5. Marge
MARGE
1954
Who was that?”
Tiny drops of saliva flew from Housemother’s lips. She stared at the flock of children pressed up against the wall in the common room.
“I heard someone joiking.” She brandished her index finger. “Only sinners joik. Acting like drunkards, ugh!”
Marge was baffled. How could Housemother say that about joiking? Marge’s isá’s voice sounded so lovely when he joiked. She found it so comforting; it made her happy and warm inside even when the melody was sad. Marge’s legs could hardly bear her, and her sweaty palms sought the support of the cool wall. Her glasses had slipped halfway down her nose, and her bangs brushed her eyelashes.
Her enná had cut her long, light brown hair just before she had to return to the nomad school after summer vacation, saying it would be easier to take care of a shorter style. But they hadn’t expected her bangs to grow so fast; after all, Enná had cut them straight and severe, rather high up on her forehead. At first Marge felt sad when Enná got out the scissors, because she’d been so proud to have hair that almost reached her bottom, but when she stood before the mirror and saw the hair stop at her shoulders, she was amazed. She looked like one of the big girls, even though she was only eight. But then there were her glasses, which she loathed, often dipping her head to hide them. None of the other pupils wore glasses. Nor had she, when she first came to the nomad school last year. No, she’d arrived with long, beautiful hair and Enná had kissed the red mark on her cheek and whispered that it looked like a heart, and that meant something. It was Teacher Bertil who realized Marge’s vision was poor. He’d noticed her squinting and moved her to the front row, but his handwriting still wasn’t large enough on the blackboard for her, so glasses it was. Marge was astonished at how clear the world became, and it was hard to tolerate. Somehow everything came too close and it made her want to back away. The boys got mean, called her “blind-eyes.” ? almmehis ? albmi. What did she care about that? But when they called Housemother “blind-eyes,” too, she slipped her glasses off. Marge, Housemother, and Teacher were the only ones with glasses, and she didn’t want to look like them.
Housemother stomped, and Marge jumped.
“Well? Who was it? If no one confesses, all of you will reap the consequences. All of you! Do you hear me? Do you want to be the reason your classmates are punished?”
No one moved; they hardly dared breathe. Marge knew. Everyone knew. It was Nilsa who had joiked, as a prank, goofing around as he usually did. It would be dangerous to tell on him, but now, not telling would be equally dangerous. Marge wished someone had the courage she lacked.
Housemother marched across the room and grabbed the switch from its hook beside the door. There was one on every floor, and Marge had heard that a couple of boys had been sent outside at the start of the term to fetch the very switch they would be whipped with. She wasn’t far from tears now and peered up at Nilsa, who stood with legs planted wide, defiant.
Why had she moved her head? Housemother noticed every motion, and here she came, switch in hand.
“Margit! Who was it?”
She didn’t dare look up, but fixed her gaze on Housemother’s black skirt and worn black shoes with their low heels. Thin blue lines snaked up her bare legs.
“Answer me!”
“I don’t know.”
“Of course you do. Look at me!”
Marge blinked and blinked. She quickly poked her pointer finger under her glasses, caught a tear.
The slap threw her head sideways and knocked her glasses out of place. Someone whimpered. Was it her? Or Anne-Risten, beside her?
“Don’t you stand here bawling.” Housemother turned around, her heels striking the floor, and then she spun about. “Girls, up to your beds. Boys, stay here.”
It might have seemed like they would run, but instead they stole along the wall with their heads hanging and tiptoed up the stairs. Marge felt nauseated and her ear rang from the blow that had struck both cheek and ear. She removed her glasses; everything went blurry, with soft edges, and she felt calmer.
Once in their dormitory, the girls undressed, whispering that none of them had even brushed their teeth, but they got in bed anyway. There were six girls to a room, and never had it been so quiet before they fell asleep. Marge stared at the ceiling. A shrill cry sounded from downstairs. She covered her ears, turned onto her side, and curled into a ball. Stupid witch , she thought, stupid, stupid witch!
