The Forest Bride
Part 1: The Feast of Valborg
Ingrid knelt on the floor next to the carved cedar chest her father had made for her dowry and pulled out a beautiful quilt pieced with blue and white pinwheels. It was an understated pattern, but all of the tiny stitches, placed with such care, made it into something much more than a blanket. She traced the designs with her fingers and then held it tightly to her chest, inhaling the warm scent of the wood. She meant to put the quilt back into the box and then hesitated. Why shouldn’t I use it? She thought to herself. It’s not like I’ll ever be married.
Ingrid’s mother, Agnes, had made the quilt for her when she was betrothed to Ivar, Ingrid’s childhood sweetheart. Agnes was beloved and wise. Whenever the villagers had needed a little extra luck, they turned to her. Clothes mended by her hands held together longer. Blankets stitched by her kept children warm and quiet at night. When a couple was to be wed, they turned to Agnes for a quilt that would ensure a happy and prosperous marriage. Everything she made was filled with love, and perhaps a touch of enchantment.
Sadly, Agnes never lived to see her daughter’s marriage, and seven years had passed since the quilt was made, yet it still resided in the cedar chest, waiting to be used. All of Ingrid’s youthful hopes seemed to sit with it, undisturbed and unfulfilled. Ivar had been the love of her life and they’d pledged to get married, but it wasn’t to be. Now she was well past the age most girls were married and she continued on with her life. Ivar’s loss had been devastating to her and the other men in the village paled in comparison, so she did the best she could. She was content with her life and soon found herself absorbed in the work her mother had passed on to her. Ingrid made beautiful things from simple cloth and thread and they filled her life with peace. Many in the village came to see her as somewhat of a widow, although they treated her kindly. There was pity lingering in their voices as they remarked on her skill and grace, lamenting that she’d never share her life with another, but her response to their concern was always a joke or a lighthearted comment. Ingrid was different than most.
Spring had arrived in Ingrid’s small village and the day had finally come to celebrate the Feast of Valborg. It was one of her favorite holidays. It meant the end of the cold, dark winter and sweeter days to come. There would be picnics in the meadow and a bonfire at night. Then they would all gather together and sing songs to welcome the new season. It brought back memories from her youth. She recalled wearing a crown of flowers in her raven hair and a dress that her mother had made with a red embroidered bodice that laced up the middle and a yellow skirt the color of buttercups. She’d never wondered who would sit next to her at the picnic. It was always Ivar. They had fallen in love as they’d grown up together. Now she wore one of her mother’s dresses, a midnight blue smock, cinched with a black apron that almost reached the hem of her dress. Her dark hair, plaited in a thick braid, reached the small of her back, but her face was still rosy and unlined. In truth, she couldn’t have been more than a couple years older than the young bachelors of the village, but after being unmarried for seven years, they’d long since looked away.
She glanced down at her dress and smoothed out the wrinkles, then picked up her mother’s quilt again, gazing at it wistfully. It just felt right to bring it out again and let it see the light. It was meant to be used. Before she could second-guess herself, Ingrid picked up the quilt, shut the lid of the chest, and marched out the door with her picnic basket on her arm and her dog Otto at her heels.
They followed the winding path out of the forest and into the village until they reached the meadow where a colorful spread of quilts and wildflowers dotted the clearing. There was a large pile of firewood, just waiting to be ignited at dusk, in the center of it all. The atmosphere was humming with cheerful voices, chirping birds, and the sound of trees being felled in the distance. Ingrid caught a side conversation as she passed a group of men stacking firewood. “I heard today’s the day that Sven’s boys will begin to look for their brides.” Ingrid turned her head reflexively to listen. That was often part of the celebration. Unmarried men, who hadn’t shown much initiative yet, went to the edge of the clearing and felled a tree, which was meant to show them the direction they should look in to find a wife. It was an old tradition, not taken seriously by most. It did give the young men a chance to show off for the girls of the village, however, which they didn’t seem to mind at all.
