Work Text:
The night is silent, peaceful even. A dog barking in the distance causes Kuro, who is sleeping in front of the fire, to grumble softly in his sleep, but the old, shaggy dog does not wake. Ronia listens attentively for a moment but it seems that the children in their alcoves are likewise asleep and she turns back to the window, watching the snow fall silently outside. After a moment she moves to sit in front of the fire instead, letting it warm her chilled hands. The dance of light and shadows, the occasional spark, and the groaning of the wood all help to draw her deeper into herself reminding her of another fire, many years ago.
The flames of the fire were crackling orange and yellow against the deep darkness of the trees, the heat a sharp and pleasant contrast to the chilly night air. Summer had been long and hot and plentiful but now the nights were turning cold and the forest had begun to don its richly coloured autumn garb. Ronia let out a little sigh and leant against Birk who was sitting warm and still next to her. This summer had been a happy one. There had been no terrible quarrels with any of their parents and with the knowledge that they could return here whenever they wanted, much of the strange tension and hesitation that had characterised their first time in the bear cave had drained out of both of them. They had been easier around each other, physically as well, and Ronia had enjoyed the feeling of Birk’s casually touching her, putting an arm around her shoulder, like now, touching her elbow, her hip, her arm, whenever he moved past her.
Birk had been smiling into the flames, utterly content to be where he was, when Ronia suddenly sat up with a decided little sigh.
“What is it, my sister?”
She turned slightly, to look him in the face.
“I’ve been thinking about leaving.”
“Leaving?”
“Yes.”
“You mean the cave? Have you been thinking about the winter? Because -”
But Ronia shook her head.
“No, not that kind of leaving. I was thinking of - ” here she broke off, for the enormity of what she was saying was not lost on her, “of leaving the forest.” Birk gasped slightly and moved away from her, so they were facing each other in the firelight.
“See,” she said, a little desperately, “Noddle-Pete left us the silver, but you can’t eat that.”
Birk nodded. They had of course investigated the mine Noddle-Pete had told Ronia about. It lay hidden in one of the remoter parts of the forest and it had taken them some time to clear the entrance of brambles and nettles which had all but obscured the hole leading deep into the hillside. Inside they had found some pieces of what must by tarnished silver, which Ronia kept safe in the cave, wrapped in leather against dampness.
Ronia continued.
“If we truly want a different live than that which our fathers lead, we have to make our way into the town and exchange the silver for food. For coins first, I guess.”
They sat for a while considering this thought. None of them had ever had any use for money, but they were aware of the significance of the embossed metal disks that Matt and Borka took away from travelling merchants and kept in coffers in one of the chambers of Matt’s Fort.
“Do you think there is enough silver in the mine to last our whole life?” Birk asked after a while. Right now he wished nothing more than to continue the life they were leading at the moment consisting as it was of the rhythms of the forest, of an exquisite loneliness and companionship, of the simple tasks of fishing and chopping firewood.
But Ronia shook her head, looking very serious. “We will need supplies each summer, even with the fishing and hunting. And for the winter…” Her voice trailed off and Birk looked away, into the fire. For he knew, just as well as she did, that in winter they would need not only food but shelter.
“We will need a house.” Ronia said decisively. She had never seen one but she knew that houses were where other people lived who did not have a Matt’s Fort to protect them from the elements.
After a while Birk spoke up. “We will have to learn a trade.” Ronia squinted at him in the firelight. “A trade?” He nodded. “Torm told me about it. In the town where he lived, everybody had a trade. They had one thing they knew how to do – make shoes, work metal, bake bread – and other people paid them for that. And then they used the money to buy things.”
“Hm” Ronia contemplated. “I can bake bread.” Birk coughed and she hit him lightly on the arm. “It only burnt that one time!” He grinned at her but quickly grew serious again. Both of them knew that, in order to truly break free of the ways of the robbers, they would have to carve a way of sustaining themselves that did not include any dependency on their parents. They would have to find a way of turning the silver into something more lasting.
“So, how does one learn a trade?” Ronia asked. Birk shrugged.
“I guess you find somebody to teach you.”
Ronia nodded, that made sense to her.
“ We have a plan then.” She said decisively. “We will go into town in spring and trade the silver for coins. And then we will find somebody who will teach us a trade.”
Birk agreed. “We have a plan.”
And they shook hands on it.
That winter they spent much of their time bothering the robbers who had lived in a town before coming to the forest. While Pelle said that he didn’t remember anything much, Torm helped them a great deal and told them stories of his life as a street urchin and pick-pocket. And then one fine day in spring when the ice had already broken on the river and the forest was already covered in the lightest green, Ronia and Birk packed their bundles and set off towards the town. At first they strode along unconcerned under the trees but the closer they came to the main road the more careful they were not to run into any lansquenets. Finally they reached the road where they could pretend to be regular travelling folks and then it only took them one more day to the town.
Ronia laughs softly to herself at the memories of how the town had bewildered them at first and then gets up to put on more wood and heat some water for Birk, who will be home soon.
