Anna Hansdatter: Hunger In the Dale

Chapter 2

As spring awakened the farms of Froen, Mari regained her strength, but there were troublesome gaps in both her physical and mental functions. The loss of blood during childbirth had taken a toll on her brain. Her bond with her sons was quickly reawakened, and she nursed her daughter with great pleasure. When the three children were with her, she was at peace; her eyes shone with love, penetrating the frequent clouds of confusion. But she had forgotten every task of daily life. Berit stayed on, patiently teaching her old teacher, beginning with how to get out of bed and walk, then to dress and groom herself, and to care for the children. Mari was earnestly determined, but nothing came easily.

Her left arm and leg resisted all her efforts to control them. While both hands and all her fingers functioned well, when she willed the left arm to move, it either hung limp at her side, or jerked in an unintended direction. Her left leg would hold her weight well enough, but was more like a wooden post than a working limb. It took days of practice and experimentation, but eventually she learned to use her body to swing the leg forward for each step. Her gait was awkward and lopsided, but she could walk at almost a normal pace, even while carrying her baby or an armload of firewood.

Methodically, they moved on to household chores like laundry, tending the fire, and preparing meals. Each task seemed foreign and strange at first. Mari was sometimes frustrated with herself for her ignorance of the basic chores of living, and other times awe-struck at the novelty and freshness of each one. She was curious and eager to master what seemed to come so naturally for her younger friend.

It was words that gave Mari the greatest grief. While her understanding of what others said to her improved gradually, her command of words to express her own thoughts failed her again and again. Sometimes the frustration was overwhelming. In the midst of a jovial (if somewhat one-sided) conversation, tears would suddenly flow from her eyes. Against all odds, Mari persevered. By potato-planting time, she was managing her house with very little assistance from Berit.

Each of the boys had his own way of dealing with the changes. Poul fancied himself the man of the house, taking charge of small details like bringing in firewood or filling the teakettle with water. Taking his cue from Berit, he helped his mother remember the names of familiar objects, and reminded her when it was time for certain chores. From her eyes and her posture, he knew what she wanted from him, even before she gestured with her hand, or stammered out a few monosyllables; and he always obeyed. He became serious and conscientious far beyond his six years, and never, ever, cried.

Nels, on the other hand, was by turns clinging, then aloof, then weepy; chattering incessantly at one moment, then silent and sullen for hours on end. During the silent times, he did not like being touched, not even by his mother. But when things seemed the very worst, when he would not make eye contact with Berit or even with Poul, Nels and his mother would look into each other’s eyes. Mari would smile gently; Nels would smile back, and relax a little. The others could tell that something much more, much better than words had passed between them.

= = =

Ivar Hundorp had to buy seed potatoes from Ringebu. It galled him immensely, but forcing his peasants to plant from their own stocks would have meant unplanted fields, widespread starvation before the harvest was ready, or both. The landlord kept the tubers in his barn until they were very soft and shriveled, to lessen the chance of the tenants eating instead of planting them.

On a fine spring day, a wagon went round to distribute the seed potatoes. It drove along the far side of the fields, as far from the huts as possible. As it went, a small, carefully measured pile of the precious seed was placed near each field. As soon as the wagon pulled away, a peasant family set to work.

They used the growing method called ‘lazy bed.’ Using a simple spade, they first marked long parallel lines in the soil about four feet apart throughout the entire plot. In between the lines, they piled a mixture of manure and crushed limestone, then turned over the surrounding sod onto this, leaving the grass turned upside down. Seed potatoes were inserted between the overturned grass and the layer of fertilizer then buried with dirt dug up along the marked lines. The potato bed was thus raised off the surrounding ground, with good drainage provided via the newly dug parallel trenches. In this way, a modest amount of labor, on as little as one acre of land, could produce enough potatoes to feed an entire family; on two acres, a goat or a cow as well, even after the landlord exacted his share for rent.

