The Runestone’s Promise

By Mari Matthias

In a time when the kingdom is called Denmark-Norway and Oslo is called Christiana, Gertine's happy, well-ordered world is upended when her sister's wedding, only days away, is inexplicably called off by their mother, Mette. Inspired by a runestone she finds in the woods, Gertine follows one family secret to another in her need to find the truth. She uncovers the story of her mother's complicated past and so learns more about her own.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Unsolicited Press
• Release date: Nov 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201935948

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THE RUNESTONE’S PROMISE

Mari Matthias

THE RUNESTONE’S PROMISE

Copyright © 2022 Mari Matthias

All Rights Reserved.

Published by Unsolicited Press.

First Edition.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. People, places, and notions in these stories are from the author’s imagination; any resemblance is purely coincidental.

Attention schools and businesses: for discounted copies on large orders, please contact the publisher directly.

For information contact:

Unsolicited Press

Portland, Oregon

www.unsolicitedpress.com

[e-mail]

619-354-8005

Front Cover Design: Kathryn Gerhardt

Cover drawing provided by Mari Matthias

Editor: S.R. Stewart; Alexandra Lindenmuth

for my children, Sidra and Jedrek,

and for my great-great-great-great-great-great grandmother, Mette

CONTENTS

CONTENTS

BETRAYAL

RUNESTONE

THE BRASHNESS OF BEGINNING

LOSS

NOT BACK, ONLY ONWARD

LEESA’S LETTER

GUILT AND GRACE

WORDS SPOKEN, WRITTEN, UNSAID

MILK TOOTH

About the Author

About the Press

BETRAYAL

1799 February

The wind set the rhythm of Gertine’s stirring and humming – a melody she had learned from Ove. He was late. Very late. The soup was ready, stewing deeper into its juices. Not a bad thing, she decided. Outside, a gale took up her tune and she glanced towards the door. Trying to not worry about the tricks in the wind, Gertine breathed in a smile and bent to feed more wood into the stove’s glowing belly.

In burst Ove.

It was the way the kitchen door slammed shut behind him that told her something was wrong. Gertine started with surprise, bumping her hand against the hot iron side of the oven doorframe; the melody vanished.

Ow! The shock of cold that sprang in with him hung in the air as Gertine shook her hand, as though to scatter away the pain.

Ove went right back out the kitchen door and returned with some snow to soothe her singed knuckles. He closed the woodstove door with a still-mittened hand and led her to one of the rocking chairs in the corner. The snow slid off Gertine’s hand as it melted. Although the burn stung, she laughed as she looked up into his cold-burned face. She could see that his jaw was set, and the sternness in his green eyes left her confused, almost frightened.

What is it? What’s happened? she asked, her smile fading.

Ove’s eyes seemed to search for something in hers. Then he straightened up and paced the small room, pulling off boots and winter wrappings.

Your mother. Ove’s voice was ragged. 

Gertine cringed with a sudden defensiveness. What? My mother? She was afraid to guess. Ove, tell me.

He turned abruptly from his pacing and stared at her. No, not stared, he glared at her, she thought.

She’s called it off! Ove dragged his fingers through his short tawny hair, lifting if from matted to mangy. He hadn’t yelled, but it was the most she’d ever heard him raise his voice. For a second she felt wildly confused.

Then she knew.

What? The wedding? No, don’t fool. She forced a laugh. But Ove was not smiling. Gertine’s forehead crinkled in confusion. No! she gasped. Forgetting her burn and her now sopping sleeve, she shook her head hard, her long yellow braid whipping from her back around to her chin. Oh, Mamma, oh no. Poor Karen!

Ove sat down in the rocker next to Gertine and set his palms on his knees in what seemed an effort to put down his anger. He pulled his rocker around to face his wife and leaned towards her.

Why? Exhaling, he leaned back and lifted his palms. Why? His voice broke with a tired sadness.

Gertine shrugged. As if I could ever understand what’s in her head. Mamma, why?

Ove scoffed and Gertine felt her cheeks flush scarlet, feeling accused and somehow guilty. They faced each other, tense and still.

But, Gertine exhaled, all the preparations! Most guests have already arrived! But Mamma seemed so pleased! I – she could not stop shaking her head. Her sister Karen was marrying Ove’s father, Boye, this Saturday. Gertine had reveled in Karen’s happiness. Mette, their mother, by all appearances did as well. After all, Boye was affluent and important in the community. It was a good match! I don’t understand.

