feeling as if she really were on the narrow streets of the old town. She has to think about every step so as not to stumble on the rough path. Pretending the bumps are cobblestones rather than rocks and roots, she goes on.
The sound of footsteps disturbs their fantasy game. Stephie’s eyes snap open.
On the path in front of them is the girl with the red hair. She smiles and tosses her hair; it blows in the wind.
“Hello!” she says. “My name’s Vera. What are yours?”
“Stephie.”
Nellie stands silently, eyes lowered. Stephie gives her a nudge.
“Nellie,” she says softly, not looking at Vera.
“Come on,” says Vera, motioning for them to follow her. They scale a low stone wall and cross a slope with dry grass and heather before arriving at a crevice in the bedrock. There’s a tangle of thorny bushes there. Big, black berries shine out among the leaves. Vera picks a few and extends them in the palm of her hand. Stephie hesitates. Is this a nasty joke? Will the berries be bitter, so they’ll have to spit them out? Will Vera laugh at them?
“Stephie, are they poison?” Nellie whispers from behind her.
Stephie takes a berry and puts it in her mouth. It’s sweet and tasty. She takes another.
“So they’re not poison?” Nellie asks, reaching out. Vera gives her a few berries. Nellie puts them all in her mouth at once. “Yum,” she declares. There’s deep purple juice on her lips.
“Blackberries,” Vera explains. “Haven’t you ever tasted them before? Black berries, not black bears!”
She begins imitating a bear: crawling on all fours and growling loudly. When Vera rears up on her back legs, Nellie is doubled over with laughter. But suddenly Nellie becomes serious.
“Stephie, are there any bears here? For real?”
“No,” Stephie reassures her. “Bears live in big forests. There are hardly even any trees on this island.”
Nellie peeks suspiciously into the deep crevice in the bedrock. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely,” Stephie replies. “I promise.”
But as her eyes follow Nellie’s into the rock crevice, she, too, begins to wonder what other wild, dangerous animals could be hiding in there.
They all pick berries, eating them right off the bushes, and soon their fingers are all purple. Vera laughs and prattles. Stephie answers, using the few words of Swedish she knows.
Stephie’s skirt gets caught on a thorny branch. She tries to disentangle it, but the thorns grip like claws and refuse to let go. Stephie pulls harder. The cloth rips with a loud sound.
She stares down at her skirt; a gaping hole stares back. Next to it is a berry stain from her hands. What will Aunt Märta say?
Vera looks frightened. Only Nellie continues picking and eating the berries as if she didn’t have a care in the world.
“Have to go home,” Stephie tells Vera.
Vera nods understandingly. “Fix it,” she says, making sewing motions.
The three girls walk part of the way together. Then Vera turns off, up a path so narrow it’s almost invisible. With a wave and a smile she’s gone.
Stephie decides to go straight home. If she’s lucky Aunt Märta will be out, and even if she’s at home, Stephie ought to be able to sneak up the stairs and change her dress. She has another very similar one, and Aunt Märta probably won’t recall which one Stephie wore that morning. She’ll take the torn one in her knapsack to Auntie Alma’s tomorrow morning. Surely Auntie Alma will be able to show her how to mend the rip and remove the stain. Aunt Märta will never need to know.
Stephie and Nellie part when they get to the yellow house. Continuing on, Stephie reaches the crest of the hill and looks to see if she can spot Aunt Märta’s bicycle. She’s in luck. The bike isn’t leaning against the house. She hurries down the slope and runs the rest of the way. She pulls open the door, then lets it slam behind her. She hears footsteps coming down, but she’s already halfway up the stairs. Too late to
The sound of footsteps disturbs their fantasy game. Stephie’s eyes snap open.
On the path in front of them is the girl with the red hair. She smiles and tosses her hair; it blows in the wind.
“Hello!” she says. “My name’s Vera. What are yours?”
“Stephie.”
Nellie stands silently, eyes lowered. Stephie gives her a nudge.
“Nellie,” she says softly, not looking at Vera.
“Come on,” says Vera, motioning for them to follow her. They scale a low stone wall and cross a slope with dry grass and heather before arriving at a crevice in the bedrock. There’s a tangle of thorny bushes there. Big, black berries shine out among the leaves. Vera picks a few and extends them in the palm of her hand. Stephie hesitates. Is this a nasty joke? Will the berries be bitter, so they’ll have to spit them out? Will Vera laugh at them?
“Stephie, are they poison?” Nellie whispers from behind her.
Stephie takes a berry and puts it in her mouth. It’s sweet and tasty. She takes another.
“So they’re not poison?” Nellie asks, reaching out. Vera gives her a few berries. Nellie puts them all in her mouth at once. “Yum,” she declares. There’s deep purple juice on her lips.
“Blackberries,” Vera explains. “Haven’t you ever tasted them before? Black berries, not black bears!”
She begins imitating a bear: crawling on all fours and growling loudly. When Vera rears up on her back legs, Nellie is doubled over with laughter. But suddenly Nellie becomes serious.
“Stephie, are there any bears here? For real?”
“No,” Stephie reassures her. “Bears live in big forests. There are hardly even any trees on this island.”
Nellie peeks suspiciously into the deep crevice in the bedrock. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely,” Stephie replies. “I promise.”
But as her eyes follow Nellie’s into the rock crevice, she, too, begins to wonder what other wild, dangerous animals could be hiding in there.
They all pick berries, eating them right off the bushes, and soon their fingers are all purple. Vera laughs and prattles. Stephie answers, using the few words of Swedish she knows.
Stephie’s skirt gets caught on a thorny branch. She tries to disentangle it, but the thorns grip like claws and refuse to let go. Stephie pulls harder. The cloth rips with a loud sound.
She stares down at her skirt; a gaping hole stares back. Next to it is a berry stain from her hands. What will Aunt Märta say?
Vera looks frightened. Only Nellie continues picking and eating the berries as if she didn’t have a care in the world.
“Have to go home,” Stephie tells Vera.
Vera nods understandingly. “Fix it,” she says, making sewing motions.
The three girls walk part of the way together. Then Vera turns off, up a path so narrow it’s almost invisible. With a wave and a smile she’s gone.
Stephie decides to go straight home. If she’s lucky Aunt Märta will be out, and even if she’s at home, Stephie ought to be able to sneak up the stairs and change her dress. She has another very similar one, and Aunt Märta probably won’t recall which one Stephie wore that morning. She’ll take the torn one in her knapsack to Auntie Alma’s tomorrow morning. Surely Auntie Alma will be able to show her how to mend the rip and remove the stain. Aunt Märta will never need to know.
Stephie and Nellie part when they get to the yellow house. Continuing on, Stephie reaches the crest of the hill and looks to see if she can spot Aunt Märta’s bicycle. She’s in luck. The bike isn’t leaning against the house. She hurries down the slope and runs the rest of the way. She pulls open the door, then lets it slam behind her. She hears footsteps coming down, but she’s already halfway up the stairs. Too late to
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