When the wagon came to Mari’s field, which was as well-prepared as the others, it passed by without stopping. Berit shouted at the driver, and ran after him, with Mari following as quickly as she could. But when they reached the far side of the field, two men on horseback approached. In the lead was the tutor to the Hundorp children, the only person on the farm who could write. Behind him was the parish constable. On either side of the constable’s horse strode an enormous gray wolfhound. The dogs were well-disciplined, but surly and suspicious. The men stopped a few yards away.

The tutor took a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and held it out toward Berit, who approached the mounted men cautiously, but did not extend her hand for the paper. “What is it?” she asked.

“Your eviction,” he said. “Seven days. The four of you.”

“There are five, as you well know,” said Berit.

“The brat is still alive? The five of you then.” He made a mark on the paper. “Do you want me to read it to you?”

“No.”

The sheriff spoke up. “Technically, midwife, you have no right here anyway. I’ll be back in seven days. If any of you are still here, Olav and Gunnar will be with me to encourage you to go.” Hearing their names, the dogs squinted at the women and growled softly.

Berit drew in her breath and searched for words. Then Mari found three of her own. She looked at the men’s eyes. “We … w … will … go,” she said clearly.

The tutor still held out the document, but his hand was trembling under Mari’s gaze. “Take it,” he said to Berit.

“No,” said Berit. Her hands were steady. The dogs growled again.

The tutor dropped the paper in the grass, perhaps intentionally, perhaps by accident. His hand was shaking harder now. Without another word, the men wheeled their mounts around and rode away, with the dogs trotting behind.

Berit turned and stared at the older woman. “Mari, why did you say that? How could you say that? You’ve hardly said three words all day! This cannot happen, they cannot evict you now.”

Mari was silent for a moment. Tears rose in her eyes as she struggled for the words, “Th … they … c … can.”

“No!” insisted Berit. “This is a Christian land, and even Ivar Hundorp is a Christian man. He cannot do this evil thing. Tomorrow I will speak to the priest.”

But Mari could only mouth the word, “priest.” She did not speak again that day.

Poul and Nels had been playing nearby, unseen, when the men approached. Carefully hiding themselves, they observed the whole scene from a distance. They could not hear what was said, but knew it could only be something very, very bad. When the men rode away, the boys raced to the women. “Mother, what did they want?” cried Poul.

Now Berit’s eyes filled with tears. “We have to leave here,” she said.

The boys blinked. Poul, echoing the words his mother had spoken to him just months earlier, said, “It will be all right, Mother. At least we have each other.” Mari smiled through her tears and nodded. She took his hand and they started toward the hut.

Berit reached out her hand to Nels, who took it and followed, frightened, bewildered, and speechless.

Berit washed her frock carefully that night, and hung it by the hearth to dry. “Mari,” she said, “will you come to the priest with me?” Mari shook her head. “Please, dear Mari? When he sees, you, he … I mean, you communicate with the boys and me so well without speaking …” Mari shook her head again, and that was the end of it.

= = =

On Thursdays, the priest held mass at the tiny Sødorp church almost six miles away. Berit arose very early and walked to Sødorp in a drizzling rain. After mass, she approached the priest as he unhitched his horse and buggy.

“Father Magnussen,” she said, “I must speak with you!”

“About Mari Nelsdatter?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Get in,” he said. “I’ll give you a lift back as far as Skurdal.”

“Please, Father, can we … no, I mean yes, all right, thank you.” Before it even started, the conversation was not going well.

The priest climbed into the buggy, and helped Berit into the seat beside him. They drove away slowly. Berit took a deep breath, turned to face him, and began, “Father, Mari Nelsdatter and her family …”

The priest cut her off with a gesture of his hand. As he spoke, he kept his eyes on the road ahead. “Dear Berit Simonsdatter, I know all about Mari. I have discussed her case with the bishop and with the doctor in Tretten. We all agree that she belongs under the care of the nuns at the hospital in Oslo. Theirs is the best facility for such people.”

Such people! Berit thought to herself. As opposed to …? Checking herself, she said instead, “Father, No! What about her children?”

