Ch 145
The train pulled up to the station in Kederhelm the following morning, shortly after eight. Only a handful of riders disembarked at the small train depot, the seats relatively empty as there were only two stops remaining on the route.
Our trunks were promptly removed from our carriage and set on a cart in the middle of the platform along with a half-dozen other trunks and suitcases from the other people who had reached their destination.
I followed Lan down the narrow aisle of mostly vacant seats and toward the exit where men for hire awaited the word that they could push our trunks to the street outside and load it onto a cab for a fee.
"I would like to send a telegram to Julia," I said.
Phelan nodded. "I'll wait with our trunks."
The telegram counter was at the furthest end of the station from our train, situated between a booth selling refreshments and snacks and a stand with newspapers and gifts.
I filled out the form required, wrote out my message telling Julia I had arrived, and asked for any return messages to be delivered to our hotel.
The woman at the counter handed the form to a gentleman seated before a telegraph machine, and once my message was sent, I paid and returned to where Phelan stood watching passengers form a line to board the next departing train.
The commotion involved with acquiring transportation was overwhelming. Phelan waved a carriage to stop in the middle of the street, but the man driving the horses gestured wildly and motioned for my brother to move out of the road.
"He isn't for hire," I said, pulling Phelan out of the street before the horses plowed over him.
"How do you know?"
"Because that is what he is shouting, along with what I assume is a bit of colorful language."
"Colorful language directed at me? Rude."
"I assume that is what he is saying as Claude's tutoring was limited to polite conversation."
"Ah, yes, I doubt Claude is capable of speaking impolitely no matter the language. Offensive language aside, hopefully you can find us a cab that will deliver us to Skyderhelm."
"Me?" I furrowed my brow.
"As the only one of us who speaks Danish, yes, you."
He pushed me forward. "Hail a cab."
"Lan–"
"Oh, for God's sake, I'll do the hard part and you do the talking," he grumbled before furiously waving his arms about above his head like a madman.
Thankfully a carriage pulled up and the driver asked where we were heading. Once I gave the address, he nodded, mumbled the amount he desired in compensation, and whistled for the men outside of the train station to load our trunks.
"How much is seventy-three krone to francs?" I asked Phelan.
"About forty francs and it is what I've paid in the past. Although at this moment I want nothing more than for a change of scenery and a hot bath."
"Agreed," I said, as I stuffed forty francs into the driver's waiting hand. For thirty-six hours of barely moving within our train car, I was exhausted and desired a room that wasn't moving back and forth.
The train station was in the middle of a town that was a fraction of the size of Paris. I'd barely had the opportunity to sit back on the bench when the countryside emerged in rolling pastures for as far as the eye could see, separated by small villages with brightly colored buildings adorned with window boxes overflowing with flowers.
There were cows grazing everywhere, as well as the smell of cattle, wood smoke, and salt from the sea permeating the air.
"The ground is more flat than I imagined," I observed.
"It tends to be nothing but cows, wheat, and barley," Phelan said. "I've drawn dozens of cows over the years while visiting. I could probably have an entire gallery show with just cattle grazing. How do you think that would go over?"
"Alex would enjoy it," I said.
"Well, as long as my nephew approves, to hell with the critics."
We sat in silence and my mind decided somewhere between the train station and the outskirts of Skyderhelm that I should consider every possible disastrous scenario, starting with the worst outcome of being chased off the property by my grandmother, the ax in her hands wildly swinging back and forth. I imagined our grandfather slamming the door in my face, how my hopes of being welcomed would turn to the dread of returning to Paris on the next train, silent and dejected.
"Did you forget something on the train?" Phelan asked. "After I specifically told you to make sure you'd returned everything to your trunk?"
I touched my masked cheek, startled by the sound of his voice. "I believe I took everything with me," I answered.
He turned his full attention to me. "You look… uneasy."
I considered dismissing his words or outright disagreeing with him, but instead looked away and said nothing.
Phelan gave a heavy sigh of frustration. "What is it?" he asked. "You've been silent off and on for two days now."
