December 22
Ingrid woke with Thor’s breath against her neck. When she carefully twisted her arm to look at her watch, she saw it was only
a few minutes past six. It was pitch-black outside. Everything is at its coldest now , she thought. Dawn is hours away. And summer—still another six months. It won’t get any darker than it is now. But it’s warm here under
the duvet. And inside me, it’s as bright as a clear summer day .
“Maybe I should have pretended my bed was slept in?” Thor murmured into her ear as they embraced in the parking lot a few
hours later.
She laughed. “I can go in and mess up the sheets a bit before the maid comes.”
It had snowed quite a bit overnight, but both the parking lot and the road had been plowed. The sky was blue, and the air
was crisp and clear.
“It’s the winter solstice today!” she said. “We’re moving toward brighter times.”
“Yes...” Thor smiled at her. “Brighter times.”
Then he opened the door to his truck and got in. He squeezed her hand before closing the door and waved as he started to drive
across the parking lot. She watched the car until it disappeared over the hilltop and down the road toward Dalen.
Nana Borghild was waiting in the library when Ingrid came in. Her wise eyes sparkled.
“I’m glad you’ve finally opened your eyes to Thor,” her grandmother said. “You know, Ingrid, our eyesight may deteriorate
with age, but when it comes to people, we see all the more clearly.”
***
A few hours later, after office hours and lunch, Nana Borghild and Ingrid stood in the dining room and admired the Christmas
tree in all its splendor. Alfred had put it up early that morning as planned. Now, Sunny was standing on a stepladder, draping
long ribbons of Christmas tinsel with the help of Hussein and the youngest guests.
It was the fourth Sunday of Advent. Carafes of mulled wine and platters of gingerbread were spread across the table in the
halls. Calming music filled the room as one of the teenagers from Oslo played the piano; he was a tall, blond boy who was
generally rather quiet, but at the keys, it was as if he were communicating through music rather than words. Maybe she should
have asked him to play during the Christmas tree lighting, Ingrid thought, but she would never be able to bring herself to
suggest that to Nana Borghild, who’d played the piano during the ceremony for as long as Ingrid could remember.
The sky had started to darken just after lunch. The clouds were rolling in again, and a few snowflakes fell, but the silhouette of the mountains was still clear against the gray-blue sky.
Ingrid went out into the foyer, where suitcases were piling up and guests were coming and going. The front door opened with
a cold gust; it was one of the visitors from Oslo coming in wearing a ski suit.
“Amazing trails.” He beamed as he passed Ingrid.
Pia, David, and Vegard came down the stairs. They were also going to catch the Christmas tree lighting before they headed
back to Oslo. She saw a sly glint in Vegard’s eyes when he greeted her and patted her on the shoulder, but fortunately, he
said nothing about Thor while the others were there. She figured he’d ask all about what had happened in due time. They all
headed into the dining room, where several guests had already arrived.
It was so nice, gathering around the Christmas tree. Ingrid remembered lighting the tree down in the village in the old days.
Back then, the mayor was the one who lit the lights on the tree outside what was then the town hall, while the villagers sang
Christmas carols. After the municipalities were merged, the old town hall had been converted into various offices—for a while
even a pizza restaurant—and the traditions had disintegrated. It would be nice if some of them could be continued at the hotel,
she thought, while some new traditions were introduced at the same time.
It was a much different crowd up here anyway. She looked around the room. Her grandmother was now at the piano. Vegard, David, and Pia P had settled down nearby. The guests from Oslo were gathered in a corner, while Aisha, Hussein, and the rest of the staff formed a group on the other side of the tree. Freya and John Wilkins were sitting at a table by themselves. They had come to every event, Ingrid realized, but Freya wasn’t as talkative as she had been for the first few days. After her illness—or whatever it was—it was as if something were subduing her; she seemed more thoughtful, somehow.
Nana Borghild gave her a nod, and Ingrid wished everyone welcome. Then her grandmother struck a chord on the piano, and they
were off.
