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Only a few moments later, my worst suspicions are confirmed. Runner stomps through the deep snow, shovels some of the cold stuff into his hands, and rubs his face with it. Clouds of white condensation exit his mouth when he makes his way around the house toward three yurts that hadn’t been standing there when we arrived.

Breathing heavily, I press my fists against my eyes until lights flicker in my vision. Thinking of my dead brother helps against the panic. ‘Karlsson?’ I whisper. ‘I’m scared.’

What am I going to do now? Does this woman sell her daughter often? The whole procedure appeared so…so normal to everyone. If I help the girl tonight, she’ll still have to endure this pig of a mother for another three years until she’s of age. She might get punished if I try to help her. Maybe I’ll get punished. I’ll lose the apprenticeship. But who wants to spend another second in Runner’s company, knowing what he’s doing? How could I have been so blind? His
helpfulness
when I was cold.
Here, Micka, sleep in my sleeping bag. Here, Micka, let me hold you. Here, Micka, let me warm your feet.

How can I be so naïve? Shit, I don’t want to feel helpless and much too small. But the girl…much smaller. I don’t even want to think of it. But the image of him lying atop of her makes me retch, holds my feet in place and, at the same time, drives me forward. The latter urge wins. I blink the shock aside and coax my brain into working mode. I never moved a muscle to help Marreesh, but tonight I’ll chop off balls, I swear. A job at the composting facility would be very welcome after this crap.

What do I need? I turn away from the window and scan the room.

My coat is draped over a chair. My boots are drying in the corridor. My skin itches so badly I want to pull it off. My hands are so sweaty it’s hard to maintain my grip on the knife. I wipe my palms on my pants, pull on my coat, slip into my boots, and follow Runner’s deep footprints to one of the yurts. When I hear a deep moan — which I identify as male, and hence, his — bile fills my mouth. I spit in the snow and, before my little courage fails me, I kick at the entrance and shout, ‘Get off her! Get the fuck off of her!’

Snot and tears are already pouring down my face, but I don’t care. My feet are firmly planted in the deep snow. With my heart aching and my fists balled, I’m ready for anything.

‘Micka?’ Runner’s voice. Asshole.

‘I said, get the fuck off of her!’

Soft footfalls approach, then the rug — or whatever it is that serves as a door — flaps open, showing a flustered Runner with a colourful shawl wrapped around his hips. His chest is furry and a line of black hair points from there to where his privates are. The rest is naked.
 
‘What the hell is going on?’

‘Probation is over,’ I spit.

‘What are you talking about? What the hell are you doing here, anyway?’

‘I’m not an idiot. You flirted with that tiny girl the entire evening. How old is she? Twelve?’ I’m only slightly aware that he used a banned word. Hell. Does he believe he can get away with everything?

‘Thirteen.’

‘Thirteen! You fucking pervert!’ My voice fails, I shrieked too loudly.

Runner’s expression is cold. He opens the door wider and I can see inside. A candle is lit on a small table. A woman is lying on a mattress on the floor, her upper body naked, her heavy breasts tattooed. The silvery streaks in her raven-black hair sparkle in the candlelight.

Runner inhales and says with a voice that fights for control, ‘The girl you are talking about is my daughter, Ezra. And this…’ He indicates the bed. ‘…is her mother. She was so friendly to invite me tonight.’

It feels as if the world falls deaf. Even the snot under my nose is frozen. I take a step back. I’ve forgotten about the deep snow. My view tilts and before I can say ‘Oh!’ I’m buried in the cold stuff. I can probably melt a big hole into it now, I’m so hot with shame. My fury is evaporating.

An outstretched hand is offered. I don’t take it. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll…go.’ And off I run. I’m such an idiot. I’m such a fucking idiot!

I lie awake until dawn. Runner doesn’t return. I would have been surprised if he had.

———

Hunger and the scents of frying pancakes and fresh barley coffee pull me out of bed, although I’d prefer to hide until much later.