“Does it hurt?” It was Anne-Risten, whispering from the next bed over.
“Yes, my ear is ringing.” Marge cupped a hand over her left ear, but it didn’t help.
“You should have said it was Nilsa.” Anne-Risten paused. “My ears hurt too. She shouted so loudly. Do you think it can be dangerous, can you lose your hearing if someone yells too close to your ears?”
Heels on the stairs. Someone shushed the girls.
Housemother stood in the doorway, backlit by the bright hallway. Without turning on the lights, she moved slowly from bed to bed. Marge pulled the covers up to her nose, trying to make herself invisible.
“I want you all to know that anyone who joiks is talking to the devil,” said Housemother. “Only the devil could produce that kind of noise.”
Marge thought of her isá joiking. When they came to their grounds, where the calves were marked each summer, he liked to stand on the highest point and joik for his place, the place that had been his family’s for generations. One hand in a fist before him, keeping rhythm. He closed his eyes and listened to the echo climb back up across the land. They said Marge would stand next to her isá even when she was only two years old, to chime in with the music that came from his chest.
“Only sinners joik. Only those who have sold their souls to the devil joik,” Housemother droned in a voice that grew more aggressive. “But one day the devil will turn against you and then you’ll see.”
Marge rubbed her cold feet together and held tight to the rough sheet.
“The devil has you all in his grasp already, all it takes is listening to the joik.”
Marge glanced at Anne-Risten, who was squeezing her eyes shut so tight that her nose wrinkled.
“I’m warning you. Next time you won’t get away with it. I want the name of the child who was joiking. Is that understood?”
They were unsure whether she expected a response, but someone piped up to say “Yes.”
“Surely you all realize that the stories you’ve heard, about the háldi and other ghosts, are proof that your parents have joined forces with the devil. Only Lapps see ghosts.”
Then she stalked out of the room, on to the next dormitory.
Marge had heard the háldi call for her. She’d been lying between her brother and sister in the goahti last summer up in the mountains. At first she thought it was the wind, but soon she heard it loud and clear:
“Maaaargeeee. Maaargeee. Boa ? e!”
The plaintive voice found its way inside the tent, begging her to follow. It sounded just like Enná, and she sat up, thinking she must go out and find her. When she stood up, she was surprised to see Enná asleep in her usual spot. Marge crawled over to her and shook her until she opened her eyes.
“Someone was calling for me. It sounded like you.”
Enná pulled Marge close and spoke with her lips near her temple. “It’s the háldi calling you. And you know that you must never go.”
“I don’t hear it now.”
“Yes, because you woke me up. You did good.”
The next day, she had told her cousin Gáren about it and they held each other’s hands tight. The hair on the backs of their necks stood up, and at last they had to giggle. So Marge knew Housemother was wrong, it wasn’t made up. She had heard it herself, the háldi’s call.
Now her mind was nothing but blackness. Was she so easily lured? Did the devil already have her in his grip? What about Isá?
Bedsheets rustled throughout the room, a few girls whispered. Anne-Risten mumbled to herself in the darkness, long harangues. She was always talking—too much, the adults sometimes muttered—but Marge liked listening to her, and she made the other girls laugh. Marge had never made anyone laugh. She was too slow to get a word in before others beat her to it. But this didn’t bother her, and whenever anyone pointed out that Marge was a quiet sort, Enná just said there was no need for everyone to talk all the time.
After her first year at the nomad school, the red mark on her cheek began to fade, and her enná had explained that soon it would vanish entirely. Marge would miss her heart and wondered if Enná would stop kissing her there. These days she also had to shift Marge’s clunky glasses out of the way to reach it with her lips.
Marge looked at Anne-Risten, who had fallen silent. She wanted to curl up next to her for comfort, but it was impossible to move. She was pressed to the bed; a weight had settled upon her chest.