The festivities began and Ingrid settled down on her quilt with Otto close by. He licked her hand, begging for scraps, and she tossed him a bread crust. Sven Hansson clapped his hands loudly and called out for everyone to hear, “As you all know, my two sons, Karl and Gustav, are now old enough to be called men.” He winked and a few laughs echoed throughout the crowd. He continued, “The time has come for them to start looking for their brides!” He pointed to Karl, gesturing for him to go first. Karl walked purposefully out to the edge of the meadow and took up his axe, shearing down a young birch in no time. It fell to the south, in the direction of most of the cottages in the village, and he held up his hands in victory. The girls cheered especially loud for Karl. He was the oldest of Sven’s sons, and although he was past the typical marrying age, he was handsome and well-liked. It would not be difficult for him to find a willing bride. Then it was Gustav’s turn. He was a few years younger, tall and lean, with bright red hair that curled out from under the edges of his knit cap. His short beard was also red. He looked a bit sheepish as he took the axe from Karl’s hands and went off in the opposite direction. Pausing at the edge of the trees, he was unsure about which one to choose and finally settled on a slim pine with scraggly branches. When he hefted the axe, however, it was clear that he was just as skilled as his brother. After a few earnest chops, the trunk cracked and Gustav jumped out of the way as the tree fell in an unexpected direction. There was an audible gasp. It had not fallen in the direction of the village at all. It pointed off toward the forest, where Ingrid’s lone cabin stood.
As Ingrid watched the events unfold, she gripped the edges of her mother’s quilt and pulled it up to her chin, as if to hide behind it. Heads began to turn in her direction. Otto’s ears perked up at the attention and he nosed her hand for another treat. She froze for a split second and then quickly gathered up her picnic basket and took off running toward the forest with Otto leading the way, his tongue lolling out of his mouth and ears flapping in the wind. It was all a game to him and he was determined to get home first.
Ingrid reached the door a full minute after Otto, gasping for breath. She quickly opened the latch and hurried inside, locking it again, as if they were being pursued. Peeking out of the curtains, she slowed her breath and saw that no one had followed. The villagers would still be at the meadow, celebrating and singing together. She couldn’t bring herself to return tonight and show her face. It was all too much to bear. The scrutiny and embarrassment turned her cheeks red at that instant and she sat in her rocker with her face in her hands. There was no chance a young man like Gustav would be interested in someone like her. He would be the laughingstock of the village if he ever came knocking at her cabin door. Another feeling rose up, unbidden, and she realized that she still wished he might.
Otto whined and paced at the door, wishing for another chase, and Ingrid bent down to run her fingers through his thick white fur. He licked her cheek and caught a tear that had escaped from the corner of her eye. Looking over at her cedar chest, Ingrid’s heart suddenly sank. She’d forgotten her quilt back in the meadow. Either she would have to return and face everyone, or she’d have to wait until morning and go back for it, hoping it was still there and in one piece. She paced, wondering what to do, clutching at her chest and starting to cry again.
In the midst of Ingrid’s worry and frustration, a soft knock at the door startled her. Otto barked and sniffed at the threshold. Ingrid quickly wiped tears from her cheeks and peeked through the window. It was Gustav. And he had her mother’s quilt tucked under his arm.
Ingrid’s mother, Agnes, had made the quilt for her when she was betrothed to Ivar, Ingrid’s childhood sweetheart. Agnes was beloved and wise. Whenever the villagers had needed a little extra luck, they turned to her. Clothes mended by her hands held together longer. Blankets stitched by her kept children warm and quiet at night. When a couple was to be wed, they turned to Agnes for a quilt that would ensure a happy and prosperous marriage. Everything she made was filled with love, and perhaps a touch of enchantment.
Sadly, Agnes never lived to see her daughter’s marriage, and seven years had passed since the quilt was made, yet it still resided in the cedar chest, waiting to be used. All of Ingrid’s youthful hopes seemed to sit with it, undisturbed and unfulfilled. Ivar had been the love of her life and they’d pledged to get married, but it wasn’t to be. Now she was well past the age most girls were married and she continued on with her life. Ivar’s loss had been devastating to her and the other men in the village paled in comparison, so she did the best she could. She was content with her life and soon found herself absorbed in the work her mother had passed on to her. Ingrid made beautiful things from simple cloth and thread and they filled her life with peace. Many in the village came to see her as somewhat of a widow, although they treated her kindly. There was pity lingering in their voices as they remarked on her skill and grace, lamenting that she’d never share her life with another, but her response to their concern was always a joke or a lighthearted comment. Ingrid was different than most.
Spring had arrived in Ingrid’s small village and the day had finally come to celebrate the Feast of Valborg. It was one of her favorite holidays. It meant the end of the cold, dark winter and sweeter days to come. There would be picnics in the meadow and a bonfire at night. Then they would all gather together and sing songs to welcome the new season. It brought back memories from her youth. She recalled wearing a crown of flowers in her raven hair and a dress that her mother had made with a red embroidered bodice that laced up the middle and a yellow skirt the color of buttercups. She’d never wondered who would sit next to her at the picnic. It was always Ivar. They had fallen in love as they’d grown up together. Now she wore one of her mother’s dresses, a midnight blue smock, cinched with a black apron that almost reached the hem of her dress. Her dark hair, plaited in a thick braid, reached the small of her back, but her face was still rosy and unlined. In truth, she couldn’t have been more than a couple years older than the young bachelors of the village, but after being unmarried for seven years, they’d long since looked away.
