Requiem [COMPLETED]

Whoever said 'A Prayer a Day Keeps Bad Shit Away' is a F$%&ing Liar

            I don't remember much before the age of four; any memories I have now may just be constructions of imagination based on hearing other people's stories of what happened. I missed out on much of the direct trauma that my older siblings faced simply by chance of being too little to understand what was going on. To avoid as many of the problems associated with retrospection as I can help, I'll limit the telling to what I remember from then, rather than what I understand now. The earliest memory that I can safely claim as all my own happened on a hot summer day while we were living on my Grandfather's farm on the tall grass prairie.

The pond, which we used as an ice rink in the winter, was a glorified cattle watering hole, which had overgrown after the abandonment of the homestead next door decades earlier. The summer of my fourth birthday was especially dry, and the old stock pond was one of the few places that remained green as July progressed. The banks were choked with cattails, throwing their blue-green shadows across the water. The tuberous roots and stems protected tadpoles in the spring--now frogs-- water beetles and snails my brother loved to watch.

Sven would wear a goggles and mask—can't remember who gave him them—and spend hours snorkeling in the muddy knee-deep water. I was two years younger than him, but still preferred his company to that of our much older sister. She was old enough that I classed her as an adult, those ageless, strange people whose ways were contradictory and who came and went off the farm. As Sven explored the underworld I wandered the little woods that surrounded the forgotten homestead. It consisted of an old stockyard, faded barn and fallen-in tin-plated house.

I would lay in the tall grass and watch the play of shadow shrinking and swelling, as if pushed by the sun's progress across the sky. I knew, but could not name, how different birds would sing throughout the day or the hushed lull indicating an oncoming storm. Sometimes Sven would humor me and we would play house or pretend to sow a garden. The wood was our place, a close alcove against the vast prairie outside.

Even though I was old enough to read I preferred to have Sven read to me when he was willing. I liked the safe feeling of leaning against him, his arms around me holding up the storybook, the sound of his voice serious; he never made up funny voices or imitated the characters. He just let the words speak for themselves and gave our imaginations room to supply the rest. Looking back on it, I realize I depended on his stoic nature; when I was scared, he displayed calm. When I was frustrated or anxious, he showed the same unyielding demeanor. As long as he didn't give away panic, it reassured me that nothing was as bad as I feared.

The stories I remember most were Norwegian and Swedish tales of trolls, nisse and witches. My favorites were about the Nisse (pronounced Niss-eh); in ancient times a nisse was believed to be the soul of the first inhabitant of the farm. Though he was protective of the farm he was easy to offend and his retributions ranged from a stout box on the ears for children to killing intruders. Our nisse didn't seem to mind grandpa's ornery demeanor provided he kept the cows and chickens happy, so we assumed our Norwegian elf must be a rather crotchety, grumpy old man himself.

Some stories told how the Nisse could drive people mad by biting them. The bite from a Nisse was poisonous and otherworldly healing was required; I didn't know where we'd find someone to save us if that happened, so Sven and I were always very careful. We both remembered the story of the girl who got bitten; she withered like a shriveled leaf and died looking like a mummified skeleton before help arrived. Sven swore somebody would pinch him in the dark in the barn, and once I thought I felt it too. It made me scared to go in there alone.

What unsettled me the most about nisse was that they're skilled in illusions and able to make themselves invisible. We were unlikely to get more than brief glimpses of him no matter what he looked like. I remember being fearful of shadows and of being alone, afraid I'd see him—or not. Grandpa was never afraid. Our nisse got on fine with him at least; I heard grandpa voice sometimes out in the barn. I knew he must have been talking to someone.