Ransacker

by Emmy Laybourne

  Suddenly Sissel became conscious of the strangeness of what she was doing. She became sensible to the fact that she was wearing only a linen shift and robe, both now wet. She was on her hands and knees in a moonlit stream, nearly naked and just outside town.

  She sat back onto her heels. She looked around at the muddy banks of the stream, at the dark shapes of the scrub oak on the banks. She rubbed her arms with shaking hands.

  “I’ve gone mad,” she said aloud, her voice so small she could not even hear it.

  Sissel put her hands into the water again. They immediately began to thrum with her quickening pulse. She tried moving her fingers in time with her heartbeat, flaring them out, then pulling in. It was so absurd she laughed.

  “What is it?” she said. “What am I supposed to do?”

  The water ran over her icy hands. In the moonlight, her fingers were pearly white and pale. Numb from cold.

  Sissel closed her eyes. Come, then, she thought. Whatever you are. Come.

  She felt her hands begin to heat up. Prickles of fire on the tips of her fingers. Pinpricks, coming so fast they hurt.

  She snatched her hands out of the water.

  They were shining, not the shine of moon on wet skin, but shining with gold. She turned them back and forth.

  Her hands were covered in gold flake.

  She brought her palms together. She could feel the flakes and tiny gold crystals rubbing against her skin. The gold held, as if magnetized to her skin.

  My Nytte is born, she thought. Gooseflesh rippled along her arms and legs. She found her body shaking now, quaking not with cold but with awe.

  She knew what she was, even though Rolf said there had not been one of this type of Nytteson for hundreds of years.

  Sissel was a Ransacker.

  She thought, I must give thanks.

  “Ásáheill,” she prayed. “Thank you, great Odin.” But she could not hear her own voice. All sound had been leached from the world. Not even the water dared to trickle.

  It frightened her, the silence.

  “Hello,” she said. Nothing. And she let out a frightened cry that she could not hear. It was an eerie, awful sensation.

  Her Nytte had stolen her hearing.

  Sissel heaved her shaking body back toward the rocks on the banks of the stream. Her shift was dripping wet, her limbs numb with the frigid water. She climbed out of the stream, grabbing on to branches to help her. She wondered if the gold would rub off on the branches, but she also knew she had to get out of the stream. Her health demanded it.

  She was terribly tired now. Tired and cold. Only her hands were warm. She made it to the footpath and lay down to catch her breath.

  Sissel held her hands up, turned them back and forth.

  The gold was still there, warming her skin.

  She had the strange feeling the gold was smiling at her. It liked her.

  No, the little gold flakes loved her, wanted to be with her, and all she had to do was pull them to her. Gold, it seemed, had a personality.

  She laid her two hands over her chest, to warm it.

  Sissel thought about the graveyard. There had to be gold there, in the rocks near where the caskets were laid. Perhaps her Nytte had been trying to be born in that moment during the funeral.

  Sissel found she was grinning.

  She pressed her hands to her face, and the gold flakes vibrated between the two surfaces of her skin, warming her cheeks. She laughed.

  Her pale, thin hands looked like they were covered in gloves made of golden lace.

  Sissel sat up. She needed to get back to the hotel. She needed to dry off and figure out how to transfer the gold on her hands to a plate or a dish or a cloth. She couldn’t wait to show Stieg!

  It was difficult to rise. Her leg ached, and she shook with exhaustion. She was thankful for how soft the bent and trodden grasses were underfoot. No longer driven by the rush that had possessed her, she felt the scrapes and cuts on her feet and legs.

  She limped to town. The street was still. It was the same as when she’d left it. Everything was different for her, but the town was the same as she’d left it.

  A fleck of gold went floating past her vision in the air. She brought her right hand to her face, and a few more flecks of gold fell away.

  “No,” she said.

  She tried to call the gold to her, but she had lost the rhythm from the creek.

  Sissel closed her eyes, searching for her pulse, for that strange thrum she had felt, but she was too agitated.

