Page 1

Chapter 1

The snow gleamed pink and gold and silver in the first light of the sun. The wind had left drifts against the north and west side of the lodge nearly to the eaves.

A forlorn tendril of smoke wafted from the hole in the roof and straight up into the clear morning air, for there was no breeze now. The morning promised to be bright and sunny.

The door was on the south side of the lodge, and on this side the snow drifts were smaller. Ivarr forced the door open against the powdery weight.

When he had shoveled some of the snow into a bucket, he put the bucket inside atop the heavy iron stove. He strapped on his snowshoes and went out to check the traps.

The eldest of the eight children, Gytha, was already awake. Most of the younger children slept in the loft above, butthe older girls, the youngest, and the parents slept below. There were windows on the lower level and in the loft, but they had no glass, only tightly fitted wooden shutters that opened to the inside of the lodge. The windows were kept closed all winter unless the snow drifts became so high that Ivarr could not get out using the door.

This winter had been especially long and hard. Game had been scarce in the fall, and the frigid temperatures and heavy snow had come early. Nevertheless, Ivarr had stored up plenty of firewood, which was neatly stacked against the outside of the lodge beneath the wide eaves. Every evening he brought in more wood to dry near the stove so that it would be ready for the morning. The lodge itself was a spacious structure, but much of it was devoted to the animals and the storeroom. At one end were the animals: the henhouse to the left and the four-footed animals in a separate section to the right. The center of the house was the living quarters, with a large loft and a wood stove in the center of the main room below. The sleeping quarters were separated from the living area by curtains hung from the bottom of the loft, but these were usually left at least partially open. At the other end of the structure was the storeroom, which held all the family’s food stores, soap, rope, cloth and thread, and many other necessities for a smallholding.

The trees crowded close, only a few dozen yards away from the lodge on the north side and farther away to the south. The cleared area grew rich grass for grazing in the summer and an orderly garden, as well as provided space for carpentry, laundry, and other chores more pleasant in the open air during the warm months. In winter, this expanse was covered by snow.

While Ivarr made his daily trek into the forest, Gytha used the hand mill to grind wheat berries into flour and then made little flat cakes for the younger children. At eighteen, shewas old enough to be married soon and pretty enough to help her family with a good match.

At the end of the previous summer, Ivarr had received several offers for her. The richest of the suitors was Torvald Hilmarsson, who had offered a new lamb and a sow near farrowing.

“He’s not a bad man,” Ivarr had said helplessly. “You could do much worse.”

“Please don’t make me,” Gytha had pled. “He’s older than you!”

Her father had run his hands through his hair and turned away. “Who do you want, then?” His voice was low. “That fool Hjalmarr? He’s in no position to keep you fed through a winter, much less help your mother and the little ones if something happens to me.”

Hjalmarr was a perfectly nice young man only a few years older than Gytha. But only his age made him suitable; he had neither money nor looks nor wit to recommend him. Still, she had never heard anyone say ill of him, other than that he was dull, and she said, “I would prefer him over Hilmarsson, if I had to choose, but I’m not ready to marry, Pabbi. Please let me have one more season with you.”

“The littles are eating more.”

“I’ll eat less, then!” Her beautiful eyes were bright with emotion. “Please, Pabbi.”

“That’s not what I mean, Gytha!” Her father frowned. “I don’t want any of you to go hungry! Marrying a man who can provide for you would give you a good life. Hilmarsson is a decent man, and he would treat you well.”

But she could see the discomfort in his eyes.

“At least let me wait until spring to decide?” she had pleaded.

Ivarr had said nothing else about it in the days that followed, not a word to pressure her or make her feel guilty.

Through the long winter, though, the foolishness of refusing to marry had become painfully clear. Their cow got milk fever and died, and the following week a lynx got into the hen house on the other end of the lodge and killed all their chickens. The two goats produced less milk during winter, barely enough for two cups a day for the youngest children. The older children and the parents added water to their milk until it was nearly clear. The bag of wheat berries from which Gytha made their flat cakes and porridge dwindled day by day so that she looked at it worriedly. They had gathered acorns in the autumn, roasted them, and ground them into flour, which they had stored away in case of emergency. She added a little of this flour to the wheat flour.

Hlif, Ivarr’s wife and the mother of all the children, added more acorn flour than usual to the porridge for breakfast one day. When Gytha caught her eye, she said quietly, “It fills the stomach for a time, and it will make the flour last longer.”

One day Ivarr said that milk turned his stomach, and he preferred plain water to drink. Hlif said the same. Ivarr glared at her ferociously. “Drink your milk,” he muttered. “You need to keep up your strength.”

She raised an eyebrow at him in challenge. “And what of you?” she said, her voice so soft that the younger children, arguing happily with each other about the game of knucklebones that dinner had interrupted, did not hear her at all.

He shrugged carelessly and sat back. He shoved his bowl, still mostly full, toward her. The thin, milky porridge and tiny bit of salt pork on the top was barely enough to sustain a child, much less a man who worked as much as he did. “I’ll be all right.”

He stood and moved to sit by the tiny fire. He took up the drum he had made the previous winter, just a rough ring of wood with a piece of rawhide stretched over it, and settled down. “Brinja, come and show me what you’ve practiced.”

The youngest of his children scrambled onto his lap happily. She patted the drum, practicing the rhythm he had taught her. “Good!” He smiled and kissed the top of her head.

Gytha tried to think everything was all right. Everyone had days when they weren’t very hungry.

As winter wore on, the food stores dwindled, and the traps were empty far more often than not. Most nights, Ivarr pushed his bowl toward one of the children or his wife.

By midwinter, Ivarr had grown desperate. He chopped holes in the ice on the river and set nets for fish, but very few were active in these coldest months. He went hunting in the woods to the north and brought back ducks several times. Once he returned with a brace of rabbits from the traps, stomping the snow from his boots and sighing with relief when he stood close to the fire, thawing his frozen hands and face.