West of the Moon Read Free Page B

fever and snakebite.
    You can bet I pay close attention when he mumbles these things, and I’ve been learning a thing or two. To turn back a wasp you have only to say, “Brown man! Brown man in the bush! Sting stick and stone but not Christian man’s flesh and bone!” If you need still more, recite the Lord’s Prayer.
    I’ll thank you to keep that to yourself.

    A s the sun is setting, here the goatman comes, back up the mountain with the same two sacks, looking just as full as they did going down. Up to the storehouse he goes and then back down to the house.
    â€œHow is it you had all day and still didn’t clean the ashes out of the fireplace?” he asks when he comes in.
    It seems the only thing he brought me is a cross word.

    I n the story of the white bear, one night the girl got up and, when she heard the bear sleeping, struck a match and lit a candle. When the light shone upon him, she saw that he was not a bear but the loveliest prince anyone ever set eyes on!
    So this night I decide to look, to see if anything similar happens to the goatman. I creep out of bed and toss Rolf a crust of bread to keep him quiet. There are still enough embers in the fire to light a candle, and so I take the pathetic stub of candle that Svaalberd allows me, get a little flame burning, and steal quietly to his bed, holding the light as near to him as I dare. My heart is pounding. What if? I think. What if he has turned into a beautiful man? What then?
    I lean over, closer and closer, and just like in the story, a drop of hot tallow from the candle drips onto his shirt.
    â€œWhat the devil?” the goatman yelps, jumping up. “What are you doing, girl?”
    Of course I have nothing to say to that.
    â€œLonely, are you? Is that it? Come looking for companionship?” He reaches out toward me, and I slap his hand away.
    â€œDon’t touch me,” I growl, using the tone I learned from his own dog. I snap my teeth, too, and run to my bed—hearing his hoarse breathing behind me. Then I feel his arms wrap around my waist, and he throws me down on my bed, me facedown and him on top of me.
    â€œFoolish man!” I cry. “You’ve forgotten something!”
    â€œWhat’s that?” he says, his foul breath on my neck.
    With my hand under the pillow, I feel the knife handle and curl my fingers around it. In one swift movement, I pull it out and twist around to face him, placing the blade against his neck.
    His eyes bulge, and the big vein on his neck stands out, pulsing and pulsing. Just the slightest push from me will slice it clear through.

Straw into Gold
    olf whines, and the goatman grunts and stands up, moving away from the knife.
    He doesn’t reproach or threaten me as I expect. He says, “Come summer, we will go down to the church and have the parson marry us. Then I’ll take you to my bed.”
    â€œOne of us will go to hell first,” I mumble.
    â€œWhat’s that?” he says, spinning around. He grabs my arm; the knife clatters to the floor. He yanks me out of bed and pushes me out of the house.
    â€œYou’re a danger to me and to my peace of mind,” he grumbles as he hustles me across the farmyard. “I won’t have a murderess in the house, waiting till I sleep to slit my throat—”
    â€œI never did! You were the one who threatened—”
    â€œYou’re a girl who can’t be trusted, I can see that, all right!” he squawks, dragging me up the hill. He’s rattling the keys, turning the lock on the storehouse door, and then I’m inside, shivering in my shift. The door is slammed, a key is turned, and with a click I am locked inside.
    â€œHere is the place for girls who can’t be trusted!” he yells from outside the door, then stomps away.
    I’ll sit right here on the step and weep, I will. I mean to, but I hear something—the same sound I heard once in the quiet of the night. A