Martha stands at the stove, scraping at sizzling yummy things in her black cast-iron pan. My mouth is flooding. ‘Hey,’ I mumble when I see Runner. I’m so ashamed I don’t dare look at him.

‘Sit, please.’ He indicates the chair next to him as he rises and gets plate, fork, knife, and cup, which he sets down in front of me. I don’t know why he’s doing this, but I guess he’s being nice now so he can deliver the heavy blow without a bad conscience.
 

He turns on the tap, boils water, and mixes something in a large bowl. When he sets the bowl on the floor in front of me, I scoot away from him.

‘Allow me, please.’ His face looks…I don’t know…sad, maybe?

Feeling awkward and ridiculous, I move my chair back to where it stood, but not one millimetre closer.

He holds out his hands. An offering, but I’m too puzzled to react. He moves closer, pulls my socks down, takes my feet, and splashes them with water. I’m very ticklish there, but not today. I guess one needs a trace of humour left for that.

‘Why are you washing my feet?’ I croak.

‘It’s a custom…’ he explains without looking up, ‘…I learned at a place where people don’t use words to ask for forgiveness. They believe that words have little weight.’

He takes the soap and lathers the soles of my feet. ‘I was angry at you last night,’ he continues. ‘To be honest, I almost burned a fuse, because I couldn’t fathom how anyone could think I would abuse a child. My own daughter!’ He freezes for a moment and stares at his hands. ‘I should have known better, considering…’ He clears his throat. ‘Kaissa set me straight, helped me understand your reaction. I’m an idiot, because it was evident.’

Seeing my nonplussed stare, he adds, ‘Kaissa is the woman I slept with.’

My feet twitch in his hands. Too much information for my taste.

‘I thought that was obvious.’ He cocks his head. ‘I’m apologising for my ignorance.’

‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ I croak. My feet feel like they are wilting off my ankles.

‘You’ve been abused, probably even raped.’

‘No, it wasn’t… I wasn’t… ’ I exhale a growl of embarrassment. ‘I’m a virgin. No one raped me. I want my feet back.’

Puzzled, he looks up at me. Then he rinses the soap off my feet, dries them with a towel, and puts my socks back on a second before I bolt from the kitchen.

———

I haven’t been myself since Runner washed my feet. I’m not even sure if I’ve ever been myself, and have only now come to notice. How can a friendly and humble gesture hurt more than violence?

I’ve seen Kaissa and apologised. It wasn’t easy, because I can’t remember the last time I said “I’m sorry” to anyone but my dead brother. I’ve met Ezra, and her resemblance to Runner, her boldness and honesty, hurt even more. It took me a while to realise what it is that I find so disturbing about her. She’s not bent. And she’s beautiful.

When I look at myself now, I realise that the ugliness I’ve seen all these years is probably not ugly at all, and what I thought is making me special is only making me crooked. I’m like a gnarled old tree that wants to stretch to the light and doesn’t quite know how to do it. Meanwhile, I feel sorry for myself, and always only for myself.

I haven’t talked to Runner since. When I see him at mealtimes, we barely acknowledge one another. I don’t know what to say. I’m growing smaller by the hour.

Now, with everyone assembling for dinner, I stand with my back to the wall, watching. This small group of people is so different in many ways. The touching that I find hard to accept. The kissing and hugging. It gives me goosebumps.

And then there’s all the stuff that makes my heart heavy. Never does a child weep alone, there’s always an adult kneeling next to her or him, hugging, or another child walking up and offering a dried pear or a wet kiss. The small gestures of respect are everywhere, gestures one can only notice if one takes the time to look.

I feel myself sinking into self-pity, wondering why I grew up with so little love and respect. Then I realise that I don’t have much respect for people, either. I don’t love anybody. The others aren’t the problem. It’s only me being judgmental.

And then I know what I need to do.

Runner’s face looks like it’s carved in stone when I approach him with a bowl, a towel, and a piece of soap. The room falls silent. People wait for me to speak. But I don’t. I don’t know the right words to say.
 