  “Wait,” she said. More of the gold was falling away now. Come back, she willed.

  Fat, heavy flakes fell from her fingertips, drifting away like apple blossoms on a warm spring breeze.

  Sissel scraped at the gold on her left hand, trying to collect it in the palm of her right. She had only a small amount, maybe a teaspoonful, but she clutched it and hobbled back to town.

  Sissel sneaked up the front stairs to the hotel. She sent a silent prayer to the Gods of the Æsir and turned the knob. Her prayer was answered—there was no one in the lobby.

  The stairs seemed much steeper on the way back up. She saw she had left the door to her suite open! Wide-open! She entered her room and locked it behind her. Exhaustion was overtaking her now.

  Sissel caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She looked wild, her shift grass stained and mud splattered; tendrils of her thin white-blond hair wisping out in all directions.

  On the bedside table, there was a little painted china dish, left there to hold jewelry or hairpins or other delicate items. Sissel scraped the contents of her palm out into the dish with her fingernails—gold dust mixed with dirt, sticky with her sweat. She grinned at the sparkling mess of treasure.

  She fell into bed.

  I have a Nytte, she thought to herself one last time. She thought of what it would be like to tell Hanne when she returned. Sissel imagined the look of surprise on Hanne’s face—and what shock and joy Hanne would feel when Sissel showed her what she could do!

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Hanne and Owen made camp on a rise overlooking a pretty little brook. There was a thatch of green chokecherry that grew up and over the hill, and the bushes were full of red fruits and songbirds. The birds flew away with a great beating of wings when Hanne and Owen rode up on Brandy, but they soon fluttered back down to their feast.

  Owen led the horse down to the stream, and Hanne followed behind with the canteens and the coffeepot.

  There wasn’t any dinner to cook—they hadn’t brought the cast-iron spider or any other pots or pans. They would have cold chicken to eat, and some slices of brown bread slathered with sweet-cream butter and sandwiched together.

  Owen made a fire, and Hanne set the kettle on. She kept sneaking looks across the fire and finding him grinning.

  “What’s got you so happy?” she asked. It was foolish to ask, because she knew the answer—they were in the beautiful Montana countryside and they were alone.

  “It’s a pretty good life. Riding in fine weather with my girl and my dog.”

  Daisy was rooting around in the bushes. She stuck her head out of the brush as if to check on them, then resumed her foraging.

  “What about you?” he asked. “Do you miss your sister and brothers?”

  “No!” she said, so resolute that Owen laughed.

  “Well, that’s all right,” he said.

  “It’s nice to be alone, isn’t it?” Hanne asked.

  “I could get used to it.”

  Hanne went to the saddlebags and got out the food for supper, wrapped carefully in waxed paper.

  She wouldn’t blame Owen if he might actually prefer to live apart from Hanne’s siblings. This was as close as he’d ever come to saying it outright. It had to be trying to him, to have become, all of a sudden, a member of their small and close-knit family.

  They didn’t often discuss it, but she knew that Owen understood Hanne felt compelled to remain as close as she could to her kin. Her Nytte made
it uncomfortable to be away from them, or maybe it was her own anxious nature.

  She set out the two tin plates and began dividing up the chicken. Hanne worried: Did her attachment to her siblings bother Owen? He had been so good about it, putting no pressure on her to marry, agreeing that when they married, they’d just add on to the small house. It was the only practical thing to do—Sissel wasn’t strong enough to keep house for Stieg and Knut. Hanne must do it for all of them.

  Owen whistled as he curried Brandy. The horse turned her head from him as if she were a great noble and couldn’t be bothered to notice the work of a mere human. But as he continued, working patiently and methodically, her eyelids began to droop and she let out a snort of pleasure.

  “I know,” Owen said to the horse. “Feels good, don’t it?”

  When they’d finished their supper, and the sun began to set behind the hills in a showy display of peach and vermillion, Hanne laid out the new double bedroll they’d purchased. The wide canvas cover enveloped two warm woolen blankets.