“There is a facility for them as well,” said the priest, and continued, “It is the best for everyone.”

This time, Berit forgot to think first, blurting out, “Shouldn’t you ask Mari what is ‘best for everyone?’”

The priest finally glanced her way. “Mind your tongue, young woman. Remember who you are speaking to.”

“I’m sorry, Father.”

His eyes had returned to the road. “I have no intention of asking Mari. She obviously cannot speak for herself. I speak to her every Sunday after mass, and she only stares at me and stammers.”

“She smiles at you and tries to greet you.”

“Rubbish! Berit Simonsdatter, I can see you are not to be reasoned with. At this point, the church cannot act by force. We would need an order signed by the Diocesan magistrate. But I assure you, once the family is driven from Hundorp, that will be a simple matter. If she comes to us now, on her own, it will go much easier for them. Please bring her to me.”

“You will allow them to be driven away?”

“Ivar Hundorp has the legal right.”

“And what of the right before God?”

“I told you, mind your tongue!”

“I’m sorry, Father.”

The priest stopped the buggy. His tone softened as he faced Berit squarely for the first time. “My dear Berit, don’t you see that our solution is for the best?”

“The Devil!” shouted Berit. Before he could lift a hand to slap her, she leapt to the ground and ran away at top speed. The priest sniffed, thinking he had just been cursed out by the uppity young midwife. She would pay for such an affront, he thought. Berit ran and ran, half out of revulsion, and half from fright. She had not uttered a curse; but rather, an involuntary cry of recognition. She was only talking to a bitter old priest, but for a moment she had seen the face of Satan himself.

= = =

For two days, Berit trudged from farm to farm, seeking a home for the family. Never to the farmer’s house, for she knew it would be futile. Mari Nelsdatter would surely never be a midwife again, and no farmer in the valley would take on an ordinary widow with three children, herself a half-crippled mute on top of it. Who knew how long she could even last, and then, responsibility for three orphans…

Instead, Berit visited the peasants’ huts. The midwife’s, if there was one, or one of the elder women, to make discreet inquiries. These all knew and trusted Berit, and practically worshiped Mari. But everywhere, the answer was the same: Much weeping, wringing of hands, and fervent prayers; only these were offered. Food was scarce, and the master was in a foul temper. He’s sold off half his horses, or he’s let his south fields lie fallow, or planted oats, the lowliest of grains; poor-yielding but dependable. Everywhere was fear of the potato blight’s return.

(Indeed, all of the farmers were in some level of crisis, and many were in desperate straits. In the few short decades since their introduction to central Norway, potatoes had become the crop of choice. Even partial failure of a single year’s crop not only put hundreds at risk of starvation, but could bring a landlord face to face with bankruptcy. Around 1790, military expenses forced the Danish Crown to sell off large tracts of its land in Norway. Although a little of this land – mainly the poorest of it – went to the most prosperous of the peasant farmers, most of it was snatched up by existing resident landowners, often taking out substantial mortgages to finance their expansion. And the viability of those mortgages depended in large part on the potato.)

Rumors and gossip swirled through the farms like fire-cyclones, and Berit heard them all, or nearly all, in those two days. And it was no rumor, she saw it for herself, that the Fosse and Olstad farms had closed, and all their livestock, equipment, even the owner’s furniture, were auctioned off. Olstad was totally abandoned, but four huts were still occupied at Fosse. The peasants had planted the last of their potatoes, and would depend for the coming months on wild foods, and the milk of three goats and one skinny old cow they had hidden when the auction was held. They planned to slaughter the cow as soon as she dried up. This would sustain the four families until the potato harvest. If there was a harvest, and if the new landlord, whoever he was, did not drive them away, they would survive.

On the morning of the third day, at the Erlandsrud farm, old Goro Pedersdatter smiled at Berit and said, “Your cousin Johan Olsen Flaate was here last evening. He says there is room with him and his family for Mari and the children.”

