The Hand that Trembles

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He had been sent to get more firewood. His mission was of the utmost importance. It was bitingly cold; the snow in the garden sparkled and smoke rose like a grey-white genie above the cottage tucked in the hollow.

Suddenly a shadow darkened the bark-and sawdust-covered earthen floor. Sven-Arne had just added a split log to the others he carried in his arms. The piece wobbled, then slid out of his grasp along with most of the rest of the load.

‘Shall we do it together?’

Sven-Arne dropped the few remaining pieces.

‘Did I frighten you?’

He shook his head, too annoyed to say anything. Ante stepped into the shed and looked around at the stacked wood.

‘Well, someone’s been busy,’ he said, and smiled unexpectedly.

He bent down and grasped a couple of logs.

‘Hold out your arms,’ he said, and Sven-Arne obeyed.

Sven-Arne wiggled his knees back and forth. If he came in with this big of a load he would be praised. He wanted to hurry out of the woodshed and back to the cottage, but his uncle stood in the way.

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