“But my work, Baron Fjelstad—” Rolf protested.
“Take the rubbing with you!” Fjelstad snapped. Rolf was surprised by this outburst. The Baron prided himself on his reserve and self-discipline. Fjelstad had removed his wire-rimmed spectacles and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry. Agatha is … unwell. Again.”
Rolf knew what this meant. Agatha was Fjelstad’s second wife. She’d had a miscarriage the year before. Fjelstad had been so excited to become a father. Rolf’s heart sank for the Baron and his new wife. They had not been lucky with children.
“I am so sorry to hear that news, my lord,” Rolf said. “Please give her my condolences.”
Rolf thought for a moment, regarding his friend and employer.
Fjelstad was in his midthirties. He took pains to look the part of a nobleman. He wore elegant, understated suits that conveyed wealth and power, and kept his hair combed and dressed in a tidy, conservative style.
Rolf knew him to be ambitious in business and a fair dealer with all. Since assuming the Barony after his father’s death, Fjelstad had increased the value of his holdings several times over through shrewd investments. And that meant more wealth to support his research and protection of the Nytteson.
Yet for all the Baron’s appearances of success and prosperity, Rolf read defeat and resignation in the set of his friend’s shoulders.
* * *
ROLF HAD BEEN a librarian working in Trondhjem, at the Gunnerus Library, the official library of the Royal Norwegian Society of Sciences and Letters, for more than twenty years when he had first met Fjelstad. It was a position he had studied for and one he cherished. He could not imagine a greater duty in life than to serve the great library and the many works whose only copies were cataloged on its shelves.
The young Fjelstad, fourteen years old, was enrolled at the Trondhjem katedralskole, but spent all his free time in the library at Gunnerus. He was searching for information about an old legend, the Nytte; he kept pestering librarians and pages alike, and had come to be an irritation. The master librarians foisted the young lord on Rolf but he had found the boy’s boundless energy charming. He listened while Fjelstad recounted all he knew about the Nytte and the six ancient Viking superpowers it might bestow. His hair was floppy and messy, and Rolf remembered how he would push it aside and continue telling tales of the Shipwrights, who could make boats that could nearly fly on the water, or the Ransackers, who knew where treasure was buried, even from leagues away. His enthusiasm had been intoxicating and impossible to resist.
After several weeks of searching, Rolf had located a poem that referred to an Oar-Breaker. Rolf sent word to the katedralskole, and Fjelstad arrived before the day was through. The young lord was so elated when Rolf presented him with the poem that he’d whooped with joy, which had made Rolf laugh aloud. The librarians shushed them. The two of them stifled their laughter, but not their excitement.
Over the next months, Rolf had dedicated himself to finding any information he could about the strange myth. There was precious little to be found, but when he did find some mention of it, Rolf would send word and Fjelstad would come directly.
After one of those visits, as Rolf accompanied him to the gates of the library, the young lord had offered him a job. Fjelstad had his father’s support: Rolf would be given a salary, rooms at Gamlehaugen, the Baron’s estate in Bergen, and freedom to use all the best libraries in Europe.
Then Fjelstad pulled Rolf close. “We will find the Nytteson! We will prove they exist!”
Rolf had colored and looked away, out of courtesy, embarrassed for the young man.
“Yes, my lord,” he’d said, stalling for time.
Researching old legends was one thing. But it was quite another to suppose that men with a divine gift existed in the present day. Rolf was considering how to let the young lord down in the most gentle and polite way possible—then Rolf’s eyes had focused on the ground.
There, half covered in dirt, was a perfectly round, white stone.
He tried to ignore the stone, but it seemed to twinkle at him, winking almost.
Begging Fjelstad’s pardon, Rolf bent to inspect it.
When he saw what it was—a flat, round stone deeply etched on one side with what looked like a diamond standing on two splayed legs, Rolf had begun to tremble.
It was an ancient Viking divining stone, carved with the rune of Odin All-Father. It was warm to the touch, though the day was cold.
