Bracelet of Bones Read Online Free Page B

more of the things she needed to take with her—food, and fresh water in a little keg, clothing, her carving tools and grindstone and a little sackful of bones—and she stowed them all in the upended back half of her father’s old coble where he stored oars and bailers and nets and lines and weights and floats and the like.
    The first time she went down to the jetty, Solveig actually did muck out the shed—for a short while, anyhow—to salve her conscience. And on her third trip, she checked the rigging of their boat, perched on the end of the jetty. Then she got down on one knee and poked at the frazil ice with an oar. The crystal needles were as thin as her own fingernails and at once gave way.
    Solveig’s heart quickened. Her blood began to sing.
    Before she went back to the farmhouse for the last time, she picked her way along the shore to the family’s sloping graveyard. Bitter little wavelets were dashing themselves against the rocks at the bottom end of it.
    Solveig wandered between the graves of her mother’s parents and grandparents and great-grandparents she had never known, and then she knelt in the sopping grass beside her mother.
    “Sss,” hissed the north wind. “Sss-sssss.”
    Solveig put her right hand over her heart. “I feel afraid,” she told her mother. “I’ve never felt so afraid. But I’ve never been so sure of what I have to do. Mother, my mother, my journey will either lead me to my father or lay me down like you.”
    It was too early in the year for even a pale aconite or a nodding snowdrop, but Solveig scouted around and collected a handful of little white pebbles. Carefully she arranged them at the foot of her mother’s tilting stone: snowflakes, teardrops, a white petal shower. Then she stood up and hurried back to the farm.
    That evening, Solveig grew nervous. Very nervous. She didn’t feel hungry, and that night she didn’t sleep much. She kept telling herself she must wait until first light, but then she became afraid she might fall into a deep sleep just before dawn.
    She sat up in the dark. Quietly she dug out the gold brooch hidden in her pillow sack. She felt for the holes in her reindeer skin and put her hands and arms throughthem. Then she stood up and picked up her sheepskin. But with her first step she kicked the iron poker lying between her bench and the hearth.
    Asta was instantly awake. “Who’s that?” And then: “What is it?”
    “Me,” said Solveig in a hoarse voice. “Only me.” Her heart was hammering.
    “What is it?”
    “My stomach,” said Solveig. “Cramps in my stomach. I’ve got to go. I’ve got to.”
    Both boys were snoring.
    “I can’t wait,” groaned Solveig.
    “Close the door,” Asta told her. Then she sighed and lay back again.
    The moment Solveig felt the night chill on her cheeks she was alert—alert to the terrible risk of leaving and to all the pain of staying.
    I can go back in, she thought. I still can!
    But then, all at once, she was striding away from the farm. Now she was running, and the east wind was springing after her. And when it moaned, Solveig was sure it was Asta, calling.
    Solveig didn’t look back until she reached the jetty, but as soon as she did, she could see that the sky over the hills was just beginning to turn pale. Not yet green, not primrose.
    Quickly, Solveig shoved the boat down the sloping ramp into the water. Then she hurried back to the upended coble and carried out the few things she had to take with her.
    Solveig stared at the farm, still masked by night. Then she turned back to the dark and dancing water.
    Yes, I can, she thought. I can. They’ll be sorry about the boat but not sorry about me. Old Sven will help Kalf and Blubba to cut the planks to build another one.
    At the end of the jetty, Solveig got onto her knees. She was out of breath.
    “Ægir,” she prayed, “don’t shout at me with your rough wave tongues. Ran, don’t snare me with your drowning net. Lift me and carry me to