Ove reached over and took Gertine’s hand, inspecting her burn. Her eyes followed his, resting on the red line forming across her knuckles. Ove got up and went to the pantry floor where the cold food was stored below a hatch. He found the yoghurt and returned to Gertine. He sat down again and with his calloused fingers he gently painted yoghurt onto her singed skin.

Gertine’s eyes glazed, watching his face as he worked on her burn, his sharp cheekbones ruddy from cold, the smoothness of his forehead beneath the tangle of his hair, until her vision was unfocused and his edges blurred. The wind outside was moaning again, tuneless and mournful. Why must Mamma suddenly change her mind?

Ove got up from the rocker and poured the thick cow’s milk into the glasses set for dinner on the table. He put the soup, wafting of onion and boiled fish, onto the trivet at the table next to the rolls. He ladled their bowls full and gestured for her to join him. Gertine brushed a tear off her cheek. They sat, said grace together, and didn’t eat. He quietly explained how he had gone to his father’s farm to help with final wedding arrangements and found Boye in a stomping rage.

His words were near nonsense, he was so upset. I didn’t know what to do, so I just listened. I’m glad Grandma Gjertrud was there, or I might be there as yet, trying to keep him from... from calling up Odin’s vengeance.

Ove recounted the conversation. Gertine listened, intently, trying to understand. She shook her head again as Ove leaned his strong back against the rungs of the oak chair. The fragrant steam rose from the soup pot and from their neglected bowls. It curled and twisted and taunted at her hunger pangs after a long day of hard work. Ove clutched at his spoon, fiddled with it. 

Gertine glanced around aimlessly at her well-ordered home, usually such a comfort but now feeling false and vacant. She kept a tidy house; she had learned well from looking after guests her whole life.

Her mother ran a small farm and waystation. Mette and Erik Anker had set the place up together in Soratune. But then he had died, leaving Mette to run it and raise their three children alone. Gertine was the youngest. She didn’t remember her father.

Mayhap their age difference? Gertine offered. Her shock was subsiding, her mind grasping for reasons, searching for sense. "Karen is just twenty-five." 

Hmm. Ove cocked his head to one side. He held his spoon in his lap. "That hardly seems likely. I’ve heard of larger differences. Your mother raised no fuss when we married."

But only five years separate us.

Even so, Gertine. It’s you who are the elder. He took a bite, slurping the broth.

Not for the first time, she wondered if his being the younger of their union bothered Ove more than he let on. 

How long since your mother died? Gertine felt timid with the question.

Ove shook his head. Long enough; you know that.

She did know. Ove had told her that when he was fourteen his mother had died in childbirth; the baby boy died a few months later.

I only meant –

No, Ove said firmly. He’s been blissful these past months, with Karen promised to him. No, Gertine. You know as well as I. Gertine felt that Ove was pleading with her. His father’s broken engagement was as much a personal tragedy to Ove as to Gertine, she realized.

She finally picked up the spoon and stirred her soup, listening to the liquid-dampered clink of spoon on bowl. She thought of all the meals she had served to her mother’s guests over the years. The inn had been a wonderful place to grow up. People intrigued Gertine. She would watch guests, seeing every detail in their manner, and imagine their stories. Shy and curious, sometimes she even asked their tale, though not often. Her story-thirst was quenched mostly by the old hired man, Amos, whose storehouse of knowledge overflowed with layers of ancient memory passing through generations of folk as he had once put it. That thought had kept Gertine as spellbound as his stories did. 

What if it’s Karen? asked Ove, interrupting her erratic thoughts. She looked at him in surprise. 

What do you mean? Gertine said with caution, ready to be defensive again.

"Could it be Karen wants the marriage called off?"

No! Sure not. Of this Gertine was certain.

Growing up, Gertine felt close with her older sister. They even shared the same birthday: December 17th, and only one year separated them. Karen was always the proper lady, the perfect hostess who loved a house full of folk in a different way from Gertine. Closing her eyes, Gertine recalled how her sister would float around the dining hall nearly invisible, while refilling cups and clearing empty plates.

It’s possible that Mamma needs Karen to stay and help at the inn, she said.

Ove huffed. Karen’s no child. No servant neither. And if they’re in love...

Gertine looked at Ove across the small table and regarded him tenderly. He had begun eating, absently, and now was nearly done with the meal, sopping up the soup with the soft potato roll. She adored her young husband for his sweet romantic notions of love and marriage. From stories he’d told, loving partnership had been the model throughout his childhood. After his mother died, Ove had helped his father raise his four younger brothers and sisters. Marriage and family were revered, set atop a pedestal, and she knew Ove had every confidence in it. At eighteen he was ready for wedlock and had stepped in with both feet.