“I accept your offer, my lord,” Rolf said, in a voice that shook with wonder. “I will serve you the best that I can.”
Fjelstad clapped Rolf on the shoulder. Rolf had felt suddenly important, like his small life might matter in the end. He carried that stone in his pocket to this day.
“I know you don’t want to go to America,” Fjelstad said. “I don’t blame you. I suppose there are other ways we could try to locate them. There’s a gentleman at the Norges Bank who was speaking to me of the Pinkerton Detective Agency.”
How could Rolf refuse to help his old friend, who had just suffered another terrible personal loss, and who had selflessly borne the responsibility of sheltering and aiding the Nytteson?
“I will go, my lord,” Rolf said.
“You will?” The Baron looked up, relief breaking over his features.
“Please forgive me for hesitating.”
“Thank you! This is marvelous!” Fjelstad had said. He’d risen to shake hands with Rolf. “And I want Ketil to accompany you.”
“No, no. Please. He’s too young and too unformed.”
“And how will he learn, if we don’t teach him?” the Baron had said, his head turned down to his writing desk. “I insist you take him. Think of him as a bodyguard. He’s very strong. And this is exactly the kind of mission he needs to gain experience.”
“Please, my lord, Ketil is … an unpleasant traveling companion,” Rolf protested.
The Baron evidently considered the matter closed, for he took out his ledger and wrote Rolf a check for a large sum. He handed the slip of paper over the desk.
“Take the fastest ship and book yourselves into first class. You don’t want to ride with the rabble.”
“Very well,” Rolf said.
“And send Ketil in. I’ll speak to him about my expectations for his behavior on the journey.”
“Yes, my lord.”
The Baron did not go back to staring glumly out the window, but began to shuffle and sort the papers on his desk, humming. For a moment, his spirits seemed to have lifted. This, at least, made Rolf glad.
* * *
BUT TIME HAD PASSED, and Rolf had come to regret his offer.
All they had to go on was the child’s description of the siblings: a tall boy; a slender girl; a great, big hulking boy; and a limping little sister.
Each week, tens of thousands of immigrants were processed in the immense rotunda at Castle Garden. Thousands arrived each day, and as many were discharged into the bowels of Manhattan Island. Finding four children among this chaos would be a near-impossible task.
“We’ve lost them,” Ketil said to Rolf, returning from pacing the floor. “They came through and we missed them, or they never even came here, but are off hiding in the fjords.”
“Be quiet and watch,” Rolf said. He had studied the grounds and chosen a good place to stand and watch—near the first set of large wooden doors that the immigrants passed through as they departed Castle Garden and entered the Bowery, Manhattan’s ugly lower slums. He had not ventured out himself; he did not want to let a single moment go by unmonitored. Ketil had gone out and come back, bathed, shaved, and carnally satisfied by a dockside prostitute who had “given him a ride” for free, if his account was to be trusted.
Nearly all the newcomers stopped and stared at the chaotic scene that awaited them beyond that set of doors. Low buildings and rooming houses, with the taller buildings of the financial district rising behind them. The hucksters swarmed—men and women of all nationalities, te
eming for the chance to “help” the immigrants. Some of them offered decent housing and meals, some stood by to rob them at the first opportunity, but many were simply eager citizens, waiting for friends and family to arrive.
Rolf kept his eye trained on the faces of the crowd. Despite the hectic and daunting landscape that presented itself, what Rolf saw again and again, on all manner of faces, was hope.
The immigrants stood there and braced themselves for America, and though there was fear and exhaustion from the long journey, there was ambition and confidence and faith. It was moving, the dream of America. It was even moving him. It made him think of the old line of Norse poetry, “Many bellies, many skins, one light shared in the blood.”
He considered the line. Translating from Old Norse allowed for many interpretations. The great poets ordered words for meter and scansion, allowing many meanings at once. He played with the poem, twisting it to see what other meaning might be found.
“What will the Baron say if we’ve lost them?” Ketil asked Rolf, elbowing him right out of his thoughts.