“O Christmas Tree, O Christmas tree, how lovely are your branches!” Nana Borghild’s voice was high and clear, with a slight
vibrato. And the guests sang along to the best of their ability—some a bit shakily—so it helped when Sunny stepped in. Those
who didn’t know the lyrics filmed with their phones instead. Some tried their hand at both.
At the end of the last verse, Alfred would put in the plug so the lights came on as the song faded out. Ingrid made eye contact
with him as he stood by the wall socket, and he showed her he had the plug in hand. He was ready.
Your bright green leaves with festive cheer,
Give hope and strength throughout the year.
O Christmas tree, O Christmas tree,
We learn from all your beauty.
Bang! There was a crack and a sparkle as the Christmas tree gave off a single burst of light. Then everything went dark.
***
Ingrid felt it fade away that very second—the fragile hope she’d built up inside her over the past few days. The hope that every thing would be okay after all. She’d lulled herself into warmth and optimism for a few days, but now reality had come back with a bang and a shower of sparks.
Brighter times— yeah, right! No, there would be no end to the darkness here any time soon, that was for sure.
She was next to Alfred in just a few quick steps.
“Are you kidding me? What the hell is going on here?” she groaned.
Alfred looked dazed, standing there with the cord in hand.
“This is so unbelievably embarrassing!” Ingrid said. “This was supposed to be a nice end to the stay for the weekend guests.”
Alfred looked ashamed and mumbled something about power lines, new lights, and transformers.
“I thought you checked the voltage. Surely we must have enough power for some stupid old Christmas tree lights? Just make
sure the lights come back on!” she said sharply, turning on her heel.
She saw Hussein staring at her, looking alarmed, and felt a hand on her back.
“Ingrid,” Nana Borghild said. “Why are you speaking to Alfred like that? It won’t help anything.”
Suddenly, she felt ashamed of having been so rude to the old caretaker. What had gotten into her?
Together with Sunny and the rest of the staff, she served mulled wine and lit candles in an attempt to make the disaster seem
a bit cozy, and it wasn’t long before Alfred had found the main switch and the lights were back on. The lights on the Christmas
tree were sparkling as well, but they gave off an unreliable glow, she thought, as if they might short-circuit again at any
moment.
The guests from Oslo gathered in the hallway, thanked her for the stay, and assured her they’d had a fantastic time. She could only hope that both they and everyone else would be left with an overwhelmingly positive impression of Glitter Peak—despite the fiasco at the end.
She stood with Vegard and Nana Borghild for a while.
“Honey,” Vegard said. “You just wrapped up a brilliant weekend. This was a huge success!”
“Apart from the Christmas tree lights, that is.”
“Sure, apart from that. But that’s just a minor detail.”
“It’s more than a detail,” she objected.
“But there are only two days until Christmas Eve,” Vegard said. “You won’t be able to switch out the electrical system today,
in any event.”
Ingrid sank down on a chair. He was right. It didn’t help to fuss about this now. She was so sick of thinking about all these
practical problems, but she couldn’t get them out of her head.
She closed her eyes. God, she was so tired. Everything felt so thick and muddy, and it was hard to remember what had happened
over the past few days. All of these abrupt turns. How could everything change so suddenly?
The optimism that had surged through her several times over the past few days was gone, replaced by stress and worry. The
wave of adrenaline after she saved Hussein had subsided. And Thor... It had been so wonderful, but now it seemed like an
eternity since she had woken up warm and happy with him, not just earlier today.
Her lower back and abdomen ached. Oh, right... She realized there was another reason for her mood swing: she was about to get her period. And she hated it.
Every time she felt the blood coming, she was transported back to the hospital in the Himalayas, feeling the new life draining
out of her. She experienced everything all over again—the horror from the avalanche, the pain afterward, the grief over everything
she’d lost and over everything that would never be.
Maybe she should take some painkillers. The pain was getting worse now.