Gertine took small sips of her soup. Tastes good, she thought ruefully. They had been married less than a year and it often still felt like they were playing house. She delighted in pleasing him with her cookery, though tonight it seemed superfluous.

Her thoughts flickered back to when they had first met in the marketplace of the mountainous town, thick with noise and smells, more than three years ago. After her brother John left, Gertine was given the job of selling the chicken eggs in town on Saturdays. She’d had little contact with local folk until then; her mother was protective and kept the children close to home. Ove had been buying John’s eggs and now bought them from Gertine. She remembered how Ove had befriended her straight off and made her work much easier. 

And what of the guests already come? she asked. It was a question perhaps rhetorical. What of the guests? They would return to their homes, she supposed. They were mostly relatives from Boye’s side, many of the same that had come to witness her marriage vows to Ove. Her mother had no family. Gertine licked the yoghurt from her hand, savoring the bitter taste, and examined the red welted line on her knuckle half-heartedly.

Ove pushed back from the table. Karen is ready for marriage; they both are, he said, his voice strong and firm. They are right together. He had leaned back into his chair again and crossed his arms over his chest. 

The meal was finished, yet it felt as though they were both waiting for something. They sat there, face to face across the table, with no answers between them.

Finally Ove rose, stoked the embers in the woodstove, and started pulling on layers to go outside for evening chores.

Before going he paused, pondering, then reached for Gertine and drew her into an embrace. Mayhap it won’t be so bad. Worry often gives a small thing a big shadow, Grandma Gjertrud always says.

Small thing? Gertine felt the comfort of his strong arms around her, yet she was incredulous at his words.

He shrugged and smiled, drawing a finger tenderly along her jaw. Mayhap it is righted already, Gert.

She exhaled as she watched him leave. Is there something he isn’t telling me?

While Ove tended the livestock, Gertine cleaned up from dinner and put the clothes away off the drying rack, then sat down to the mending. Ignoring the ache from the burn, she spent most of her time worrying about her sister and her mother.

When Ove came in, his mood had improved, yet he didn’t take up his fiddle. This more than anything told her how upset he was. Not one evening had passed since their wedding day that he hadn’t played for her.

It was a restless bed. Gertine tossed and turned over. Her knuckles stung. Ove rubbed the knots in her shoulders. They clung to each other and they whispered together. They made love and finally grew still. In the darkest part of the night Gertine heard again the whine of the wind through the trees. She could sense the disquiet of the fairy folk far off in the hills, a restiveness akin to her own. She closed her eyes and listened to her husband’s steady breathing and felt secure.

But she didn’t sleep.

*

Gertine could see her mother’s big house with its steep-pitched roof, the old brown barn, the long hay field, all under snow. It still felt like home to her, though life had changed mightily in the past year. Her gelding, Midler, a creamy fjord horse, stepped smartly on short legs down the dirty road that cut through the whiteness, packed and rutted from passing sleigh runners and other riders. To the road’s north was the river; it had been wide across to abrupt snowy hills, but here the river narrowed, the yonder hills even more sheer so that walls of bare earth showed. Evergreen trees nestled at hills’ feet and hid in nooks. On top, a few spindly deciduous trees stood resigned to their nakedness. The southern side of the road was trimmed by a long rock hedge, thickly frosted with snow, snaking past the many family farms with undulating fields and clusters of little store fronts set along this ancient trade route. 

Gertine yawned, lulled by the sway and rhythm of Midler’s stride. The hour to rise had come early, much too early after Gertine’s long fretful night. It was still dark in the late winter of this country so near the coldest northlands. The days were painfully short. Ove was out of bed first, a farmer’s duties calling loudly. Gertine had lain curled under the heavy blankets, hiding from the world. But the day couldn’t be denied for long. It was curiosity and concern that had propelled her up and into the cold darkness.

She was to spend the night with her sister Karen this eve of the wedding. At least that had been the plan. Now she didn’t know what to think, so she was coming anyway. She shivered despite the warmth of the beast she rode, the thick coat she wore over her long wool dress, and the knitted scarf wrapped snugly around her head.

