Kristin stood up and went over to the main door. It was so dark and heavy with rain outside that there seemed to be no moon or stars. But she thought it must soon be midnight. She picked up a lantern from the entryway, went inside, and lit it. Then she threw on her cloak and went out into the rain.
“In Christ’s name,” she whispered, crossing herself three times as she stepped out into the night.
At the upper end of the courtyard stood the priest’s house. It was empty now. Ever since Erlend had been released from the ban of excommunication, there had not been a private cleric at Husaby; now and then one of the assistant priests from Orkedal would come over to say mass, but the new priest who had been assigned to the church was abroad with Master Gunnulf; they were apparently friends from school. They had been expected home this past summer, but now Erlend thought they wouldn’t return until after spring. Gunnulf had had a lung ailment in his youth, so he would be unlikely to travel during the winter.
Kristin let herself into the cold, deserted house and found the key to the church. Then she paused for a moment. It was very slippery, pitch dark, windy, and rainy. It was reckless of her to go out at night, and especially on Christmas Eve, when all the evil spirits were in the air. But she refused to give up—she had to go to the church.
“In the name of God, the Almighty, I here proceed,” she whispered aloud. Lighting her way with the lantern, Kristin set her feet down where stones and tufts of grass stuck up from the icy ground. In the darkness the path to the church seemed exceedingly long. But at last she stood on the stone threshold in front of the door.
Inside it was piercingly cold, much colder than out in the rain. Kristin walked forward toward the chancel and knelt down before the crucifix, which she glimpsed in the darkness above her.
After she had said her prayers and stood up, she stopped for a moment. She seemed to expect something to happen to her. But nothing did. She was freezing and scared in the desolate, dark church.
She crept up toward the altar and shone her light on the paintings. They were old, ugly, and stern. The altar was bare stone. She knew that the cloths, books, and vessels lay locked up in a chest.
In the nave a bench stood against the wall. Kristin went over and sat down, placing the lantern on the floor. Her cloak was wet, and her feet were wet and cold. She tried to pull one leg up underneath her, but the position was uncomfortable. So she wrapped the cloak tightly around her and struggled to focus her thoughts on the fact that now it was once again the holy midnight hour when Christ was born to the Virgin Mary in Bethlehem.
Verbum caro factum est et habitavit in nobis.5
Kristin remembered Sira Eirik’s deep, pure voice. And Audun, the old deacon, who never attained a higher position. And their church back home where she had stood at her mother’s side and listened to the Christmas mass. Every single year she had heard it. She tried to recall more of the holy words, but she could only think about their church and all the familiar faces. In front, on the men’s side, stood her father, staring with remote eyes into the dazzling glow of candles from the choir.
It was so incomprehensible that their church was no more. It had burned to the ground. She burst into tears at the thought. And here she was, sitting alone in the dark on this night when all Christian people were gathered in happiness and joy in God’s house. But perhaps that was as it should be, that tonight she was shut out from the celebration of the birth of God’s son to a pure and innocent maiden.
Her parents were no doubt at Sundbu this Christmas. But there would be no mass in the chapel tonight; she knew that on Christmas Eve those who lived at Sundbu always attended the service at the main church in Ladalm.
This was the first time, for as far back as Kristin could remember, that she was not at the Christmas mass. She must have been quite young the first time her parents took her along. She could recall that she was bundled up in a fur-lined sack, and her father had carried her in his arms. It was a terribly cold night, and they were riding through a forest—the pine torches shone on fir trees heavy with snow. Her father’s face was dark red, and the fur border on his hood was chalk-white with frost. Now and then he would bend forward and nip the end of her nose and ask her whether she could feel it. Then, laughing, he would shout over his shoulder to her mother that Kristin’s nose hadn’t frozen off yet. That must have been while they were still living at Skog; she couldn’t have been more than three winters old. Her parents were quite young back then. Now she remembered her mother’s voice on that night—clear and happy and full of laughter—when she called out to her husband and asked about the child. Yes, her mother’s voice had been young and fresh.