1839: the longest year

Åe Farm's three menfolk patched the roof, caulked every chink in the walls, and laid in an awesome pile of firewood, while Toli threw himself into every task about the farm, proving his worth before his father's gaze. The whole family worked hard from dawn to dusk getting the barley planted.

Then came the day of departure.

Laki gave his stepmother an awkward embrace. "When you finish making flatbread, you'll have to call awfully loud for me to hear your voice, way over there." He waved an arm in a general westward direction.

Gunnhild blinked back tears. "I will call every time. Here. Should be enough to last you the trip, though it's not soft and fragrant and fresh." She gave him a bundle of well-wrapped flatbread, crisp and dry, and another to Knut.

Tall Såmund hugged each of the little ones in turn, then his oldest daughter Åsne. "Now don't you get married while I'm gone." He pulled one of her braids.

"Far!" She huffed at him.

"A golden-haired beauty like you? I want to import you to Amerika next year and sell you to the Indians!"

She laughed.

Last of all, Tall Såmund held Gunnhild close. "It will be the longest year of my life," he whispered.

"Fare thee well, and keep thee safe," she murmured back. "Write to me!"

"I will." He kissed her, then drew a long breath and turned away.

Laki and Knut waved, and fell in step behind their father.

Gunnhild watched their figures diminish eastward down the trail beside Dalaåi creek until her vision grew blurry. Fear and loneliness set up a maelstrom in her soul. So much could go wrong along their journey. Sickness, injury, death and disaster--

Into her mind glimmered a scene from an old saga -- of Aslaug Kråke, standing high on the bluffs, watching the sea for the return of King Ragnar. She swiped at her cheeks, pulled herself tall and straight as a shield-maiden, gathered the little ones, and went inside.


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