“You look pale, Ingrid,” her grandmother pointed out. “Are you okay?”
“I... I don’t know, actually,” Ingrid said, surprising herself.
Her standard answer to this question tended to be “yes.” Things were always okay with Ingrid Berg. There wasn’t any room for
anything else. You couldn’t go around feeling things all the time. Besides, was anyone really interested in how she was actually doing? What mattered was that she was
able to do what she needed to do.
But now that she was here with Vegard and her grandmother beside her, Christmas just around the corner and her head full of
thoughts and concerns, it was as though the truth was revealing itself of its own accord.
“Maybe I’m not okay.” She felt dizzy and warm.
“Oh, Ingrid, come with me. Let’s go up to your apartment.”
Nana Borghild took her by the arm and led her quickly toward the stairs. By the time they reached the apartment, Ingrid’s
hands were shaking so much that her grandmother had to take the key from her and unlock the door.
Ingrid sank down on the sofa, and her grandmother got her a glass of water, which she drank greedily.
“Have you eaten anything today?” Nana Borghild asked. “You weren’t at breakfast...”
Ingrid blushed at the thought of what she and Thor had been doing while the others were eating breakfast. “No, not really . . . just some yogurt. I couldn’t handle anything else, and now I’m a bit nauseous.”
“What’s the matter, sweetie? Nauseous? You’re not...”
Nana Borghild stopped, clearly unable to bring herself to formulate the obvious explanation for morning nausea. Ingrid felt
the dam burst. Tears started pouring down her hot cheeks.
“No, I’m not pregnant, Nana. But I have been. Before.”
And there, on the couch, she finally told her grandmother everything. As the tears flowed, she talked about the contraception
that must have failed, about Aisha’s realization the very first time they met, about the surprise pregnancy test at the clinic
in Nepal. About how she’d shoved it aside while she and Preben continued planning the expedition. About the life-changing
news that she should have shared with Preben—later, at a better time, a time that never came. She talked about the nausea, about the sudden pain
that hit her in the abdomen when she was rescued from the avalanche area and regained consciousness. She talked about the
confusion when she was in the hospital, the blood, the fear.
She told her grandmother that she’d never shared any of this with Preben, but that she wondered whether he might have understood
it anyway. That they’d never talked about it. That she hadn’t been able to talk about it with him.
“Oh, my dear girl!” Her grandmother wiped the tears from Ingrid’s face with a tissue as if she were a child and wrapped her
arms around her. “You’ve been going through this all alone. Oh, sweetie.”
Nana Borghild hugged Ingrid tightly. Ingrid leaned in, accepting the embrace. Her grandmother was small but strong. She smelled of freshly ironed cotton and subtle perfume. Ingrid felt the strength in her grandmother’s arms and allowed herself to be held tightly.
“I mean, it’s normal,” she sniffled into her grandmother’s shoulder. “I’m not exactly the first person who’s ever had a miscarriage.”
“No, you’re not,” Nana Borghild said. “But the fact that others have also gone through it doesn’t make it any less painful
for you . And the circumstances under which it happened were unusual and dramatic. You could have lost your life in that avalanche.
And you lost a friend. It was a lot to take in all at once.”
They sat in silence for a while, and her grandmother stroked Ingrid’s hair.
“What did you think... when you were pregnant?” Borghild asked tentatively. “Had you and Preben talked about the future,
or what did you think it would be like?”
“I don’t know... It all happened so suddenly, both the fact that I was pregnant and the fact that I lost the child. We
never got as far as discussing it. It wasn’t easy to imagine us having a normal family life, me and Preben and this child.
Getting married and having normal jobs and so on. What Preben and I had together was based on climbing and expeditions and
action and adventure. I don’t know if it would have even been possible to combine that with having children. I might have
been the one who had to leave my ambitions behind.”
“Or maybe you both would have had other ambitions for a while,” Nana Borghild said. “You know, I think you should tell Preben eventually, now that you’re in contact
again.”
