bargain is without some loss, Ragnfrid,” said Fru Aashild. “And whoever wishes to give his life must take the risk and see what he can win.”
Ragnfrid jerked the burning twig from the fire, blew out the flame, and curled her hand around the glowing end so that a blood-red light shone between her fingers.
“Oh, it’s all nothing but words, words, words, Fru Aashild.”
“There is very little worth paying for so dearly, Ragnfrid,” said the other woman, “as with one’s own life.”
“Yes, there is,” said Kristin’s mother fervently. “My husband,” she whispered almost inaudibly.
“Ragnfrid,” said Fru Aashild quietly, “many a maiden has had the same thought when she was tempted to bind a man to her and gave up her maidenhood to do so. But haven’t you read about men and maidens who gave God all they owned, and entered cloisters or stood naked in the wilderness and then regretted it afterward? They’re called fools in the holy books. And it would certainly be a sin to think that God was the one who had deceived them in their bargain.”
Ragnfrid sat quite still for a moment. Then Fru Aashild said, “Come along with me, Kristin. It’s time to go out and collect the dew that we’ll use to wash Ulvhild in the morning.”
Outside, the courtyard was white and black in the moonlight. Ragnfrid accompanied them through the farmyard down to the gate near the cabbage garden. Kristin saw the thin silhouette of her mother leaning against the fence nearby. The child shook dew from the large, ice-cold cabbage leaves and from the folds of the lady’s-mantle into her father’s silver goblet.
Fru Aashild walked silently at Kristin’s side. She was there only to protect her, for it was not wise to let a child go out alone on such a night. But the dew would have more power if it was collected by an innocent maiden.
When they came back to the gate, Ragnfrid was gone. Kristin was shaking with cold as she put the icy silver goblet into Fru Aashild’s hands. In her wet shoes she ran over to the loft where she slept with her father. She had her foot on the first step when Ragnfrid emerged from the shadows beneath the gallery of the loft. In her hands she held a bowl of steaming liquid.
“I’ve warmed up some ale for you, daughter,” said Ragnfrid.
Kristin thanked her gratefully and put her lips to the rim. Then her mother asked, “Kristin, those prayers and other things that Fru Aashild is teaching you—is there anything sinful or ungodly about them?”
“I can’t believe that,” replied the child. “They all mention Jesus and the Virgin Mary and the names of the saints.”
“What has she been teaching you?” asked her mother again.
“Oh, about herbs, and how to ward off bleeding and warts and strained eyes—and moths in clothing and mice in the storehouse. And which herbs to pick in sunlight and which ones have power in the rain. But I mustn’t tell the prayers to anyone else, or they will lose their power,” she said quickly.
Her mother took the empty bowl and set it on the steps. Suddenly she threw her arms around her daughter, pulled her close, and kissed her. Kristin noticed that her mother’s cheeks were hot and wet.
“May God and Our Lady guard and protect you against all evil—we have only you now, your father and I; you’re the only one that misfortune has not touched. My dear, my dear—never forget that you are your father’s dearest joy.”
Ragnfrid went back to the winter house, undressed, and crawled into bed with Ulvhild. She put her arm around the child and pressed her face close to the little one’s so that she could feel the warmth of Ulvhild’s body and smell the sharp odor of sweat from the child’s damp hair. Ulvhild slept soundly and securely as always after Fru Aashild’s evening potion. There was a soothing scent from the Virgin Mary grass spread under the sheet. And yet Ragnfrid lay there for a long time, unable to sleep, and stared up at the little
Ragnfrid jerked the burning twig from the fire, blew out the flame, and curled her hand around the glowing end so that a blood-red light shone between her fingers.
“Oh, it’s all nothing but words, words, words, Fru Aashild.”
“There is very little worth paying for so dearly, Ragnfrid,” said the other woman, “as with one’s own life.”
“Yes, there is,” said Kristin’s mother fervently. “My husband,” she whispered almost inaudibly.
“Ragnfrid,” said Fru Aashild quietly, “many a maiden has had the same thought when she was tempted to bind a man to her and gave up her maidenhood to do so. But haven’t you read about men and maidens who gave God all they owned, and entered cloisters or stood naked in the wilderness and then regretted it afterward? They’re called fools in the holy books. And it would certainly be a sin to think that God was the one who had deceived them in their bargain.”
Ragnfrid sat quite still for a moment. Then Fru Aashild said, “Come along with me, Kristin. It’s time to go out and collect the dew that we’ll use to wash Ulvhild in the morning.”
Outside, the courtyard was white and black in the moonlight. Ragnfrid accompanied them through the farmyard down to the gate near the cabbage garden. Kristin saw the thin silhouette of her mother leaning against the fence nearby. The child shook dew from the large, ice-cold cabbage leaves and from the folds of the lady’s-mantle into her father’s silver goblet.
Fru Aashild walked silently at Kristin’s side. She was there only to protect her, for it was not wise to let a child go out alone on such a night. But the dew would have more power if it was collected by an innocent maiden.
When they came back to the gate, Ragnfrid was gone. Kristin was shaking with cold as she put the icy silver goblet into Fru Aashild’s hands. In her wet shoes she ran over to the loft where she slept with her father. She had her foot on the first step when Ragnfrid emerged from the shadows beneath the gallery of the loft. In her hands she held a bowl of steaming liquid.
“I’ve warmed up some ale for you, daughter,” said Ragnfrid.
Kristin thanked her gratefully and put her lips to the rim. Then her mother asked, “Kristin, those prayers and other things that Fru Aashild is teaching you—is there anything sinful or ungodly about them?”
“I can’t believe that,” replied the child. “They all mention Jesus and the Virgin Mary and the names of the saints.”
“What has she been teaching you?” asked her mother again.
“Oh, about herbs, and how to ward off bleeding and warts and strained eyes—and moths in clothing and mice in the storehouse. And which herbs to pick in sunlight and which ones have power in the rain. But I mustn’t tell the prayers to anyone else, or they will lose their power,” she said quickly.
Her mother took the empty bowl and set it on the steps. Suddenly she threw her arms around her daughter, pulled her close, and kissed her. Kristin noticed that her mother’s cheeks were hot and wet.
“May God and Our Lady guard and protect you against all evil—we have only you now, your father and I; you’re the only one that misfortune has not touched. My dear, my dear—never forget that you are your father’s dearest joy.”
Ragnfrid went back to the winter house, undressed, and crawled into bed with Ulvhild. She put her arm around the child and pressed her face close to the little one’s so that she could feel the warmth of Ulvhild’s body and smell the sharp odor of sweat from the child’s damp hair. Ulvhild slept soundly and securely as always after Fru Aashild’s evening potion. There was a soothing scent from the Virgin Mary grass spread under the sheet. And yet Ragnfrid lay there for a long time, unable to sleep, and stared up at the little
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