She glanced down at her dress and smoothed out the wrinkles, then picked up her mother’s quilt again, gazing at it wistfully. It just felt right to bring it out again and let it see the light. It was meant to be used. Before she could second-guess herself, Ingrid picked up the quilt, shut the lid of the chest, and marched out the door with her picnic basket on her arm and her dog Otto at her heels.
They followed the winding path out of the forest and into the village until they reached the meadow where a colorful spread of quilts and wildflowers dotted the clearing. There was a large pile of firewood, just waiting to be ignited at dusk, in the center of it all. The atmosphere was humming with cheerful voices, chirping birds, and the sound of trees being felled in the distance. Ingrid caught a side conversation as she passed a group of men stacking firewood. “I heard today’s the day that Sven’s boys will begin to look for their brides.” Ingrid turned her head reflexively to listen. That was often part of the celebration. Unmarried men, who hadn’t shown much initiative yet, went to the edge of the clearing and felled a tree, which was meant to show them the direction they should look in to find a wife. It was an old tradition, not taken seriously by most. It did give the young men a chance to show off for the girls of the village, however, which they didn’t seem to mind at all.
The festivities began and Ingrid settled down on her quilt with Otto close by. He licked her hand, begging for scraps, and she tossed him a bread crust. Sven Hansson clapped his hands loudly and called out for everyone to hear, “As you all know, my two sons, Karl and Gustav, are now old enough to be called men.” He winked and a few laughs echoed throughout the crowd. He continued, “The time has come for them to start looking for their brides!” He pointed to Karl, gesturing for him to go first. Karl walked purposefully out to the edge of the meadow and took up his axe, shearing down a young birch in no time. It fell to the south, in the direction of most of the cottages in the village, and he held up his hands in victory. The girls cheered especially loud for Karl. He was the oldest of Sven’s sons, and although he was past the typical marrying age, he was handsome and well-liked. It would not be difficult for him to find a willing bride. Then it was Gustav’s turn. He was a few years younger, tall and lean, with bright red hair that curled out from under the edges of his knit cap. His short beard was also red. He looked a bit sheepish as he took the axe from Karl’s hands and went off in the opposite direction. Pausing at the edge of the trees, he was unsure about which one to choose and finally settled on a slim pine with scraggly branches. When he hefted the axe, however, it was clear that he was just as skilled as his brother. After a few earnest chops, the trunk cracked and Gustav jumped out of the way as the tree fell in an unexpected direction. There was an audible gasp. It had not fallen in the direction of the village at all. It pointed off toward the forest, where Ingrid’s lone cabin stood.
As Ingrid watched the events unfold, she gripped the edges of her mother’s quilt and pulled it up to her chin, as if to hide behind it. Heads began to turn in her direction. Otto’s ears perked up at the attention and he nosed her hand for another treat. She froze for a split second and then quickly gathered up her picnic basket and took off running toward the forest with Otto leading the way, his tongue lolling out of his mouth and ears flapping in the wind. It was all a game to him and he was determined to get home first.
Ingrid reached the door a full minute after Otto, gasping for breath. She quickly opened the latch and hurried inside, locking it again, as if they were being pursued. Peeking out of the curtains, she slowed her breath and saw that no one had followed. The villagers would still be at the meadow, celebrating and singing together. She couldn’t bring herself to return tonight and show her face. It was all too much to bear. The scrutiny and embarrassment turned her cheeks red at that instant and she sat in her rocker with her face in her hands. There was no chance a young man like Gustav would be interested in someone like her. He would be the laughingstock of the village if he ever came knocking at her cabin door. Another feeling rose up, unbidden, and she realized that she still wished he might.
Otto whined and paced at the door, wishing for another chase, and Ingrid bent down to run her fingers through his thick white fur. He licked her cheek and caught a tear that had escaped from the corner of her eye. Looking over at her cedar chest, Ingrid’s heart suddenly sank. She’d forgotten her quilt back in the meadow. Either she would have to return and face everyone, or she’d have to wait until morning and go back for it, hoping it was still there and in one piece. She paced, wondering what to do, clutching at her chest and starting to cry again.
In the midst of Ingrid’s worry and frustration, a soft knock at the door startled her. Otto barked and sniffed at the threshold. Ingrid quickly wiped tears from her cheeks and peeked through the window. It was Gustav. And he had her mother’s quilt tucked under his arm.
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