Fiddling with Fate Page 7

  Treasures beckoned in every direction. On the second-floor corridor a “Folk Art in Focus” exhibit displayed photographs featuring spectacular close-ups of decorated objects—the satiny kloster blocks of Hardangersaum cutwork embroidery, the intricate geometry of a chip-carved plate, the meticulous beadwork covering a bunad’s bodice insert, the astonishingly tiny pleats in a woman’s headdress.

  “Chloe?” Ellinor called.

  You can come back later, Chloe promised herself, and scurried after the director into a permanent gallery. The Hardanger fiddles displayed in a long case made Chloe’s jaw dangle. “Oh, my.”

  “This is the one credited to Jørgen Riis.” Ellinor pointed. “The face is spruce, the sides and back are black alder, and the pegs are applewood. The mother-of-pearl came from local shellfish.”

  Chloe studied the elaborate designs inked onto the fiddle’s sides, the exquisite inlay on the fingerboard. “It’s remarkable.”

  “I agree.” Ellinor glanced at her watch. “I’m expecting a phone call in about ten minutes. Why don’t you take the rest of the morning to explore the museum exhibits. At two this afternoon a guide is taking an American tour group through the open-air part of the museum. You’re welcome to join in.”

  “Great.”

  “On Thursday afternoon I’m meeting a colleague at our sister site, the Voss Folkemuseum. They’re designing an exhibit about folk music for their new museum building. It will be a quick trip, but you’re welcome to come along.”

  This is getting better and better, Chloe thought. “I’d like that.”

  “Also, Torstein Landvik, who’s documenting regional music and dance traditions, is eager to meet you. He had a class this morning, but he’s driving out from Bergen and should be here by three.”

  “It’s kind of him to make the trip,” Chloe said. Getting places by car in Norway took longer, it seemed, than it might appear.

  “He has a cousin nearby, so he has a place to stay. And …” Ellinor smiled wryly. “His girlfriend lives here. They met last summer when she was one of our guides. This year Klara is working at the hotel and just helping us out as needed.”

  “Klara Evenstad? We’ve met. She seems sweet.”

  “She’s scheduled to give the afternoon tour. And Torstein’s organized an informal performance for tonight. He fiddles a bit, and knows all the local musicians.”

  My ale bowl runneth over, Chloe thought. She didn’t mind having time on her own. From materials to social context to a murky tale of murder, Ellinor had given her a lot to consider about the hardingfele tradition. I’ll need to take good notes, Chloe thought, if I want to translate Ellinor’s knowledge into a meaningful exhibit and programming in Stoughton.

  Before disappearing back downstairs, Ellinor pointed Chloe to a gallery focusing on the Hardanger region’s rich textile traditions. “It’s important to understand something special about Hardanger’s folk arts. People here have always appreciated their heritage. They kept traditions alive, even when Norway was dominated by Denmark and Sweden.”

  Chloe knew that Norway had survived four hundred years of Danish rule, and almost a century of Swedish control. True Norwegian independence didn’t come until 1905.

  “Foreign rule muddied Norwegian culture,” Ellinor continued. “By the late eighteen hundreds, people were trying to rediscover Norway’s true cultural identity as a way to establish independence. But people in Hardanger had never lost it. They were often isolated, so traditions persisted. And to a large degree, those things were eventually embraced by Norwegians from other regions as well.”

  I hope Mom’s people really did come from here, Chloe thought, as she explored the gallery. Examples of white Hardanger cutwork embroidery were displayed along one long wall, and she lingered over the glass cases. The other long wall featured mannequins attired in a dazzling array of traditional clothing. Chloe spotted several handaplaggs, including another worked with black geometric patterns, and concluded with satisfaction that the one she’d found in her mother’s closet was definitely of equal quality.

  A large wooden rowboat holding eight figures dominated the center of the gallery—a wedding party, Chloe realized. The bride and groom sat together, he in a red vest and black top hat, she with an ornate crown and flowing brown hair. Facing them were two women—mom and grandma, perhaps—wearing elaborately pleated white headscarves. A male mannequin in the bow held a fiddle.

