Anna Hansdatter: Hunger In the Dale

In the dwelling-house, the priest’s wife cleaned the cut on Nels’ arm and wrapped it in clean white cloth. She handed the damaged garments to the housemaid. “Clean these,” she said, “and see if you can mend them.” The maid hurried off.

“You are very kind,” said Nels. “What parish is this?”

“Stange,” she replied.

The sheriff and two deputies arrived on horseback, and the undertaker, in a buggy. After a brief inspection of the wagon, they transferred the body to the buggy, which the undertaker drove away. Nels put on a gardener’s jacket and went out to meet them, the priest still helping him walk.

The sheriff was holding the pistol. “Is this the weapon?”

“Yes, sir,” said Nels.

“Let me see your passport.”

“It is in the house, in my coat pocket.”

“Best we talk inside anyway. Pastor Hansen, will you make a record?”

“Of course,” said the priest. They went inside. The priest took out his notebook, pen, and ink. Nels handed his documents to the sheriff.

“Dismiss the servants, please, Pastor. Your wife will not want to hear this, either.”

His wife spoke up, “Even though I would prefer not to hear it, it is my duty to know and bear witness to what is said, since this is a matter of public safety.”

“My wife will stay,” said the priest. The servants were dismissed.

The sheriff’s reading skills were poor. Squinting at the passport, he spoke haltingly. “’Nels Poulsen, teamster, Peder Skurdal, Froen parish. Lillihammer, Oslo and … ‘ Pastor, will you read the rest of this?” He handed him the documents.

“… return with freight on board.” The priest then read aloud the bill of lading.

“Now, Nels Poulsen, are you traveling alone?” began the sheriff.

“Yes, sir.”

“What is wrong with your leg?”

“It was injured in an accident several years ago.”

“Yet you drive alone such a distance. No helper, no bodyguard?”

“No, sir.”

“These are dangerous times. The horses were stolen from Sandvik farm last week. The scoundrels killed a man to get them.”

“Yes, sir.” Nels gulped.

“About this gun,” the sheriff continued, “Whose is it?”

“A relative of my employer, Mister Olav Erstad of Lillehammer, loaned it to me for the journey.”

“You have documentation of this?”

“No, sir.”

“Your passport says nothing about armaments. I will have to hold you until the magistrate reviews the case.”

“Look here, sheriff,” said the priest, “This man brought us the bandits you have been seeking for seven days. Brought them to our doorstep. Now you suspect him of stealing the weapon that made it possible?”

“I do not make the laws, Pastor Hansen. I merely try to enforce them.”

“Judging by events, you need all the help you can get from men like this.”

“He has killed a man, by his own confession, with an undocumented weapon. His fate is not for me to decide.”

“If you insist on detaining him, he will be my prisoner. I will hold him until the magistrate can be summoned. Nels Poulsen, do I have your word that you will not flee?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So be it. Sheriff, you have my word on this matter.”

“As you wish, Pastor.” The sheriff took his leave.

(Continued)