Winterfrost (2 page)

The horses snorted impatiently as she dug into bags of grain with the feed scoop. Their breath rose in puffs of white vapor from their wide, round nostrils and then quickly disappeared in the cold. Of all the animals in the barn, Bettina adored her father’s horses most and gave them extra attention, stroking their velvety noses while she spoke first to Hans and then to Henrietta.

“You must be hungry. You’re going to love this!”

Farfar could recall when horses were a necessary part of field work. But on a modern Danish farm, machinery had changed a horse’s place from one of work to one of pleasure. And no one enjoyed the horses as much as Bettina. She had been saving for nearly a year to buy a horse of her own. Every bit of chore money or birthday money had gone into an empty Earl Grey tea tin that she kept hidden under her bed. Just last night she had slipped the Christmas money she’d gotten in a card from Aunt Inge into the tin and made a wish that it would never be used for anything other than her very own chestnut mare.

The goats were shoving and fighting for position in front of the feed bunk before Bettina even got around to breaking a bale of hay for them. She spoke to the noisy creatures with less affection than she had shown the horses. Even after they’d been fed, they seemed more interested in chewing Bettina’s sleeves than the hay.

“Move over, you! Let go of that!” She pushed a big-bellied brown goat aside, but he came right back to chomp on her scarf. Bettina used her whole body to shove the nosy animal.

“Move out of my way!”

Finally, the goat gave up and turned his chewing attention to the wooden gate.

The chickens were the easiest to feed, as they were much less particular. Wherever their food landed, they would find it with their beaks, curved and sharp like the nose on a witch.

With the animals fed and watered, Bettina had only to stoke the fire in the big stove in the wood room, and then she and Pia could return to the house for the night. Like many old Danish farms, the Larsens’ house and the barn sat next to each other. The house stood close to the road, and the red-brick barn stretched out the back toward the forest. Between the two, firewood filled a small room floor to ceiling. Far and their neighbor Rasmus Pedersen had spent months chopping wood, supplying the two families with ample fuel for the cold winter. A wood-burning stove warmed the home and kept the barn at a comfortable temperature for the animals, especially on cold Lolland nights.

Bettina gazed at the pile of wood. There was more than enough wood to keep the entire family warm until spring. Of course, Bettina’s parents would be gone just a few days, not all winter. Far would be back in less than a week. And Mor had only taken the train as far as Århus.

Bettina’s thoughts returned to Christmas Eve. The family had barely finished their meal of Christmas duck and rice pudding when the kitchen phone jingled. But instead of cheerful holiday greetings on the line, it was bad news. Mormor had fallen. She needed surgery on her hip. And with no one to sit with her at the hospital, decisions had to be made carefully and quickly. Mor would make the trip, stay until Mormor was released, and then bring her back to Lolland, where she could heal with the loving attention of her family.

Mor being gone a few days would have been no problem, except that Far was already planning to leave in the morning. Each year on Christmas Day, Far journeyed to Skagen, at the northernmost tip of Denmark, to visit old Uncle Viggo. It wasn’t exactly a trip he looked forward to, as Uncle Viggo was cranky and smoked the stinkiest of pipe tobaccos and rarely left his damp, musty cottage by the Kattegat Sea. But every year Far went for the week between Christmas and the new year. And every year he returned with enough tales of odd Uncle Viggo to entertain the family for weeks. Putting off the trip was not an option. Uncle Viggo would have thrown a conniption that could have been heard all the way to Sweden.

“A hospital and a stuffy old cottage are no place for a baby,” Mor had fretted.

“Bettina can handle the barn chores and taking care of Pia,” Far had said matter-of-factly. “After all, Pia’s hardly an infant. And Bettina cares for her every day. Besides, the Pedersens are right next door if the girls need anything.”

Mor looked uncertain, but when Far added, “Isn’t that right, Bettina?” Bettina spoke right up.

“Of course. I’ll take care of everything.” It was a great deal of responsibility, but Bettina was undaunted. She was, after all, the mature and responsible older sister.

Mor was still a bit hesitant, but Far’s certainty and Bettina’s confidence eased her worries. While the situation wasn’t ideal, it was the best the family could do on such short notice. Bettina was quite capable, and the Pedersens next door would look in on the girls regularly. Besides, nothing ever happened on the sleepy island of Lolland in the dead of winter. What could possibly go wrong?

As Bettina stuffed the firebox full of wood, the heat from the fire rose and warmed her frosty cheeks. Another kind of warmth swelled deep beneath her coat and layers of clothing. It was pride. She had taken care of the meal, the house, the animals, the fire, and baby Pia. If she’d had any worries of being alone and in charge (which she didn’t), they would have melted away like chocolate left too near the fire.

Yes, everything appeared to be perfectly in order on that Christmas night. Mor was taking care of Mormor, whose hip would heal with time. Far was off to appease a lonely and demanding old uncle. And Bettina was putting her baby sister to bed and turning out the last light in the red-brick house on the Larsen farm. Everything appeared to be just fine.

But something was out of order.

In their haste over the holiday meal, in their rush to get Mor and Far on their way, in their concern for Mormor, the Larsens had forgotten one very important Christmas tradition. And someone close by was not very happy at all.