For all the wildness of the robbers’ conduct they had never before experienced such a hustle and bustle, such a press of people, animals and houses. The brightly coloured garments of the townsfolk were as alien to them as the narrow streets and the awful stench from which there seemed to be no escaping. The town was rather small, no more than some hundred houses around a market place but to Ronia and Birk it seemed enormous, labyrinthine and dangerous. They were more used to dealing with the foxes and wild horses of the forest than with strange people and, though not shy, they were hesitant at first to approach anyone. In the end they had managed to make their way to Anlaff, the silversmith who had been Torm’s neighbour. Matt had tried to force some of the coins that he kept in the stolen coffers on Ronia but she had refused. Both she and Birk wanted to break with the robber’s life and they meant to do it once and for all and without relying on stolen wealth. Anlaff had been kind enough though obviously puzzled by the strange pair that had knocked on his door and had not only given them a fair prize for one of their silver pieces but had also recommended an inn where they might stay the night. Though the innkeeper had been friendly and the room reasonably clean, neither child had slept particularly well that night. Too noisy were the sounds of the downstairs bar room and the streets never seemed to grow fully quiet.
She is holding a kettle in her hand that is copper and old, full of dents and scratches, intending to fill it before setting it back on its hook and suddenly an overwhelming feeling of yearning suffuses her whole being. For a moment she cannot breathe as every fibre of her being knows only on desire: to be away from here, to be outside in the forest, in the quiet, the loneliness the wild freedom of the firs and rocks and rivers. Then she takes a deep breath and slowly sets down the kettle.
The next morning they set off in order to find employment. Birk had had an easier time of it than her; their antics with the wild horses had made him a good horse trainer and as the town had a market there was always someone who needed a guide through the forest or up one of the mountains. But who would hire a girl to do such things? That was one of the things neither Ronia nor Birk had foreseen: The confusing fixation of the townsfolk on gender. While Ronia had always been aware of the fact that her mother had different tasks than her father, she had always assumed this to be a matter of inclination. Surely nobody would have been able to keep Lovis from being one of the robbers had she truly wanted it? No, that was unfathomable. And Matt had always made it clear that he expected her to take his place as chieftain one day. No, there was nothing in her life that could have prepared her for the strange consternation people exhibited when they realised that she was just as skilled with wild horses as Birk was and even better at finding a trail (for he insisted she come along on all his travels). At first she had sometimes tried to escape these wearisome prejudices by wearing her usual boyish attire and keeping her hair cut short, but before long her body began to change and there was no way of concealing her breasts and rounded hips even under the most formless tunic. It was a time of despair for Ronia. The second winter they spent in the town followed the spring in which she had bled for the first time and her body was changing rapidly on her. So was Birk’s, in a way, with his oddly jumping voice and gangly limbs. But Ronia felt that her body was betraying her, was the cause of a loss of freedom she had never anticipated. She could no longer enter the bar room of the inn or walk along nightly streets alone without having to fend off either advances or unwelcome protectors. Wherever she went in her search of a trade worth learning she seemed to be dismissed on sight and in the end she ended up as the apprentice of an old woman who taught her how to weave baskets and make pottery. Her clever fingers had taken to the work easily enough and the old woman had been kind. But she longed to be outside and active: thatching roofs, shooing horses, building houses. It had been a long winter and a hard one and when they returned to the bear cave that spring she had had to run and bathe the town out of her body before she finally was able to stand up tall and let loose her wild spring cry.
She sighs now, remembering how hard she had found it at first, how grievously unhappy she had been here.
Even during the summer months in the cave her temper had often flared and she had lashed out at Birk in a way that was not really intended for him, but for a world which made her feel unfree, that put her in the impossible position of having to choose between a life of freedom and stealing and one of honest, stifling work. Over time she had found it easier, though. She had mastered the trick of sending her soul on long trips through the forest and up the hills while her fingers were busy weaving and shaping. She learned to put all that unrest and unspent energy of her town life into a little corner of her heart and to only let it out and let it run free once they had gotten clear of the town limits. It had been alright, it had been bearable. It still was.
The door groans open and Kuro jumps up and gives a startled bark before he recognises Birk’s step. Ronia turns around and has to bite her tongue to keep in her laughter. Birk looks like he fell into a snowdrift, head first: Not only his pelt and boots are white with snow, so, too, are his hair, his eyebrows and even his nose. He glares at her for a moment but then his mouth cracks into a broad grin and he gratefully steps forward into the warmth of the fire.
“Those stable boys, would you believe it, they actually started a snowball fight. And then they had the audacity to ask me whether I was any good at aiming!”
Ronia throws back her head and laughs quietly.
“So you showed them, did you?”
“Indeed I did!”
Birk keeps shedding the outer layers of his clothing and Ronia tries to put them as close to the fire as possible without singing the fur.
“How have you been?” he asks noticing the uncharacteristically thoughtful way in which she goes about these mundane tasks. She looks up and for a moment there is a look on her face that scares him. It is not quite grief, not quite despair, but too close to both for comfort.
“Ronia?” But the moment is gone and she shakes her head and they go quietly about their night time routines. It is only later, when they are both lying in the big alcove opposite the hearth that she quietly turns towards him and says
“I think we should leave early for the forest this year.” And then he knows. The days have been short lately but work has kept him so busy he has almost forgotten that today is the darkest night of them all, Midwinter. Every year on that night, which always seems as if it never ends, Ronia will say these exact same words to him. He squeezes her hand in the dark and whispers what has always been his answer:
“We will, my sister, we will.”