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

holler, “I’ll toss it in if you don’t put her down!”
    The goatman moves to the lakeshore and dangles Greta over the water. “Throw the sack over to me now, or I’ll throw the
girl
in the pond,” he hollers back. He lets go of one of her arms, and Greta gives a little involuntary shriek.
    â€œYou throw her in and I’ll throw the sack in, and we’ll see which one sinks faster,” I say to him. I’ve got him there.
    Svaalberd sets Greta down but keeps hold of her arm, even though she tugs and squirms.
    â€œGive me the sack and I’ll let the girl go,” he says.
    â€œLet go of the girl and I’ll give you the sack,” I tell him.
    Now we’re as stuck as two moose with their antlers locked. And how to untangle them?
    He’s calculating. His face twitches with the effort. He knows he’s fast and strong. He might, he thinks, be able to release Greta, then grab the sack, and me, and Greta again, all three, before we can get away.
    And I am thinking the same thing. That is, I know
I
could elude him, but I don’t know if Greta and Spinning Girl can. And speaking of Spinning Girl, where is she?
    Then suddenly, she is there, jangling the ring of keys. The goatman jerks with surprise and lurches toward her. Greta twists free. He lunges back to grab at her, but she darts away. The two girls skitter about like chickens in a farmyard, and the goatman whirls and twists, trying to catch first one, then the other, as if trying to grab one for the stew pot. Meantime, my mind whirls and twists and lunges and grasps at anything, any idea, any solution, but—nothing.
    There’s a strange noise—a cough, maybe, or a squeal and a snort. It’s Spinning Girl. She’s got her head thrown back, and sound comes from her mouth! She’s laughing! She thinks this is a game—like the one my cousins used to play, where one person was “it” and had to try to tag the others. And then I realize: This is probably the only time in her whole life she’s ever played a game.
    Spinning Girl’s laughter makes me want to laugh; it makes me want to stop everything and hug her. And for a moment it takes away my dizzying fear, just long enough to think. To think of what to do.
    I rush toward the goatman and he twists and starts, then plunges after me. I slide my arm through the knot in the sack, grasp hold of one of the smooth-skinned birch trees, and up Igo like a bear cub: feet, knees, elbows, hands, in a way I didn’t even know I knew.
    And there he is below, standing like a bear with his claws raking the tree trunk, head tipped back, glaring up at me. Greta and Spinning Girl stare, too, with their mouths agape, as if I am on fire. I can’t ask why they’re staring so hard—there’s no time for that.
    I just shout, “Run, little sister! Run, Spinning Girl! Run to Soria Moria.”

    S ometimes goats get up in trees, eating the leaves, when there’s nothing else to eat. How they get there you never know; you just see them standing on branches, munching away. So I’m not surprised to see old Goatbeard himself climbing the tree after me.
    That’s fine. The longer I can distract him, the farther away the girls can get. I just keep shimmying up the tree: hands, elbows, knees, and feet. Here, in the crotch of the tree, I set the sack, untie the knot, and reach inside.
    â€œIs this what you want, old man?” I call down to him, dropping a handful of coins. The first one
ping
s against his upturned forehead while others shower around him.
    He roars, snatching at the air as the coins whistle by his ears.
    I reach into the sack again, find Mama’s brooch, and pin itonto my shift. And up the tree I go. And up he comes after me.
    Up I go, and up he comes. Soon, though, even my slight weight is too much, and the tree begins to bend, slowly bowing its crown toward earth. Holding on to the trunk, I let my legs dangle,