LAVRANS HAD RIDDEN his horse into a lather by the time he reached the spot where he knew a path led up through the scree and steep cliffs that rise up everywhere on the north side of Silsaa valley. He knew he had to make it to the heights before dark. He didn’t know these mountains between Vaagaa, Sil, and Dovre, but the gelding had grazed here one summer, and he had carried Gaute to Haugen many times, although along different paths. Young Lavrans leaned forward and patted the neck of his horse.
“You must find the way to Haugen, Raud, my son. You must carry me to Father tonight, my horse.”
As soon as he reached the crest of the mountains and was once again sitting in the saddle, darkness fell quickly. He rode through a marshy hollow; an endless progression of narrow ridges was silhouetted against the ever-darkening sky. There were groves of birches on the valley slopes, and their trunks shone white. Wet clusters of leaves constantly brushed against the horse’s chest and the boy’s face. Stones were dislodged by the animal’s hooves and rolled down into the creek at the bottom of the incline. Raud found his way in the dark, up and down the hillsides, and the trickling of the creek sounded first close and then far away. Once some beast bayed into the mountain night, but Lavrans couldn’t tell what it was. And the wind rushed and sang, first stronger, then fainter.
The child held his spear along the neck of his horse, so that the tip pointed forward between the animal’s ears. This was bear country, this valley here. He wondered when it would end. Very softly he began to hum into the darkness: “Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison, Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison.”
Raud splashed through the shallow crossing of a mountain stream. The sky became even more star-strewn all around; the mountain peaks looked more distant against the blackness of the night, and the wind sang with a different tone in the vast space. The boy let the horse choose his own path as he hummed as much as he could remember of the hymn, “Jesus Redemptor omnium—Tu lumen et splendor patris,” interspersed with “Kyrie eleison.” Now he could see by the stars that they were riding almost due south, but he didn’t dare do anything but trust the horse and let him lead. They were riding over rocky slopes with reindeer moss gleaming palely on the stones beneath him. Raud paused for a moment, panting and peering into the night. Lavrans saw that the sky was growing lighter in the east; clouds were billowing up, edged with silver underneath. His horse moved on, now headed directly toward the rising moon. It must be about an hour before midnight, as far as the boy could tell.
When the moon slipped free of the crests off in the distance, new snow gleamed atop the domes and rounded summits, and drifting wisps of fog turned the passes and peaks white. Lavrans recognized where he was in the mountians. He was on the mossy plateau beneath the Blue Domes.
Soon afterward he found a path leading down into the valley. And three hours later Raud limped into the courtyard of Haugen, which was white with moonlight.
When Erland opened the door, the boy collapsed on the floor of the gallery in a deep faint.
Some time later Lavrans woke up in bed, lying between filthy, rank-smelling fur covers. Light shone from a pine torch that had been stuck in a crack in the wall nearby. His father was standing over him, moistening his face with something. His father was only half dressed, and the boy noticed in the flickering light that his hair was completely gray.
“Mother . . .” said young Lavrans, looking up.
Erlend turned away so his son wouldn’t see his face. “Yes,” he said after a moment, almost inaudibly. “Is your mother—has she . . . is your mother . . . ill?”
“You must come home at once, Father, and save her. Now they’re accusing her of the worst of things. They’ve taken Ulf and her and my brothers captive, Father!”
Erlend touched the boy’s hot face and hands; his fever had flared up again. “What are you saying?” But Lavrans sat up and gave a fairly coherent account of everything that had taken place back home the day before. His father listened in silence, but halfway through the boy’s story he began to finish getting dressed. He pulled on his boots and fastened his spurs. Then he went to get some milk and food and brought them over to the child.
“But you can’t stay here alone in this house, my son. I will take you over to Aslaug, north of here in Brekken, before I ride home.”
“Father.” Lavrans grabbed his arm. “No, I want to go home with you.”
“You’re ill, little son,” said Erlend, and the boy couldn’t recall ever hearing such a tender tone in his father’s voice.
“No, Father . . . I want to go home with you—to Mother. I want to go home to my mother. . . .” Now he was weeping like a small child.
“But Raud is limping, my boy.” Erlend took his son on his lap, but he could not console the child. “And you’re so tired. . . .” Finally he said, “Well, well . . . Soten can surely carry both of us.”
After he had led out the stallion, put Raud inside, and tended to the animal, he said, “You must make sure to remember that someone comes north to take care of your horse . . . and my things.”
“Are you going to stay home now, Father?” asked Lavrans joyfully.
Erlend gazed straight ahead. “I don’t know. But I have a feeling I won’t be back here again.”
“Shouldn’t you be better armed, Father?” the boy asked, for aside from his sword Erlend had picked up only a small, lightweight axe and was now about to leave the house. “Aren’t you even going to take your shield?”
Erlend looked at his shield. The oxhide was so scratched and torn that the red lion against the white field had almost disappeared. He put it back down and spread the covers over it again.
“I’m armed well enough to drive a horde of farmers from my manor,” he said. He went outside, closed the door to the house, mounted his horse, and helped the boy climb up behind him.
The sky was growing more and more overcast. By the time they had come partway down the slope, where the forest was quite dense, they were riding in darkness. Erlend noticed that his son was so tired that he could hardly hold on. Then he let Lavrans sit in front of him, and he held the boy in his arms. The young, fair-haired head rested against his chest; of all the children, Lavrans was most like his mother. Erlend kissed the top of his head as he straightened the hood on the boy’s cape.
“Did your mother grieve greatly when the infant died this summer?” he asked once, quite softly.
Young Lavrans replied, “She didn’t cry after he died. But she has gone up to the cemetery gate every night since. Gaute and Naakkve usually follow her when she leaves, but they haven’t dared speak to her, and they don’t dare let Mother see that they’ve been keeping watch over her.”
A little later Erlend said, “She didn’t cry? I remember back when your mother was young, and she wept as readily as the dew drips from goat willow reeds along the creek. She was so gentle and tender, Kristin, whenever she was with people whom she knew wished her well. Later on she had to learn to be harder, and most often I was the one to blame.”
“Gunhild and Frida say that in all the days our youngest brother lived,” continued Lavrans, “she cried every minute when she thought no one would see her.”
“May God help me,” said Erlend in a low voice. “I’ve been a foolish man.”