West of the Moon (22 page)

“There's no sense to it, I don't suppose,” Death says, “but let's have another sip from that flask.”

She hands it back and says, “That's all you have to say—that there's no sense to it?”

“Perhaps you should climb back down the mountain to that other ledge where our Father in heaven was sitting and ask him,” Death suggests.

Astri cranes her neck to look over the ledge down the sheer cliff face. “I suppose he'll say the same thing our parson would say: ‘She's going to a better place. She's going to join her mama in heaven. A place without suffering. Without hardship. Without illness. Without
death
.'” Here Astri glances at Death, who's in the midst of another swig.

“That all sounds very nice,” Death says.

“Nice for her!” Astri cries. “What about
me?”
She squeezes her eyes shut for a long moment, realizing what she has just said. With her eyes closed, she senses a rocking motion. In her ears, the distant sound of voices, footsteps, the creaking of ship timbers, the clattering of tackle, wind.

“I have a bargain.” Astri opens her eyes and turns to Death, who is holding the flask to his lips. “Why don't you take me instead?”

“I'm trying to,” Death says, taking a long drink.

“So”—it begins to dawn on Astri—“that's what is happening? I am dying? Or am I already dead? Or am I dreaming?” It doesn't matter which it is, she thinks. She has to finish what she set out to do. “Listen,” Astri offers. “You can take me—I'll go willingly, straightaway—if you promise not to touch Greta.”

“It doesn't work like that,” Death says.

“Can I pay Greta's way out? I don't have any money, but I know where I can get a silver brooch.”

“No,” says Death. “I don't take bribes.”

“What about love? What if I just love her so much she cannot die?”

“Love is very powerful,” Death says.

“Yes …?”

“It can accomplish much,” he says.

“Go on,” Astri urges.

“But even love cannot stave off death. There is no way you can stop it if it's destined to happen. But I'll tell you what: Since you have
been so generous as to share your drink, I will give you a gift: If you go into a sick person's room, you will be able to see me. If I am sitting at the feet of the person, then that means that person can be saved—maybe with that water you have in this flask—but if I am sitting at that person's head, then neither medicine nor magic are of any use, for that person belongs to me.”

“So that's my gift?” Astri asks. “That I can see you? I can see Death? It seems a dubious talent.”

“Maybe so,” Death says. “But you never know what might come in handy in a tight spot. Just remember, no one has ever been able to change the outcome.”

Death tips the flask back as if to drain the last drop, and Astri snatches it away from him and flings herself on the rock wall and scrambles to the top.

At the top, she starts running, over mountain and moor, shoes tap-tapping along the rocky ground, whispering over moss, through snow, until a big wind picks her up and carries her through fall, then winter, then spring. Leaves fly past, then swirling snow, sunshine, and rain. Is it the wind or a cantering horse she rides, the silver buckles on its bridle jingling and its leather saddle creaking, and the wind pushing the pine boughs so they sound like the crashing of waves?

“Do you see something?” the wind asks.

“I see something a long, long way off,” Astri says. “It's sparkling and twinkling like a tiny star.”

They journey on, through many a land, through forest and field, and then the wind asks, “Do you see anything now?”

“Yes,” Astri says. “Now I see something a long way off, shining like the moon.”

“Look at me,” the moon says, and the wind canters on, silver buckles jingling, leather saddle creaking, and the pine boughs sounding like the crash of waves.

The moon prods and prods … “Open your eyes,” the moon says. “Look at me.”

I open my eyes.

M
or Kloster's face hovers above me, round and glowing as the moon.

“My girl!” she exclaims. “I thought we had lost you!”

“Where is Greta?” My eyes follow the old woman's to where Greta lies on the bunk next to me.

I raise myself up on one elbow to look at her. She is so still, so very still.

“Is she …?” I ask.

“She seems to be neither here nor there, but somewhere in between,” Mor Kloster says.

There are many people clustered around our bed: the stout farmer from whom we stole a ham; the fluttery woman who, it seemed, had more tinned partridge than she needed; the baker whose quantity of bread would surely have molded, had I not
reduced it; the mothers of children with whom Greta played; and the children themselves. And then I see the old fellow in the slouch hat: Death. He is sitting right next to Greta's head, and my heart grows cold.

Death is dozing and nodding his head. Perhaps all that drinking made him drowsy, I think, then remember that was in my dream. But so was Death in my dream, and here he is, sitting by Greta's head, half asleep.

Asleep!

When his chin next drops to his chest, I sit up and whisper to those present, “Spin her around! Turn her so her head faces the other direction!”