"What if they don't want to meet me?" I asked. "What if she shrieks and he…"
Orders me to leave, attempts to strike me, successfully strikes me in the face, removes my mask…or my hairpiece. What if their outrage is witnessed by the carriage driver? What if one of their neighbors comes to their aid with a pistol?
My stomach was in knots, my fingertips tingling and feet ice cold. I had successfully put myself into a spiral of panic with no end in sight.
Phelan shifted his weight and eyed me. "Well, considering they are both standing at the end of their property, I would say they are very interested in meeting you. Or at least they're excited to see me. But then who wouldn't want to see me?"
"At the end of their…" I peered out the window as the carriage bumbled down a narrow road and came to a stop in front of the drive leading up to a quaint farmhouse.
The two-story wooden structure was light blue in color with a dark blue door and white lace curtains. Their home looked like a giant and somewhat neglected dollhouse with its overgrown flowers and bushes outside and a tangle of weeds and foliage twisted around a white picket fence.
Standing at the end of the road, however, was a tiny, crooked old woman in a brown dress with a red shawl who leaned against a much taller and slender old man in a white button down shirt and dark gray slacks. His back was bent, his neck at an odd angle like a vulture. The old woman furiously tapped the old man on the shoulder and he nodded, clearly lacking the enthusiasm she displayed for our arrival.
My fears became more magnified as the carriage rolled to a stop and then thankfully disappeared altogether when the old woman cupped the man's face in her hands and leaned forward, squeezing his cheeks as she kissed him. He smiled back at her at last and shook his head, humoring his wife.
Phelan opened the carriage door and hopped out, surveying the road and the house.
"Hilda, Toke," he said in German. "You both look well."
"Phelan!" At once the old woman left the man's side and hobbled toward my brother. She extended her arms, red shawl slipping from her shoulders as she hurried toward him.
She said nothing more verbally, but she gestured wildly, welcoming my brother toward her with her arms open where she engulfed him in a tight embrace, the wrinkles around her mouth deepening as she pulled him closer.
I noticed she pinched his side and shook her head. "Thin," she said in German. "Too thin, like a sack of sticks."
Phelan pulled her hand away and kissed her forehead. "Nonsense."
"Where is my little grandson?" she asked in Danish. "Where is my Erik?"
Immediately my breath hitched. My name sounded different on her lips than it ever had when anyone had called me. There was richness in her voice and an over abundance of affection that I hadn't expected.
I stepped out of the carriage, first catching my grandfather's attention. He regarded me for a moment from head to toe, his expression unreadable. I couldn't tell if he was disappointed or simply curious when he stared at the mask.
"Erik?" he questioned. He examined my masked face, his blue eyes keen beneath his silver furrowed brow. He was as regal as Phelan's painting had depicted him, a proud and handsome Viking king with a stillness to him.
My heart stuttered as we both stared at one another. I stood motionless, awaiting his assessment as I had countless times beneath the scrutinizing glare of hundreds of strangers who came to view a monster during my time with the traveling fair. Thoughts swam through my head, and doubt returned, heavier than before as I waited for him to decide if he wished to welcome or dismiss me from his home.
The old woman brushed past her husband and walked toward me, her steps sure but gait uneven with age and arthritis. The hem of her skirt was covered in splatters of mud, her boots caked with dirt, but her hands were clean and extended toward me with an abundance of tenderness.
She paused within arm's reach and regarded me with unexpected sweetness in her gaze, her toothless smile wide and warm. Her hair was more silver than black as it had been in the painting my brother had shown me. She wore her hair in many thin braids tied together with leather string and small, colorful beads.
Even though I had mostly forgotten my mother's face, my grandmother was familiar to me. I saw similarities in myself when I looked into her gentle green eyes and swore I saw hints of my mother, forgotten memories of sharp features, eyes that matched mine, and a long, graceful neck.
"Grandson," Hilda said in Danish. She sounded almost relieved when she addressed me, as if she had feared I would not be in the carriage with my brother. "My grandson. My beloved Erik."
Her voice was light and beautiful, like wind rustling the leaves on a tepid summer night. The way in which she said my name was the most perfect sound, her expression soft and filled with love.
