The Scream Over the Water

It all began with a name.

Charlotte Sofie Vik. A woman who left the world too soon, only 51 years old. But she did not disappear. She lived on—not in her body, not in a face anyone could remember, but in her name. It was passed down to her granddaughter, to a niece, to a great-great-grandchild. No one said why. No one truly spoke of who she was. But the name lived on.

One day, decades later, someone starts searching. A grandchild of someone who once called herself Charlotte. She finds old letters, a few photographs, stories told in fragments. She contacts genealogists, begins asking questions no one has asked in a long time. Who was she, really? What happened that day in Ørrevika?

The night had settled like a damp hand over Evangervatnet, a strip of moonlight cutting through the darkness, sharp and merciless. The silence was thick, heavy, almost suffocating. Then, as if someone had plunged a knife into the air: a child’s scream. It ripped through the night, tearing apart the stillness. A man from Hjørneviki dropped his oars and listened, his pulse pounding hard in his throat. The silence around him was gone, ripped away, and he rowed like a madman now, feeling the water spray up against his face, the cries pushing him forward.

He had noticed it. No smoke from the chimney, no light, not a sound for days. He rowed faster, harder, and when he stepped onto the shore, he felt it like a cold wind against his chest: a door left open, a sliver of something he did not want to see—but had to. Moonlight sliced into the room, where three small shadows sat huddled on the floor. Children. Dirty cheeks, trembling hands, hair a tangled mess. The eldest, a girl, held the younger ones close, as if her grip alone could shield them from the world.

"Where is your mother?" His voice cracked, the words weak and uncertain.

No one answered. No one needed to. He already knew. The parents were gone. They had left. Without warning, without a trace. Soon, the rumor spread through the village, voices sharp and uneasy. Some said America, others said nothing. But they all thought the same: who could do such a thing? Who could abandon their children like this, three small souls in a house where no one was meant to be?

People gathered in the yard, standing in half-circles, exchanging glances and silent accusations. The children were given food, warm clothes, but something had been broken. It was in their eyes, in the way they looked at adults, at each other. The girl with braids said nothing. She had learned something no child should ever have to learn: she was one of those who had not been chosen.

Charlotte Sofie, eight years old.

Abandoned, but Not Forgotten

She woke to a light that was not hers, to a bed she had never asked for. The morning was silent—no mother, no songs, only the cold, comfortless light filtering through small windows. She sat up, pulled her knees to her chest, and looked around. A new home, they said. But it was not hers. She could feel it in the way they looked at her, in the words they didn’t say.

The pastor had made the decision, pointed at her, and said Verpelstad. Bertil Nilsson and Brita Larsdotter. Anna Mathilde, had been taken with her parents when they left. Charlotte Sofie was left behind. Why? She asked herself the question every single day.

Verpelstad was foreign, even the scent of Ørreviki slowly faded from her clothes. Brita and Bertil were neither harsh nor kind. "We did not ask for this," Brita said quietly. Bertil nodded. He opened the door to the storehouse and let her take bread. That was all.

She waited. Waited for letters, for voices to return to her. Waited for a man with a letter, for words that would say her mother was waiting. But the days came, the days went. No one came. No one spoke her name.

One day, Marta, the daughter of the house, asked, "How long will she be here?" Charlotte stood behind the stove, her hands tightening around her dress. No one answered. Perhaps no one knew.

Then Brita took her out to the field, handed her a sickle, her gaze as sharp as the blade. "This is your work now. Don’t think you are anything more than what you are."

Charlotte nodded, understanding. She was not a daughter. She was not a sister. She was the one left behind.

Growing Up Without a Home

Charlotte knew how to hold her breath. How to slip into the shadows, make her body so small that no one would see her. She learned to be invisible, even when standing in the middle of the room. She was there, yet she wasn’t. Invisible, but not forgotten. A strange bird in a nest that was not hers.

Verpelstad was never her home. She rose before the morning light, fingers cold, dirty, aching from work no one thanked her for. She fed the hens, carried firewood, cleaned the fish Bertil pulled from the water. Her hands were black with soil in spring, swollen from labor in autumn. In winter, she sat silently by the hearth, mending clothes no one else would wear.

She never heard her own name. She was only "she." "Has she eaten? Has she finished? Has she gone to bed?" The words were short, the voices sharp. No one called her Charlotte, no one called her daughter. She was no one, the child of the poorhouse, a shame upon the church pews. She saw it in their glances every Sunday, felt it in the shadow that followed her wherever she went.

But Marta needed no words. Marta understood, because Marta was an orphan like her. She had no home either, but on the first day, she had smiled at Charlotte, stretched out a mittened hand, and said in a quiet voice, "They say you’re staying here now." Charlotte had nodded, feeling the warmth of a gaze that did not judge, only saw.

