West of the Moon Read Free

wreath that was so lovely she couldn’t live unless she got it.
    If I could have any wish, I wouldn’t squander it on a golden wreath. I might wish for a pair of shoes not so worn out or stockings not so full of holes. What I really want most—well, it’s impossible, so there’s no use wishing it, or even thinking of it, though sometimes I can’t help it. To have my family all together again, whole and complete, that’s what I dream of,and I guess that’s sort of like a golden wreath. At least, it’s as impossible a thing to get as that.
    Usually I’m so tired at night, I collapse and dream of nothing. And it’s a good thing, too, because nothing is exactly what I get from old Goatbeard.
    â€œYou’d best be careful out there at night,” he says from the gloom of his corner.
    â€œWhy?” I ask.
    â€œWhy!” he snorts. “You know yourself the forest is full of
huldrefolk
, the invisibles. ’Tis said they are the children Eve was so ashamed of that she hid them from God. And God said, ‘Let those who were hidden from me be hidden from all mankind,’ and so they and all their children stay so, even to this day.”
    â€œAnd so they are invisible,” I add, “and we can’t see them, and they can’t see us.”
    â€œThere are times when the veil parts, and it’s possible to see into the other side,” the goatman says. “There’s no wall that separates us from them, ’tis just the barest veil.” He lowers his voice to a dark whisper. “And there are times those folk live side by side with us, whether we know it or not.” He grunts and rolls over. “Don’t think it can’t happen!” he says, and after a few moments, begins to snore.
    I touch the log wall by my bed. Are there really hidden people out there? Are they real? Or just made up to keep girls like me from running away?

The Drop of Tallow
    n the morning, the first thing out of Svaalberd’s mouth is “Have you stolen the knife again,
mus
?” He calls me that—mouse—when he’s being friendly. Otherwise it’s “dog” or “cow” or “rat” or “pig.” I doubt if I am human anymore, by the names he calls me.
    I hand Svaalberd the knife, and he slices off some dried mutton, thin slices you can see through, and he carves off a curling slice of brown cheese. He hands me two slices of bread, one for the cheese and one for the meat. This is my breakfast.
    It’s better than I got at Aunt and Uncle’s.
    There was no mutton there, and sometimes we had cheese, but often we didn’t. And the bread was sometimes made of bark.
    There, I’ve said it. That’s how poor we were. We had to eat bark bread. Still, I’d rather be back at Aunt and Uncle’s starving with Greta.

    E very Sunday morning, old Goatbeard drags his oak chest over to the table, where he fumbles for his keys, puts a key in the lock, and with a
click
, unlocks the chest. He digs downinside it, and I hear the rustle of paper and an enticing
clinkity jingle.
    â€œThere’s some fine things in that chest, I shouldn’t wonder,” I say one morning.
    â€œThere’s more than you think,” he says. “Inside this box, girl, lies prodigious power.”
    I mouth the word he says:
prodigious
.
    â€œIt means a powerful much, is what. In this box lies the power to conjure up and put down the devil and get him to do all that you command. Herein lies the power to cure diseases, remove curses, find buried treasure, and turn back the attacks of snakes and dogs. You stay away from this chest, if you know what’s best for you,” he says. Then he pulls out his Bible.
    â€œIs it the Holy Book I’m to stay away from?” I ask him.
    â€œNay,” he says, “’tis something else. But nothing for the likes of you.”
    He then commences to read aloud from his