Free West of the Moon by Margi Preus Page A

had forgotten that I’d washed it; its silky softness surprises me.
    â€œWhy,” Greta says, handing me the bowl, “it’s so pretty, it looks like gold might fall out of it every time you brush it.”
    â€œGold falling from my hair! I’ve never heard the like of that!” I say, and swallow down the last of the milk.
    â€œThere are more things in heaven and earth than can be dreamed,” the dairymaid says. “An Englishman told me so.”
    â€œIn spite of that,” I say, “it seems true enough.”
    The dairymaid takes the bowl, now empty, and hands me the hairbrush. Then she tells us that to get to America, we’ll have to go to the fjord that leads to the sea. “You’ll have to go down—down to the valley, that way.” She points. “And follow the trail that leads along the river. There are farms down there and a village. And farther along, the fjord.”
    I thank her kindly, and as we are starting our way down the hill, she calls to us in a cheery voice, “Take care! I’ve heardthat sometimes the emigrants never make it to America, but are sent to Turkey and sold as slaves!”
    Greta stares at me, her eyes wide.
    â€œEven in America, I’ve heard tell,” the milkmaid says, her voice low and serious, “they keep slaves.”
    I turn slowly back to face her. “Nay!” I say. “That can’t be true.”
    â€œâ€™Tis,” she says darkly.
    The three of us turn and walk away in silence, pondering this.
    â€œShe’s but a simple dairymaid,” I say, finally. “Even so, she’s been helpful enough, for she’s told us where we need to go. And that is just about as good as a magic ball of yarn.”

The Bridge
    or a long time, every time I cast a glance over my shoulder, I can see the dark, wobbly splotch that is Svaalberd following us. But now, coming down into the trees, I can’t see much. It’s hard to know if he’s near or far, here or there, even if he’s ahead or behind.
    â€œWhat we could really use now is a pair of seven-league boots,” I tell the girls.
    â€œYou mean the kind of boots that take you fifteen miles every time you take a step?” Greta says. “Do you think there really are such things?”
    â€œThere are more things in heaven and earth than can be dreamed,” I tell her. “As the dairymaids say.”
    We’re following a path along the river. Down and down we go, into a gloomy gorge. Greta walks hand in hand with Spinning Girl, while I take up the rear.
    Eventually, we come to a bridge. We would hurry right across, but a noise stops us.
    â€œYou don’t suppose there’s a troll living under that bridge, do you?” Greta says. We listen for a moment to what soundslike the rumbling of an enormous stomach and the smacking of giant lips.
    â€œNo,” I tell her, not sure at all. “That’s just the river growling and smacking. Just in case, here’s what we’ll do. You take Spinning Girl across and tell the troll not to waste his time on such little morsels as you. Tell him to wait for your sister, who is much bigger and tastier and who is coming along right behind you.”
    â€œNo!” Greta says. “For then he’ll eat you!”
    â€œOh, no,” I tell her, “for I know a trick or two myself.”
    Holding Spinning Girl’s hand, Greta steps out onto the bridge. “Trip trop, trip trop,” she says, “here we come, the tiniest girls you ever did see. But wait a moment and my sister will come by, and she’s much bigger and tastier than both of us put together.” The two girls step off the bridge on the far side of the river.
    Now it’s my turn. The growling of the river has grown louder and hungrier sounding. “Troll,” I announce, “if troll you are, I want to point out that I am not a goat, just a goat girl. Hardly a mouthful. What you must