At that moment the terror seized her again, like a great sea swell.
She had to sit down on the bed. The window was right above the short bench, and she didn’t dare sit with her back to it. Better to look them in the eyes if anyone should be standing outside and looking in. She pulled the high-backed chair over to the bed and sat down facing the windowpane. The stifling black of the night pressed against it; one of the candles was reflected in the glass. Kristin fixed her eyes on it, clutching the arms of the chair so that her knuckles grew white; now and then her arms trembled. She couldn’t feel her own legs, as chilled and wet as they were. She sat there with her teeth chattering from horror and cold, and the sweat ran like ice water down her face and back. She sat without moving, merely casting now and then a quick glance at the linen cloth, which faintly rose and fell with the child’s breath.
Finally the pale light of dawn appeared in the windowpane. The rooster crowed shrilly. Then she heard men out in the courtyard. They were heading for the stable.
She slumped against the back of the chair, shuddering as if with convulsions, and tried to find a position for her legs so they wouldn’t twitch and jerk around from the shaking.
There was a strong movement under the linen cloth. Andres pushed it away from his face, whimpering crossly. He seemed partially conscious since he grunted at Kristin when she jumped to her feet and leaned over him.
She grabbed the cloth and sod, rushed over to the fireplace, and stuffed twigs and wood inside it; then she threw the ghostly goods into the fresh, crackling fire. She had to stand still for a moment, holding on to the wall. The tears poured down Kristin’s face.
She took a ladleful of milk from the little pot that stood near the hearth and carried it over to the child. Andres had fallen asleep again. He seemed to be slumbering peacefully now.
Then she drank the milk herself. It tasted so good that she had to gulp down two or three more ladlefuls of the warm drink.
Still, she didn’t dare speak; the boy hadn’t yet said a comprehensible word. But she sank to her knees next to the foot of the bed and recited mutely to herself: Convertere, Domine, aliquantulum; et deprecare super servos tuos. Ne ultra memineris iniquitatis nostr?: ecce respice; populus tuus omnes nos.2
Yes, yes, yes. This was a terrible thing she had done. But he was their only son. While she herself had seven! Shouldn’t she try everything to save her sister’s only son?
All the thoughts she had had during the night—they were merely ramblings of the night. She had done it only because she couldn’t stand to see this child die in her hands.
Simon—the man who had never failed her. The one who had been loyal and good toward every child she had ever known and most of all toward herself and her own. And this son whom he loved above all else—shouldn’t she use every measure to save the boy’s life? Even if it was a sin?
Yes, it was sinful, but let the punishment fall on me, God. That poor, beautiful, innocent son of Simon and Ramborg. God would not allow Andres to be punished.
She went back and leaned over the bed, breathing on the tiny, waxen hand. She didn’t dare kiss it; he mustn’t be wakened.
So fair and blameless.
It was during the nights of terror when they were left alone at Haugen that Fru Aashild had told her about it—told her about her own errand to the cemetery at Kongunahelle. “That, Kristin, was surely the most difficult task I have ever undertaken.” But Bj?rn Gunnarss?n was not an innocent child when he lay there after Aashild Gautesdatter’s cousins had come too close to his heart with their swords. He had slain one man before he was brought down himself, and the other man never regained his vigor after the day he exchanged blows with Herr Bj?rn.
Kristin stood at the window and looked out into the courtyard. Servants were moving from building to building, going about the day’s chores. Several young calves were roaming about the yard; they were so lovely.
Many different thoughts rise up in the darkness—like those gossamer plants that grow in the lake, oddly bewitching and pretty as they bob and sway; but enticing and sinister, they exert a dark pull as long as they’re growing in the living, trickling mire. And yet they’re nothing but slimey brown clumps when the children pull them into the boat. So many strange thoughts, both terrifying and enticing, grow in the night. It was probably Brother Edvin who once said that those condemned to Hell had no wish to give up their torment: hatred and sorrow were their pleasures. That was why Christ could never save them. Back then this had sounded to her like wild talk. An icy shiver ran through her; now she was beginning to understand what the monk had meant.
She leaned over the bed once more, breathing in the smell of the little child. Simon and Ramborg were not going to lose him. Even though she had done it out of a need to prove herself to Simon, to show him that she could do something other than take from him. She had needed to take a risk on his behalf, to repay him.
Then she knelt again, repeating over and over as much as she could remember from the prayer book.
That morning Simon went out and sowed winter rye in the newly plowed field south of the grove. He had decided he must act as if this were merely reasonable, because the work on the estate had to continue as usual. The serving maids had been greatly surprised when he went in to them during the night to tell them that Kristin wanted to be alone with the boy until she sent word. He said the same to Ramborg when she got up: Kristin had requested that no one should go near the women’s house that day.
“Not even you?” she asked quickly, and Simon said no. That was when he went out to get the seed box.
But after the midday meal he stayed up at the manor; he didn’t have the heart to go far from the buildings. And he didn’t like the look in Ramborg’s eyes. A short time after the noonday rest it happened. He was standing down by the grain barn when he saw his wife racing across the courtyard. He rushed after her. Ramborg threw herself at the door to the women’s house, pounding on it with her fists and screaming shrilly for Kristin to open up.
Simon put his arms around her, speaking gently. Then she bent down as fast as lightning and bit him on the hand. He saw that she was like a raging beast.
“He’s my child! What have the two of you done to my son?”
“You know full well that your sister wouldn’t do anything to Andres except what might do him good.” When he put his arms around her again, Ramborg struggled and screamed.
“Come now, Ramborg,” said her husband, making his voice stern. “Aren’t you ashamed in front of our servants?”
But she kept on screaming. “He’s mine—that much I know. You weren’t with us when I gave birth to him, Simon,” she shouted. “We weren’t so precious to you back then.”
“You know what I had on my hands at the time,” replied her husband wearily. He dragged her across to the main house; he had to use all his strength.
After that he didn’t dare leave her side. Ramborg gradually calmed down, and when evening came, she obediently allowed her maids to help her undress.
Simon stayed up. His daughters were asleep over in their bed, and he had sent the servingwomen away. Once when he stood up and walked across the room, Ramborg asked from her bed where he was going; her voice sounded wide awake.
“I was thinking of lying down with you for a while,” he said after a moment. He took off his outer garments and shoes and then crawled under the blanket and woolen coverlet. He put his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “I realize, my Ramborg, that this has been a long and difficult day for you.”
“Your heart is beating so hard, Simon,” she said a little later.
“Well, I’m afraid for the boy too, you know. But we must wait patiently until Kristin sends us word.”