But on the eighth day of the Christmas season she met Simon as he came to mass without Ramborg. No, she was feeling fine, he said, but she needed to rest and gather her strength, for the next day he was taking her and the children south to Dyfrin. The weather was so good for traveling by sleigh, and since Gyrd had invited them, and Ramborg was so keen on going, well . . .
CHAPTER 4
ON THE DAY after Saint Paal’s Day, Simon Darre rode north across Lake Mj?sa, accompanied by two men. A bitter frost had set in, but he didn’t think he could stay away from home any longer; the sleighs would have to follow later, as soon as the cold had let up a bit.
At Hamar he met a friend, Vigleik Paalss?n of Fagaberg, and they continued on together. When they reached Lillehammer, they rested for a while at a farm where ale was served. As they sat and drank, several drunken fur peddlers began brawling in the room. Finally Simon stood up, stepped into the thick of things and separated them, but in doing so, he received a knife wound in his right forearm. It was little more than a scratch, so he paid it no mind, although the proprietress of the alehouse insisted on being allowed to bind a cloth around it.
He rode home with Vigleik and stayed the night at his manor. The men shared a bed, and toward morning Simon was awakened because the other man was thrashing in his sleep. Several times Vigleik called out his name, and so Simon woke him up to ask what was wrong.
Vigleik couldn’t remember his dream properly. “But it was loathsome, and you were in it. One thing I do remember: Simon Reidarss?n stood in this room and asked you to leave with him. I saw him so clearly that I could have counted every single freckle on his face.”
“I wish you could sell me that dream,” said Simon, half in jest and half seriously. Simon Reidarss?n was his uncle’s son, and they had been good friends when they were growing up, but the other Simon had died at the age of thirteen.
In the morning when the men sat down to eat, Vigleik noticed that Simon hadn’t buttoned the sleeve of his tunic around his right wrist. The flesh was red and swollen all the way down to the back of his hand. He mentioned it, but Simon merely laughed.
A little later, when his friend begged him to stay on a few more days and to wait there for his wife—Vigleik couldn’t forget his dream—Simon Andress?n replied, almost indignantly, “Surely you haven’t had such a bad dream about me that I should keep to my bed because of a mere louse bite?”
Around sunset Simon and his men rode down to Lake Losna. It had been the most beautiful day; now the towering blue and white peaks turned gold and crimson in the twilight, while along the river the groves, heavy with rime, stood furry gray in the shadows. The men had excellent horses and a brisk ride ahead of them across the long lake; tiny bits of ice sprayed up, ringing and clinking beneath the hooves of the horses. A biting wind blew hard against them. Simon was freezing, but in spite of the cold, strange nauseating waves of heat kept washing over him, followed by icy spells that seemed to seep all the way into the marrow of his spine. Now and then he noticed that his tongue was swollen and felt oddly thick at the back of his throat. Even before they had crossed the lake he had to stop and ask one of his men to help him fasten his cape so it would support his right arm.
The servants had heard Vigleik Paalss?n recounting his dream; now they wanted their master to show them his wound. But Simon said it was nothing; it merely stung a bit. “I may have to get used to being left-handed for a few days.”
But later that night, when the moon had risen and they were riding high along the ridge north of the lake, Simon realized that his arm might turn out to be rather troublesome after all. It ached all the way up to his armpit, the jolting of the horse caused him great pain, and the blood was hammering in his wounded limb. His head was pounding too, and spasms were shooting up from the back of his neck. He was hot and then cold by turn.
The winter road passed high up along the slope, partway through forest and partway across white fields. Simon gazed at everything: The full moon was sailing brightly in the pale blue sky, having driven all the stars far away; only a few larger ones still dared wander in the distant heavens. The white fields glittered and sparkled; the shadows fell short and jagged across the snow; inside the woods the uncertain light lay in splotches and stripes among the firs, heavy with snow. Simon saw all this.
But at the same time he saw quite clearly a meadow with tufts of ash-brown grass in the sunlight of early spring. Several small spruce trees had sprung up here and there at the edge of the field; they glowed green like velvet in the sun. He recognized this place; it was the pasture near his home at Dyfrin. The alder woods stood beyond the field with its tree trunks a springtime shiny gray and the tops brown with blossoms. Behind stretched the long, low Raumarike ridges, shimmering blue but still speckled white with snow. They were walking down toward the alder thicket, he and Simon Reidarss?n, carrying fishing gear and pike spears. They were on their way to the lake, which lay dark gray with patches of thawing ice, to fish at the open end. His dead cousin walked at his side; he saw his playmate’s curly hair sticking out from his cap, reddish in the spring sunlight; he could see every freckle on the boy’s face. The other Simon stuck out his lower lip and blew—phew, phew—whenever he thought his namesake was speaking gibberish. They jumped over meandering rivulets and leaped from mound to mound across the trickling snow water in the grassy meadow. The bottom was covered with moss; under the water it churned and frothed a lively green.