Free The Looking-Glass Sisters by Gøhril Gabrielsen Page B

a child, for having tried in her own way to prevent what she suspected the future might bring. Yes indeed, that may be how it was. Why, otherwise, didn’t she inform Mum and Dad when my condition suddenly worsened?
    For the same reason, perhaps I ought not to judge her, little Ragna, for her cunning and her many outbursts during our childhood. And perhaps I ought not to blame her, child that she was, for all the instances of pure malice. After all, I had ruined her life with my illness.
     
    This is one of the many incidents I ought perhaps to have forgiven:
    ‘Ragna! Shall we pretend to be fine ladies?’
    It’s afternoon and we are alone in the house – I’m seven and Ragna’s twelve.
    I go into her room. Ragna peers at me from the bed, where she is sorting things into small boxes. Suddenly she fixes her gaze on the glass beads I’m wearing round my neck.
    She gets up and comes over to me. At first I interpret this approach as friendly, but then her hand is at my throat, the necklace, and she rips it off.
    ‘You’re so horrid. And those are my beads. I’ll never, ever play with anyone as horrid as you!’
     
    And this:
    ‘Little sister! Come here and I’ll show you something.’
    It’s summer, perhaps a year later, and I’m sitting in the kitchen eating, but immediately I totter over to the large stone where Ragna is sitting, full of expectation.
    The sun is low, so it’s hard to see what she’s pointing at. I bend forward as best I can, stare down into the heather.
    ‘Do you see it? That’s what you’re like, precisely like that,’ Ragna says.
    And then I see it too. In among thin stalks and small green leaves a small mouse is dragging itself forward by its front paws; it’s straining and straining, both its rear legs are broken and hang helplessly behind its little body.
     
    And this:
    It’s spring and I must be nine, perhaps ten. I’m sitting on a chair just outside the front door, while Ragna is drawing patterns on the steps with a piece of chalk.
    ‘Come and see, girls,’ Dad suddenly shouts from behind the house. ‘I’ve found a nest with two crow’s eggs that are about to hatch! Hurry, before the mother returns!’
    We look at each other, equally eager. I get up as quickly as I can, pull the duvet away from my thighs, grab hold of my crutches and put one leg forward. But something happens – I crash after only one step, stumble and fall flat on my face, tripped by Ragna’s left foot. There’s pain in my face, my arms. I look up. Ragna, running, turns round towards me, laughs and sticks out her tongue.
     
    Our chequered relationship, all these different episodes – no, dear Ragna, I can’t forgive everything. But here is a good memory, for there we are, out in the grass on a summer’s day. I’m eight and you’re thirteen, you’re big and I’m small, you’re all-knowing and I’m stupid; it’s dry in the grass and dry in the air – and everything is completely still. We’re sitting on the ground, on a rug, me right at the edge and you next to me. I’m fiddling with a matchbox, you’re pulling up blades of grass and placing them in a small heap. We don’t say much, or think much either, but from our movements and looks we reach an agreement that I am to strike a match and place it in the heap of grass.
    The grass quickly catches fire, flames shoot straight up, and we move a little on the rug. But look, the fire starts to spread and crackles in the air. I become afraid and call out for you to do something. You get up and calmly ask me to roll over to the other side. I lie down, do as you say, and soon I’m on the grass, while you pull the rug up and throw it over the flames, which go out with a puff.
    I smile and clap my hands, astonished. You are so quick, so sure; you are Ragna, my older sister, and you’re always completely in control. You answer by laughing and tossingyour hair proudly – huh, that was nothing. But suddenly you spin round. Wasn’t that a sound coming