Marta showed her where to hide, where she could be herself when no one else was watching. Marta made her laugh, made her forget that she had nowhere to belong. One day by the water, Marta threw a stone, watching it skip across the surface before sinking.

"One day, I’m going to leave this place," Marta said.

Charlotte nodded, not sure what to think.

"Me too."

"You will?" Marta turned, studying her.

Charlotte felt her heart hammering in her chest.

"Yes. One day."

The words hung between them, something to hold onto when the nights grew too cold, too lonely.

The day she stood as a confirmand, her dress was simple, but it was hers. She stood in the church, felt the eyes of the congregation, her heart pounding as the pastor read her grade aloud. "Excellent." People nodded approvingly, but she heard what they did not say.

She knew what they truly meant.

That it was a miracle she had made it. That she had not become one of those who simply disappeared.

The Letter from America

One day, the letter arrives.

Charlotte stands in the yard, and Bertil holds the letter between his fingers as if it were something poisonous.

"From America," he says, his gaze expectant, scrutinizing.

She feels it like a blow to her chest. America. Them. The parents who left, who abandoned her. She stiffens, barely able to breathe. Brita steps outside, wipes her hands, looks at the letter, shakes her head, and goes back inside.

Charlotte looks down at the letter. She feels the paper, thin and fragile between her fingers. Why now? Why not before—when she needed it, when she sat on the floor waiting, staring out the window every night, every morning?

She imagines what the letter says. That they miss her, regret their decision, want her back. But it is too late. She knows it in every part of her body.

She turns, walks toward the stove, and drops the letter into the embers. The paper burns quickly, the letters turning to ash in an instant.

She does not look up, does not meet their eyes. She steps outside into the open air, feeling the cold bite at her cheeks, looking up at the sky.

It was over. They are no longer hers.

A Poor Girl in the City

Charlotte stands at the quay in Bergen, clutching her little chest tightly to her breast. She senses the city before she sees it—the smell of saltwater, the thick coal smoke, the boiling chaos of sound. Her heart pounds. She takes a deeper breath, pulling the air all the way down into her stomach. She has nowhere else to go. This is her place now.

Life swarms around her. Men cursing as they haul crates from boats, women with baskets full of fresh fish, children darting around and shouting between the fish tanks, quick little feet and high-pitched calls. Here, perhaps, she can become someone else. No one knows Charlotte Sofie from Ørreviki. No one knows she is a child of the poorhouse. No one knows her parents left her.

She finds the address in a narrow alley behind the market. The small white wooden house looks inviting, but when the housekeeper opens the door, she eyes Charlotte with narrowed suspicion.

"So, you’re the new one," she says curtly. "Just don’t think it’ll be easy."

It wasn’t easy.

The Vik family runs the greenhouse near Nygårdsparken. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth, roses, vegetables, and labor. She wakes before the sun, scrubbing floors, peeling potatoes, hauling water from the well until her arms burn. Her hands turn red, rough, cracked. She bends over the soil in the greenhouse, pulling weeds with aching fingers. She no longer knows how long she has been standing there—the days blur into one another until she forgets who she was before she came here.

But in the evenings, when darkness settles softly over the city, she meets the other girls. They gather on a bench by the bay, sharing dry bread and dreams. Anna, with the rosy cheeks, who cooks for the rich; Marie, with the fair hair, who scrubs staircases in a grand house on Kalfaret. They giggle about boys they will never dare speak to, dream of dresses they will never afford. Charlotte laughs with them, feeling her heart slowly unfold.

But then come the nights. Nights where she wakes abruptly, seeing the fjord back home, the light shimmering between the mountains. She hears Marta’s voice again, feels the weight of memories—of when they threw stones into the fjord and dreamed of leaving. Now she is here, in Bergen.

But has she really escaped?

Love and Hope

It begins in the greenhouse.

Charlotte has her hands in the soil when he arrives. Carl Fredrik Vik, dark hair falling over his forehead, eyes glowing through the dusk. He smiles at her—a smile she does not recognize. He truly sees her, not as a poor girl from the countryside, but as Charlotte, just Charlotte. She feels her heart race, something new awakening in her chest.

He does not ask about her parents, nor about her past. He asks about dreams, whether she plans to stay in the city, whether she prefers roses or lavender. She answers as best she can, stammering out a yes when he asks if she will have coffee with him on Sunday.

There are more Sundays. There are late nights walking hand in hand along the quay, stolen kisses in the shadows of narrow alleyways. Soon, there is a small house above the greenhouse, mornings with dew on the windows and steaming coffee between them. Charlotte feels whole, safe, alive. She feels loved.