She reached for me and I put my arms out, allowing her to grasp my fingers. She squeezed the tips tightly, then brushed her fingertips down the back of my hand as she gazed up at me.
"How I have waited to meet you, my dear grandson."
"Grandmother," I replied in Danish, a name I had never expected to speak. She was breathtakingly beautiful with her silver hair and pale green eyes. Her skin was deeply wrinkled but still fair and I imagined she had caught the eye of many suitors in her youth. "I am quite honored to meet you and my grandfather."
Toke turned his attention swiftly from Phelan to me. "You speak Danish?"
I nodded, relieved that he addressed me, that his gaze softened. "I have taken lessons for weeks, as I greatly desire to communicate with both of you," I answered.
His blue eyes widened, and at last he allowed himself to smile. "You have a good voice, Grandson, a strong voice," he said. "Same as your brother."
I nodded and thanked him.
"Please tell Phelan to go inside," Toke said. "No fixing fences today."
"What did he say? I heard my name," Phelan said. He was standing beside the carriage driver with the pamphlet to our hotel in hand, instructing the driver where to leave our trunks as it was far too early for us to check into our rooms.
"Our grandfather wants you to go inside," I said.
"Tell him I'm not tired and I will mend fences as I see fit," Phelan responded.
Our grandfather took a step toward Phelan and shook his finger in his direction. "Tell him not to argue with an old man."
"He says–"
"He's telling me not to argue with him. I know." Phelan said before I finished. He smiled to himself and walked toward Toke where he patted our grandfather on the back. "Body language needs no translation."
Toke and Phelan started toward the house, both of them speaking a different language but somehow still seeming to communicate their thoughts. Age and farm labor had bent our grandfather's back into a crooked slope, but he still managed to carry himself with dignity and stood nearly as tall as my brother.
"Erik."
Unexpectedly my grandmother wrapped her arms around me, her cheek pressed to my chest. A tear escaped her tightly shut eyes, which she ignored as she squeezed me tighter.
I melted into her embrace, into the arms I had waited a lifetime to feel engulf me. She was everything my own mother was not: fearless, gentle, and loving. I hadn't realized how greatly I had wanted her maternal affection, how incomplete my mother's denial had left me and how whole my grandmother's unconditional love made me feel.
"There," she said, rubbing my back. I inhaled, smelling rosemary and lavender on her clothing as I gently put my arms around her.
I rested the good side of my face against the top of her head and smiled to myself. The tension I carried eased as she said my name again and again. My dear Erik. My beloved. My Erik. My Grandson.
"The baby," she said fondly. "You are the baby from the paintings Phelan has given me."
"My grandmother," I replied. "My sweet grandmother from the paintings Phelan has shown me."
She drew back and looked up at me, her gaze filled with nothing but adoration. Her expression never faltered when she looked at the masked side of my face, her acceptance unwavering.
I was certain not a single person had ever looked at me the way that she did, with the unconditional love that should have been shared between a parent or grandparent and a child.
"I look older than I did in the paintings," she said. "My hair was black as a raven, my face not creased. I am barely recognizable."
"If you were expecting me to look the same as I did in the paintings, I am afraid you would be disappointed as I am no longer an infant."
She chuckled to herself. "You may be older, but you will always be the baby of the family, my baby. My Erik."
My throat unexpectedly tightened. For most of my life I had been alone, mercifully taken in by someone to whom I had no relation and treated like family, but there had always been something missing. Discovering first I had a cousin, then an older brother and now grandparents was overwhelming and welcomed at the same time. I had a place. A tribe. A family.
"I speak to you every night before bed," she told me, her voice barely above a whisper. It seemed impossible for her to hold me any closer, but somehow her arms managed to squeeze me until I could barely breathe. "I tell you every night that I love you, I wish you good health and happiness, and I wish to see you before God takes me home. You are the prayer I have waited to hear answered."
Her eyes filled with tears and she straightened my collar. "And now my beloved Phelan has brought to me my little grandson Erik," she said. "My boys are finally together, my family beneath our humble roof. Welcome, Erik, welcome to our home, to your home in Skyderhelm."
oOo
Hilda kept her hand on my arm as we walked into their home. She continued to gaze up at me and smile to herself, and her reaction settled my thoughts and warmed my insides. My doubts seemed quite distant at last, my heart settled.
