1750-1752: back to Moen farm

Liv packed the silent fiddle with the rest of her belongings, took her three little girls, and moved home to her parents at Moen.

Little Margit had to go through an early weaning. No more mother's milk for her, for the young widow grieved deep as an icy fjord, soul wracked in mourning. She often left the girls with her mother Anne or cousin Egeleiv, and wandered the lonely ridgetops, weeping in the hushed forest aisles.

When at last she could cry no more, Liv gathered her strength and came back to the living. She found a smile for her children, though a terrible loneliness haunted her gaze for years afterward. Each mealtime, her heart panged with grief as she dipped her spoon into the barley mush. "Enchanted to keep us young forever," Torjus had joked about the bland dish nearly every day their six years together. How she longed for different fare that would not wake such painful memories.

Life went on for the folk at Moen, which overflowed with relations. Cousin Egeleiv's firstborn son Knut, now twenty-one, bought Dalen farm from his father's second cousin, an old man living alone. He rallied his kin to help repair the fences and sheds, then brought his aging grandmother home from the valley where she had lived for several years.

Liv's brother Olav the Elder bought a farm, too.

"What's it called?" asked their 13-year-old brother, Olav the Younger.

"Utsund. Not far from Haukom."

Young Olav planted fists on hips and demanded of Old Olav, "First Gunnhild, now you. What's so great about the valley? Liv, tell him what a fool he is, leaving the dales!"

Liv just shrugged and went on carding wool. If he wanted to live closer to their elder sister Gunnhild, that was his business.

Big Olav wrestled his little brother into the corner and tickled him until he yelped. "A fool, am I? I need to move far enough away that you can't so easily leave toads in my blankets."

Little Olav cackled. "Made you jump, didn't I?"

"Once, I'll admit. Now I halfway expect them. But I'll put up with then no longer because, well—" He drew a deep breath, turned to Steinar, and took a stand. "Father, I wish to marry Guro of Skarprud."

Steinar arched his brows, drawing breath to speak, but Little Olav drowned him out, whooping and prancing around the hearth. "Big Olav for the Big Gamble! Big Olav for the Big Gamble!" he chanted. He tugged on Liv's kerchief. "Olav's getting married! That means another feast, and that means more of Cousin Egeleiv's scrumptious wedding kling!"

Liv shooed him off. "The rest of us are lucky to get a share, the way you gobble it up," she grumbled, tucking her kerchief back into place.

Anne spoke up. "We must write to Egeleiv," she said. "She'll need time to prepare for the journey home."

"I must get started building us a house," Big Olav said. He turned to his younger brother. "You may carve toads on the doorposts, if you wish, but no toads in my wedding bed or I'll toss you into the crack of Serpent-Lair Cliff."

Steinar rose and reached for his heavy winter coat. "I'll go ask Aslak to negotiate the bride-price. If you're sure, that is."

Olav's cheeks turned red. "Ja, Far, I'm sure. Uncle Aslak is just the man."

Little Olav darted to his other sister, nineteen-year-old Åse, who sat spinning in the far corner. "Next it'll be your turn to marry, and we'll get another wedding feast."

Åse snorted. "Not anytime soon."

"Uff da, you'll never marry." He sighed in disgust. "Spending all spring and summer up at the seter, every single year. Who'd want to marry an old, wrinkled dairy-maid?"

"I'm not wrinkled." Åse turned back to the wool, picking at a matted clump.

Olav tried to steal her distaff, but she whacked him over the head with it. He laughed and danced away. "Where's Åmund? He's the only one hasn't heard yet."

"He's off hunting with Tarald from Homme again," Big Olav said. "And he was the first to hear. Unlike you, Rattle Tongue, he knows how to keep his mouth shut."

BEHIND THE SCENES:

The farm community at Moen was getting quite crowded by the middle of the 18th century!

I forgot to add the date... This relationship chart is for AD 1752.

SIDE NOTE:

One of these days I really must write up the local legend about the man-eating lake serpent that was supposed to have laired in a cave up the side of Ormfarberg: Serpent Lair Mountain, overlooking Lake Kviteseid. (In this account, I call it Serpent Lair Cliff.)


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