ÅKRE FARM (NEAR MOEN AND DALEN):

In early 1842, Åkre's loft held the wedding festivities for Gunnhild's halfsister Aslaug. The old folks at Åkre had passed away, and Tall Såmund's former brother-in-law Såvi now ran the farm.

Three Aslaugs had done their best to decorate with sprigs of holly and evergreen: the bride, at age twenty-seven, and Gunnhild's two daughters, nicknamed Asla, age ten, and Asi, age five. Jon Homme played merry tunes on his father's fiddle, but the feast table looked sad and forlorn. Where once the board would have groaned with an abundant spread of dishes, one large bowl of barley porridge sat all alone. No chance of a groan from such a light load.

Few people danced. They hadn't the energy. Even the children sought quieter diversions than their usual boistrous games. Seven-year-old Halvor from Åe had found a piece of charcoal and was showing six-year-old Tone from Homme how to spell her name on the plank floor.

His schoolteacher tiptoed near and smiled as she watched over the shoulder of her first-year student. Jon's youngest second-cousin at Byggland, Anne was a year younger than the bride. She was good friends with Halvor Lamefoot, and people often asked them why they didn't wed.

"I want a husband who isn't related to me," she would explain. "Too much chance of inbreeding."

"That's never hindered the royal families all across Europe."

Anne smirked. "My point exactly."

Guro's housegirl Signe nodded in agreement. "That's why I sought employment beyond my own dale. All my suitors back home were cousins and second cousins!"

Little Halvor's far and surly morfar bumped into each other nearby. "No word from those sons of yours, I suppose," muttered Gunnhild's father, Såmund the Former Sawyer.

Tall Såmund arched his brows. "The last letter arrived a year after they sent it. After all, I beat my own last letter home, a year and a half ago. Mail from Amerika travels at a glacier crawl."

"Never hear from them again. Lost in the wilderness and scalped by Indians by now, no doubt."

Tall Såmund shook his head. "No Indians left in Wisconsin but the Kickapoo. Mostly just farmers and lumberjacks."

"Lumber whats?"

"Timber men, like me. You ought to come, too. They need good sawyers."

Såmund the Former Sawyer snorted and turned his back.

"Laki and Knut will return on the summer's sailing if last year's crops failed. But the soil is rich, not worn out like our overworked fields, and the southern light is warm. I'm getting Åe ready to sell the moment they send word."

"No one'll buy!" Gunnhild's father stomped off to the next cluster of folk where Jon Homme, taking a break from fiddling, was telling about the wares he'd seen in the last trader's cart.

"Of course, I bought nothing but salt, but how I lingered over that pamphlet." Jon shook his head. "Norse Fairytales. Printed just last year. You've seen Grimm's book of tales, haven't you? From Germany? Well, Asbjørnsen and Moe did the same collecting from our own countrymen." He sighed. "I couldn't even afford a leaflet on doings in Kristiania. Just salt. Oh, Cousin, I nearly forgot. The trader carried this." He passed a light packet to Tall Såmund.

"You're lucky to have salt," Såmund the Former Sawyer grumbled. "Nothing but barrel scrapings at Jusureid. No thanks to the ungrateful wretches I raised. You'd think they'd lend a hand once in a while."

Gunnhild looked away as people rolled their eyes and grimaced behind the old man's back. She bounced her baby boy on her knee -- little Bjørgulv, named for his bear-hunting uncle.

scene to be continued...

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BEHIND THE SCENES

Peter Christen Asbjørnsen and Jørgen Moe grew up hearing the tales transcribed by the German Grimm Brothers. Asbjørnsen and Moe wanted to gather a similar collection of folklore in their native Norway. Their first pamphlet came out in 1841, and included the tale of Kari Trestakk. See the story in the chapter for 1807.