"Danish?" she marveled. "You have learned to speak Danish?"
I nodded. "For you."
"Who taught you?"
"An artist friend of mine."
"What is his name?"
"Claude Gillis."
She turned her head to the side and furrowed her brow. "Claude Gillis? I do not believe I know him."
I chuckled at her reply. "Do all people of Danish descent know one another?"
She squeezed my hand. "It is possible. Denmark is a small country."
"You are staying in the hotel?" Toke asked. His question was directed at Phelan, who looked at me for a translation.
"Yes, we are," I answered. "Staying at the hotel," I added in French so that my brother was included in the conversation.
Our grandfather grunted. "The food is not good there. The cook has no taste." He pretended to spit, emphasizing his disdain for the hotel's chef.
Hilda patted my arm. "I will feed you," she promised. She looked up and smiled at me. "I will send you back to your home fat and happy."
Toke walked to the back of the room and drew back a curtain. "There is plenty of room for you to stay," he said. "Empty. See?"
The room he revealed was barely big enough for two people to stand in side-by-side, let alone have room enough to sleep. The floor was covered with a tarp caked in mud, straw and hoof prints from apparently housing calves. There was a board propped up against the wall that I assumed made the room into a stall so that the inhabitants couldn't wander around their home unattended.
"No," Phelan said firmly.
"No?" Toke said, planting his hands on his hips.
"That is your cow room," Phelan argued. "Erik, how do I say 'cow' in Danish?"
"Ko," I answered.
"Ah, yes, now I remember. Sounds nearly identical to German, honestly. "Ko, Toke, Ko." He pointed at the room. "We will not stay in a room built for ko."
Our grandfather waved a dismissive hand at my brother. "Bah!"
"Moo!" Phelan replied. "Not baaa, moo."
Again our grandfather wildly waved his hands around. "Bad grandson," he said. "Argues too much."
"I don't know what you're saying, but I disagree," Phelan said.
Hilda released my arm and chuckled to herself. "Sit, Phelan," she said in German to Phelan. "No more animal sounds."
"Your husband is the one who started it, insisting we sleep in the cow room," Phelan said.
I had no idea how much of what my brother said was understood by either of our grandparents, but while Toke crossed his arms and grumbled something under his breath, Hilda wrapped her arms around Phelan and kissed his cheek.
"Quiet, grandson," she said in German. "Be still."
My brother did precisely as she requested and melted into her grasp, leaning forward to accept her freely given affection. His gruff expression faded, replaced by a grin that was almost boyish in nature.
"How would I tell her to stop fussing in Danish?" Phelan asked when he caught me observing the two of them.
I thought for a moment and said to my grandmother, "Phelan asks that you never stop fussing over him."
Hilda inhaled and kissed him again several times. "Beloved, beloved, beloved," she said in Danish. Again she pinched his side. "You have my word I will never stop fussing over you, not until you are fat and wed." She looked toward me and nodded. "He is difficult."
"He is," I agreed. "Impossible, even."
Phelan half-heartedly glared at me. "I will tell Claude you are abusing his first language."
"Are you hungry?" Hilda asked the two of us. "Eat," she said in German to Phelan.
I had a feeling that if I told her we had been fed quite well on the train that she would be disappointed, so I answered that we were famished. Delighted, Hilda squeezed my arm one last time before she made her way into the kitchen where she promised a hearty, Danish breakfast.
"My baby is too thin," she said to me. "Both of my grandsons must eat. There is not enough meat on your ribs for me to pinch." She gestured with her fingers the desire to pinch the two of us, to which Phelan shook his head.
"No pinching!"
Hilda giggled like a young girl. "Nothing to pinch on either of you. Sit, relax. I will start your meal."
"How was the train from France?" Toke asked once Hilda was in the kitchen clattering pots and pans around. He slowly eased himself into a well-worn chair, the high back of which was occupied by a gray tabby cat twice the size of Aria that I hadn't noticed when we walked into the room. The cat didn't seem to notice us, either, and continued to sleep on the back of the chair undisturbed.
