difficult. Breathing is difficult. I imagine there’s bruising, but I haven’t looked. Still, I came off pretty lightly so I ought not to complain.
I went out for a stroll. Coco seems to like the baby carrier I bought. She enjoyed her legs being free and kicks and kicks. It’s a little colder now, but today was mild, so I walked right to the end of the path—the one that Tom will turn into a road—and tried to imagine what it will be like when we’re out here for the summer, picking up supplies every week from the village and smaller supplies from the “shop” in Herr Andersen’s shed. I guess I wanted to see if I could walk to it. He does keep a wonderful supply of honey from his bees and Gaia loves the lavender sort.
The walk was tranquil and although I was still a little unsteady on my feet, I took it gently, stopping after an hour to feed Coco. It hurt, as always, but the cool wind felt beautiful on my skin and on the bad bruise on my back.
I reached Herr Andersen’s place around lunchtime. He was surprisingly glad to see me. He’s such a grumpy old sod and I hadn’t called in advance, so I expected him to shoo me away as usual. But surprisingly enough he brought me inside and made me tea and turned pretty gooey around Coco. She does that to people, I find. She has such a cute smile that she melts the hardest of hearts. I bet she’ll be a tremendous flirt when she’s older. The only person she doesn’t seem to work her magic on is Tom, unfortunately. But then, he didn’t want her, so what can I expect?
Herr Andersen is lonely, I think. His wife died a long time ago and I don’t think his kids or grandkids visit very much—though given how obnoxious he is I can’t say I blame them. His house reeks of sour milk and old cheese, and I noticed mice droppings. He offered to show me his beehives, but I declined. I didn’t want to risk Coco getting stung.
He told me all about the history of the site we’re building on, and a little about the people who used to live in Granhus. He didn’t know their names, but he said a family lived here for a long time. Apparently one of them vanished. The mother. He wasn’t sure what happened to her, but the husband became an alcoholic after that, the son left for Bergen, and the daughter for America. And then the house sat in ruins for years until another relative sold it off. To us. What a sad tale!
I came away from his house with several jars of honey from his bees, a box of eggs for Maren (I hope she doesn’t tell Tom!), fresh bread, and some chocolate. He had to give me one of his old rucksacks to carry it in. Not only had I forgotten to bring a bag, but I also had no money . . . He insisted I take it all anyway and I promised to pay him next time. I think he just enjoyed the chat. As did I.
When I got back Tom was waiting. More of the same. Maybe it’ll get better once the house is built.
Won’t it?
21
foreign agents
THEN
The days are creeping deeper into winter. It’s a new year, a new start. In the mornings she sees fresh snow laying itself pale and sparkling across the leaves that carpet and skirt the trees. By lunchtime the sun has retreated, and she envelops the girls in their snowsuits and takes them for walks in the persistent night. It isn’t just time and light that have different qualities out here—the dark is something else entirely. Here, the dark is a country, or an island that is revealed once the tide of daylight has retreated.
This morning, wind carries ice in its fist. The trees are black figures against weak light. Tom hands her a hard hat and her puffer jacket and leads her through the woods to show her the progress they’ve made on Basecamp. He wouldn’t say much but told her to bring her camera, so she’s excited—after weeks of delays, failed deliveries, and damaged materials, not to mention the craziness of attempting to build in the dark, perhaps they’re back on schedule.
She looks back at Granhus and spies the gang of big black crows that hang out on the roof. A whole forest