Author's Note: I actually have time to write and edit for once so here's part 2! I will admit that it has been strange writing only from Jack's perspective but it is a nice change of pace since most of what I have written has been from Elsa's POV. A lot of this story has coming of age elements and almost reads like a series of drabbles. I find that is just my writing style, though. Translations/references at the end.
Warnings: Sexuality, references to masturbation.
Chapter 2: The Market
October brought a sea of red that cascaded along the edge of the crop fields, the many hues of fall both blessing and curse: to walk within those woods had been a joyous experience in Jack's youth but now only reminded him of the work that needed to be done. The chill in the air promised the coming of the harvest and so the days grew longer as they grew shorter, and it was often well into evening before Jack would seat himself at the table to accept the remainder of dinner.
He tried not to think of Elsa. He didn't want to remember the hurt in her eyes or how she coldly brushed him off when they were discovered. Yet there were nights when he lay awake, her snow white skin and budding breasts a torment that sent blood flowing below his waist. The few times he let himself relieve his ache, his guilt became the milky essence that coated his fingers and he almost wanted to chop off his own hand in disgust.
Elsa hated him. Of that, he was sure.
He hadn't spoken to her since, though he was certain he caught a glimpse of her. It was while he was tending to the ripening pumpkins some weeks before. The afternoon wasn't especially hot but the ten hours of work he had already put in had him sweating up a storm. Tossing aside his shirt to take advantage of the cool, autumn breeze, he thought he felt a pair of eyes fall upon his tanned shoulders. He ignored it for some time, brushing it off as nothing, but it nagged at the back of his mind until his own curiosity got the better of him. When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw Anna following after a figure that had disappeared down the path between their properties.
"Anna's gone home?" Jack said, swiping at the sweat on his brow.
Emily came over to him and handed him a glass of water, to which he swallowed in a single gulp. "Elsa wants her to help with dinner."
He wanted to inquire further but their mother was already calling for Emily to go inside and start her chores.
Now, it was market day and Jack was setting up their stand in the market square. The little excess pumpkins, grain, and corn that they could spare for bartering littered the surface of their makeshift table, the rest in the cart. Emily fed some hay to Seymour, their old but still robust donkey, as farmers, carpenters, blacksmiths, and other tradesmen from the area, gathered in the square.
Jack had jotted down a list of items they needed. He had been coming to market since after he stopped crawling and was easily able to pick up his father's role after The Accident. A few other tradesmen had given him a rough time in the beginning but most had bartered low out of sympathy. After a while, Jack came into his own and was a welcome face in the market.
"Don't let him eat it all at once, Em," Jack cautioned. "We're gonna be here a while."
The morning passed mostly uneventfully. Jack and Emily managed to procure a new hoe from the Smiths. They also managed to barter off one of their pumpkins to get a few of their tools and utensils sharpened. Their knives had dulled and his mother threatened to scream 'bloody murder' if she had to go another night peeling the potatoes with a blunt knife.
Scrolling over the list, Jack nearly groaned out loud.
Potatoes.
They usually got their potatoes from the Liabråtens. This wasn't a problem, except that Mrs. Overland, who got on as famously with Mr. Liabråten as Jack didn't, was resting at home today. This meant that Jack would have to go and deal with Mr. Liabråten himself.
With a sigh, Jack picked up one of the larger pumpkins. "Mind the stand, Emily."
"Where are you going?"
To my deathbed.
"To get the potatoes. I'll be back shortly."
He didn't like leaving Emily alone but the Smiths had a stand nearby. Jack indicated silently to his sister and Mr. Smith gave a nod of understanding.
Navigating around the square, Jack headed to where he knew the Liabråtens like to set up shop. The bustle of people made it tricky to not bump into the traders and Jack found he was mumbling apologies every few seconds or so. As he swerved to avoid being knocked over by a cart, he stumbled over a black, shiny leather boot and curled his body to keep from dropping the pumpkin. His elbow hit the dirt hard as he came to a vicious crash with the ground.
"Shit!"
"Language, Overland," a thick accented voice practically purred in amusement.
Rubbing at his side, Jack glared up at the tall Scandinavian. "Westergaard."
The 6 foot tall redhead, with perfectly chiseled features and dangerous green eyes, smirked. "You seem to have taken quite the tumble."
"Most decent folk apologize when they knock someone over."
"Accidents happen," the redhead retorted, with a nonchalant shrug.
