West of the Moon (24 page)

East of the Sun, West of the Moon

n the story of the girl and her prince, after the girl had gained entry into the castle, and the prince had finally overcome the sleeping potion that had been given him, and after the troll hag had tried and failed to wash the tallow out of his shirt and had flown into such a rage that she burst, the prince and the girl (now his bride) took as much gold and silver as they could carry and moved far away from the castle that lay east of the sun and west of the moon. And that was the end of their story.

My story has not come to an end at all, but a sort of beginning. This is my story now, to make of it what I will.

Here I sit with Bjørn, learning to read, and that's a beginning of sorts. He has a book we're studying from, and I've brought along Papa's book. Someday, when I learn enough, I want to read it myself. Meanwhile, it sits on my lap, unopened.

It's hard to concentrate on the page when everyone says that we might get our first glimpse of America any moment—if the fog would lift, that is. Anyway, this reading business is going slowly. Just like the parson's wife, Bjørn says he thinks
I need spectacles, because of how close I hold the book to my eyes.

But we are working at it when here comes the captain, shouting, “Get the speaking-trumpet! Light the turpentine torch!”

Bjørn and I lift our heads to see that the fog has become so thick that you can't see from here to the other end of the
Columbus
. We've also become aware, as have the other passengers, all tense and silent, of a deep rumbling sound.

“What is it?” someone asks.

“A steamer,” the captain answers darkly. “Where's that fiddler?” he shouts. “Roust him out!”

The mate shouts into the speaking-trumpet, the torch is lit, and soon the fiddle starts to sing, slicing the fog like a sheep shears through wool.

There's the ringing of a bell, a signal from the steamer. But the rumble comes nearer. Still, we see nothing—the fog takes care of that.

The fiddle's music calls plaintively out over the water. “We are here,” it seems to sing, over and over. “Here we are.”

Now the rumble is beside us.

There's a collective gasp that turns to a sigh as the fog seems to take the form of a ship, then passes by. It takes but a heartbeat for the ship to pass us, and everyone breathes again.

A
fter a time the sun breaks through the fog bank, as if the music cut a hole for it. Bjørn and I set aside the book to watch how the sun dots the ocean with bright patches of light, making brilliant stepping stones leading all the way to America, maybe.

Excited shouting makes us follow the crowd's pointing fingers off toward the horizon.

“Do you see it?” Bjørn says. He turns to me. “Can you see? It's land!” He jumps up to join the others at the rail. “America!” he cries.

It's too far away for me to see—perhaps the parson's wife is right about spectacles—but I don't need to see it. I can picture it, like the castle that lies east of the sun and west of the moon, all aglitter with possibility.

I listen to the
Columbus
plowing its way through the water, and let the wind pour over me and past me. The ship moves steadily west, and I feel myself moving steadily forward, toward something, although I don't know what it will be.

I don't suppose it will all be golden stepping stones. There is, after all, Death to dodge. I can't imagine it will be easy to avoid speaking the Lord's Prayer while living in a parson's home, but I've done other hard things in my life. And then there's the Black Book I'm bringing—into a parsonage! Well, I can't say how that will be.

I have many more questions than answers, which Mor has
said is the way of life. Will I find Papa? Or will Death catch up to me first? Will I ever see Spinning Girl, my own dear sister, again? This key around my neck—what is it for? What will Papa's book say? And will I,
can
I, ever be a good person?

I am wondering all this when who should come and stand over me but Grace.

“You're not over there”—she gestures behind her at the crowd gathered at the rail—“looking at America.”

“I can't see it.” I point to my eyes. “I've been told my eyes are bad.”

“I don't want to see it,” she says. “I never wanted to go there.” She pulls the hairbrush from her pocket and shakes it at me. “By the way, I've never gotten a single coin from this worthless thing.”

“I'm sorry,” I tell her. And I mean it.

She sits down next to me. “You know,” she says, laughing, “this silly hairbrush is the only thing that kept me from tearing my hair out by the fistful. I was so angry with Papa for taking us away from home. I didn't want to go. Oh, I really did not. I was angry with him. Angry at everyone! The only thing that kept me from throwing myself into the sea was trying to get gold to fall from my hair!”

This makes me laugh. “It's very pretty,” I tell her, and then surprise myself by saying, “Let me braid it for you.”

So we sit in the fading light, and I take her hair in my hand
and begin to braid, in the way I remember Spinning Girl braiding mine.

“You must be happy to be almost to America,” she says to me.

“Yes, I suppose I should be,” I answer.

After I have made one long braid, I wind it around on top of Grace's head like a crown, pinning it with her hairpins. “Why didn't you want to go to America?” I ask her.

“Why, because of my friends! I had to leave them all behind!”

“Maybe you can make new ones,” I tell her, “though I am hardly qualified to give advice on the matter.”

“Perhaps you and I could be friends,” she says.

I can only nod, for suddenly my eyes are full of tears. A symptom of my bad eyes, must be. I wipe them dry and look out at the sea.

At that moment, sea and sky go dark and seem to disappear altogether. Then, as if by magic, they are rekindled, this time with a pale gleam—not like daylight, yet not dark night either. It's the moon, rising up full behind us, casting a blue glow over all the world as we sail toward the last of the sun.

Though I don't know everything about my past, nor do I know what the future will bring, right now I know I'm just where I belong: sailing on a perfect ocean of light, east of the sun and west of the moon.

Author's Note

I went back downstairs again, bringing with me a pretty farmer girl, Margit, whom Herman and I had thought about taking as our maid … I said that I knew she was alone and that she did not have anyone to support her, and if I could do her a favor by engaging her, then I would do it.

—from
Linka's Diary

T
he idea for this story came from those few lines in my great-great-grandmother's diary. Linka Preus was a young wife when she and her husband, Herman, a Lutheran pastor, sailed from Norway to America on the
Columbus
in 1851. But who was this pretty farmer girl? And why was she traveling alone with no prospects in America? These were questions that intrigued me but for which I could find no historical answers. So I invented her story.

Although Astri's story is fictional, the circumstances of the story are based on historical reality.

“America fever” was spreading in Norway, largely because of the lack of opportunities for an increasing population. Supporting large families on farms with poor, rocky soil and a short growing season was challenging. Sometimes girls, by
age fifteen considered adults, went or were sent away to other farms to work as dairymaids.

Vaccines for smallpox and other deadly scourges had been introduced (which contributed to the increase in population), but many illnesses remained poorly understood or not understood at all. Among them are some that play roles in this story.

RICKETS

I
n nineteenth-century Norway, the childhood illness of rickets was common but misunderstood. Babies born healthy would gradually sicken, developing enlarged heads, black teeth, and jelly-soft bones. Unable to crawl or walk or sometimes even roll over, they wailed in misery. If left untreated, the bowed legs, curved backs, and skeletal deformities endured by rickets sufferers could persist into adulthood.

Since there was no explanation or cure for the ailment, it was not unusual for distraught parents to turn to magical means for help. Various ritual remedies were often tried, and sometimes the
huldrefolk
were blamed. An old persistent belief was that the hidden people (or trolls) stole healthy babies and replaced them with their own monstrous children. These exchanged babies were known as changelings, and various methods meant to entice the trolls to return the stolen baby might be taken, including
thrashings, burning, and threatening to leave the changeling on the trash heap. It was hoped the trolls would be so offended by this mistreatment that they would come to rescue their own child and return the human baby at the same time.

Now we understand that vitamin D is essential for normal childhood development and must be supplemented in children living in countries where so many months are spent without sunshine. In this story, Astri was probably saved by the doses of sunlight she was given, while her twin grew more and more sickly at home in the dark cottage.