They have children. August Fredrik, with warm skin and tiny, soft hands. Ingebjørg Amalie, always smiling. Carl Wilhelm, calm and thoughtful. Ruth Charlotte, who carries her name forward. She holds them close, breathes them in, knowing they are hers. No one can take them from her.

But she never speaks of Ørreviki. Never of the house where she sat alone, never of the parents who left, never of the letter from America she burned without opening. Her children will never know what she endured; they will only know love and safety.

Charlotte Sofie has created something new. And she holds onto it with everything she has.

Future

The letter lies on the table, as light as a feather in the air, weightless—yet it presses down on her. It pulls her under, as if a hand has been placed against her chest, pushing, harder and harder, until she can barely breathe.

Carl Fredrik places his hand over hers. A warm, steady hand, the one that has held her through everything.

"You don’t have to read it," he says.

She stares at the envelope. She already knows what it says before she tears the paper, before her eyes take in the words. Gustav. Nils Andreas. The brothers who had travelled to America to join their parents. Names that were once her whole world, but now are only shadows of boys she no longer knows. Someone has found them. A relative, a trace. Names in a census. An address. A life on the other side of the ocean.

But what kind of possibility is this? She cannot picture these men, only the boys she remembers—scraped knees, dirty hands. And now? Two strangers. Perhaps they want to know about her. Who she has become. Whom she has loved. What she remembers from the time when they were small. But she does not remember. She has no memory from that part of her past.

She stands, looks at the stove. Just a few steps. She does what she has done before. She feels it. Takes the letter in her hands. The paper is thinner than she expected. Her fingertips feel its texture, rough, alive. But only for a moment. She lets the flames consume it, watches as it curls, blackens, turns to ash.

Behind her, silence. She does not know if Carl Fredrik is watching her. If he understands.

But she knows she has made her choice.

Charlotte Sofie lives here. In Bergen. With her husband, with her children. America is not for her. It was a place her parents disappeared to, a dream they never wanted to share with her. Now, it no longer exists.

A few years later, the pain arrives. First like a whisper, a shadow, then something heavier, something she cannot carry. She knows what is coming. Her body understands before her thoughts do. She turns 51, but no more.

On her grave, only her name remains. Charlotte Sofie Vik. No story, no explanation. But the name lives on, carried by those who do not know who she truly was.

And maybe, that is for the best.

_{About the Story}

_{This narrative is freely written based on historical sources and is inspired by the true story of Charlotte Sofie Vik, born Nilsen (1879–1930). The events described in Ørreviki in the late 19th century have been known through both local oral tradition and documented sources, but many details about the experiences of the abandoned children remain unknown. The story is built on historical facts but also includes descriptions and moods to convey how Charlotte Sofie might have experienced her fate. Some elements are fictional, including how she handled the letter from America. Her inner emotions, thoughts, and interactions with those around her are interpreted and imagined within the framework of historical reality. Charlotte Sofie’s story is part of a broader narrative about migration and women’s lives, which is central to Vågespel. Stories like hers provide insight into the consequences of emigration—not only for those who left but also for those who stayed behind. Many women had to make difficult choices for themselves and their families, and numerous children were left behind with hopes for a better future, though with no guarantee of reunion. Through this project, we highlight women’s voices and fates, showing how they shaped both their own futures and the history of Norwegian emigration. Charlotte Sofie’s life reflects a reality where many women stood between longing, loss, and the courage to create a new life—whether in the new world or in the shadows of those who departed. For biographical facts about Charlotte Sofie Vik, see the summary below.}

_{Charlotte Sofie Vik (born Nilsen)}

_{Charlotte Sofie Vik (born Nilsen) was born on June 6, 1879, in Bruvik parish. She was the daughter of railway worker Gulbrand Fredrik Nilsen (1851–) and Anne Andersdatter Flesje (1853–). Her parents left Norway in 1882 to emigrate to America, taking only their youngest child, Anna Mathilde, with them. Charlotte Sofie remained in Norway and was placed with a foster mother at Verpelstad in Stamnes parish. She grew up there and was confirmed in Stamnes Church in 1894. As a young woman, she moved to Bergen, where she married Carl Fredrik Vik on August 6, 1899. Carl Fredrik was a greenhouse worker, and together they had four children: August Fredrik (1899), Ingebjørg Amalie (1907), Karl Wilhelm (1905), and Ruth Charlotte (1917). The family lived in Årstad, Bergen, where Carl Fredrik ran a gardening business. Charlotte Sofie Vik lived a quiet life in Bergen, likely carrying the memories of her past without speaking much of them. She passed away on November 26, 1930, just 51 years old. Her descendants have continued the name Charlotte through several generations, a name that continues to live on in the family today.}

_{Source: Frå fjell til fjord (2011, 2012, and 2018). Evanger: Yearbook for Vassvøri Sogelag.}