I translated to Phelan and relayed the conversation back and forth between the three of us.
"Long," I said, which was the general consensus between the two of us. "But pleasant."
Toke eyed me with curiosity. I couldn't tell if it was the mask, the fact that I was an adult and not an infant, or if he simply hadn't expected to be able to communicate with his grandsons in his native tongue.
"Your home is beautiful," I said when the conversation paused.
Toke grunted. "Small," he said. "Not like the homes in Paris."
"Have you been to Paris?" I asked. "Or Brussels?"
He shook his head and pulled at his suspenders. "I have never left Skyderhelm in my eighty-six years on this earth."
I couldn't imagine living my entire life on the outskirts of Conforeit. Although most of it had not been voluntary, I had traveled throughout Europe and beyond, admiring the architecture and customs that were exclusive to different parts of the world. Every region had different smells, dialects, and unique sounds in their music.
"Phelan!" our grandmother called from the kitchen.
My brother was immediately on his feet. "You had better not be standing on a chair," he said as he walked into the kitchen. "Hilda! Get down!"
With Phelan in the other room, the conversation with Toke abruptly ended and I wasn't sure what to say to him. I wished I had dedicated at least an hour of the thirty-six spent on the train to creating a list of topics worthy of discussion, something far more interesting than the weather and less divisive than politics.
"You look like her," Toke said quietly, as if he wanted to keep the words exchanged between us a secret. He looked me over much as he had the moment I stepped out of the carriage, his expression largely unreadable. "Like Gyda."
I wasn't certain how to take his comment, whether it was an observation or a fault I should have apologized for despite my lack of control over whom I resembled.
He touched his own face below his eye and around the outer edge of his cheek and nodded.
"But you are different."
The hairs on my arms stood on end and I swallowed. I wanted to tell him I was keenly aware that I had always been different, that every single person, whether they realized it or not, always stared at the mask or my exposed face. Strangers couldn't help themselves, I knew. I was different; alarmingly grotesque in appearance to thousands of people who had paid to view a creature that was similar to them, but labeled a monster. Some people shrieked while I was still hooded. Women fainted before I was revealed to the crowd, the anticipation of what they would witness more than they could bear.
I looked away from him and studied the fireplace mantel adorned with candle sticks and small framed paintings, most of which I assumed had been gifted by my brother. The room was too dimly lit for me to be able to see the smaller portraits clearly, but it looked like children and I assumed at least one was of my mother.
The parlor was quite large, the space opening up to a smaller dining room with a table that took up most of the available space. There were herbs and flowers tied with twine hanging from the curtain rod that gave a light, pleasant smell to the room and I inhaled, noticing rosemary and lavender immediately, the scent that I associated with my grandmother.
Phelan and Hilda's conversation was nothing more than a murmur behind a closed door filled with equal parts shouting and laughter while the parlor where I sat with Toke was silent, interrupted by the pop of embers in the fireplace and the purr of a sleeping cat.
"How was she?" Toke asked suddenly.
I turned my attention back to him and blinked, unsure of what to say or how to describe his daughter and what she had been to me.
"I…" Words eluded me.
"Gyda was…pain," Toke said, his face crumpling to reflect discomfort. He pressed his palm to the side of his head and kept his voice low. "She was in pain, always, but we could not see it."
Gooseflesh rose along my arms and I suppressed a shiver. She had always been anxious from what I could recall, nervously rocking in her chair, pulling at her own tangled hair in frustration, muttering through her cracked lips. Hour after hour, from the time she woke until she drank from a small red bottle and slept, she whispered and shouted to herself.
Toke tapped the inside of his elbow and ran his fingers down to his wrist. "And we could not help her, no matter what we tried."
Phelan had mentioned that our mother had been bled in an attempt to release whatever invisible illness had plagued her, that her family had desperately sought the assistance of a Christian god and the norse ones as well, but nothing brought relief to their daughter.
"She was not happy," Toke continued. "Not like her sister."
"She was a twin, yes?" I asked.
Toke appeared surprised by my inquiry. "Did Gyda speak of her sister?"