“He’ll understand when we tell him how large this place is.”
“Well, you’ll be the one to answer to the Baron. Not me.”
“Yes, Ketil. I know that. Why don’t you go walk the Norwegian queue again?”
Ketil leaned against the wall. “I just walked it!”
Rolf sighed. He wouldn’t let the younger man irritate him. He closed his burning eyes for a moment, turning the rune stone in his pocket over and over.
“Odin, please hear me,” Rolf prayed softly. Ketil was likely to mock him. However, prayer was a part of Rolf’s methodology, and Ketil should know that it worked.
“If it is your will I should find the Nytteson, please send me aid.”
A few moments passed.
Ketil chuckled in a mean way. “Odin, hear me, too! Send me a beer. I pray thee.”
Suddenly Rolf felt warmth in his chest, a blossoming of warmth, like hot water poured into a cold bath.
He shot out his hand and touched Ketil’s retreating back.
“They’re here. Look closely. They’re here! I know it.”
* * *
THE FOREIGNER SHOUTED something at Knut in some choppy, Slavic language. He was a hairy man with a face like a boiled ham, and he carried a canvas rucksack.
Knut had done something—maybe stepped on the man’s foot. Now he was threatening Knut with a dull knife.
Hanne felt her Nytte gathering, readying itself in case the man turned violent. Her heart began to pound loudly.
“Sorry! Sorry!” Stieg said in English. He had one hand out to the man, and another holding Hanne’s shoulder, trying to steady her. “We apologize. No harm meant.”
Hanne forced herself to breathe. The man suddenly became aware of her and shot her a mean look. Her body jumped toward him, and Stieg hauled her back.
The man retreated into the crowd, grumbling.
Stieg pulled Hanne close, and they resumed their place in the ticket line for the Northern Pacific Railroad. Hanne was trembling, but breath by breath, she got her pulse back to normal.
They did not notice two tall men get in line, three parties behind them.
Finally it was their turn.
Stieg counted out the fare in kroner. They still had an enormous sum left from exchanging the first gold coin. Hanne had sewn the other two coins into the lining of his underdrawers. No one would be pickpocketing him. Stieg bought four cross-country tickets to Helena, Montana. From there, they would hire a coach to take them to Wolf Creek.
The girl at the ticket booth spoke Norwegian with a heavy Bergen accent. There were ticket sellers of many different nationalities: Norwegian, Finnish, Swedish, German, Russian, on and on. The Norwegian ticket girl wore a flouncy white shirt, and her hair was pulled into a bun, with a great mass of hair in front, her poufy hairdo wilted. She seemed bored by her job, though to Hanne it seemed a glamorous post.
She advised them to change the rest of their kroner for dollars at the bank in the rotunda before setting out into Manhattan for the train station. Grand Central.
This seemed like a good idea. Stieg had nearly three thousand Norwegian kroner left from when he had sold the first gold coin in Bergen. They meant more than three hundred and fifty of the lovely green American bills, with their red stamps and their angels.
Stieg liked to joke that, at the very least, Hanne’s abilities would keep them from getting robbed. There was no way anyone could sneak up on him with malicious motives and escape her notice.
Hanne found little to joke about in regards to her Nytte.
* * *
WHEN ROLF AND KETIL got to the head of the line and set their leather valises down, the ticket girl looked tired, but perked up when Ketil winked at her. Rolf knew that he would work her beautifully. She was just the type who flowered under his attentions—plain and bored.
“Destination, please,” she said in Norwegian.
“I don’t know,” Ketil asked, leaning against the booth. “You tell me, where should we go?”
She huffed and looked up at him, a small smile forming on her lips as he held her gaze.
“You tell me,” she responded. “You’re the one paying.”
“Well, where did the last ones go?” Ketil said, thumbing toward a short, old couple who’d just been to the counter. “Mr. and Mrs. Oldy Pants.”
The girl giggled. “They’re going to Dakota Territory, to homestead, most likely.”