Young Klakke peered out from a small crack in the hayloft window, not daring to move and hardly daring to breathe. What was happening with the Larsens? He simply had to know — even though it was nearly daylight and, under normal circumstances, he would have been well out of sight. But today’s circumstances were anything but normal. And his curiosity proved stronger than any warnings that Gammel had tried to instill in his young mind about the dangers of breaking the rules.

Klakke opened the window just a smidge wider. Why were the Larsens gathering in the barnyard at this odd hour? He scooched forward for a closer look.

Watching the Larsens was not a new pastime for Klakke. In fact, it wasn’t a pastime at all. It was his job. The family had been his responsibility for years now. And though he spent his nights trekking about in the forest, he was usually asleep in the highest part of the Larsens’ barn long before the sun crept up over the frozen fields of Lolland. This was his place. His home. He looked after the family and the animals, doing what little kindnesses he could for such a small being.

And the Larsens? Well, they had always been quite kind to Klakke as well, though they knew very little of his existence. They had never seen him. And they certainly didn’t know his name, which was as it should be.

Klakke knew some of the Larsens believed in nisse. The children always believed. Until a certain age, anyway. And the old grandfather had undoubtedly known Klakke was there. But the younger Mr. Larsen and his wife? And the girl Bettina? Klakke couldn’t be sure about them, but he knew one thing to be true — Mr. Larsen was no fool. A Danish farmer with any sense at all would do well to recognize that his barn
could
be home to a nisse, and should that be the case, he’d best stay on the nisse’s good side.

Klakke knew he should have been deep in the cover of the hayloft on this Christmas morning. But at the tender age of sixty-two, Klakke was a young nisse and his sense of curiosity overpowered what little common sense he’d managed to store up. At the moment, he was glued to the crack in the hayloft window. His plump little fingers held it open just enough to see the family in the barnyard below.

The older Larsen girl, Bettina, stood in the doorway of the house with the little one they called Pia. Both waved as their mother and father left the driveway in the family’s small red car and headed toward town. Klakke was clever and observant, and when he saw the large suitcases they took along, he quickly deduced that Mr. and Mrs. Larsen would be away for more than a day.

The door of the house closed, and the Larsen sisters disappeared inside. Klakke let the hayloft window close, too. There was nothing more to see out there.

Klakke wished he could venture out to tell Gammel about the Larsens; perhaps Gammel could explain why the Larsen parents were acting so strangely. But he dared not go where he might be seen. So Klakke settled into the straw feeling very unsettled and also very hungry.

For the Larsens had neglected their nisse last night. Christmas Eve, the one night each year when all Danish families — believers and unbelievers alike — acknowledge even the
possibility
of a nisse by placing a bowl of warm, bubbly rice pudding in the barn after the holiday meal. That small gesture was all it would take to appease their nisse friend for another year. And every year, without fail, the Larsens had left the bowl of pudding in the barn, topped with a nice clump of golden butter — because melted butter pleases a nisse more than just about anything.

Klakke remembered how Bettina had hollered with delight in years past when she found the empty bowl in the mow the next morning, every buttery drop of pudding licked clean. He scoffed at the adults who rationalized among themselves that the pudding had been devoured by hungry barn cats. But the young and the wise knew differently. To them, it was more than a holiday ritual — it was a time-honored fact.
Take care of your nisse, and your nisse will take care of you.

The Larsens had never strayed from tradition. Not once had Klakke been overlooked on Christmas Eve.

Until now.

For the first time in twelve years, Klakke questioned having left his home in Falster, his parents, and his beloved twin sister, Klara, to come to the Larsen farm. Had he left his family only to be forgotten by the Larsens?

Klakke grumbled as a barn cat hopped up into the hayloft and stopped to look at him, as if wondering why he hadn’t crawled into his bed of straw to disappear for the day. The mother cat, whose tail had been tugged a time or two by the mischievous nisse, had learned to be cautious. Taking her chances, she meandered over to Klakke and rubbed her chin against his small booted foot.

Klakke wasn’t in any mood to play. He waited until the friendly feline was right on top of his boot, and then he flung the startled cat forward. She flew several feet and then landed, as always, on all fours, offended but unharmed. She gave Klakke a sideways glance and then disappeared over the edge of the mow floor to the safety of the barn below.

Bettina woke the next morning in the upstairs bedroom that she shared with her sister still feeling groggy, even though she had slept the night through without waking once. She lifted her heavy head from her fluffy pillow and struggled to open her eyes. Had she slept so soundly that she’d missed her sister’s occasional whimpers in the night? Or had Pia slept so soundly that she’d made not a single peep?

The bright winter daylight seeped in from behind the window shade and startled Bettina. She sat up quickly, trying to shake the fog from her brain. So much light could only mean it was well into the morning hours. The fire must surely have burned itself out.

And what about Pia?

Bettina’s bare toes touched the wooden floor, and she was surprised to find it warm. The house wasn’t cold at all. She hurried to the crib, where Pia, still sleeping, made a soft sighing sound before rolling to one side. Without even opening her eyes, Pia reached for her ever-present stuffed white goose, pulled it close, and settled back into a soft and peaceful slumber.

Bettina let out a relieved breath. Pia was fine. Across the room her own bed, still radiating the warmth of her body, called to her, promising sweet dreams. But as much as Bettina would have loved to crawl back into bed and disappear for the day, she knew she had responsibilities. Her parents were counting on her.