  Chloe had been trained to consider the past objectively, analytically, with a cool sense of scholarship. She all too often wavered in that regard, but never more than this moment. The romantic splendor of the bridal couple’s clothing, the knowledge that this might represent something her own ancestors experienced … it was impossible to stay detached.

  Did one of my great-whatever-grandmothers wear such an elaborate crown? Chloe wondered. What was her wedding like?

  Seven

  Lisbet—May 1838

  “Have a care, Lisbet!” Mother snapped. “You’ll ruin the wedding feast before it begins.”

  Lisbet’s cheeks burned as she steadied the bowl of cream she’d almost knocked from the table. Say nothing, she told herself. Once she married Lars that afternoon, she’d have a home of her own.

  Gudrun beckoned. “Let’s go to the stabbur, Lisbet.”

  Lisbet nodded gratefully. Yesterday’s tingling excitement had been replaced by something more solemn, and the commotion in the house was jarring. Mother was barking orders to the local women who’d come to help. Lisbet’s married sisters were decorating the house with greenery and wildflowers. Father and her brothers were debating where the ale should be served. Neighbors from the adjacent holdings darted in and out of the house with offers of help, of extra flatbread, of the loan of ale bowls for the toasts to come.

  Lisbet surveyed the familiar room: hearth in one corner, carved box beds built into the other corners, table and benches, shelves crowded with tin plates and candlesticks, coats and cloaks on pegs. Colorful wool weavings hung on the log walls, fighting drafts and brightening the dark space. The new green tips of juniper trees she’d helped spread on the floors to protect the boards from mud added a fresh scent to the air. She’d been born in this room. She had never slept anywhere else. Still, she was very ready to leave.

  If only Grandmother could come with her. Lisbet watched the old woman push slowly to her feet, knowing better than to offer help. Gudrun was small and stooped, her hair thin beneath its crisp white pleated headdress, her face wrinkled as a forgotten plum, her voice soft. Yet she still commanded respect. She still rolled out lefse in perfect circles for the griddle. She still earned a few coins selling her delicate white Hardangersaum embroidery, and occasionally blackwork embroidery too. She still could distract Lisbet with a well-told story, or comfort her with a knowing glance.

  Gudrun led the way outside, across the yard, and up the stone steps of her family’s stabbur. The storehouse held their grain and food supplies, and was locked, but Gudrun kept the key. Inside Lisbet inhaled the grain’s dusty scent, the tang of souring milk, the faint fishy smell of dried cod, and the stronger reek of the last rakfisk—brown trout fermented in wooden tubs. They climbed to the loft, where the family stored wooden chests filled with rye and barley, her mother’s silver jewelry, her father’s savings, their best clothes. Those included Lisbet’s bridal attire of black skirt trimmed with red braid, white apron with cutwork embroidery, white blouse, red vest with a beaded bodice insert, and the crown. Lisbet’s grandmother had spent years assembling all the pieces. Some had been passed down. Some her sisters had worn for their weddings. Gudrun had made the apron, and she traded more embroidery with a friend who excelled at beadwork to make the bodice insert.

  “It’s all beautiful,” Lisbet whispered as Gudrun solemnly laid out each piece. “Thank you, Grandmother.” She turned to the old woman and was surprised to see shadows in her eyes. “Don’t be sad! I won’t be so
far away. We’ll still spend time together …” But the farm she was soon to share with Lars was an hour’s row away, with a rough climb to follow. Gudrun wouldn’t be able to manage the trip, and Lisbet knew that as mistress of Høiegård—High Farm—she’d seldom have time to visit.

  Gudrun took both of Lisbet’s hands in hers. “I want you to be careful. Promise me that.”

  “Careful about what?”

  But the old woman shook her head. “Let’s get you ready.”

  Surely I have no special need for care, Lisbet thought. Lars was a cheerful soul. He made her laugh. She loved the quiet optimism in his voice when he told her his dreams. And she loved the joy in his eyes when they danced. He had inherited an old hardingfele from an uncle, and he planned to learn how to play.