“I don’t want to go there, do you?” Ketil asked.
The girl shook her head coyly.
She pointed at two young women, traveling alone.
“See those two? They’re off to be housemaids in Minneapolis.”
“Pah. No. I don’t fancy Minnie-map-opops for us. What about that great big oaf? That young fellow with all the muscles? Let’s go where he’s going and hire him to carry our bags.”
“Montana?” the girl said.
“Montana! Just where I want to go. What city?”
“Helena. And that’s just about the end of the line.”
“Two tickets to Helena, then,” Ketil said.
The girl smiled.
“I can’t really go, you know.”
“I know. I’ll have to take my friend here.”
He nodded toward Rolf.
The girl’s smile extended to Rolf for a moment.
“Where do you really want to go?” she said back to Ketil.
“Helena, Montana, please.”
Her smile faltered.
“You really mean to go there on a whim?”
“Why not?”
She didn’t move, processing this.
“We’ll take the tickets, please,” Rolf said, his eyes tracking the retreating backs of the Nytteson. “And quickly now.”
Rolf counted out four American ten-dollar bills on the counter and six singles.
The girl still didn’t move.
“Come, dear, we don’t want the train to leave without us,” Ketil said.
He tapped his knuckles on the wooden booth. The girl jumped into action and issued them their tickets, her lips pursed in puzzlement. She’d been tricked, but wasn’t quite sure how.
“I still don’t understand why you want to follow them,” Ketil said under his breath, as they trailed Amund’s children out of the depot. “Why take the risk of losing them on the long ride to Montana? Why not approach them now?”
“Because they are going to family,” Rolf said. He put up a hand to silence Ketil’s protest. “Which possibly means more Nytteson. It’s worth the risk.”
“It will be easy to lose them.”
“There could be a whole hoard of Nytteson in America,” Rolf said. “Who knows—there might be a Ransacker or a Shield-Skinned.”
Ketil shot Rolf a measured glance.
“I suppose it’s worth taking a chance,” he conceded.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Hanne did not like the motion of the train; the continuo
us lurching felt dangerous. But it had been five wearing days of train travel, and her body had become accustomed to it. When the train stopped to take on passengers or let them off, she felt unsettled by the stillness, as if her bones had wished to keep rocking.
This was the third train they’d ridden. New York to Chicago. Chicago to St. Paul. And now this train, which would deposit them in Helena later in the day. From there, they would hire a coach, if such a thing could be done, or purchase horses, to cross the land to Wolf Creek.
The first day of train travel had felt restful, after the grimy chaos of New York City. The population of the bustling eastern American cities reminded her of a patchwork quilt. Never had Hanne imagined there were so many variations on the human form. But her fascination was dampened by her constant, nagging fear.
Now, five days later, the anxiety was a dull throb. Hanne’s body ached with so much sitting still. Her rear-quarters knew every lump in the flat leather upholstery. It seemed as if she and her siblings would never have a place to put their belongings and rest.
Hanne had watched the Great Plains whir by. Empty. Golden. Nothing to see for miles in every direction but the waving autumn prairie grasses. The “Great American Desert” they had heard so much about was so unceasingly flat, it evoked astonishment, then a pronounced, mesmerizing boredom.
Once they had neared Billings, Montana, there were finally some landmarks to be seen. There were rocky hills and shrubs and actual trees. Snow lay on the caps of Montana’s high, distant mountains. It showed through bare patches between the stands of pine trees and blanketed the meadows at the base of the mountains.
Hanne saw a vast herd of cattle, spread over a mountain pass like a wide, black shadow. But when she turned to show her sister, she found Sissel napping.
The other travelers in the train car busied themselves looking out the window or reading. There was a tense-looking woman traveling with three small children. Knut had played a lengthy game of peekaboo over the seat back. A handsome young man read aloud to his mother at the back of the car. Hanne blushed when she thought of how dirty her face and hair must be. But there was nothing to be done about that until they arrived in Helena.
Berserker Series, Book 1 Page 8