The Westergaards were not known for their humility, a first generation of Norwegian immigrants who found their luck in cattle ranching. They generally traded with the wealthier estates in the region, though one of two could be found wandering in the local market, especially with the Harvest coming. Preserved meats made for much needed protein in the vicious winter and the Westergaards had the best to offer.
Hans Westergaard, youngest of the Westergaard sons, toed the pumpkin in Jack's grip. "Fruits of your labor? How sad. I'd offer some of our lower grade cured meats but, unfortunately, my family prefers produce that looks edible."
"I'll take my chances on this than whatever poison you're bartering," Jack mumbled, knocking away Hans' foot. He painfully got to his feet and wiped away as best as he could the dust.
"Careful, Overland. You wouldn't want to go making enemies with the wrong people."
Jack had a few choice words he wanted to share but Hans appeared bored of their dialogue and continued on to one of the stands nearby. As much as Hans' poor attitude grated on Jack's nerves, there were some battles left for another time.
Balancing the pumpkin with his un-bruised arm, Jack limped along towards the Liabråten's stand. He tried his best to tidy up his appearance, already on edge for whatever scrutiny Mr. Liabråten would offer, and nearly tripped once again as he saw a familiar face reading quietly.
Elsa's long, elegant fingers turned the pages of the worn copy of Bunyan's The Pilgrim's Progress. Unlike last time, she was fully-clothed in a pearl-colored blouse and pale-green skirts, hair tucked back in a careful braid. It was a strange, but familiar, contrast to the boldness she had displayed weeks before.
"Elsa."
Jack set down the pumpkin on the table. As Elsa's eyes darted up, color splashed across her cheeks.
"Jack."
"I don't think I've seen you at market before."
An awkward moment passed between them. The memory of the skin hidden away beneath the layers made both of them lose composure. Jack found it impossible to look her in the eyes and settled for tracing invisible patterns on the tabletop, trying desperately, and failing, to banish any thoughts of her naked form.
"Father asked I accompany him," she answered, quietly.
"Must be quite boring," Jack mumbled. He indicated to the book in her hand. "That's got to be the millionth time you read that book."
Unlike many of the women in the area, both Anna and Elsa had been lucky enough to receive an education. They still received tutoring regularly enough, due to their family's modest earnings, and both read at a level higher than Jack. Jack was literate enough he could read the Bible, the only book owned by his family, and handle basic contracts. Emily could barely write her own name.
"It's nice to get away from the farm. I sometimes forget there's this many families in the area," she said. "But there's very little I find more intriguing than John Bunyan."
They both fell back into an uncomfortable silence. Jack's heart sank, a cold sense of dread dropping to the pit of his stomach. It had always been so easy to talk to Elsa, who has arguably been the closest friend he's had. When did everything get so complicated?
Feeling that he was overstaying his welcome, Jack whispered, "I should go."
He was ready to pick up the pumpkin when he felt her fingers brush his. "Don't".
The command was so quiet, he could have almost sworn it was the wind. But the warmth that emanated from the tip of his fingers sent a hot shiver across his skin. He looked to where their hands were barely touching so discreetly on the table's surface, inhaling sharply.
"Please don't go," she said again.
It was all so confusing. She could make him feel cold one instant and hot the next. He wasn't sure if he should fan the flames or treat the burn before it left an inevitable scar on him.
Hesitantly, he inched his hand forward, drawing their hands closer until he was linking his fingers in hers. His blood ran hot and she was making him dizzy in a way he had only ever experienced that one time he had tried some good mead. Caution be damned, he was going to burn himself with her flame.
"Jackson."
Elsa withdrew her hand as if it were on fire.
Jack flinched at the harsh octave, his name sounding like a curse to his own ears. Agnarr Liabråten was all business as he came up to Elsa's side, regarding Jack suspiciously.
"Your mother is not at market today?"
It was an observation posed mostly as a question. He may as well have said, "Must I deal with you?" He may have been cordial but his face showed how inconvenienced he was by this.
"No, sir. She's not feeling well."
"Overworked herself again?" Mr. Liabråten inquired. Despite his misgivings about Jack, he was genuinely concerned. "Please send her my regards."
"I'll let her know, sir."
"Here for the usual?" Mr. Liabråten asked. He indicated to his notebook, which Elsa handed to him.
Jack grinned nervously. "Only the best for our neighbor! The pumpkins have come in nicely. I saved one of our largest for you."
