Anna Hansdatter: Hunger In the Dale

Nels was stunned by the priest’s generosity. The lowliest lodgings at the praestegaard would be far better that whatever kind of dungeon the sheriff used to house prisoners. “I am very grateful, Pastor,” he said in a shaky voice.

“Not at all, Nels Poulsen. We are grateful to you for making our parish safe again. I am afraid our guest house will be needed soon, but we will make room for you in the men’s quarters.”

Nels was flattered and moved. “Thank you kindly, Pastor, but … but …” Tears came to his eyes, “I have killed a man!” With effort, he held himself from weeping. “I never killed anyone before.”

“I have already seen how much it grieves you. That is how I know you are an honest man. Rest assured, my son, defending your own life is no sin.”

For five days, Nels rested and groomed his horses, fretting about his prospects. The servants were hospitable, and more than a little in awe of him. The carpenter made him a walking cane from Nels’ description of the old one, and from his measurements. Nels thought it better than the one he had lost. The stable hands pampered the horses, and the servants’ food was even better than at Skurdal. The maidservants fussed over him, drawing scowls from the men.

All the while, the moment when he pulled the trigger and blood ran from that man’s mouth, replayed itself again and again. The bandit was quite young, probably younger than Nels. The nightmares were terrifying.

One night, the priest sent ale to accompany the servants’ supper. Nels drank his fill, but when the maids began to flirt, he excused himself with a hearty smile for the men-servants, and limped alone toward the sleeping-house. He did not want to go, to be alone and see that dying man over and over again in his mind. But he knew that to stay with the crowd would invite conflict and disruption of the delicate dynamics between the men- and maid-servants. To dally with one of these maids may yield a brief moment of pleasure, but it would also risk new violence, which to Nels would be worse than re-living the old.

He was not ready for bed, so he limped, with his new cane, over to the stables. His team smelled him and snorted softly. An old thought reoccurred to him, that his horses were better friends than men or women. They seemed to understand him better than other people did. He certainly understood them better. He smoked his pipe, stroking the horses and whispering to them.

A stable-boy approached him, “Mister, did you really kill the bad man?”

“I take no pride in that. He would have killed me first, but for these horses,” Nels replied.

“But you shot him, with a gun,”

“I could not have done, if the horses had not helped me.”

“How did they help you?”

“They did what I asked of them, instantly. We shook the wagon to throw the man off-balance before he could kill me. Why are you still out here, in the dark?

“I wanted to see you.”

“All right, you have seen me. Now, go to bed.”

“Yes, sir,” said the youngster.

(Continued)