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    Brightly Shining
    Brightly Shining
    Brightly Shining
    Ebook130 pages1 hour

    Brightly Shining

    By Ingvild Rishøi and Caroline Waight

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    About this ebook

    Christmas is just around the corner, and Ronja and Melissa's father is out of work. When ten-year-old Ronja hears about a job selling Christmas trees, she thinks it might be the stroke of luck they all need. Soon, the fridge fills with food and their father comes home smiling, covered in spruce needles. But the local pub has an irresistible pull and he quickly abandons his responsibilities.


    Melissa decides to take his place at the Christmas tree stand, working before and after school, and bringing Ronja

    with her. On rare breaks in the dark of a Norwegian December they dream of a brighter place of kindness and plenty - and find there are some people in the world who might help them.


    Small in stature but with an outsize impact on the reader, Brightly Shining has all the markings of a magical

    modern classic.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherGrove Press UK
    Release dateNov 7, 2024
    ISBN9781804710746
    Author

    Ingvild Rishøi

    Ingvild Rishøi was born and raised in Oslo. She has published several collections of stories in Norway, and her debut novel, originally titled Stargate, was published in Norway in 2021. It is published or forthcoming in twenty territories and is being adapted for film. Rishøi is one of Norway’s most revered literary voices.

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      Book preview

      Brightly Shining - Ingvild Rishøi

      Illustration

      Sometimes I think about Tøyen. It’s then I see Tøyen quite clearly.

      People carrying shopping bags out of the supermarket and pushing buggies through the snow, running to school with bags thumping, and the caretaker standing by the gate at break time, smoking. Then the snow melts, and the Christmas trees lie brown outside the blocks of flats, and then the lawns turn green and full of dandelions, and so it goes on, people walking steadily and staggering and walking steadily again, babies being born and old folk dying, and at break time the caretaker leans against the pillar by the gate, blowing smoke towards the sky.

      It’s then he thinks of me. He understood it all, I see that now. He gazes up above the rooftops and remembers everything.

      Illustration

      Standing out here, are we? the caretaker said.

      He took up position at his pillar, taking a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket. And I stood where I always stood, I answered as I always used to answer.

      Yes, I said.

      You know that’s not allowed? the caretaker said.

      I gave him the reply I’d learned from Dad.

      Rules are made to be broken.

      It was snowing a little. Behind us, someone was shouting eeny meeny miny moe! The caretaker stooped and lit his cigarette. Then we picked up our conversation.

      You know that’s not allowed? I said.

      Rules are made to be broken, the caretaker said. Did you give away all your food again?

      I nodded. The squirrel had already been, Tøyen’s only squirrel and its finest. It knew when break time was, and then it came. The caretaker held the cigarette between his lips and took his packed lunch out of his pocket. He opened the foil, split the börek in two, and passed me one still-steaming half. His wife was very good at wrapping.

      It’s the circle of life, the caretaker said. You give to the squirrel, I give to you.

      What’s the circle of life? I said.

      Philosophy, said the caretaker. Here I am a caretaker, you know. But in my home country I was a great thinker.

      He turned and blew the smoke away from me.

      That’s the good thing about being an immigrant, he said. You can always tell people what you were in your home country.

      But you’re pulling their legs? I said.

      Never, he said. Well, actually, in my home country I was one of the country’s greatest leg-pullers. I won a competition. The National Leg-Pulling Championships.

      Gosh, I said.

      Anyway, he said. Have you seen that flyer over there?

      And he pointed with the cigarette between his fingers. Wanted: Christmas Tree Seller, it read. You Are: Conscientious. Responsible. Outdoorsy.

      It was taped to a lamppost. At the bottom were strips of paper with a telephone number.

      Might be of interest? the caretaker said.

      I don’t think ten-year-olds can get jobs, can they? I said.

      It’s not you I was thinking of, the caretaker said.

      He went up to the lamppost and tore off one of the strips, and came back and put it in my hand.

      Show that to your dad, he said.

      Snowflakes were melting around the bit of paper in my palm.

      And if he does apply for the job, tell him to say he knows Alfred, said the caretaker. He’s the one who delivers the Christmas trees for them.

      But is that true? I said.

      True enough, the caretaker said. I know Alfred, you know me, and your dad knows you. That’s the circle of life.

      I nodded.

      While we’re at it, said the caretaker, you might as well take the whole thing.

      And he went back over, picked off the tape, and rolled the flyer into a scroll.

      It’s not allowed, putting up flyers here, he said.

      But what if somebody else wants to apply for the job? I said.

      The caretaker tucked the scroll into my jacket pocket. Snowflakes were landing on his small woolly hat.

      Exactly, he said. You’re looking at a great thinker here.

      When I got home, Dad was sitting at the kitchen table. Looking up, he shielded his eyes with his hand.

      Is that the sun coming up? he said. Where are my sunglasses?

      He smiled, I smiled too. Then he stopped smiling.

      Come and sit here for a minute, he said.

      He rubbed his forehead. But I didn’t want him to start up. This is no way for kids to live, he says, tarmac and all this shit, and afterwards he says, but you’re not stupid, you two, nobody can say that, and you’ve had good times too, remember the tent that summer? Remember the cabin that winter? and I answer yes and no and yes, but I didn’t want him to start up again, so I unrolled the flyer and put it on the table.

      Christmas Tree Seller, said Dad.

      The flyer rolled up by itself. I rolled it flat again and held it down. He looked up.

      But a Christmas tree seller, he said. That’s a job for country bumpkins, Ronja.

      But anything is better than nothing, I said.

      Then he looked again at the flyer. And suddenly he got up and went over to the counter and picked up the kettle. Turning on the tap, he said, You’re not stupid, you know. You never have been.

      He filled the kettle. I love it when he drinks coffee. And when he grabs a pair of joggers and puts them on, and when he looks out of the window and starts to pace about, I love it. I remember all the jobs that Dad has had. The best one was the bakery, when he brought home giant cinnamon rolls, and I could eat them the next day at school, where the others peered into my lunch box like, no way, and Musse said, man, you’re always lucky, and Stella said, you know that’s not allowed? and Musse said, chill out, Stella, everybody else’s packed lunch is full of sugar anyway. But the supermarket one was good too, and the one where he washed the trams, and the others used to say, your dad works at the supermarket, right, can you get me a discount on chocolate milk? Your dad washes the trams, right, can you ask him not to wash off the bits my brother tagged? The only one that wasn’t good was when he was a poet and wrote about how thought was an eel in a trap and sold the poems outside 7-Eleven, I didn’t love that one, but I love it when the kettle starts to hiss, and that’s all it takes. You two dream too much, Melissa likes to say, if dreaming was a job we could move right now to the fancy

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