Anna Hansdatter: Hunger In the Dale

At supper that evening, the atmosphere was festive. Roast lamb and fresh hot bread were served with fine ale, as good as Nels had ever tasted. Olav Erstad himself came to the servants’ dining house to offer a toast. “To Nels Poulsen, whose courage and quick thinking saved his team and his whole farm’s winter provisions, and rid the Hamar region of the most feared scoundrels seen there in years.”

“Hear, hear!” The servants raised their mugs and cheered. They passed him the “hero’s portion,” the largest and tenderest joint of meat.

Nels smiled and blushed, trying to conceal the inner conflict that still gnawed at him.

Just as they had at Stange, the servants fawned over him with genuine but exaggerated admiration. Nels tried his best to accept their favor graciously. After supper, he went to the dwelling-house to return Erstad’s pistol.

“No, no,” said Olav Erstad, “You had best keep it until you get home. You can send it back to me later.”

“Thank you kindly, sir, but surely there are no bandits here in the Dale. I feel much safer now that I am back on familiar ground.”

“Are you sure? You are most welcome to keep it with you.”

“Thank you anyway. It saved my life back there, to be sure, and I am most grateful to you. I will not need it any longer.” The truth was that Nels now hated the sight of the gun, the feel of it in his hands, the smell of it. He doubted whether he could kill again, even if his life depended on it.

In bed that night, exhausted but terrified of falling asleep, Nels wished again that things could be as they were, when his sleep was sound and he awoke fresh and rested each morning. Finally, he drifted off. He slept fitfully, but was surprised that his dreams, while disturbing, were less violent than before.

In the morning twilight, as Nels harnessed the team, a light snow began to fall. “Uh-oh, girls,” he whispered to the horses, “Let us hope that our luck holds for a few more days.”

(To be continued)