West of the Moon by Margi Preus Page A

winding along the road from the valley below, comes a moving river of dark colors and white splotches. The dark colors are men’s jackets and women’s skirts; the white splotches are the women’s bright aprons and blouses. I can hear the fiddle now; its happy tones waft up the hill toward the farm.
    Even from this distance, the glint and glimmer of the bridal crown makes me catch my breath. A bridal crown! Which of my cousins is the lucky bride? I wonder. I squint and pull at the corners of my eyes to see which girl it is, but all I can see is the glittering of the silver crown upon her head. However did Aunt pay for
that
? And how did she pay for the pounds of rice and raisins and sugar for the pudding and the barrels of beer? She would have had to sell something. But what did she have left to sell?
    What looks like every living soul in the valley troops along behind the newly married couple up toward the farm, where they will have a feast of sausages, pea soup, and pudding, the beer from the barrels in the shade of the barn, and the cake with one slice missing.
    The crunch of footfalls sends my heart catapulting into my throat. Svaalberd! Where is he now? I peek around the side of the house and see him crossing to the privy. Well, I know what to do about that!
    The very moment he steps inside, I run across the yard, slam the door, and throw shut the iron latch—the latch that works only from the outside and that keeps the door from banging on windy days or lets others know the little house is unoccupied.
    Just in time, too, because the procession is nearing the farm.
    Then I race across the yard and fling myself under the table. In the meantime, old Goatbeard pounds with his fists, cursing a blue streak. But the fiddler plays, the women are “Don’t you look fine?”–ing, the men “Oh is that so?”–ing. Children chase each other in play, shrieking with delight. Not a soul hears poor old Svaalberd banging on the outhouse door.
    By lifting one corner of the tablecloth, I have quite a good view of the proceedings: There is Aunt, her face flushed with triumph as she nods smugly to the women, smiles haughtily at the men, and laughs indulgently at the children, who are wiping their sweaty faces on the table linens. And there are my cousins, trying to out-pretty each other in front of the boys. Meanwhile Greta runs back and forth, carrying trays and plates and bowls from the house to the tables.
    Aunt invites the guests to the table and then turns to the parson. “Will you lead us in the table prayer, Reverend?” she asks ever so sweetly.
    Everyone bows their heads in preparation for prayer. Even Svaalberd is quiet. Perhaps he’s praying someone will let him out.
    I suppose I should be praying, too, and praying for all I’m worth, but I’m watching for Greta. And here she comes out of the house carrying the marzipan cake—Aunt’s eyes flash toward the missing slice, then narrow to slits as she stares at Greta.
    The parson begins his prayer: “Gracious God in heaven.”
    â€œThe devil in blackest hell!” a voice calls from the outhouse.
    Heads remain bowed, although eyes flicker upward. Still, the parson goes on. “We humbly beseech you—”
    â€œBy Lucifer, open this cursed door!” Svaalberd shouts.
    â€œâ€”to bless these thy gifts—” continues the parson.
    â€œCurse you to all eight hells!” Svaalberd hollers and, with a crash and a clatter, bursts open the door. Out he flies, head-first like a billy goat, and runs down the little slope and comes charging, arms spinning, into the crowd.
    Uncle steps aside to avoid being knocked down, and the wild-eyed goatman flies past him, then staggers about in the middle of the farmyard, his face purple with rage. He curses, shakes his shaggy head, and waves his bloody, bandaged hand.
    â€œYou wretched lot who locked me in the privy should be ashamed!” he