  He also was a hard worker. It had taken Lars three years to acquire Høiegård, perched high above the more-established farms along the Hardangerfjord. An old, old cabin still stood, the birchbark and turf roof rotted away, the walls blackened with centuries of smoke. It would do for now, and Lars had promised to build a new house as soon as he could. Father negotiated Lisbet’s dowry—a cow, a set of linen sheets, a dozen grafted rootstocks for apple trees—and Lars’s father agreed to help build a stable and repair the house for the new couple.

  Father had announced the match as tradition dictated one Sunday in the Kinsarvik Church. She’d worn an empty sheath on her belt, and he’d led her around the sanctuary after the service reciting, “My daughter is getting married.” Lars left his pew, came forward, and stuck a knife into the sheath. Finally, the wedding could be planned.

  Father had hired Old Uncle Peder to help with arrangements. The skilled fiddler was the beloved local kjøgemester—a master of ceremonies. He’d gone from house to house to invite friends and neighbors to the wedding. He would organize the procession to the church. After the ceremony, when everyone gathered for a dinner at Lisbet’s family farm, he would keep the toasts and songs flowing.

  Lisbet planned to dance and dance and dance. She and Lars had met at a harvest dance, and he was surprisingly light on his feet …

  “Stop daydreaming.” Gudrun flapped the skirt at her. “Let’s get you dressed.”

  It took time. When Gudrun was satisfied with the clothes, Lisbet fastened the belt, with Lars’s knife in the sheath, around her waist. Gudrun undid Lisbet’s braids and combed her long hair into a silky mass flowing down her back. Lisbet had not been permitted to leave her hair loose since she was a young girl, and after the wedding she’d be expected to wear the pleated headdress of a married woman.

  Then Gudrun lifted the bridal crown and settled it in place. Lisbet felt a spurt of panic. The crown was heavier than she’d expected.

  “You’ll get used to the weight of marriage, child,” Gudrun said, waving a hand to forestall further discussion. “Lisbet. I have something for you.” She held out a linen cloth.

  “Oh, Grandmother,” Lisbet breathed. “It’s beautiful.” She held a handaplagg, a hand cloth, that had been embroidered with black silk thread.

  “My grandmother made this cloth for my wedding,” Gudrun told her. “And I added more designs for you.”

  Lisbet draped the cloth over her hands, feeling her stab of unease fade. Gudrun would always be an important part of her life, even if they no longer lived under the same roof. “Thank you, Grandmother. It’s perfect.”

  The wedding procession was grand. Lars looked handsome in black knee breeches, a red vest over a white shirt, and black hat. Old Uncle Peder arranged everyone in a double line, began to bow a sprightly tune on his hardingfele, and led the way down to the cove below, where more distant neighbors were already waiting in two crowded church boats. Several empty ones, each with three sets of oars, sat on the beach. Lisbet and Lars sat together in the first, facing her mother and grandmother, while her father and brothers settled at the oars. Uncle Peder took the bow seat and launched into another tune. Everyone else crowded into the other boats for the trip to the village of Kinsarvik, as they did every Sunday.

  But this is not any Sunday, Lisbet thought, as the men shoved the boats away from the shore. This was her special day, hers and Lars’s. Uncle Peder’s sweet tune floated over the fjord as the boat surged and slowed, surged and slowed. Sunshine glittered on the water, and a lone gull cried overhead. The cool breeze snapped the Norwegian banner flying from the stern. Lisbet clasped Lars’s hand, somehow knowing she would live on memories of this day in the years to come.

  Kinsarvik had been the meeting place for people in the inner Hardanger region’s communities for centuries. When the procession arrived, men pulled the boats up on the beach, safe from the tide. Uncle Peder took them as far as the churchyard gate. Then Lisbet and Lars led the others to the whitewashed church, a stone structure already seven hundred years old.

  In the dim sanctuary, the service itself blurred in Lisbet’s mind. The pastor in his black robe and white ruffed collar exhorted her and Lars to support each other and serve God. Lisbet was already resolved to help Lars, and she’d promised her faith when she’d been confirmed, soon after her fourteenth birthday. Her mind drifted instead to the feast and dancing to come, and the joy of making a home at Høiegård with Lars …

  He moved beside her, and she realized they’d been bidden to stand. The pastor spoke of God’s power to conquer evil. Then they pledged themselves to each other, and were married.

