The shop was cheery and warm, cluttered with an impressive assemblage of goods, from food to farming and fishing implements. I nearly tripped over a sewing machine on my way to the counter. I requested flour, milk, butter, smoked fish, and tea, and Groa also encouraged me to take a few mutton sausages and a box of fresh carrots, leeks, and cabbage.
Humming to herself, she wrapped my requests in paper. I felt warmed just being in her presence, and though I have not much talent for small talk, I found myself compelled to ask her a few questions about herself. She was older than I had first guessed, and had run the shop alone for twenty years since the death of her husband. She informed me that the blue house belonged to a young couple named Aslaug and Mord, who lived with their son, Ari. Her cheer dimmed a little when I broached this topic, and I did not press her.
“How much?” I enquired, and she cheerily named an exorbitant sum ten times what such supplies would cost in Cambridge.
I had to ask her to repeat herself. She did so, just as cheerily, seeming not to notice my consternation. She bustled about the shop, chattering absently about the buns she left outside for the wee ones—I should have pressed her on this score, but I was too flustered.
I emptied my pockets—quite literally. At this rate, I would run through the entirety of my funds in less than a month.
“Wait!” Groa said. She placed one of her small glazed cakes, wrapped in cloth, atop the bundle in my arms, and tapped her lips. “Aud says you do not wish to be treated as a guest, but to pay foreigners’ rates for everything. But I cannot resist. My mother’s svortkag is for everyone, and it is priceless. Please accept.”
I nodded, a grimness settling inside me. Shadow and I made our way back to the cottage, where I deposited our supplies. Then, the dog having settled himself in for an afternoon nap on my bed, I made my way to the spring alone.
As before, I seated myself by the water and removed my boots. I admit that I am increasingly tempted to do more than this. I continue to have difficulty with the firewood, managing to cut only a few pieces if I am lucky and relying on Finn for the rest. But Finn is not always available, and so I am hesitant to use the fire for anything other than maintaining a bare minimum of warmth in order to ration my fuel. Thus, I have heated water for bathing only once, and that a small quantity. I still feel as if I am thinly layered in salt from the voyage north, like a bookshelf that has been left undusted.
My friend was prompt in arriving. I had the beaverskin ready, and he marvelled over it for a very long time. Beneath his gruesome ravenskin he looked much like a branch, covered in autumnal moss. He discarded the raven and, after pulling and prodding at the beaverskin, folded it over his shoulders.
Noticing me watching him admire himself, he blushed. He pushed the grass aside and wrapped his sharp fingers around a fine loaf of bread. It smelled of sulphur, but was perfectly golden and soft.
“Thank you,” I said quietly. I had certainly not intended to rely on the Folk for sustenance—my bargain with the little faerie was to have been for the purposes of trust-building only.
Well. There was nothing for it. I tucked the loaf away, feeling low. I couldn’t help but worry that I was harming my scientific objectivity through this arrangement, and that put the cap on a day of frustrations. Or so I imagined then.
“When you run out, I will bring you more,” the faerie said, turning from the spring, in which he had been admiring himself.
“In exchange for?”
“Nearly nothing,” he said. “Only clear a path from my tree to the spring when the snows come.”
“And which is your tree?” I enquired, though I had already guessed. The faerie pointed to a lovely white aspen, clad in moss like himself, the only one I had noticed in that part of the forest. Thinking back to the loaf Finn had served me with breakfast, all yeast and salt, I had no choice but to agree.
I hurried back to the cottage, intending to spend the rest of the day adding to my notes. That morning, Finn had pointed out several faerie rocks scattered about the farmstead, and I had a mind to map and investigate each one.
The rain started up again as I walked. My boots sank into mud up to the ankles, and I was quickly soaked through and shivering. I nearly ran back to the cottage, an ill-advised decision, for the slope was treacherous even in fair weather. I slipped and ended up on my back in the mud.
Once I finally slogged my way up the cottage steps like some ungainly monster of the mountains, I almost failed to notice that the door was ajar. I thought first of Finn, and then I thought, strangely, of the pale face and the bloody hand. Breath coming fast, I pushed on the door.
A sheep stared back at me.
No—two sheep. One stood upon the carpet, enjoying the heat of the coals, while another roamed to and fro, chewing at something green.
Green. My cabbages!
The table where I had left my groceries was askew, the pitcher of milk shattered on the floor and Groa’s svortkag smashed into bits that seemed to be scattered everywhere there wasn’t milk. The sheep had also overturned a pile of my books, and half-chewed pages decorated the flagstones with hoofprints on them—not my book, thank God; I had put that carefully back into my trunk. Shadow sat in the bedroom doorway, politely puzzled as he watched the baggy field-dwellers bulldoze their way through his home. Good dog that he was, he’d given no thought to obstructing the sheep’s rampage, having been admonished many times against menacing them.
I erupted into shouts, a mixture of commands in English and Ljoslander alongside various garbled ejaculations of no meaning at all. I lunged at the nearest sheep, intending to pry the remnants of the cabbage—worth more than the sheep itself—from its maw, but the creatures only took fright and stampeded round and round the cottage. No sooner had I managed to force one towards the door than its companion got it into its head to run in the opposite direction. More books were trampled, the frying pan and various pots tumbled off their hooks with a clang, the wood box tipped onto its side, and the armchair fell atop one of the sheep, setting off a storm of horrified bleats quickly echoed by its accomplice. Shadow, noting my distress, leapt into the fray, but as he could do nothing to the sheep, he merely ran aimlessly amok, howling, which had a predictable effect upon the interlopers. Amidst the chaos, I did not hear the knocking at the door, which grew louder by the second, nor the creak when it opened.
“God’s grace, Em,” came a lilting voice from the threshold. “I’ve never heard such— Ah! Away with you, woollen rat!”
This last was directed at the sheep, which, having had quite enough of the screaming madwoman in the cottage, now sought the relative peace of their rain-soaked abode. Together they hurtled at the tall, black-clad figure obstructing their egress, sending him sailing back down the stairs.
Shadow followed them out the door, still barking （for he had established that he was allowed to bark at the sheep, at least）， and plowed into the figure who had been collecting himself from his tumble onto the grass, knocking him over once more.
The figure lifted his head, revealing himself as none other than Wendell Bambleby.
“Any more?” he called from his sprawl at the foot of the stairs.
“What?” I shouted. I believe I had gone slightly deaf.
“Any more of your demented beasts lurking within? Should I simply lie here until they take their leave?”