December 13
As usual, the workday at the hotel had started long before sunrise. Maja had been up at the crack of dawn and made coffee,
prepared breakfast, and brought out lussekatter. She’d been in a surprisingly good mood when Ingrid came down to the kitchen
around seven. Ingrid had quickly understood why. There, on the bench next to Hussein—who was already dressed in his star boy
costume for Saint Lucia’s Day—was a cat. An enormous, black, purring cat, who was enjoying scratches from Hussein and who
barely bothered to lift its head when Ingrid came in. It stopped purring when it regarded her with its narrow yellow eyes.
Ingrid took a deep breath. So that was what Maja’s errand had been last night. She’d quite simply gone to pick up a cat! A few things started to make sense. Ingrid hadn’t just imagined that shape in the corridor last night. What had frightened her in the darkness was this enormous feline beast that Maja had let loose in the hotel. The cat’s skepticism toward her was probably due to the fact that it recognized Ingrid from the night before, when she had accidentally stepped on it. “This here is Mewsephina,” Maja said, looking pleased. “Now she can take care of those pesky mice.”
Hussein stopped petting the cat for a moment when he heard Maja say this, and he looked up at the chef, horrified, but Maja
continued.
“Mewsephina is Meowgret’s daughter,” she explained, glancing at the black animal, who was now curled up in a ball on the bench.
“And Meowgret was the daughter of Tabbytha, who lived at Glitter Peak when you were growing up, Ingrid. You remember Tabbytha,
right?”
And just like that, Ingrid was suddenly thrown thirty years back to her earliest memories. Ingrid had only been three years
old when her parents died, but she still remembered that time well. She’d cried herself to sleep night after night because
her mother and father were gone. Had she understood that it was forever at such a young age? She didn’t know, but she remembered
their absence being like a great darkness that had opened up in the middle of summer and consumed them. Nana Borghild had
come to Ingrid every night, sat at the edge of her bed, and stroked her hair, singing to her. Tabbytha would also hop into
Ingrid’s bed and curl up close to her like a purring bundle. So nice and warm and soft! Borghild had let Ingrid keep the cat
there all night long.
She’d loved Tabbytha—a beautiful, cuddly kitty who was a mouse hunter at one moment and Ingrid’s best friend the next. The
cat had lived a long time, until Ingrid started high school. She cried when Tabbytha died, but she was old and full of days,
and they buried her by a downy birch near Troll Rock.
And it was precisely because of her memories of Tabbytha, and because Hussein was there, and because Maja was so determined to have Mewsephina ( what a name! ) there that Ingrid didn’t have the heart to say that they weren’t allowed to have cats in a hotel kitchen, mice or not.
Vegard was the one who persuaded Pia P to be their Saint Lucia, even though it was practically the middle of the night the
way she saw it. But they needed to be finished before Hussein went to school, and at half past seven, Pia was ready at the
kitchen door, clad in a white Saint Lucia costume. Hussein put the crown of lit candles on her head, his eyes sparkling.
“You look like a princess,” he said admiringly before turning away shyly and standing close to Ingrid.
Now, the candles flickered in the dark corridors. They illuminated the white robes of the two star boys. Vegard and Hussein
wore white hats with gold stars that they’d spent the previous afternoon making. They walked solemnly through the hotel corridors,
each carrying a basket of lussekatter.
“They’re so cute!” Sunny whispered, and Ingrid smiled and nodded.
Behind the star boys, Saint Lucia came in her long, flowy white clothes, the wreath of candles on her head. She was radiantly
beautiful. Ingrid hadn’t seen much of Pia in recent days, but she seemed to be feeling better again. Her skin glowed, her
eyes were fresh and clear, and her honey-blond hair was flowing beautifully down her shoulders, perfectly curled.
Sunny, Ingrid, and Borghild wore ordinary clothes but had candles in hand. ( At least Nana Borghild didn’t suggest we wear bunads today, Ingrid thought.) Maja had said she didn’t have time to walk in the procession; she needed to prepare breakfast for the guests. She had sent Ingrid with a cup of coffee for Alfred, though, which she was now balancing in her right hand while holding a candle in her left.
