Aslak stood on the stoop of the farmhouse and looked down the slope of his fields. All the rich lands of Moen had passed into his hands this gray, rainy day – the fields of barley and hay, the creek running at the bottom of the dale, and the forests climbing the eastern ridge behind him to the summer pastures in the heights. He took one last glance at the buildings ringing the yard – the summer cookhouse, the haybarn, the cattle byre, the storage sheds standing on pillars out of reach of vermin. His now, all his.

The young man sighed and turned and went inside again, joining the somber gathering of family and neighbors. Yesterday Aslak's fifty-three-year-old father, Åmund, had died. Today, in the early autumn of 1701, Aslak Åmundsson had become master of Moen.

On the other side of the central hearth, Aslak's younger brothers Olav and Steinar spoke in low voices to their friends. Aslak could read the questions in their eyes when they glanced his way. Would he keep them on? Or send them off to find their own way in the world? Their place at Moen had seemed sure while their father lived. Strapping big sons served a landowner well. But younger brothers, now. Would Aslak value their brawn around the estate, or would he rather hire humble laborers who don't dare argue as brothers do?

Near the window sat their widowed mother, Gunnhild. Their three younger sisters nestled beside her, taking comfort in each other. Aslak had responsibility for the womenfolk, at least until the girls reached marrying age.

It made a large household for a twenty-five-year-old to rule.

Aslak made his way across the smoky room, nodding to one neighbor, thanking another for his condolences, turning down a cup of ale.

Steinar stood as he approached, and after a moment's pause, so did Olav. Both seemed to brace themselves.

Aslak put one hand on Olav's shoulder, and the other on Steinar's. "It will take three of us to fill our father's boots. I'm counting on you to help preserve his name and reputation as a great landowner, now and into the next generation. Do you stand with me?"

"Ja!" cried Olav, relief flooding his face.

Steinar grinned. "If you make it worth our while."

Aslak put a growl into his voice. "I have no intention of paying you wages."

Steinar's look of merriment melted. Olav elbowed him and muttered, "I told you..."

"I intend," Aslak continued, "to deed you each an outfarm, where you may, on your own time, begin building your own houses, because I certainly do not want you under my roof after I take a bride!" He locked an arm around each neck and butted their heads together.

Perhaps that was a mistake, he mused, as his brothers pummeled and wrestled him to the floor, the neighbors whooping in a ring around them.

From the windowseat came an exasperated sigh. "Boys, boys," said the widow. "Mind the table legs! You'll upset the soup."

* * *

BEHIND THE SCENES

Moen has been farmed for more than a thousand years, possibly as far back as Viking times. The origin of the farm name might be traced back to either "the moor" or "distant, obscure rain or snow clouds."

Both possibilities fit the land-scape well, for Moen sits high in the uplands of Telemark province in Norway, where heavy clouds often drag down from the heights, veiling the slopes in drizzling shrouds.

photos copyright 2019 Joyce Holt