They look at Mor Kloster. “Why not?” she seems to say, with a shrug and a nod. The others lift Greta and turn her around in the bed so her head faces the other way. Mor hands me a cup of water, the same little cup that I carried from the barrel for her—it might be days ago by now, as far as I know—and I reach over and put it to Greta's lips.

No sooner have I done this than the old fellow wakes up and looks straight at me. Oh! He's angry when he sees what I have done. He stalks around to my side of the bunk and hisses into my ear. “Now you've cheated me!” he says. “And now I will have to take
you
!”

I thought I was ready for this. I thought I'd say, “That's all well and fine. I'm ready to go.” But it seems that now that I can
see Death, I can also see Life. I see it in all those faces around the bed. I hear it in the soft—sweet!—murmur of voices, in the water talking along the sides of the ship, in the thrum of life around me. I feel it in this close, warm space, filled with the smells of cooking grease and wet wool socks, a leaky herring cask, sour milk, and musty trunks. A lantern makes a warm yellow puddle of light nearby. It seems I can even see the golden thread that stitches us all together, making a kind of wreath that encircles us all. It's Life, and I don't want to leave it. Besides, who will look after Greta if not me? And furthermore, I don't want to go.

Still, “a bargain is a bargain,” I tell Death. “I'll go with you. But surely you'll let me say the Lord's Prayer first. Then, as soon as I'm finished, you can take me.”

He sighs and says, “All right. Get to it.”

I lie down, pull the covers up under my chin, fold my hands on my chest, and close my eyes. “Our Father,” I begin, but I don't finish. It seems I've fallen asleep.

Grace

hat brought her back to life?” I ask Mor Kloster. Greta is sitting up in bed, drinking broth. “Was it a spell you said? Something from the Black Book? Was it the water I gave her? The dream I had …
Was
it a dream?”

“Perhaps it was little bits of all those things,” Mor says. “Mostly, I think it was what it usually is in these cases: grace.”

“Grace?” I look down the length of the ship to where Grace is playing quietly with one of the babies.

Mor laughs. “No,” she says, “not Grace, may she someday grow into her name. I mean the grace of God. A gift, even though we may be undeserving.”

“Like a golden spinning wheel or a golden carding comb.”

Mor glances over at me. “That is one way of looking at it, I suppose,” she says.

I want to tell Mor about my dream, but as it's a dream, it's hard to explain. And I can only remember wisps of it. Wisps and shreds, like fog that swirls in and settles, then lifts. And then I remember about Soria Moria, and Mama taking us there.

“I dreamed of my sister,” I tell Mor. “I left her, too, just like
Mama did. How could my mother have left her behind like that? My twin! How could she?”

“She left the child for the trolls to take in exchange for her real daughter. But when she went back, the child was gone and no other to take her place!”

The goatman, I think. He found her and took her.

“I left her, too,” I tell Mor, “in Norway. I didn't know she was my sister!”

“In your life you will have many sisters,” Mor Kloster says, but before she can say anything else, the first mate comes clattering down the companionway stairs and stands in front of us. He has to hunch a little because he is so tall. It is clear from his face that he can't wait to get back above decks as soon as possible. But he takes off his cap and says, “It has recently been brought to our attention that there is a passenger who is aboard illegally.”

Everyone goes quiet. The passengers avert their eyes, stare at the floor, look anywhere but at Greta.

And sure enough, here comes Grace, pushing her way through the crowd. I expect to hear her crow and see her strut about, proud of herself, but she quietly tugs on the first mate's shirtsleeve until he looks down.

“The little girl I told you was a stowaway,” she says, “well … you see …”

Grace steps aside, and the blacksmith steps forward,
clears his throat, and finishes her sentence. “She's mine,” he says. “She's my daughter.”

Hands fly to hearts. The first mate looks around at the faces, squints one-eyed at the blacksmith, who stares back at him with a look that might have been forged in one of his hottest fires. The mate runs his fingers through his hair, puts his cap back on, and wordlessly retreats up the companionway stairs.

Then the blacksmith goes to the edge of the bed and takes Greta's tiny hand in his great big one. “I have room for you in my home”—his voice cracks a little as he says this, which sends the women nearby scrambling for their handkerchiefs—“and in my heart,” he finishes.

Now everyone is sniffling. Everyone except me. I feel like I have an iron plate in my back. Have I gone three days past the end of the world to save Greta only to lose her to the blacksmith? Oh, I realize he can give her a home, and what can I give her?

Nothing.

He says nothing to me.

I say nothing back.

Is life just a series of losing people? I wonder. First Mama, then Papa, then a sister I didn't know I had, and now Greta, my last and best treasure. It seems that instead of gathering my family together, I have lost them all, one by one.