“Ah, well,” Lavrans said reluctantly, “that could be—but I don’t think I should speak of such things. We must not begrudge those who have exhausted their peace in the village whatever peace they may find on the mountain, that’s what I think. And yet I’ve seen yellow pastures and beautiful hay meadows in places where few people know that any valleys exist. And I’ve seen herds of cattle and flocks of sheep, but I don’t know whether they belonged to people or to the others.”
“That’s right,” said Isrid. “Bears and wolves are blamed for the loss of cattle up here in the mountain pastures, but there are much worse robbers on the slopes.”
“You call them worse?” said Lavrans thoughtfully, stroking his daughter’s cap. “In the mountains south of the Raanekamp I once saw three little boys, the oldest about Kristin’s age, and they had blond hair and tunics made of hides. They bared their teeth at me like young wolves before they ran away and hid. It’s not so surprising that the poor man they belonged to should be tempted to take a cow or two for himself.”
“Well, wolves and bears all have young ones too,” said Isrid peevishly. “And you don’t choose to spare them, Lavrans. Neither the full-grown ones nor their young. And yet they have never been taught laws or Christianity, as have these evil-doers that you wish so well.”
“Do you think I wish them well because I wish for them something slightly better than the worst?” said Lavrans with a faint smile. “But come along now, let’s see what kind of food packets Ragnfrid has given us for today.” He took Kristin’s hand and led her away. He bent down to her and said softly, “I was thinking of your three baby brothers, little Kristin.”
They peeked into the caretaker’s hut, but it was stuffy and smelled of mold. Kristin took a quick look around, but there were only earthen benches along the walls, a hearthstone in the middle of the floor, barrels of tar, and bundles of resinous pine sticks and birchbark. Lavrans thought they should eat outdoors, and a little farther down a birch-covered slope they found a lovely green plateau.
They unloaded the pack horse and stretched out on the grass. And there was plenty of good food in Ragnfrid’s bag—soft bread and thin lefse,9 butter and cheese, pork and wind-dried reindeer meat, lard, boiled beef brisket, two large kegs of German ale, and a small jug of mead. They wasted no time in cutting up the meat and passing it around, while Halvdan, the oldest of the men, made a fire; it was more comforting to have heat than to be without it in the forest.
Isrid and Arne pulled up heather and gathered birch twigs and tossed them into the flames; the fire crackled as it tore the fresh foliage from the branches so that little white charred specks flew high up into the red mane of the blaze. Thick dark smoke swirled up toward the clear sky. Kristin sat and watched; the fire seemed happy to be outside and free to play. It was different; not like when it was confined to the hearth back home and had to slave to cook the food and light up the room for them.
She sat there leaning against her father, with one arm over his knee. He gave her as much as she wanted to eat from all the best portions and offered her all the ale she could drink, along with frequent sips of the mead.
“She’ll be so tipsy she won’t be able to walk down to the pasture,” said Halvdan with a laugh, but Lavrans stroked her plump cheeks.
“There are enough of us here to carry her. It will do her good. Drink up, Arne. God’s gifts will do you good, not harm, all you who are still growing. The ale will give you sweet red blood and make you sleep well. It won’t arouse rage or foolishness.”
And the men drank long and hard too. Isrid did not stint herself either, and soon their voices and the roar and hiss of the fire became a distant sound in Kristin’s ears; she felt her head grow heavy. She also noticed that they tried to entice Lavrans to tell them about the strange things he had witnessed on his hunting expeditions. But he would say very little, and she thought this so comforting and reassuring. And she had eaten so much.
Her father was holding a chunk of soft barley bread. He shaped little pieces with his fingers so they looked like horses, and he broke off tiny scraps of meat and set them astride the bread horses. Then he made them ride down his thigh and into Kristin’s mouth. Before long she was so tired that she could neither yawn nor chew—and then she toppled over onto the ground and fell asleep.
When she woke up, she was lying in the warmth and darkness of her father’s arms—he had wrapped his cape around both of them. Kristin sat up, wiped the sweat from her face, and untied her cap so the air could dry her damp hair.