I kneel and look up at Runner, who blinks when I pull off his thick woollen socks.

Today is our last day here, and in a way, I’m relieved. The kitchen always seems crammed and Runner’s gaze too inspecting or grave. I’m longing to walk through the silent and snowy countryside with only his back facing me and neither of us speaking more than necessary.

Presently, I’m sitting on a pillow in Kaissa’s yurt. She insists on cutting my hair; she thinks orange is pretty.
 

Kaissa wants to be nice. But why, I don’t know.

‘Ready?’ she asks, and I nod.

She brushes my hair, then takes strand by strand as if the scrubby stuff needs testing before it can come off. I avoid her gaze in the mirror while goosebumps rake over my skin. Gentle touch makes me weepy. I grit my teeth and clench my butt cheeks.

‘How do you want it?’ Kaissa asks.

I shrug.
 

‘Let’s see what I can come up with.’ The scissors go
snip snip snip,
but each time only a tiny bit of hair falls to the floor, on my shoulders, or on my nose until I blow them off. At this rate, it will take ages.

‘Are you a real Gypsy?’ I ask. I heard about them a few years ago and it sounded like something out of a fairy tale.

‘No, I’m not. I doubt there are any Gypsies left. A lot of people blamed them for the Great Pandemic. They were dirty, they said. Decorating a stake with a Gypsy’s head was considered heroic then. My grandparents and my parents were among those who believed all Gypsies must die.’

‘How come you look like one?’

Her green eyes twinkle and she tugs a strand of silver-streaked hair behind her ear. ‘When I came of age, I expressed my disgust with my family by dressing up as a Gypsy and leaving for good. What began as a childish rebellion and a love for colourful clothes and wild adventures turned into a passion. I saw a whole culture disappearing forever, so I learned as much as I could about the Romani. Which isn’t much, sadly…’ She trails off and gets back to cutting my hair.
 

‘Are both your daughters from Runner?’

She laughs. ‘No. The oldest, Katharina, is from my husband.’

I begin to wonder which of the two men might be her husband when she says, ‘He left many years ago. The loneliness was unbearable. One day, I met Runner and his mentor. They were guests in my yurt for a few days. It was easy to seduce such a young man.’ She gives me a sharp gaze through the mirror. ‘He was on probation then. Your age.’

‘That is fucked up.’

‘Why? Because I’m twenty years older?’ She bends closer. The corners of her mouth are twitching. ‘Or because his daughter has three fathers?’

Both
men are her new husbands? Back at home, some men had two wives, but never the other way around. Men are too territorial to share a woman. But the two guys looked happy enough last time I saw them. They even helped each other braid their beards like they were best friends. But still…
 

‘Don’t they freak out when you have sex with Runner?’

She laughs again, a deep and throaty sound. ‘No. They are a couple. I love them, they love my daughters, we never fight over silly relationship things, and I can invite whomever I want into my bed.’

Men can be a couple? I’m stunned. My weird brain tries to fit two pricks together and fails. Then I think of the Old Geezer and shudder. But then…these two seemed happy, and were perfectly capable of sitting down without flinching. What are they doing? Hugging and kissing? Does no one ever force them into the survival-of-the-species business? But maybe they’re already done producing offspring.

Behind me, Kaissa chuckles, and I’m torn from my virtual anatomical studies.

‘You’ve never seen a gay couple,’ she states.

I burst out laughing. What a weird choice of words! ‘Of course I’ve seen happy couples before. Are you done with the haircut?’

‘Just the front left,’ she says, grins, and moves around.
 

I can see part of the tattoo on her chest. A dragon and a snake, silver and red and yellow, like flame and moonshine twirling through her cleavage. If Runner was fifteen then and has a thirteen-year-old daughter, he must be twenty-eight or twenty-nine now. I could be his daughter. Did he offer me a probation because he’s missing Ezra so badly?

Kaissa brushes clipped-off hair from my shoulders and neck, announcing that I have a decent haircut now. I don’t really see the difference, but I thank her anyway.