During the long, dark autumn nights she would lie awake, listening to the even breathing of the two little boys, noting the swirl of the wind around the corners of the house, and thinking about Erlend. If only he wasn’t staying at that particular farm.
She hadn’t been pleased when the two cousins had begun talking about Haugen. Munan Baards?n was visiting them at the hostel in Oslo on one of the last evenings before their departure. Back then Munan had inherited sole ownership of the small manor of Haugen from his mother. Both he and Erlend had been quite drunk and boisterous, and while she sat there feeling tormented by their talk of that place of misfortune, Munan suddenly gave Erlend the farm—so that he wouldn’t be entirely bereft of land in Norway. This happened amid much bantering and laughter; they even jested about the rumors that no one could live at Haugen because of the ghosts. The horror that Sir Munan Baards?n had harbored in his heart ever since the violent death of his mother and her husband up there now seemed to have eased somewhat.
He ended up giving Erlend the deed and documents to Haugen. Kristin couldn’t hide her displeasure that he had become the owner of that ignominious place.
But Erlend merely jested, “It’s unlikely that either you or I will ever set foot in those buildings—if they’re still standing, that is, and haven’t collapsed. And surely neither Aunt Aashild nor Herr Bj?rn will bring us the land rent themselves. So it shouldn’t matter to us if it’s true what people say, that they still haunt the place.”
The year came to an end, and Kristin’s thoughts were always circling around one thing: How was Erlend doing up north at Haugen? She grew so reticent that she barely spoke a word to her children or the servants except when she had to answer their questions. And they were reluctant to address their mistress unless it was absolutely necessary, for she gave such curt and impatient replies when they interrupted and disturbed her restless, anxious brooding. She was so unaware of this herself that when she finally noticed that the two youngest children had stopped asking her about their father or talking about him, she sighed and concluded that children forget so quickly. But she didn’t realize how often she had scared them away with her impatient words when she told them to keep quiet and stop plaguing her.
To her oldest sons she said very little.
As long as the hard frost lasted, she could still tell strangers who passed by the manor and asked for her husband that he was up in the mountains trying his luck at hunting. But then a great snowfall descended upon both the countryside and the mountains during the first week of Advent.
Early in the morning on the day before Saint Lucia’s Day, while it was still pitch-dark outside and the stars were bright, Kristin came out of the cowshed. She saw by the light of a pine torch stuck in a mound of snow that three of her sons were putting on their skis outside the door of the main house. And a short distance away stood Gaute’s gelding with snowshoes under its feet and packs on its back. She guessed where they were headed, so she did-n’t dare say a word until she noticed that one of the boys was Bj?rgulf; the other two were Naakkve and Gaute.
“Are you going out skiing, Bj?rgulf? But it’s going to be clear today, son!”
“As you can see, Mother, I am.”
“Perhaps you’ll all be home before the holy day?” she asked helplessly. Bj?rgulf was a very poor skier. He couldn’t tolerate the brilliance of the snow in his eyes and spent most of the winter indoors. But Naakkve replied that they might be gone for several days.
Kristin went home feeling fearful and uneasy. The twins were cross and sullen, so she realized that they had wanted to go along but their older brothers had refused to take them.
Early on the fifth day, around breakfast time, the three boys returned. They had left before dawn for Bj?rgulf’s sake, said Naakkve, in order to reach home before the sun came up. The two of them went straight up to the high loft; Bj?rgulf looked dead tired. But Gaute carried the bags and packs into the house. He had two handsome pups for the small boys, who at once forgot all about their questions and grievances. Gaute seemed embarrassed but tried not to show it.
“And this,” he said as he took something out of a sack, “this Father asked me to give to you.”
Fourteen marten pelts, exceedingly beautiful. Kristin took them, greatly confused; she couldn’t utter a single word in reply. There were far too many things she wanted to ask, but she was afraid of being overwhelmed if she opened even the smallest part of her heart. And Gaute was so young.
She could only manage to say, “They’ve already turned white, I see. Yes, we’re deep into the winter half of the year now.”