“Never mind,” said Erlend. Surely they would find a way to transport everything in the fall. But he had been so pleased, and he thought it sounded so sensible, when the abbot had suggested that Kristin’s things might travel with the monastery’s ship. The abbot had reminded him of their kinship. “That’s something they’re all remembering now,” said Erlend with a smile. His father-in-law’s disapproval did not seem to affect him in the least.
And so it was decided that Erlend should borrow a wagon and take a cartload of those things that Kristin would need most when she arrived at her new home.
The next day they were busy with the packing. Ragnfrid thought that both the large and the small looms could be sent along now; she wouldn’t have time to weave anything else before the wedding. The mother and daughter cut off the weaving that was on the loom. It was an undyed homespun fabric, but of the finest and softest wool, with tufts of black wool woven in to form a pattern. Kristin and her mother rolled up the cloth and placed it in a leather bag. Kristin thought it would be good for swaddling clothes, and it would be pretty with red or blue ribbons around it.
The sewing chest that Arne had once made for her could also go along. Kristin took from her box all the things that Erlend had given her over time. She showed her mother the blue velvet cape with the red pattern that she was going to wear in the bridal procession. Her mother turned it this way and that, feeling the fabric and the fur lining.
“This is a most costly cloak,” said Ragnfrid. “When did Erlend give this to you?”
“He gave it to me while I was at Nonneseter,” her daughter told her.
Kristin’s bridal chest, which her mother had been adding to ever since she was little, was repacked. It was carved in panels, and on each there was a leaping deer or a bird sitting amidst the foliage. Ragnfrid placed Kristin’s bridal gown in one of her own chests. It was not quite done; they had been sewing on it all winter long. It was made of scarlet silk and cut in such a fashion that it would fit snugly to her body. Kristin thought that now it would be much too tight across her breasts.
Toward evening the load was all packed and tied under the wagon’s cover. Erlend would leave early the next morning.
He stood with Kristin, leaning over the farm gate, looking north, where the bluish-black smudge of a storm cloud filled the valley. Thunder rumbled from the mountains, but to the south the meadows and the river lay in dazzling yellow sunlight.
“Do you remember the storm on that day in the forest near Gerdarud?” he asked softly, playing with her fingers.
Kristin nodded and tried to smile. The air was so heavy and sultry; her head was aching and she was sweating with every breath she took.
Lavrans came over to them at the gate and talked about the weather. It seldom did any harm down here in the village, but God only knew whether it would bring trouble to the cattle and horses up in the mountains.
It was as black as night up behind the church on the hill. A flash of lightning revealed a group of horses, crowding together restlessly, on the meadow outside the church gate. Lavrans didn’t think they belonged there in the valley—the horses were more likely from Dovre and had been wandering in the mountains up beneath Jetta. He shouted over the thunder that he had a mind to go up and see to them, to find out whether there were any of his among them.
A terrible bolt of lightning ripped through the darkness up there. Thunder crashed and roared so they could hear nothing else. The horses raced across the grass beneath the ridge. All three of them crossed themselves.
Then more lightning flashed; the sky seemed about to split in half, and a tremendous snow-white bolt of lightning hurtled down toward them. All three were thrown against each other; they stood there with their eyes closed, blinded, and noticed a smell like scorched stone—and then the crash of thunder exploded in their ears.
“Saint Olav, help us,” murmured Lavrans.
“Look at the birch, look at the birch!” cried Erlend. The huge birch out in the field seemed to wobble, and then a heavy limb broke off and dropped to the ground, leaving a long gash in the trunk.
“I think it’s burning. Jesus Christus! The church roof is on fire!” shouted Lavrans.
They stood there and stared. No … yes, it was! Red flames were flickering out of the shingles beneath the ridge turret.
Both men set off running, back across the farmyard. Lavrans tore open all the doors to the buildings, yelling to those inside. Everyone came rushing out.
“Bring axes, bring axes—the felling axes,” he shouted. “And the pickaxes!” He raced over to the stables. A moment later he reemerged, leading Guldsvein by his mane. He leaped up onto the unsaddled horse and tore off toward the north. He had the big broadaxe in his hand. Erlend rode right behind him, and all the other men followed. Some were on horseback, but others couldn’t control the frightened animals and gave up and set off running. Behind them came Ragnfrid and the women of the farm with basins and buckets.