Читать книгу Foul Finnebog: A Norwegian Tale - Rosemary Ph.D. Olson - Страница 7

“You did what?!” Finnebog’s wife stood in utter amazement as her husband recounted the stargazers’ words and how he had spent his day down at the young thatcher’s home. He had left the empty box on the bank of the river quite a distance from their home. He told his wife how he had made his way to the man who made the roof he sat under. He was sitting on the small porch in front of the small shack.

“Hello, friend,” he greeted as he held out his hand. “My name is Finnebog the Merchant and I come to you with a request.“

“Oh? And what might that be?” questioned the poor thatcher.

“I heard you have a son. I would like to take him off your hands as a helper to me. I will take him to foreign lands to be a learner of languages,” Finnebog said in his most velvety salesman voice. “He will be well taken care of, for I am quite wealthy and can give him whatever he needs and desires.”

The thatcher stared at him, contemplating what was being offered in exchange for his only child.

“Oh,” Finnebog continued, “and I will also give you six hundred gold pieces for your trouble. With that kind of money, you could buy your own farm and live quite comfortably for the rest of your long life.”

The thatcher stood from his chair and nodded to the silver-tongued man before him.

“Let me talk to the wife,” he mumbled as he turned and went through the door that was hanging by one hinge.

Finnebog heard muffled sounds back and forth between them inside. After awhile, he went to put his ear to the door and jumped back just as the man swung it open. He carried a small, beautiful child in his arms, surrounded by a dirty wool blanket. The merchant stared at the captivating child as a wicked smile crossed his mouth. He took the boy quickly and handed over the gold. He stepped down off the porch before they changed their minds, and as he walked away, he heard the thatcher’s wife as she sobbed into the sleeve of her husband’s worn shirt.

Finnebog made his way along the stream to the wooden chest.

“Now don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re just not the type of boy I want my daughter to marry,” he said to the child as he placed him in the box, closed the lid tight, and locked it.

He gave one last glance and heaved it into the river.

*

Finnebog’s wife removed her hand from over her mouth.

“Don’t you think you could have gotten away with paying less?” she complained.

“Perhaps, but at least we’re done with that,” he said with a sense of satisfaction, and then he grabbed her arm and whispered, “Don’t you dare breathe a word of this to Mildri or you shall meet the same fate as that child.”

She jerked her arm out of his hand and stepped back.

“Don’t you think you’d better stop threatening me and get to work on finding the perfect prince for your daughter, since your so keen on putting anyone out of the way that she’s actually meant to be with?” she said with a sneer.

“I’ll get right to work, my dear. Don’t you worry. There has got to be a brave, rich man out there worthy of my daughter!”