Heritage of Darkness (23 page)

good about now. “Evil forces …?”

“
Oskorei
—a group of malevolent spirits that haunted winter-

time skies. Too wicked for heaven, they were doomed to roam for

all eternity. They descended on farms and villages, howling like a blizzard wind and playing cruel tricks.
Oskorei
might defile a year’s worth of new-brewed beer, or run horses until they dropped from

exhaustion, or strike down anyone foolish enough to venture out

alone in the dark of a December night.”

192

Chloe became aware of the wind shoving at the parlor win-

dows as if searching for entrance. At least she assumed it was the wind. Something Emil had said earlier that day popped into her

mind:
In rural Norway, everyone understood that life is a balance of
good and evil, of darkness and light.

“Farm folk did try to protect themselves,” Edwina said. “They

painted crosses on their barns to discourage the demons from

defiling their harvest. They made sure to stable their animals

inside before dusk. They spread straw on the floor of their homes, and everyone slept huddled together for protection. Later, the

straw was made into figures intended to ward away evil.”

Chloe shifted in her chair. There was something disconcerting

about sitting in this spotless parlor with this oh-so-proper old

lady, discussing ancient evils.

“Another legend tells of a terrifying goat-like creature descend-

ing from the sky,” Edwina added, “to punish everyone on the farm

if things weren’t to his liking.”

Oh goodie, Chloe thought. A new twist on the creepy Christ-

mas goat. “Is that story connected to the custom of
julebukking
?”

“Yes indeed. People dressed up and made noise to scare away

the evil ones.”

Maybe I should give
julebukkers
a break, Chloe thought. “And over the years that became something done for just fun—letting

hardworking people blow off steam after getting the autumn har-

vest in.”

“Actually, I don’t believe
julebukking
survived strictly as a remnant of the ancient custom,” Edwina said. “Or even just as some-

thing fun.”

Chloe wasn’t sure where this was going. “Oh?”

193

Edwina seemed to consider her words carefully. “In a small

community, everyone knows everyone else. There are clear expec-

tations about proper behavior. I believe the costumes give people a chance to ignore those expectations and step out of prescribed

roles. Once participants put on masks, they may indulge in forbid-

den behavior. Women wear trousers, for example. Men might feel

free to grab a woman’s hand.”

Chloe pictured the revelers she’d seen as a child, and the group

she’d seen that morning at the café. The participants hadn’t simply donned costumes. They’d taken pains to disguise their identity.

“Times are changing, of course.” Edwina smiled. “Today, peo-

ple are most often reviving a custom, not perpetuating one. That

changes the participants’ motivation entirely. But think of old days in Norway. The rugged landscape isolated rural people. Social

mores were strict. An evening of fooling and role-play must have

been quite liberating.”

The recorder snapped off. Chloe fumbled with the machine.

“Do you have more stories you’d like to share?” She hadn’t even

looked at her own list of questions, but honestly, she’d had her fill for the evening.

Edwina studied her, then shook her head. “I think that’s

enough for now.”

Chloe passed the list of informants to Edwina. “If you think of

anyone else who should be interviewed, you can let Howard

know.”

“Many of the old traditionalists have passed on,” Edwina said.

“Have you talked with Emil Bergsbakken? His family stayed closed

to their roots.”

194

“I’m not sure why the former curator didn’t include him,”

Chloe admitted.

“Emil’s mother and I were close friends. I’m afraid a lot of fam-

ily lore was lost when she died. She was in the family’s farm wagon when the horses bolted—quite tragic. Emil was just a boy, so I

doubt he could tell you much now. None of those Bergsbakken

men were big talkers.” Edwina smiled. “But oh my, carving is in

their genes.”

Chloe envisioned Roelke, happy and relaxed in the classroom.

“Emil’s perpetuating his cultural heritage in his own way.”

“Indeed,” Edwina agreed. “Perhaps I’ll see you this weekend. I’ll

be participating in Vesterheim’s Norwegian Christmas festivities.”

“I’ll look for you.” Chloe packed the recorder away and fol-

lowed her hostess back to the front hall. She stamped into her

boots and pulled on her parka and woolens. “As a gesture of appre-

ciation, may I shovel your front walk?”

“How thoughtful!” Edwina said. “The young man who usually

takes care of it sprained his ankle playing basketball. A UPS driver made it up the driveway this afternoon, but I do hate to leave

things untended. There’s a shovel on the porch.”

Chloe found the shovel and soon had the walkway cleared

from front porch to driveway. For good measure she shoveled a

path to a side door, too—probably the kitchen. The temperature

had dropped into the single digits, but by the time those steps were cleared she was warm from the inside out.

She surveyed the farmyard as she caught her breath. Several

outbuildings showed dark against the snow. The closest was a

small stable, tethered to the house by a rope strung shoulder-

height. People who kept livestock sometimes used ropes like that

195

to guide them to their barns during blizzards. Surely Edwina

didn’t tend animals …? Well, maybe chickens or a barn cat. There

was no harm in clearing a path.

Chloe scooped her way along the rope’s thread-like shadow.

Since Edwina might be watching from a back window, Chloe

didn’t indulge her curiosity and peek inside the stable. But the log structure itself was a find. Superb corner notching argued against hasty construction. Perhaps Edwina’s grandparents had thrown up

a smaller building in haste for whatever animals they could afford, and built this stable later. Chloe let her gaze follow the rise of beams appreciatively, picturing a farmwife eager to embrace the

new world while her husband longed for the old.

Then Chloe saw something that spoke of modern handi-

work—a cross, painted high on the stable’s front wall, visible

because of moonlight reflecting from snow. She remembered what

Edwina had said about terrified rural folk:
They painted crosses on
their barns to discourage the demons from defiling their harvest.