Sunny danced around excitedly, taking pictures with her phone. Portraits of Pia and the star boys, close-ups of the lussekatter,
short video clips of candlelight in dark hotel corridors. This would be going out on Instagram. And Snapchat. And TikTok.
#stluciasday #lussekatt #morningmood #starstruck #glitterpeaklodge @piap .
If you counted everyone on social media, thousands of people were present today, especially when you included all of Pia P’s
followers—and that was the whole point, Vegard and Sunny had explained. If it wasn’t on social media, it didn’t happen.
Sunny had gotten access to the hotel’s social media accounts shortly after she started working for them. Ingrid thought it
was nice to be able to outsource this kind of thing to someone who was so enthusiastic about it. Sunny had proven herself
worthy of the trust and created a lot of nice posts, often with Vegard’s advice. Pia had made it a condition that they should
under no circumstances share any pictures showing her belly. She’d emphasized how important this was several times. She would be responsible for
publicly announcing the pregnancy herself.
When, though? Ingrid had wondered. You’ll have given birth before you’ve even told anyone! Then it hit her: Maybe that was the plan? Was Pia planning on having a completely secret pregnancy that no outsider would
find out about—all while still seemingly sharing everything with her followers just as before?
Pia must have lived a pretty secluded life in the city if she’d managed to hide her pregnancy for this long, and here at the hotel, there weren’t that many people who knew who she was. Pia’s target audience wasn’t exactly hikers and climbers. So maybe this could actually work: sharing carefully composed photos of details of interiors and clothes, views, selfies with and without sunglasses, glasses of wine no one knew she wasn’t actually drinking—all while the secret grew and grew beyond the reach of the lens.
Alfred almost looked gruff when he opened the door, but Ingrid still thought she saw a glimmer of laughter in his gray-blue
eyes beneath his bushy brows as he took a lussekatt from Hussein’s basket.
Some doors opened as the procession moved through the corridors. Smiling guests helped themselves to pastries. Hussein had
been looking forward to serving a lussekatt to his mother, and Aisha clapped her hands in excitement when she opened the door
and saw her little star boy. When they got to the Wilkinses’ room, he insisted that Vegard knock, because Hussein was still
a bit afraid of Freya Wilkins.
But Freya—whom this whole procession was essentially in honor of, along with Pia’s Instagram followers—was thrilled when she
saw the little group outside her door, candles flickering in the darkness. She was clearly moved when they sang the Saint
Lucia song, and she kissed both Vegard and Hussein on the cheek. Dr. Wilkins, still wearing striped pajamas, wasn’t quite
as enthusiastic, but he smiled warmly and thanked Hussein when he was handed a lussekatt .
***
Ingrid walked with long, energetic strides, and when she reached the top of Angelina Hill, she stretched her arms over her head and greeted the day. She was warm from the brisk walk up, even though the air was crisp and cold. The sky was almost cloudless again, and the mountainside was colored pink by the first rays of sunlight.
She saw some movement to the left out of the corner of her eye and turned toward Kvitfonna on the other side of the scree.
Some dark dots were moving against the white surface of the glacier. A herd of reindeer!
The wild reindeer ran across the mountains, constantly on the move, looking for food and shelter. Moss and lichen in the winter,
grass and leaves in the summer. If there was snow on the ground, they dug through it to find something to eat. The reindeer
had been here for thousands of years, probably before any humans lived here. There were traces of reindeer hunting around
Glitter Peak from as early as the Stone Age. Arrowheads and spearheads kept turning up in the barren terrain, as well as occasional
bows and scaring sticks. The hunters of the Migration Period—in the very olden days, before the Vikings even, her grandmother
had told Ingrid when she was little—used to set up rows of these tall poles, which had birch bark pennants on the top, to
guide the herds of reindeer to where the hunters wanted them to go. The reindeer were easily frightened, then as now, and
would try to avoid these moving things. The reindeer then ran straight to where the humans wanted them. It was paradoxical,
really; the reindeer avoided one danger and went straight toward a much bigger one.
