Short Fiction

Opening

Near the Nordfjord is a mountain called Birkberg, on whose slope, almost like pictures on a wall, hang the small buildings of the farm of Strömshagen. Through the ravine below rushes a wild mountain torrent, over which a few unhewn logs serve as a bridge for man and horse. On the opposite side, farther down, on more level ground, is the Evjenfarm,1 which takes its name from the river that here rests from its mad career in a little bay sheltered by birch-trees.

A short distance from the bridge over the ravine, behind the hill, there was, at the time our story begins, a piece of land overgrown with bushes, which for years had been the cause of dispute between the two farms. The road to it had been barred by Jon Evjen2 twenty years before with three hedges, which looked very dry and fragile, it is true, but were recognized by the law as a sign of possession authenticated by years, and the land was given to Evjen.

This lawsuit impoverished the owner of Strömshagen, who dying left the estate, loaded with debt, to his widow and son Gjermund, a lad of twenty-two. He was a sturdy youth, with dark hair, heavy eyebrows, and a full, but clever, intelligent face. His fault was a proneness to sudden fits of anger, and a readiness to assert his rights with his fist, when fair words might have served his purpose. Besides, he was much prouder than he seemed, and in trading often thought that people would hardly have dared take advantage of him, if he had been a rich landowner.