The three-hour ride gave her time to ponder her sister’s situation and her mother’s reasons, and yet she found herself thinking mostly of her father. There was little she knew. Erik Anker had once been a pastor, and although that was before he and her mother were married, Mette had proudly claimed the title of Madam which was always bestowed upon pastors’ wives and widows. Madam Anker never spoke of her lost husband, not that Gertine could remember. She imagined he looked much like her brother John, handsomely chiseled, slight hook to the nose, only older and distinguished, perhaps with grey peppering a ginger beard. She could see in her mind her daddy’s kind eyes, blue like her own, certainly eyes that smiled and reassured. She imagined him a patient, all-knowing sage full of just the right thing to say and do. 

She knew growing up without a father was only part of her story. It was an identity, just as each traveler had a short explanation for themselves: merchant in search of trade partners or peddling his wares, grandparents traveling to visit young ones, young man seeing the mountainous country. Fatherless daughter of the inn matron. Not until she’d met Ove, and then his family, did she realize that she had always felt a loss. She didn’t even know what was missing, merely that she had grown up with an emptiness, in a small but important way.

Other than the smoke curling from the chimney, the place was as still as a drawing. It was dark yet, though barely, and unearthly quiet, as if even the air was holding her breath. But Gertine knew her mother would’ve long since been up to milk the goats and gather eggs before preparing and serving the breakfast meal for the guests. It was now halfway to the midday dinner, and few were likely to be leaving the inn today as most staying in it had come for the wedding. Gertine wondered if they knew the wedding was not to happen.

She suddenly felt silly. It must all be a mistake.

She stabled her horse and stepped quickly across the snow-deep yard. She eased warily into the kitchen, leaving her boots and overnight bag just inside the door. It smelled of nostalgia: a mixture of yeast and marmalade, cinnamon and cheese.

Madam Mette Anker didn’t even look up. Tall and lean, she was busily kneading the bread for the supper meal, always looking ahead to the next task. Suddenly quite happy to be there, Gertine pulled off her hat, scarf, coat, and picked up an apron. She tied it on, rolled back her sleeves and washed up in the basin. Still Mette didn’t speak.

Good morning, Mamma. Are you well?

At this, Mette peered at her sideways, measuring her youngest daughter with her smart sea blue eyes. She wiped floured hands on her apron and came over to hug her, an earnest embrace, but at the same time removed and brief.

Fine, dear. We are all well here. She went back to her work.

Gertine stood perplexed. Then she fell into step with Mette, helping to flour the boards. They went on working until the loaves were all placed. Mette slid the thick oak boards into the oven, and Gertine deftly closed the heavy metal door with a practiced hand. 

And what is Karen needing yet, before the wedding tomorrow?

Mette stopped in her busyness, not moving for several moments. Gertine waited, trying to be brave but sensing mostly the strange quietness of the air again – and feeling like a child who had overstepped her place. Mette turned and, same height as Gertine, looked her full in the face, eyebrows raised and lips pursed thin.

Karen is fine. There will be no wedding, tomorrow or any other day. That man is not a fit husband. He’s neither honorable nor decent, and I cannot allow it. Here Mette paused as though waiting for Gertine’s shocked reaction. When none came, Mette understood that Gertine already knew. And he’s much too old for our Karen. It is what be. She nodded and her face settled into a mother-knows-best look that Gertine recognized well. Gertine was speechless and Mette started in with the meats.

The inn was alive with the normal hum of guests going about their day. Gertine was swept into the familiar work. It was no longer her work, but the rhythm of routine was like a comfortable sweater. In the strangeness of a broken family engagement, Gertine yearned for some comfort.

Their hired man, Amos, came in with an armful of wood. Gertine followed him and hugged him tight when he’d put his load down beside the fireplace. His smartly trimmed beard scratched at her face. Old Amos had lived in the shed house beside the barn for as long as Gertine could remember. He was like a grandfather to her, she imagined, not having anything to compare it.

Be there for yer sister, little Gert. ‘Tis a pattern, this, but one that can be broken, Old Amos murmured to her, and then fixed.

She smiled at him with a question in her eyes, but he was off, on to his other duties. 

The day went on like that, troubled, but fine. They were not preparing for the wedding, as they would have been, the whole reason that Gertine had returned. Instead, this was the regular busywork of running a waystation. Mette said nothing to guests, who apparently did not notice. Gertine inconspicuously searched for Karen as she swept along preparing and cooking.

But Karen was not to be seen.

Then the mood of the inn changed abruptly. A rider arrived. Gertine recognized Lars, a cousin of Boye, who sought out Mette. He delivered the note solemnly and quite publicly. Gertine watched her mother tuck it away in her belt, not even looking at it, not even looking at him. Mette stepped back and stood staring stiffly out the window, waiting for the young man to leave. Lars was pulled away by another relative staying at the