  Owen stood, hat in hand, studying the dwindling fire. Was he blushing as much as Hanne? It was hard to say in the glow of the fire.

  “I’ll sleep on this side of the fire, don’t you think?” he finally said. “I don’t need a bedroll.”

  “Yes,” Hanne agreed. “If you don’t mind. And … we’ll marry soon—”

  “I could marry you right here on this hilltop,” he said. “Not tonight, I mean, of course. I just mean when we do marry. There couldn’t be a prettier place to marry in the world. No church could match it.”

  Hanne crossed to him and took his hand. They stood that way looking out over the valley as the flames of the dying sun washed the trees and the brush in red and orange.

  * * *

  THEY HAD NOTHING but cornbread and hot coffee for breakfast, but Owen said they’d pass through the town of Fitch around midday on their way to the Bar S Ranch.

  Fitch was an old town, and fairly small. Owen told her it was a fur trading post that had become a town. The railroad had passed it by, and that meant the town might not grow much more. The livery in town had some small reputation as a center for horse trading.

  The streets of town were laid out in a contrary tangle; none ran straight. The center of town was a three-way intersection. Prominent in the cradle of this Y shape was a small, triangular building—a general store.

  Across the street on one angle there was a large livery stable, with several big pens behind. There were horses milling about, at least twenty of them.

  Across the other street from the store was a dingy, low building with a sign on the wall that read SALOON. The sign looked like it had been rained on, though the morning was dry. Hanne got a whiff and realized—it wasn’t rain spattered on the sign but urine. Though it was early in the day, the sounds of men laughing and arguing came from the building. Some high-pitched women’s voices came through as well.

  “We’ll not stop here long,” Owen said.

  “Good,” Hanne agreed.

  He took her elbow and escorted her into the store. Then he left to take Brandy over to the livery. He wanted some oats for her.

  The shopkeeper was happy to help Hanne, though he had none of the stores of baked goods, butter, or cheese that Hanne had hoped for. It made her realize how good the Peavys’ store was—they had so many fresh foods from the farmers nearby.

  This store had some cans of condensed milk, some canned peaches, a lone battered tin of sardines, and several swollen cans of pickled pigs’ feet. There were barrels of beans, and sacks of flour and oats on the shelves, and a rather extensive assortment of used and new saddles, bits, and bridles hanging on the wall.

  Hanne selected two cans of peaches, and was inspecting the can of sardines to make sure it was whole and sealed when she heard the door open and close behind her.

  A young, gaunt cowboy had entered. Though he had the tan face of a cowboy, and wore a hat and the long duster favored by men who worked with cattle, he had a look of wealth about him. He wore a polished silver belt buckle, and Hanne saw his hat had a braided leather band, ends tipped with more silver. The trappings of wealth could not disguise how poorly the man looked. He leaned against the counter as if he needed help to remain on his feet.

  She nodded to him, and he tipped his hat to her.

  “I’m looking for a man named Will Pernice,” he said to the shopkeeper.

  “You’ll find him in the saloon, most likely.”

  Then the door opened and Owen came in. She flashed him a smile, put the cans she’d selected on the counter, and was shocked to hear him cuss.

  “Matthew!”

  “Owen,” said the cowboy.

  Owen looked odd to Hanne, deeply discomfited.

  “Hanne, this is my brother Matthew,” Owen said. “Matthew, I present to you … my wife.”

  Matthew flashed his eyes over to Hanne again. He reached up to touch the brim of his hat, and Hanne thought she read a dark look on his face. But why?

  “Are you all right, Matthew?”

  “What are you doing in Fitch of all places?” Matthew asked at the same time.

  “We’re passing through. Heard about a drive out of the Bar S,” Owen said.

  Matthew nodded. “I hear they started out last week.”

  “I expect we can catch up with them,” Owen said. “What about you? I saw Double B horses in the livery.”

  “I’ve come to sell them.”

  “Selling the horses?” Owen said in surprise. “I saw Jigsaw out there!”