My cousin? Berit thought. She knew no Johan Olsen. But the place, she knew that name. Her heart sank. “Flaate!” she said, “That’s nothing but a hermit’s cave in the rocks!”

“Oh, no, dear. When old Knut Flaate died, he left the place to his nephew, Ole. Ole had always wondered how the old man survived there.” (In fact, Knut had not just survived, but stayed ruddy-faced and muscular, well into old age.) “Well, when Ole went exploring the old man’s place, he discovered a hidden meadow, high above Knut’s cabin, where he had grown barley, and later, potatoes. Not only that, but in the cave he found a document that turned out to be the legal deed for the entire ridge, including the cave and the meadow. Ole’s son Johan lives there too, with a little family of his own.”

Berit’s head was spinning. First, why didn’t she know Johan Olsen, if he was her cousin? Then she remembered the relationship at least. Some relatives had mentioned to her once or twice, almost casually, that the mute hermit Knut Flaate was her grandfather’s half-brother. She never believed them, until now.

Goro Pedersdatter continued, “They all moved there about two years ago, from Gausdal parish. They keep pretty much to themselves, don’t even go to church.” She frowned a bit. “Of course, it is a long way down from there, and a pretty bad trail,” she conceded.

“But he must come down to trade and get supplies, at least,” said Berit.

“Only at night, dear. His face … well, most people are offended by it. Johan was badly burned in a house fire before they came here. He doesn’t come out much. But he is a kind and gentle man. He will help you.”

“But a meadow high on the ridge! How can they grow crops there?”

“No one knows how. Only a few people have ever seen the place. But by all accounts, the family always has enough to eat, and warm clothes, and shoes to wear.”

Berit had heard enough. From the old woman’s hut, she hiked directly up the steep trail to Flaate, without knowing how or if she could find the meadow. The walk to the hermit’s cave took her over two hours. It was more than just a cave, really; old Knut had built a crude, loose-stone hut at the cave’s mouth, with even a chimney of sorts. But it was now abandoned. The chimney had collapsed, as had part of one wall. As Berit gazed on the ruined cabin, a man’s voice came from the dark within, “Berit Simonsdatter?”

Berit gasped. “Ja?”

“I am Johan Olsen.” He spoke with a lisp, but she could understand well enough.

“Come out so I can see you.”

“I cannot.”

“Then may I come in?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You know why,” said the voice.

“Johan Olsen, why did you come to Erlandsrud yesterday?” asked Berit.

“I want to help you.”

“Me? I am something like your second half-cousin, if there is even such a thing. I didn’t know you existed. Why do you want to help me?”

“I mean, I want to help Mari Nelsdatter.”

“You know her?”

“Yes … Well, kind of.”

“You must come out and look at me. I will not be frightened by your face.”

“No. You must not see me today. When you come with her, you will see me.”

“I will not bring Mari to a place I have never been, to meet a man I have never seen.”

“If you see me now, you will not come again.”

“I am not so easily frightened, Johan Olsen. If I can look in your eyes and see that you are honest, you may take me to your farm so I can see it.”

“I can tell you how to find the farm.”

“No.”

There was a pause, then the voice said, “All right, I will come out. Turn around until I say you can look.”

Berit turned her back the cabin. She heard his footsteps emerge. “Now,” he said.

Berit faced the cave again, and looked at her cousin, the stranger. She couldn’t see much. He was a tall man, with broad shoulders. A large cap covered his ears, and was pulled low above his eyes, and a kerchief covered his nose and mouth. The sun shone on the back of his neck, which was devoid of hair and deeply scarred. His eyes, although not covered, were shaded. “I must see your eyes,” she said.

“Come closer.”

Berit advanced to about ten feet away. She could see into his eyes now. Even though the lids were red and pocked, and there were no lashes or eyebrows, the ice-blue eyes somehow looked not only honest, but kind and gentle, just as old Goro had said. After a moment, Berit smiled and nodded.

“Follow me,” said Johan Olsen.

