West of the Moon by Margi Preus Page B

cries.
    The wedding guests stand as if turned to stone.
    â€œHere I have come now to seek restitution. That girl yousold me turned out to be a worthless wench who never did a decent day’s work.” (That is a lie.) “She stole my money.” (That is true.) “And she—”
    Aunt interrupts him. “You must have done something to deserve it, you old goat,” she says.
    â€œWhat did I do to deserve
this
?” he screams, flinging off his bandages and waving his bloody stumps at the crowd. Blood spatters on white blouses and aprons. Women shriek; men back away; children cower.
    Only Aunt stands her ground. “Now, Svaalberd,” she says, “you’d best go home and take care of that wound. You can see we’ve got a festive occasion—”
    â€œWhich you’ve spent plenty on, by the look of it; I can see that, all right!” he shouts. “Festivity or no, I need a new girl. I’ll take”—he points one of his mutilated fingers at the bride, who clings, trembling, to her new husband, also trembling—“that one.”
    â€œShe’s only just married,” Aunt says.
    â€œThen this one,” Svaalberd says, seizing Katinka’s long braid.
    â€œNo!” Aunt cries, rushing to her. “She’ll be married herself soon.”
    Meanwhile, I’m scrambling along under the long table as fast as I can go, my eyes on the far end, at Greta’s little whitestockings surrounded by grown-up legs. In the meantime, I can hear Svaalberd making his way along the line of girls toward Greta.
    Aunt has an excuse for each one:
    â€œShe’s half-deaf.”
    â€œThis one’ll never give you a day’s work.”
    â€œThat one’s lame.”
    â€œI need a girl to replace the one who’s run away!” Svaalberd shouts. “I need a girl!”
    â€œYou can have the youngest,” Aunt says. “You can have Greta.”
    Which one of us, I wonder, wriggling along—all bruised knees and pounding heart—which one of us, me or the goatman, will reach her first?
    â€œWhere is she, then?” Svaalberd booms.
    I imagine everyone’s head swiveling, looking around for tiny Greta, so easily swallowed up in a sea of adults. So much smaller than you’d think for a girl of eight.
    â€œWhy”—it’s Aunt’s voice again—“she was there just a moment ago.”
    I see Aunt’s hand reaching for the edge of the tablecloth.
    â€œAgain you try to cheat me!” Svaalberd roars.
    The tablecloth is thrown back, and while Greta and I cling to each other, we catch glimpses of Svaalberd choking Aunt,then Uncle leaping onto the goatman’s back. The goatman twists and turns and finally manages to fling Uncle into the watering trough.
    Some men rush to help Uncle, others try to subdue Svaalberd, while still others have cracked the beer barrels and are quaffing their thirst while taking bets on the outcome.
    Chairs are overturned, the porridge pot upended. Chickens come scuttling to peck at the crusts and crumbles that spill from the table. Even a goat prances over, climbs a chair, and is now on the table munching something. The almond cake, most like.
    In the meantime, Greta and I make our long way under the tables to the end closest to the trees.
    â€œLittle sister,” I say to her. “We are going to America.”
    She nods yes.
Yes!
she nods.
    â€œDo you need to get anything before we leave?” I whisper.
    She shakes her head no. It’s a stab to my heart that in the midst of all this plenty, she has nothing to fetch.
    â€œWell,” I whisper, “we’re not leaving without some of this feast!”
    Out we jump and join the chickens, who are grabbing cardamom buns, sliced ham, and sausages. Into the sack it all goes, and Greta and I head for the trees.
    The beer has done its work, for men are throwing punches at each other, settling old scores. The