It was strange to think that people had been roaming around here for such a long time, in this inhospitable landscape. They’d walked with leather shoes, woolen clothes, and weapons they made themselves. It must have been a difficult life—difficult and cold. Archaeologists knew—unfortunately, one might say—more and more about the past as the snow and ice caps melted and the remains of bygone days came to light for the first time in hundreds of years. That included the microbial life of the past: in Siberia, there had been cases of anthrax infecting both humans and animals when centuries-old reindeer carcasses turned out to be carrying the deadly bacteria—a rather disturbing manifestation of ever-increasing global warming.
But Ingrid’s biggest concerns in this area were related to the changes she’d experienced on her expeditions in the Himalayas.
In these vulnerable areas, she and her companions had seen how quickly the glaciers were melting. Combined with state-led
development and a lack of dam maintenance, the melting created a huge risk of landslides and flooding. There had already been
several terrible accidents. The avalanche Ingrid and her companions had endured was minor compared to the catastrophes that
affected the local population. Continued development in the wrong direction threatened the lives and livelihoods of millions
of people in India and Pakistan, not to mention the mountainous countries of Tibet, Nepal, and Bhutan.
One of the things Ingrid had wanted to do as an expedition leader in this area was to shed light on the critical situation.
She, Preben, and Brother Giovanni had been in contact with several organizations working to spread awareness and help villages
and families affected by climate change. She had indeed leveraged Giovanni’s considerable network to convince Preben to let
him join the expedition. Giovanni was a less experienced climber than them, but he had access to people and resources in Christian
communities, which was invaluable when it came to offering help to those in need.
As a privileged tourist—which is essentially what you are as a climber and participant in expeditions—you should use your energy, both mental and physical, to give back to the areas you visited. Ingrid was firmly convinced of this. And she and her team had several promising collaborations underway—but then events unfolded as they did. The avalanche hit, and everything came crashing down.
She thought about the mountaineer-priest Abbot Henry, who’d been one of Giovanni’s biggest role models. “It’s better to fail
a hundred times climbing a mountain than to succeed at losing your life once,” he’d written somewhere. How bitterly ironic.
***
Ingrid practically collided with the Wilkinses as she entered the foyer. Freya Wilkins was wearing a green coat with a matching
hat and had a large bag under one arm. She was making her way toward the front door at an astonishing speed, with John Wilkins
at her heels, but stopped abruptly in front of Ingrid.
“Good morning!” she crowed. “I hope driving conditions are good out there. We’re going on a trip to Hamar!”
“Hamar? What are you doing all the way down there?”
“We have some research to do at the National Archives. And then we’re going to buy some presents.”
She tucked her bag extra firmly beneath her armpit and continued toward the door, which her husband was now holding open for
her. He lifted his hat and nodded at Ingrid before they disappeared into the cold.
Ingrid stared at the door that closed behind them. The National Archives? Well, maybe that wasn’t so odd; after all, Freya had said she had Norwegian parents. Maybe they were getting some help going through old church books to learn more about her family.
The door opened again almost immediately, and in came the young men from Oslo, who’d booked a room and lunch. They turned
out to be geology students and enthusiastic ice climbers who wanted to try their hand at Styggfossen, and they had no expectations
of hot tubs or après-ski whatsoever. As far away from table-dancing partiers as you can get , Ingrid thought with relief.
They carried in bags and equipment and chatted away about the weather and practical preparations.
“You’re Ingrid Berg, aren’t you?” one of the young men asked. He seemed to be the leader of the group.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Cool! Then we can ask you for climbing advice.”
“Sure, go right ahead! Was there anything in particular that you were interested in?”
“We’re especially interested in metamorphic rocks and steep ice walls.”
“Right. You’ll find both in abundance here,” Ingrid said with a laugh. “Just let us know if you need help finding either.
Styggfossen is the place for you.”