Taking a seat beside his daughter, Mr. Liabråten opened the notebook and began jotting down notes with a quill. His neat scrawl was written in a script Jack couldn't read, though he suspected that Agnarr wrote his records in Norwegian.
"Oaken, 1lb poteter." (1)
A tall, bulky man with a jovial face picked up a sack from the Liabråten's large produce cart. Jack recognized him as one of the immigrant farmhands who worked for the Liabråtens. Although pleasant, Jack had never exchanged more than a few words with Oaken since the man hardly spoke any English.
"Thanks, Oaken," Jack said, to which the taller man simply smiled obliviously. Jack flinched as he took the sack with his bad arm and nearly dropped it.
Elsa's eyes widened in concern but she remained silent, hands crossed in her lap. It would hardly be appropriate for her to converse while her father was closing a transaction.
"You know, Jackson," Mr. Liabråten began, disapproval laced in his tone, "we have been neighbors for many years…"
Jack stiffened.
"…and I have watched you grow up before you were ready. What happened to your father was a tragedy none of us could foresee."
Jack straightened his posture. "They say suffering produces endurance, endurance produces character. (2) We may have been dealt a bad hand, but we get by."
"That may be true, for one so young. You have many years of tilling the soil ahead of you. But your mother—"
"I do my best to take care of her," Jack cut in. There was an edge to his tone. Social conventions said he should treat an older, and more successful, farmer with the utmost respect. But he was coming under a familiar scrutiny that ate away at his pride.
"Even so, it wouldn't be neighborly of me to ignore the struggles of a fellow farmer. I have extra hands who would be more than willing to offer you assistance in the harvest."
For what appeared a generous offer as a concerned neighbor was really a veiled insult. Jack was the heir to his father's land. Any charity he accepted was a public announcement of his inability to run a farm on his own and would lower his status among the other traders in the market.
The Overlands lived in a constant state teetering between survival and poverty. But he'd be damned if he owed Agnarr anything.
"I'm afraid I'll have to decline, sir. But your concern is duly noted."
The frostiness in his voice didn't escape Mr. Liabråten's notice.
"Humility is not taught but learned," Mr. Liabråten said, narrowing his eyes. "You could gain more of that character you speak so smugly about."
"Pappa," Elsa said, a plea in her voice.
"Gutten kan ikke løfte en sekk med poteter," (3) Mr. Liabråten said, irritably.
Jack was certain it was some kind of insult, though all he could understand was "boy" and "potatoes". A vicious retort danced on his tongue.
"I'm afraid that would be my fault."
Jack never thought he would see the day he would be grateful for Hans. The obnoxious redhead was all smiles as he approached the stand, respectfully dipping his head.
"Herr Liabråten."
Immediately, Mr. Liabråten stood, bowing his head and grasping Hans' proffered hand in a tight grip. "Herr Westergaard. Hvordan har du det?" (4)
"Quite well. Though I must admit, with some embarrassment, I am the reason Herr Overland is limping about like some lame mutt." With an apologetic smile, Hans clapped Jack on the shoulder that was bruised, causing the slimmer man to visibly cringe. "We had quite the collision earlier. I must make more effort to tread carefully in these markets."
"You can hardly be blamed, Herr Westergaard," Mr. Liabråten said. "It is quite crowded today. Accidents happen."
It made Jack's stomach turn at how easily everyone bought Westergaard's act. The man had not a kind bone in his body but with a charming smile, and a lot of money to his name, he had everyone in this market fighting to lick the shit off his boots.
"Cordialities aside, there is an important business matter that needs to be discussed." Hans caught Elsa's gaze, seeming to scrutinize her. To Jack's dismay, he saw her redden and shift uncomfortably, as if she was trying to shrink into the table. The exchange troubled him, jealousy clawing beneath the grim expression set on his face. But his pride had already taken a vicious beating and he was too dispirited to reflect more on the matter.
Looking back to Mr. Liabråten, Hans smiled. "If you have the time, that is."
"Of course, Herr Westergaard." With little more than a wave of his hand, Agnarr said, "I do hope your mother recovers soon, Jackson. Oaken, poteter."
Jack had no more fight in him. With a light bow of his head, he limped beside Oaken and walked back towards his cart. He could feel Elsa's concerned eyes on him but he was too ashamed to look back and see the pity on her face.
She may not have hated him like he thought. But she most certainly thought very little of him now.
.
1 Oaken, 1 lb of potatoes.
2 Romans 5:3
3 The boy can't carry a sack of potatoes.
4 Mr. Westergaard. How are you?