"No, Phelan told me she had a twin sister."
He made a deep, guttural sound. "What did he tell you?"
I shook my head. "Nothing more than she was a twin and had a younger brother."
Toke frowned. "They were the same person," he said. "Greta and Gyda."
I furrowed my brow, uncertain of what he meant.
Toke sighed, realizing his words were not completely understood. He shifted in his chair and gestured as if somehow waving his arms around would make his statement clearer.
"Same," he said. "They were the same."
"They looked the same?" I struggled to find the correct word and reverted to French. "Identical twins." Toke blankly stared at me and I repeated my phrase in German, hoping that the words were similar in Danish for him to understand me.
"Yes, but…" He pursed his lips and held his hand to his chest. "Inside. Same."
"They acted the same?"
"Mind," he said, shaking his head. He laced his fingers together. "Thoughts. Same thoughts. Same voice. Pain. Joy. Kildre."
"Kildre?"
He pretended to tickle himself and I nodded, understanding what he meant.
"Kildre Greta, Gyda feel."
I turned my head to the side. "They felt the same physical sensation?" I said. Again I had difficulty finding the correct words and wasn't certain I arranged my thoughts in the correct order.
"Yes," he answered. "Yes, they both feel. One hurt, both in pain. One laugh, other feel joy. One cry, other cry. They were the same mind, but different bodies."
They shared the bond of siblings who had been together since before they were born, a closeness no one else could possibly understand.
"Same," I said, nodding. "I understand."
At last he appeared relieved. "Gyda knew," he said, his voice filled with grief. "When Greta drukne. You know what I say?"
I nodded and lowered my gaze. There were words that Claude had not taught me, words that I doubted he thought I would need to learn when speaking to my grandparents, and although he had not specifically said drukne, I knew what my grandfather spoke of when he mentioned his twin daughters.
"She was young," I said.
"Yes."
"She could not swim?"
Toke shook his head and shrugged. "It was winter. Gyda was in the barn cleaning and Greta was supposed to be in town. Gyda ran screaming to her mother and said that Greta could not breathe. We thought it was…" he tapped the side of his head. "Illness. Illness that could not be cured. We made Gyda rest, but an hour later Greta did not return home. By nightfall, she was still missing and Gyda said she could not feel her. They were not the same. Gyda said a part of herself had gone cold and quiet."
My skin prickled at the thought of their one daughter missing and the other, prone to madness, insisting that her twin couldn't breathe and that she had gone cold.
"We searched everywhere. Skyderhelm, the roads, around the barn and house. One of our neighbors found Greta two days later in the frozen pond on the other side of our fence," he said quietly.
"She drowned in the pond?"
Toke wiped his eyes. "We think she attempted to cross the ice on her way home, a short cut from the road. The girls were always on the ice in the winter, but it was not solid that day. The pond swallowed her."
My heart sank. I could scarcely imagine what my grandparents and mother must have felt losing their daughter in such tragic fashion.
"After we lost Greta, Gyda was different. We were all different, but Gyda no longer spoke. She was not whole, always half. Always missing part of herself."
I thought of my uncle and the brevity of our time together, how after only a few months I had felt more attached to him than I'd ever felt to anyone and how his death had truly broken me. Part of me had been left behind, buried with him. I couldn't imagine the loss of a sibling or a child–and I prayed that I never would.
"Careful around the fire," Phelan said. "Hilda! You will burn yourself."
"Quiet, Grandson," Hilda replied.
"I don't know why I bother helping when all you do is ignore me," Phelan groused.
Toke leaned forward in his chair and gave a single nod. "We do not speak of the children," he said, keeping his voice low and even. "Understood?"
"You and your wife?" I questioned, my brow furrowed.
"No one." He sat back, reaching up to pet the cat behind his head. "No one speaks of the children."
"Who is hungry?" Hilda asked as she walked into the parlor with Phelan at her heels. She clasped her hands and regarded the two of us seated in the parlor. "My husband and our beloved grandson together, sharing stories."
"No stories." Toke cleared his throat and gave me a look I was certain was meant to be a warning. "Let us eat together, as a family."