Read Online West of the Moon by Margi Preus - Free Book Online

bridegroom has joinedthe beer drinkers, and the bride is slumped in a chair, weeping. This is the last thing I see as Greta and I, our sack stuffed with food and treasure, dash into the woods on the far side of the farm. And the last thing I hear ringing in my ears is my Aunt’s shrill voice yelling, “There they are! The two girls! There they go!”



The Golden Wreath
    ow fine would it be to have the winds carry you to the far corners of the earth, or anywhere you want to go, like they did for the girl in the story?
    Or even to run, as you might imagine you would escape, through the cow pasture, then through the aspen grove, leaves flickering above you, and finally out into the sunny meadow, startling up swallows that swoop and wheel.
    If you think that’s how it goes, then you have forgotten about Spinning Girl, whom we have retrieved from the cotter’s hut and now coax and cajole along as best we can.
    Instead of running, we stumble, while I cast glances over my shoulder, expecting the entire wedding party to catch up to us at any moment. But we are small girls, and we find little grottoes and hiding places along the way. When the pursuers get too close, we duck within a cluster of big boulders.
    Tucked in the cool shadows, we barely breathe. I clamp my hand over Spinning Girl’s keys to keep them still, while Greta holds a finger to her lips.
    There are shouts and the pounding of feet, which run pastus and away. Finally, after the voices fade, we three girls creep out from our hiding spot and start off again, moving west.

    I n a meadow near a small lake, we plop ourselves down on the heather. The sun is just a red-gold globe hovering low in the sky, so it must be very late. This time of year, the sun will barely sink below the horizon before it pops back up again.
    Out of the sack comes the tablecloth. The cloth is spread with the spoils of the wedding feast, and oh! we’re as hungry as bears. While we stuff ourselves with sausages and cake, I explain to Greta what I know about Spinning Girl, and I tell her how things went at the goatman’s farm. Not all of it, but some.
    Meanwhile, Spinning Girl weaves wreaths of primroses and bluebells. She’s handy with her fingers, that one. When she’s finished, she places a wreath on each of our heads.
    â€œWhat I have been wondering over,” Greta says, “is how we are going to get to America.”
    â€œOh, as to that,” I tell her, “I have it all thought out.” I don’t, of course, but there’s no need to tell Greta that. “All we need,” I continue, “is a golden apple, a golden spinning wheel, and a golden carding comb, like the girl in the story had.”
    â€œWe have lots of golden things,” Greta says, gesturing to the meadow around us. “Look!”
    In the yellow twilight, every tassel, frond, pine needle,speck of moss, and shred of heather is tipped with silver or threaded with gold. The lake beyond gleams like a plate of hammered copper. And just over the rise beyond the lake, the sun glows—“like Soria Moria Castle,” I say. “And that’s the direction we have to go to get to America.”
    â€œSoria Moria,” she repeats, and peers off that way as if she might catch a glimpse of it. Then she exclaims, “But look! Look at my emerald bracelet!” She holds up her arm to show me an iridescent green beetle that clings to her wrist.
    â€œAnd the ruby earrings dangling from the bushes!” I say.
    â€œAnd the jeweled necklaces strung between the branches!” she adds.
    â€œAnd your golden curls, Greta.”
    â€œWhat about your hair, Astri? What color do you think it is?”
    I put my hand to my hair, which feels like sticky cobwebs. “What color is it now?” I ask.
    â€œIt’s kind of … gray.”
    â€œGray! Like an old lady’s?”
    â€œNo, gray like dusty old straw at the end of winter,” Greta