They walked at a good pace for another half-hour. Berit noticed, though, that they were traveling downhill as much as up. Finally, they reached the top of a sharp ridge, where snowdrifts still filled the crannies and hollows. On the other side, far below them, was Flaate farm. It was small, maybe four or five acres of tillable land. But every acre was neatly tended; there was grain growing on one part of it, and on the rest, rich black soil was raked smooth and even. Two strapping boys labored there. Above the fields, on the south-facing slope, a few goats browsed on tender sprouts of grass. In one corner, neatly tucked into the hillside, was a house of logs and mud, with a roof of split cedar shingles. Like the fields, the house was also small, compared to those of other landowning farmers, but still two or three times larger than the sod huts of the peasants below. And it was made of wood. From the chimney rose a bit of white smoke.

“How can you grow crops here?” asked Berit.

“All in due time,” said Johan, and led the way down to the farm.

Berit met Johan’s wife, Kari, and his father, Ole. They were soft-spoken, a little shy, but gracious and welcoming. Their speech was simple, their vocabulary that of the peasants (except lacking in profanity), but they spoke with a dignity and serenity that was not familiar to Berit, neither from the peasants, the tradesmen, nor the gentry.

When the two boys, both approaching their teen years, came in from the field, Berit shared with the family their dinner of warm barley bread, goat cheese, and tea.

Before the meal, the family said a blessing and sang a psalm. Berit recognized both texts from church and from her own family; but there, they were intoned with little vigor or conviction. Here, Berit was amazed at how earnestly they all prayed, and how joyfully they sang, even the boys. Johan closed his eyes, but did not join in the recitations.

As they ate, several chickens scratched and pecked their way in and out of the house. They reminded Berit of Mari’s chickens, the last of which had been eaten months earlier. A few minutes into the meal, Berit noticed that Johan Olsen was not eating. In fact, he was still wearing the kerchief and cap. “You will not eat?” she asked him.

“Not now,” he said.

Kari smiled at her husband, then turned to Berit and changed the subject, “I’m sorry this is all we have today. We didn’t know you were coming.”

“Not at all,” Berit said. She mused to herself that cheese and bread amounted to nearly a feast in Mari’s home.

In the little house, Ole had a straw bed in a small corner separated by a hanging blanket from the rest. The two boys shared another corner, while their parents had a bed near the table. “I’m afraid Mari and the children will have to sleep here on the floor for the time being,” said Johan, gesturing toward the stove. “We have plenty of straw, so they should be comfortable enough.”

“Yes,” Berit said, “I think so.”

“I think we can build them a house of their own before winter.”

“God willing,” Kari said.

“God willing,” repeated Berit, and thought of her encounter with the priest.

Berit hurried back to Hundorp to tell Mari the good news. When she arrived at Mari’s hut, a savory smell of victuals was in the air. She looked at the hearth and saw only the usual fare of wild greens and potatoes. But the aroma!

Mari read her friend’s eyes and said, “G … gar …”

Berit’s eyes grew wide. “Garlic? Where…”

“H .. he …” she continued.

“Helena?” said Berit. “How nice of her.”

Mari held up her hand and moved to the table. There, she uncovered a single piece of bacon, almost as big as her hand, ready to begin cooking.

“Bacon!” Berit’s mouth fell open. She was struck by their good fortune, and the sacrifice this must have meant for the potter’s wife.

The women embraced. Berit said, “Oh Mari, dear Mari, God has smiled on us this day.” She began her tale of the meeting with Goro Pedersdatter, and the journey to Flaate, about Johan Olsen, and the incredible little farm over the ridge.

Mari searched her friend’s eyes as she spoke. Her description of the farm and its people was enthusiastic, but sketchy. She had only spent an hour there, and Mari thought of a hundred questions that, even if she were able to ask, Berit could not answer after such a brief visit. It was Berit’s eyes that gave the older woman the confidence she needed. At length she smiled and nodded. “We … g … go.”

When the boys came in, Berit told them to sit down, and said, “Poul, Nels, tomorrow we are going to Flaate.”

