowing to each other. An expanse of level grass area seemed to rise from the water, stretching back for a while before beginning to rise again, tall, narrow white houses dotted all along a winding road that disappeared between the steep cliffs once more.
