Sophie's Journey Chapter 5
Leaving Gentofte
The frost-stiffened grass crunched under Sophie's boots, a brittle sound like breaking glass. It was January 1856, and the air caught sharp in her throat, tasting of cold and snow to come. She stood at the edge of the property, hands buried in her wool coat pockets, looking at the low stone walls Peter had repaired three summers back.
Behind her, the cottage looked smaller than she remembered, the roof sagging under winter's weight. It was the only home her children had ever known, the place where their heights were marked on the doorframe. To sell it was to admit her husband was truly gone, his life finished, a chapter she was closing.
“The appraiser is here, Mother,” Peter said. He stood by the gate, shoulders squared like his father used to stand, though his eyes were wide and unsure. At nine, he had started to see the land not as a place to play but as work he would never get done.
Sophie nodded, her jaw tightening as she turned toward the house. “Bring the children inside, Peter. Keep them away from the parlor while we speak. Anne is restless, and Otto will only want to climb the man’s legs.”
She walked toward the door, pausing to touch the rough bark of the apple tree by the well. A dwarf variety, planted when Thomas was born, still bearing sour fruit. She wondered if the new owners would bother to prune it, or if they'd see a twisted thing taking up space.
Inside, the room was bare of what had made it hers for ten years. The clock was gone, sold off, a pale rectangle on the paper where it hung. A man in a high collar sat at the kitchen table, spectacles on a nose that stayed red from winter. He represented the land agent, and he studied the rafters like a merchant, seeing price where she saw memory.
"It is a modest holding, Fru Petersen," the man said, his quill scratching on vellum. "The soil is tired. The north paddock drains poorly for high-yield grain. But the stones are sound, and the road is close."
Sophie sat straight in her chair. "My husband fixed those drains himself. They held through the spring floods of '52 without a breach. The price we discussed is fair, Herr Olsen. I don't want charity, but I won't be cheated."
The man raised his eyes to hers for a moment, then returned to his papers. "I will honor our price," he murmured. "The Mormons are nothing if not efficient. They have already contacted our office about transferring the proceeds of your sale. Are you absolutely certain you wish to entrust the entire proceeds to them?"
"I'm certain," Sophie replied, voice flat and sure. "Safest path I have. They gave their word to keep every penny safe until I get to Zion. Once I'm there, that money buys me a home, a start, a life with the Saints."
She watched him push the final document toward her, the ink still wet. Picking up the pen, she felt the cold wood against her fingers, her last hold on this ground. With a steady hand, she signed her name-Sophie Cathrine Wilhelmine Petersen-and felt suddenly light, hollow, a woman who owned nothing but her clothes and her faith.
The sale was businesslike, taking away who she was on paper, leaving her exposed. The farm belonged to someone else now. By noon, the deed would be set, and her family's years here would come down to a few coins and some papers for the journey.
The agent took the keys and the deed book and left. Sophie stood in the kitchen, listening to the empty quiet. A house now, not a home. Just wood and plaster again. She went to the hearth, reached into the hidden spot behind the mantle, and pulled out her leather-bound hymnal.
Marianne Lautrup stood in the doorway, face pale, eyes red from crying. She looked at the empty shelves and bare floor, hands twisting her apron hem. "It's really happening," Marianne whispered, voice barely above the wind in the chimney. "We're leaving the graves. My mother, your Peter... they stay here in the damp, and we go where the sun burns."
"The dead aren't in the earth, Marianne," Sophie said, tucking the hymnal into her shawl. "They're in the promises we keep for the children. If we stay, Emma and Anne grow up to be kitchen maids. Peter, Thomas, and Otto break their backs for a landlord who doesn't know their names. In Zion, they own the air they breathe."
Marianne leaned against the doorframe, looking like she might fall if she stepped away. "I saw Elder Hansen this morning. He was talking to the men about crossing the Atlantic. He spoke of waves like they were just hills to climb. But the sea is deep, Sophie. So very deep."
"Then we'll be like oil on water," Sophie said, moving to her friend and touching her shoulder. "We'll stay on the surface because we have work to do. Now help me gather the children. It's time to go."
Walking to the village edge, each neighbor was another small hurt. Faces she knew, already blurring, looking at her with pity and the suspicion people show those who leave. Sophie didn't stop. Didn't explain. She kept her eyes forward, carrying Otto, while Peter led the others in a line that felt ready to break.
At the crossroad, the wooden sign pointed to Copenhagen. The air had turned purple-gray, clouds low and heavy with the possibility of snow. Sophie looked back once, seeing the Jelling mounds on the horizon, ancient and unmoved, indifferent to her leaving.
"Are we to see the Prophet now, Mama?" Emma asked, her small hand grasping at Sophie's skirt. She appeared weary, her five-year-old countenance bearing a solemnness matching the dimming heavens.
"Not yet, my little bird," Sophie replied, drawing the child nearer to the warmth of her woolen coat. "First, we must traverse the waters, then the plains where vegetation rises to a man's height, then the high mountains, yet each step moves us toward the valley of the Saints."
Peter stood at a distance, gazing at a small stone taken from the garden of their cottage. He rotated it in his palm, his thumb following the jagged edge where a plow had chipped it. Then he swung his arm and threw the stone into the woodlands. He turned away before hearing it land.
"It is time," Sophie said. "Stay close. Don't speak to strangers, and don't let go of the bundles. Everything we own is in those sacks."
The coach arrived with a rattle of harness and the smell of wet leather and horse. The driver was from the next parish, someone Peter had traded grain with, but he looked at Sophie like she was a dead woman walking. He didn't offer to help with the sacks. His silence judged her, and she bore it without a word.
As they pulled away, the wheels churning the half-frozen mud, Sophie felt the road's vibration through the floorboards into her boots. Gentofte and her old life were gone within minutes, lost behind them. She reached into her pocket and touched the travel papers, the thin sheets that held her children's future.
She leaned her head against the rattling window and watched the Danish countryside fade into shadowed hills and empty fields. She sat still, hands folded over her stomach, waiting for the rhythm of the journey to become the new rhythm of her heart.
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