“Flaate? To the sea?” asked Poul excitedly. He had never heard of the hermit nor the cave, let alone the secret farm; but from stories and nursery rhymes, he knew the word, Flaate. It English it means “navy,” or “fleet.”

Berit herself puzzled over why a place so far from the sea had such a name. But she chuckled and replied, “No, no, it’s a farm near here where we are going to live.” She used the first person, although she knew she would not be staying there with them.

Poul began chanting an old nursery rhyme. “I am a young sailor, and I sail the sea, I’ll soon be a captain in the King’s navy (flaate).” Mari’s expression changed. Her eyes grew intense and she struggled to make a sound. No sound came. But her lips seemed to be trying to follow the words of the ditty.

Nels’ eyes met those of his mother. He did not know this song well, but he joined in anyway, repeating over and over in a sing-song fashion, “King’s navy, King’s navy …”

= = =

Late that night, Berit recounted to Mari her one and only meeting with Knut Flaate. Some of the details were a little unclear; some seemed almost dream-like to her now. Berit was nine or ten years old at the time. Very few facts and a great deal of fiction circulated in south Froen regarding the mysterious figure. The more mundane accounts were simply, “He’s a retard,” “Off in the head,” “If he had a brain, he’d be dangerous.” A few of the more colorful were that Knut was a descendant of: 1) Olav IV Haakonsen, last of the Norwegian-born kings (1380-1387); 2) Leif Eriksen; 3) The half-troll son of Peer Gynt.

The third legend addressed Knut’s silence, by adding that the descendants of Peer and the troll-princess would be forever so cursed. But Knut Flaate was anything but troll-like in appearance, hence the first two tellings. He stood well over six feet, with great muscular arms and powerful legs. On his rare visits to the farms, he tucked his red beard and hair under his cloak as best he could, but it only called attention to their underlying wildness, and made the man look even larger. Without a sound, only hand gestures and scowling eyes, he bargained with the farmer for a hundred pounds or more of supplies, negotiated the price of each item, and when the lot was complete, paid the farmer with silver coins. He always had exactly enough coins in his purse; no more, no less. He packed the supplies into a huge bag, hoisted it to his back, and strode, or skied, away up the fjord, not to be seen again in the valley for two years or longer.

Berit had never laid eyes on the hermit; she had only heard these things and more, when one day she and three friends from Erlandsrud taunted and dared each other until they all vowed to pay a visit to Flaate together. The other three were boys; two of them were older than Berit. They teased her, betting on how soon she would lose her courage and turn around. On the way up the trail into the forbidden fjord, the bantering became less and less boisterous. As they approached the hermit’s dwelling, all their words failed, giving way to only an occasional titter. They stared at the cabin, and into the darkness beyond the small door.

Suddenly, Knut Flaate burst through the opening. He emerged in an instant and raised himself to his full height, staring at them. His enormous boots were tied with rawhide laces. His clothes, although tailor-made, were threadbare and patched. The jacket had a military look, but bore no insignias. The backs of the hermit’s hands and fingers were covered with thick red hair. As if not to be outdone, his beard reached to his waist and was almost as massive as his torso. His long hair flew in all directions, as if the mountain breezes radiated from that very spot. And his steel-blue eyes were fixed, unblinking, on the four children.

In an instant, the three boys turned on their heels and ran down the hill, shrieking, but Berit’s feet were frozen to the ground. At first she was paralyzed by fear, to be sure. After a moment, though, her vision changed, even though the hermit’s expression did not. As she looked deeper into his eyes, she saw not anger, but great sorrow. As he stood there in the sun, he looked more like a god than a man. Not a wrathful, punishing god, but a god about to weep for the suffering of His creation. Berit no longer felt afraid, even though she wondered if she was looking at the Lord Jehovah himself.

The big man’s expression still did not change, as he waved the girl away with a gesture of his hand. Berit scrambled down the trail after the boys.

“Those boys never spoke of Knut Flaate again,” concluded Berit. But that night, Mari dreamed of him, and his silence.