Bethlehem. In Norwegian it means the place of bread. For that was where the bread which will nourish us for eternal life was given to the people.
It was at the mass on Christmas Day that Sira Eirik stepped forward to the pulpit and explained the gospels in the language of his own country.
In between the masses everyone would sit in the banquet hall north of the church. They had brought ale with them and passed it around. The men slipped out to the stables to see to the horses. But on vigil nights, in the summertime before a holy day, the congregation would gather on the church green, and then the young people would dance among the servants.
And the blessed Virgin Mary wrapped her son in swaddling clothes. She placed him in the straw of the manger from which the oxen and asses ate. . . .
Kristin pressed her hands against her sides.
Little son, my own sweet child, my own son. God will have mercy on us for the sake of His own blessed Mother. Blessed Mary, you who are the clear star of the sea,6 the crimson dawn of eternal life who gave birth to the sun of the whole world—help us! Little child, what is it tonight? You’re so restless. Can you feel beneath my heart that I am so bitterly cold?
It was on the Children’s Day last year, the fourth day of Christmas, when Sira Eirik preached about the innocent children whom the cruel soldiers had slaughtered in their mothers’ arms. But God had chosen these young boys to enter into the hall of heaven before all other blood witnesses. And it would be a sign that such belong to the Kingdom of Heaven. And Jesus picked up a little boy and put him among them. Unless you create yourselves in their image, you cannot enter into the hall of heaven, dear brothers and sisters. So let this be a solace to every man and woman who mourns a young child’s death. . . .
Then Kristin had seen her father’s eyes meet her mother’s across the church, and she withdrew her gaze, because she knew that this was not meant for her.
That was last year. The first Christmas after Ulvhild’s death. Oh, but not my child! Jesus, Maria. Let me keep my son!
Her father had not wanted to ride in the races on Saint Stefan’s Day last year, but the men begged him until he finally agreed. The course extended from the church hill at home, down to the confluence of the two rivers near Loptsgaard; that’s where they joined up with the men from Ottadal. She remembered her father racing past on his golden stallion. He stood up in his stirrups and bent low over the horse’s neck, shouting and urging the animal on, with the whole group thundering behind.
But last year he had come home early, and he was completely sober. Normally on that day the men would return home late, tremendously drunk, because they had to ride into every farm courtyard and drink from the bowls brought out to them, to honor Christ and Saint Stefan, who first saw the star in the east as he drove King Herod’s foals to the River Jordan for water. Even the horses were given ale on that day, for they were supposed to be wild and reckless. On Saint Stefan’s Day the farmers were allowed to race their horses until vespers—it was impossible to make the men think or talk of anything but horses.
Kristin could remember one Christmas when they held the great drinking feast at J?rundgaard. And her father had promised a priest who was among the guests that he would be given a young red stallion, son of Guldsvein, if he could manage to swing himself up onto the animal as it ran around unsaddled in the courtyard.
That was a long time ago—before the misfortune with Ulvhild occurred. Her mother was standing in the doorway with the little sister in her arms, and Kristin was holding onto her dress, a bit scared.
The priest ran after the horse and grabbed the halter, leaping so that his ankle-length surcoat swirled around him, and then he let go of the wild, rearing beast.
“Foal, foal—whoa, foal. Whoa, son!” he cried out. He hopped and he danced like a billy goat. Her father and an old farmer stood with their arms around each other’s necks, the features of their faces completely dissolved in laughter and drunkenness.
Either the priest must have won Rauden or else Lavrans gave the foal to him all the same, for Kristin remembered that he rode away from J?rundgaard on the horse. By that time they were all sober enough; Lavrans respectfully held the stirrup for him, and the priest blessed them with three fingers in farewell. He was apparently a cleric of high standing.
Oh yes. It was often quite merry at home during the Christmas season. And then there were the Christmas masqueraders. Kristin’s father would sling her up onto his back, his tunic icy and his hair wet. To clear their heads before they went to vespers, the men threw ice water over each other down by the well. They laughed when the women voiced their disapproval of this. Kristin’s father would take her small, cold hands and press them against his forehead, which was still red and burning hot. This was out in the courtyard, in the evening. A new white crescent moon hung over the mountain ridge in the watery-green air. Once when he stepped into the main house with her, Kristin hit her head on the doorframe so she had a big bump on her forehead. Later she sat on his lap at the table. He lay the blade of his dagger against her bruise, fed her tidbits of food, and let her drink mead from his goblet. Then she wasn’t afraid of the masqueraders who stormed into the room.