  When they left the church, Old Uncle Peder was waiting by the gate, beaming. Lisbet’s father produced a jug and an ale bowl, and everyone drank a toast to the new married couple. Uncle Peder tucked his fiddle beneath his chin and began to play, marching in step until Lisbet and Lars and their guests formed their column behind him. Then he led them back to the shore.

  Lisbet was approaching the boats when she heard Gudrun’s voice, raised and sharp: “Be gone!”

  Lars muttered something under his breath and pulled away from her.

  Then Lisbet saw a stranger striding toward them so forcefully his long gray hair bounced against the collar of his faded black suit. “Evil!” he quavered. A dozen or more people came behind him, mostly men, but a few women too.

  The tune faltered to a halt. The joy in Uncle Peder’s lined face faded to bewildered dismay.

  The gray-haired man shook a long finger at the fiddler, marching closer. “You play the devil’s instrument!”

  Lars planted himself between the stranger and the kjøgemester, spreading his feet and fisting his hands. “Go on your way,” he commanded. “Leave us in peace.” Uncle Peder was still, his face now a heartache. Lisbet’s heart thumped like a mallet.

  A younger man tried to dart past Lars, who lunged and grabbed his arm. The gray-haired man snatched the fiddle from Uncle Peder’s hands. He raised the glorious hardingfele high above his head. Sunlight glimmered on mother-of-pearl.

  The man hurled it to the ground. The thin wood splintered into pieces with a jarring crash.

  An outraged roar rose as male wedding guests charged the strangers. The afternoon dissolved in a fury of oaths and thrown fists.

  “Stop it!” Lisbet shrieked, stamping her foot. “Stop!”

  From beneath the shouts and grunts she heard another shriek, shrill with pain—this one from her new husband.

  Eight

  Roelke asked the hotel desk clerk about local footpaths. “I noticed a waterfall up the mountain behind the village. Is that accessible by trail?” Chloe liked waterfalls, so he thought he’d scope it out. Perhaps they’d have time to hike up together later on.

  “There’s a trail that will get you close,” the man told him. “Local trails are graded easy, moderate, and hard. This trail is easy. Watch for red marks. You will have to go cross-country for the last bit.”

  Roelke acknowledged that going cross-country was okay by him, and left with directions to the trailhead. The daypack he’d brought to Norway was satisfyingly heavy
with first-aid supplies and emergency gear. Chloe sometimes said he was a perpetual Boy Scout. There are far worse things, he thought as he clicked the hip strap closed.

  From the hotel it was a short walk to the higher road above the village. He passed an apple orchard in bloom, each tree a cloud of white, buzzing with pollinators. He really did need to bring Chloe up here.

  The tourist map he’d been given was frustratingly undetailed, but he finally discovered a faint path that crossed a field and led into the woods. A splash of red paint on a tree reassured him.

  At first the trail climbed through a deciduous forest. Birches glowed in the dappled sunlight. Several openings offered impressive vistas of Utne, the fjord, and the mountains. I hope Chloe’s mom really did come from this area, he thought. He wouldn’t mind having relatives here.

  As he moved into a mix of conifers and broadleaf trees, with ferns below, the trail got dimmer. Steeper, narrower, and rockier too. Roelke unfolded his collapsible walking stick, which helped, but eventually he found himself grabbing tree limbs and bushes to help haul himself up, step by step. Finally he paused, leaning against a tree while he uncapped his canteen. Then he eyed the trail ahead. He wasn’t sure how far he’d come but he’d been walking for well over an hour without hearing the waterfall he was trying to reach.

  “Well, hunh,” he muttered. Clearly Norwegians rated trails on a different scale than Americans. This “easy” trail was doing him in. And he’d hiked enough to know that going down wouldn’t be any easier than going up.

  He was contemplating that when movement below caught his attention. Klara, the young woman who worked at the hotel, emerged on the path. Climbing swiftly, she was almost upon him before she noticed. “Oh! Hello.”

  Roelke couldn’t help noticing that the girl wasn’t even breathing heavily. You’ve got ten years on her, he told himself, but didn’t feel any better. “Hi, Klara. Your shift at the hotel done already?”