Chloe also remembered Edwina’s stillness when she’d stepped

onto the porch, head tipped as if listening for something …

Edwina reminded me of
me
, Chloe thought suddenly. She

always instinctively paused in old buildings, receptive to any lingering resonance. Edwina’s countenance that night had suggested

something similar.

So. Evidently Edwina’s interest in ancient folklore wasn’t

entirely academic.

Chloe tried to find comfort in the discovery of a kindred soul,

but comfort didn’t appear. Instead, a frozen tree creaked and

groaned as a sharp gust blew through the yard. The temperature

had dropped into the single digits. She suddenly felt quite alone in 196

the world. She imagined a rowdy band of spirits, too wicked for

heaven, swooping down as she stood in foolish solitude in this

farmyard.

OK, she told herself firmly, that’s unlikely.

Then she imagined a killer crouched in nearby shadows,

watching her.

And that’s ridiculous, she told herself even more firmly. Why

on earth would Petra’s killer appear here on a frigid night?

Still …
something
sent an icy fingernail over her skin. Maybe finding a woman who’d been left for dead in an immigrant trunk

was making her jumpy. That was a reasonable response, right? Or

maybe genetic memory was kicking in. Perhaps ancient fears of

these shortest, darkest, coldest days had been passed down to

quiver in her own DNA.

Whatever it was, Chloe decided it was time to head back to

town. She retraced her steps, returned the shovel to the front

porch, started the car, and managed to execute a three-point turn

without getting stuck in a snow bank.

As she started back down the drive, she glanced in the rearview

mirror. Edwina had stepped outside again. Was she watching her

guest depart? Or was she listening for evil spirits destined to roam forever on long winter nights?

197

twenty-one

Since Roelke had walked Chloe to the Rimestad home the

night before, he didn’t have any trouble finding it again. However, he did have trouble making a stealthy approach. He could have

read a newspaper in the glow cast by moonlight on snow. He

paused across the street, considering the house and the separate

garage at the end of the driveway. The ranch house and station

wagon said middle class, lawn decorations spoke of Christian

faith, the neatly shoveled front walk and driveway suggested pride in appearance, attention to safety, or both.

Roelke walked on, not wanting to attract notice. After wander-

ing around the block he approached again. This time he walked on

the near side of the street. Lights glowed from the front room, but the curtains were drawn. He glanced quickly over both shoulders.

There was no way to know if some neighbor happened to be look-

ing out a window, but he didn’t see anyone.

OK, he was going for it. He made a quick turn and walked

down the Rimestads’ driveway. He had absolutely no idea what he

198

hoped to accomplish by prowling about, but he needed to do

something
.



Chloe tried to banish the willies as she drove back into Decorah.

She punched on the car radio and turned the knob until she found

Alabama singing “Christmas in Dixie,” the antithesis of spooky

legends from northern Europe or northern Iowa. She slowed when

driving by some Luther College students pelting each other with

snowballs, and tried to absorb their high spirits. She meditated on Norman Rockwell as she passed twinkling lights on Christmas

trees homeowners had obligingly erected in bay windows. The cul-

tural phantoms that had emerged during her visit with Edwina

Ree began to fade.

Unfortunately they were replaced not with Christmas cheer,

but a melancholy of modern origin. The last conversation she’d

had with Roelke elbowed its way to the front of her mind. Cliff

Notes version: he thought she was a quitter.

This is what comes from dating, Chloe thought. You open

yourself up to someone, start to get comfortable with someone,

and
wham
. She tried to mentally compose the insightful, articu-late, and pithy response that had failed to emerge on that wooded

hill above Emil’s farm.

That response still didn’t come. And as Chloe turned onto

Water Street, she realized why: Roelke had been right.

“Well, shit,” she muttered, forcing herself to consider the situa-

tion with an open mind. Honestly, it was not entirely her fault that 199

her rosemaling class had turned into a fiasco. Mom was uptight

and demanding and distant.

But, Chloe thought, I
have
already concluded failure. I’ve been going through the motions and whining
Poor me, poor me
, to Roelke every day. It was not a pretty picture.

When she passed Vesterheim, she impulsively pulled over.

Lights shone from the Education Center. Several other cars were

parked nearby. It was only 9:30. At least a few industrious students were up in the classrooms.

Chloe lifted her chin. OK. She was going to join them.

On the third floor, all six of Sigrid’s students were at work. In

her own room, Chloe found five students bent over their projects.

Gwen grinned as Chloe sat down. “Hey, Chloe! I didn’t expect to

see you this evening.”

“I wanted to see if I could catch up.” Chloe regarded her tray

dubiously. No freaking
way
could she catch up—but, no; that was not the right attitude. “At least a little,” she amended.

“Let me know if you get stuck,” Gwen said. “Your mom usually

stays late, but she said she and Sigrid were visiting friends this evening.”

Chloe peeled plastic wrap from her palette. “You’ve been busy,”

she observed. Gwen had been painting Christmas ornaments cut

from thin plywood. A dozen bells, stars, and trees were lined up to dry.

“They’re fun to paint.” Gwen gestured toward a pile of blank

ornaments. “Help yourself if you want to try something different. I know you’re not enjoying the class project.”

200

Chloe sighed. Did everyone in Decorah know how much fun

she was
not
having in class? Evidently. She dredged up her most chipper smile. “Thanks, Gwen, but I’ll stick to the tray.”

She approached it with grim resolve. At least Mom’s written

instructions were clear and thorough. And without Mom on hand

to interrupt, criticize, or speed the class along, Chloe found herself—astonishingly—making tentative progress.

An hour or so later a policeman stuck his head in the door.

“You two OK? I’ve been through the building, and the doors are

locked.”

“Thanks,” Gwen called. She began cleaning her supplies. “I’m