West of the Moon (17 page)

I think of the innkeeper's admonishment to use the coins wisely. “They won't buy much,” I tell Greta. “I have another idea. You take the yarn and see what you can get, and I'll see what I can do with this hairbrush.”

So Greta trots off, and I sit down on one of the chests piled there at the waterfront and start brushing my hair. After a time comes a girl in nice clothes, and her cheeks all rosy and pink.

“Would you mind picking those up for me?” I ask her, pointing out some coins lying in the dirt.

“Where did these come from?” she asks.

“Why, from my hair, of course,” I tell her.

“Your hair! How does that happen?”

“It's this brush, you see.” I turn the brush so it catches the light. “It makes gold coins fall from your hair.”

“Nay!” she exclaims, but turns around, presenting me with the back of her head. “Brush
my
hair with it!” she demands.

So I start to brush, and after a few strokes, what do you know? A couple of coins drop from her hair.

“Oh!” she cries, then spins around and plucks the coins off the ground. “But these are just ordinary
skillings
. These aren't worth chicken feathers!”

“Of course not!” I tell her. “You have to brush for quite a while before the really valuable stuff falls out.”

“Let me try it!” she says.

“No,” I tell her. “That's enough for now.”

She fusses and pleads, and finally there's nothing for it but that she simply must have the brush. “What do you want for it?” she asks.

“Oh, it's not for sale,” I tell her. “It's been in my family for ever so long.”

She simply must have it, though.

I name a price. That won't do, she says, she has to save all her money for America. That's what her papa says. I ask who her papa is, and she points to a man on the wharf and says he's a fisherman.

Well, then, I tell her I'll trade it for a cask of herring, some smoked fish, a sack of dried peas, and a cooking pot.

G
reta returns, dragging a small chest behind her. Inside is a nice thick sheepskin and a large wheel of cheese.

“That was a good trade!” I have to admit.

“It was the gold in the yarn that convinced the housewife,” she says with a wink.

So now we have some things. Other things … Well, there's the baker who has so much bread it can't be long before it goes moldy. A farmer who has so many potatoes he can't possibly keep track of them all. The very stout man who could do with a bit less butter, and the woman who is so fluttery she should not have another bite of tinned partridge. When they look away for a moment or turn their backs, Greta and I are there to lighten their loads.

Oh, it's just a trifle. A trifle here and a trifle there. But as we well know, a trifle can be enough when luck is on your side.

Still, we don't have Greta's passage. “We have one more thing we could sell,” I say.

“No,” Greta says. “We won't sell the magic book. For that is a book of projidjuss power, and once you learn to read it, there'll be no end of wonders wrought. Anyway,” she says, “I have another idea.”

S
o here we are, two young girls, down on the wharf. Gulls screech and wheel; fishmongers call out their catch. Ships creak and groan as they pull against their heavy anchor lines, the ships' tackle clattering against the masts and yards.

There's the pounding and pattering of feet, clicking of heels, clip-clopping of horses' hooves, rattling of wagons coming and going.

Voices call out to one another with greetings or orders. A light but steady rain ticks against the cobblestones and the canvas awnings, taps against the clay roof tiles, and patters on the boxes and crates, sacks of potatoes, kegs of herring, kettles, pans, mattresses and sheepskins, and the dozens and dozens of chests and trunks lined up on the wharf, ready to be loaded onto the skiffs that will take these things out to the ship.

A chest is being hoisted onto a skiff when a sudden downpour halts all work for a moment. The passengers scurry under awnings or into nearby shops. Even the dockworkers and ships' crews stop working during the worst of the rain, covering their heads with oilcloths and dashing for cover.

As for one wee girl, no one takes much notice of her as she crouches behind, or between, or perhaps even
inside
one of the many trunks that line the wharf, waiting to be carried aboard.

The Winds

hen the girl in the story went to find her bear-turned-prince, she had to ask each of the four winds to carry her, in order to get all the way to the castle that lay east of the sun and west of the moon. But the only one of the winds who had ever blown all that way was the North Wind. He had once blown an aspen leaf thither. After that, he'd been so tired that he couldn't make a puff of wind for many a day.

Still, he said to the girl, “If you really intend to go there, and you are not afraid to come with me, I will take you on my back.”

Yes, she was willing. She must go there if it was possible, one way or another, and she wasn't a bit afraid, go how it would.

So the next morning, the North Wind puffed himself up and made himself so big and strong that he was terrible to look at. Away they went, at a terrific speed, as if they were going to the end of the world. The wind made such a hurricane that when they came out on the big sea, ships were wrecked by the hundreds. Still, onward they swept and on they tore, and no
one could believe how far they went, and still farther out to sea, and eventually the North Wind became so weary that he drooped and drooped until at last he sank so low that the tops of the waves touched his heels.

“Are you afraid?” he asked the girl.

“No!” She wasn't.

As for me, I am too sick to be afraid, too sick to be homesick, too sick to remember the sadness I felt as the ship wove its way down the long fjord toward the sea and how we watched the blue hills and gleaming peaks recede, never again to see our homeland.

I've had enough time to think on this voyage, and all that thinking, combined with the motion of the sea, makes a big sickening mass of trouble in my stomach. The ship lurches; my stomach lurches; my soul lurches; and my sins come out my mouth and over the rail and into the sea.

I know that God is supposed to be everywhere, but there is no possible way He would follow us out here, to this truly godforsaken place. Between each swell, there is a trough, and at the bottom of the trough is hell, or near enough. There is no God down there, watching as I vomit over the side rail.

Still, somebody's here, for I feel a hand on my back. A soft hand making gentle circles. When I turn, the hand holds out a handkerchief, which I take.

“There, now,” says a woman's voice. “It will pass. You'll get used to the motion. In the meantime, the crabs appreciate all the meals they're getting.”

When I turn to thank the woman, who should it be but the parson's wife!

“It would be nice if we would get a favorable wind,” she says. “But as we are not getting it, perhaps the Lord is exercising us in patience.”

“And disciplining our impatience,” I mumble.