She hoped no one saw how she shuddered at the thought of the frozen waterfall. The deep gorge. The heights. The snow on Heaven’s
Horn that could come tumbling down. She knew some of the recent guests might have chosen to come here to the hotel not only
because of the spectacular climbing opportunities but also because of her reputation as a climber. She couldn’t let them know
how things were really going for her.
She saw how Sunny’s eyes widened as she came out of the dining room, where she’d been setting the table for lunch. Had Sunny finally realized Vegard wasn’t batting for her team and started looking for other romantic opportunities? Or was she looking for Insta-material here, too? These boys were living illustrations of #getoutside .
Several more arrivals showed up early that afternoon, including a minivan from the car rental agency in Lillehammer that turned
out to contain a British couple with four children—two boys and two girls—and an enormous amount of luggage, which Alfred
carried in with the husband. Maybe Hussein could get to know the youngest of the children over the weekend, Ingrid thought.
She often wondered whether it was too lonely for him at Glitter Peak, but when she thought back on her own upbringing here
as the only child, it wasn’t loneliness she remembered. It had felt natural for her to be here, and she had friends down in
Dalen. It wasn’t that far.
She went into the kitchen, where Maja and one of the young extra helpers were busy preparing dinner. She breathed in the delicious
scent of meat sizzling in iron pans and potatoes with garlic and butter baking in the oven. Sunny was pulling glasses out
of the cupboards for the sparkling wine that would be served before the meal.
“Looks like you have everything under control here!” Ingrid said to Maja.
“Things can still go wrong,” Maja said. “After all, it’s Friday the thirteenth.”
Mewsephina opened her yellow eyes and stared at them from the bench. Ingrid shrugged and went back out to the reception area. The bell above the front door rang, and in came a couple from Dalen who’d booked a table for dinner, Aslaug and Svein Slettebakken. Ingrid remembered them from her school days, even though they were a few years older than her. Aslaug had had a different surname at the time, of course.
“We thought it would be exciting to see how things are here,” Aslaug said with a saccharine smile as she pulled off her leather
gloves. “Despite what they say. We came early so we could have a look around.”
“Welcome!” Ingrid said enthusiastically, but she was thinking about what Aslaug had said. Despite what they say? She chose to ignore it, and instead put on what she hoped was a friendly smile. “Perhaps you’d like to have a drink in the
bar while you’re waiting? You can bring drinks into the library as well.”
She was eager to send guests to the bar, especially since they’d actually hired a bartender, Tom Hansdalen, who started today.
He was hired to work starting at three every afternoon, but so far, he’d had an alarming amount of time to polish glasses
and study drink recipes. Today, only the Wilkinses had been in for a drink thus far. Fortunately, the Slettebakkens did want
to take a trip to the bar, as did the group of four dinner guests who arrived just after them. When Mr. Taylor from England
also came strolling in and asked whether it was possible to get a “pint of lager” anywhere there, Ingrid finally started to
feel a little more optimistic. She showed him the way and glanced happily at Tom, who was suddenly quite busy behind the bar.
When she was back at the reception area, Nana Borghild came down the stairs in her coat and boots, her back straight and a
determined look on her face. She stopped at the reception desk.
“Hi Ingrid,” she said with a smile. “Everything okay here?”
“Yes, everything’s fine. All of the guests have arrived and the food is ready. But where are you heading off to?”
“I’m just headed down to Dalen,” Nana Borghild replied.
Was her grandmother’s voice trembling?
“Down to Dalen? Now?” Ingrid asked. “It’s almost six o’clock.”
Now Ingrid could see that Nana Borghild had her car keys in her hand.
“Is there anything we need for dinner?” Ingrid asked. “Alfred can probably drive down and get it. Or I can do it. You don’t
need—”
“No, no, nothing like that,” Borghild said. “Just something I have to take care of. Be back soon, sweetie.” She patted Ingrid
gently on the shoulder and turned toward the door.
***
When Borghild came back from Dalen, she went straight up to her apartment. She sat down at her desk and took out her diary,
but realized she didn’t actually have the energy to write anything. She couldn’t bear to talk to anyone either—especially
not Ingrid. Not quite yet.