  Matthew began to cough. He held up his hand and withdrew a handkerchief from within his jacket. The linen dearly needed laundering. It was stained with gobs of dark yellow phlegm, and Hanne saw several spots of blood.

  “We been sick, at the ranch. Whole place took with the ague.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Owen said.

  “Mother’s very ill. Doctor says she doesn’t have long.”

  Hanne put her hand to her heart.

  Strong emotions passed over Owen’s face, and Hanne saw him try to master it.

  “I’m very sorry, Matthew—”

  “Everyone’s got it,” Matthew said. “I’m only getting over it now. Father’s sick with it. Paul’s sick. Anyway, we can’t afford the horses.”

  “Harvey?”

  Matthew just shook his head no.

  “What about the cattle?” Owen said. “Who’s minding the cattle?”

  “Hired some men to drive them to Helena two months ago.”

  “All of them?”

  Matthew nodded.

  Hanne didn’t understand this, but it was clear from Owen’s posture of shock and the disbelief in his voice that this was enormous.

  Matthew began to cough again. Hanne went to Owen’s side.

  “We should go to them, Owen,” Hanne said quietly. “If things are so bad. We should help.”

  Matthew took a flask out of his pocket and took a nip. It seemed to help quiet the hacking.

  “Matthew, do you want us to come?” Owen asked. “We could help out.”

  “There’s nothing for you there,” Matthew said, his voice low and bitter. “We’ve been selling it all, piece by piece.”

  “I don’t want anything,” Owen said, taking offense. “We’re offering to help!”

  “We don’t need it!” Matthew snapped.

  “Say, now, fellas, if you’re going to fight, please step outside,” the shopkeeper said with some anxiety.

  “How can you sell Jigsaw?” Owen asked.

  “Father’s got it bad, Owen.” Matthew put his hand up to his eyes. All the tension had gone out of his body. He looked very old all of a sudden. “I don’t know if he’s getting up again.”

  “Well, then…,” Owen said. After a long moment he reached up to his face and brushed the back of his hand along his eyes. “Tell him … tell him…”

  Matthew put his hand out and landed it with a thump on Owen’s shoulder.

  “I’ll tell him
I saw you and that you found yourself a wife, and he’ll be very pleased.”

  Owen nodded. He didn’t seem to trust himself to speak.

  Matthew hacked again into the handkerchief.

  Hanne tentatively put her hand on Owen’s back. He let out a deep breath.

  “Take Jigsaw,” Matthew said. “Father would want it that way.”

  Owen began to protest.

  “You know he would,” Matthew said. “You were always his favorite, damn you.”

  “That’s hardly true,” Owen said.

  “Take Jigsaw, anyway,” Matthew said. “I can’t stand to sell him.”

  “I will, then.”

  “Good.”

  Owen headed for the door. Hanne followed. She had not bought the peaches. The cans stood on the counter, but she did not want to make a fuss.

  “Matthew, tell everyone I send my regards,” Owen said. “Tell Father I’m doing fine. Tell Lucy, too. Will you do that?”

  Matthew nodded his head. He was leaning now on the counter.

  “You should go,” Matthew said. Hanne heard his voice was thick with emotion.

  * * *

  THEY WALKED TO the livery in silence. The paddock behind the stable was packed with horses, all of them bearing the same brand, two Bs.

  Owen climbed over the fence. Hanne followed. Several of the horses turned to sniff at him. Perhaps they remembered him.

  He put his hand on the rump of a bay horse, running his hand over the darkened brand.

  “The Double B, that’s our ranch,” he said.

  “I’m so sorry, Owen, about your parents. I think we should go and see your father. Even if Matthew doesn’t want us to—”

  “No,” Owen said. “They don’t want me there, and I don’t want to risk it. It’s catching, the ague. I can’t let it get you. I won’t.”

  Owen spotted the horse he was looking for. Jigsaw was a beautiful paint—white, with dark brown patches scattered over his coat.

  Jigsaw gave a nicker when he saw Owen and bobbed his head, as if nodding hello.