Things hadn’t gone the way she’d hoped they would.
But what had she been hoping for, really? What had she thought would come from this visit? Now, she wondered why she’d even
gone in the first place.
It had seemed obvious that she needed to go down and speak with Hallgrim. She’d felt that it was absolutely necessary now—that
the time had come. She’d gone over it in her head again and again: how she would present it, how she would make him understand
that everything was connected.
But she’d regretted going as soon as she pulled up in the yard. The house loomed tall and massive as ever, with lights on only above the front door and in an upstairs window. There were sev eral pairs of reindeer horns mounted on the black-stained garage, a monument to hunting and death.
No one answered when she rang the doorbell, so she opened the door and stepped into the hallway. The door creaked. Isn’t it a bit odd that such an important man with a house full of sons and grandsons can’t even manage to oil the hinges? she thought.
God, it had been so awful to walk inside! The house completely overwhelmed her. It had been such a long time since she’d been
there, and it filled her with grief and painful memories.
It had already been a dark house when they were young, when she was there all the time. A massive old log house with small
windows that towered over the village, full of taxidermied animals. But at the time, she’d never thought of the house as bleak.
Back then, she associated her visits with other things—completely different things! The bleak feeling had come later.
She shuddered. All of these dead animals everywhere. Hares and weasels staring at her with blank button eyes. A stuffed badger.
Deer and elk heads on the walls of the hallway. Reindeer skins on the benches. But a bear—Hallgrim didn’t have one of those.
Because that was at Glitter Peak Lodge.
She’d shouted, “Hello?” several times but there was no answer, so she went up the stairs with her coat and shoes on—ready
for a hasty retreat. Halfway up, she was startled by an ugly, dark-brown animal snarling at her. It was a stuffed wolverine,
but for a moment, it had looked as though it was alive.
Up on the second floor, there he was: Hallgrim Dalen, sitting at a kind of worktable that would have had a nice view of a valley had it not been pitch-black out. He sat with his back to the stairs but didn’t turn around or say anything when she came up. Perhaps his broad shoulders tightened a little, but she could have imagined that.
Hallgrim “Muskox” Dalen still lived up to his nickname. His body was so compact, his neck so hunched. His hair was more brown
than gray, shaggy on the sides, balding on top. But there was nothing decrepit about this man. Old, yes—almost primordial.
But not decrepit.
“Hallgrim,” she’d said.
No reaction. She knew he was aware she was there, but he wouldn’t acknowledge her presence.
She walked toward the desk, and he slowly spun his chair around and looked at her with his small, black eyes. He exhaled loudly
through his nose but said nothing.
“Hallgrim,” she said again. “What’s happened has happened. Both you and I have been grieving for many years. You have your
reasons to be bitter, and I have mine. But it has to end. This can’t ruin things for the hotel and Ingrid.”
Silence. Only the sound of breathing. She stayed completely motionless, her eyes fixed on Hallgrim.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” she said.
She’d hoped that her statement would make him say or do something, give her an opening somehow. But nothing happened besides
the airflow through his nose that seemed to increase and eventually approach snorting. If Hallgrim had had horns, he would
have been rubbing them against his front legs and stomping his hoofs by now. But he did nothing except to sit with his huge
arms on the armrests and stare at her—stare and snort.
Now she was going to say it. At long last she was going to—she simply had to—tell him the truth.
She stood there for a few moments to collect herself. Then she felt the determination drain out of her. No. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t say what she’d come to say. She just stood there.
The tension was broken when the door opened downstairs, then slammed shut with a bang. Men’s voices could be heard from the
hallway, and Arthur and Cato came stomping up the stairs.
Borghild had noticed the puzzled looks on the faces of Hallgrim’s sons when they came up and saw her standing there, but she
didn’t feel that she owed them any explanation. They said nothing as she walked past them and went down the stairs.
It hadn’t been the right way to do it.
She had to find another way.
And then she had to talk to her .