“Yes, I know I should.”
“You may not be ready for it yet, but the loss you suffered is actually something he should be a part of. Maybe it will make
it easier for him to understand. And that child you lost wasn’t just yours, but his, too. I think it will be healing for both
of you if you tell him.”
“Yeah, maybe you’re right. But I’ve had to keep it to myself to survive, to deal with everything else. I felt like I lost
everything ,” Ingrid said. “And every time I get my period, I think about it. It’s like it’s happening all over again.”
Her grandmother kept stroking Ingrid’s hair and looked at her with those keen eyes of hers. “It may not be any consolation
right now,” Borghild said, “but the fact that you bleed every month means that things are working properly down there—that
you can get pregnant again. I don’t mean right now, of course,” she added quickly when she realized that Ingrid was about
to protest. “But later, if you want to. You still have time.”
Ingrid couldn’t stop crying. Now that the dam had burst, there was nothing holding back the tears and grief. She rested her
face against Nana Borghild’s shoulder and smelled the mild and familiar scent.
After a while, she was utterly exhausted, and her grandmother’s cardigan was covered with snot and tears.
“I think you should rest, Ingrid,” Nana Borghild said. “Here, drink some more water, then get in bed.”
Ingrid was so warm and so tired but gathered enough strength to protest.
“Get in bed? Now? Not possible.”
“Yes, it is. I’ll say goodbye to Vegard and David from you and take over for a few hours while you sleep this off. It’ll be fine. I’ve run a hotel before, you know.”
And before Ingrid knew it, she was in bed and felt like a little girl again. She felt her grandmother’s soft hand stroking
her head until sleep took over.
***
Dalen, Spring 1962
Borghild walked calmly across the cemetery. She couldn’t show what was going on inside her. Everything had to seem normal.
It was such a beautiful day. Birds were chirping and her shiny black bunad shoes crunched in the dry gravel. She made sure
to walk with her back straight and her head held high. She noticed every detail—how some of the trees had started turning
green, how her s?lje glistened in the sunlight. Storms had been forecast for the weekend. It was only March, after all, but
there was no sign of rain yet. Anyone who didn’t know better would think this was the perfect day for a wedding.
They’d realized what needed to be done a few days earlier, while walking up by Styggfossen. There was still snow up there,
and it was rugged and dangerous terrain, but it was where Charlotte wanted to go.
“I’ve started showing—look!” she cried. “I can’t even button up anymore!” She tugged at the lapels of her ocher woolen coat.
It was so elegant, the latest fashion; she’d been so proud of it only a few months before. But now it was tight over her stomach,
and all the joy was gone.
Charlotte had tears in her eyes. “I can’t do it, Borghild. I can’t! I’d rather jump into the waterfall than marry Jarand. And have the ceremony officiated by that . . . bastard.”
Borghild put a hand on her arm. “Charlie!”
But Charlie shook her hand off. “There’s no point, Borghild!”
Suddenly, she tore off her coat and threw it down the scree toward the waterfall. There was a flash when Borghild imagined
Charlie herself flying toward death. Her Charlie.
“No! No! I’ll help you!” Borghild cried. “I’ll do anything. I love you, and I’m going to help you.”
And now it was done—what she’d promised—and Borghild walked toward the church. She’d told her parents she needed a couple
of hours to help Charlotte get ready and that they should go ahead to the church. They were in there now. So was Christian
Stugu and the rest of their group of friends. But no one needed to save a seat for Borghild, because she was the bride’s maid
of honor and would be sitting at the very front.
The groom, Jarand Smedplass, was also waiting in the church, with his best man, Hallgrim Dalen, standing beside him. Borghild
didn’t know which one of them she despised the most. Charlie’s older brother, who’d once been her close friend—and who’d even
suggested that they get married—or this “groom,” the brutal alcoholic blacksmith who’d already beaten one wife so badly that
she was forced to flee from Dalen. But apparently it was still better for Hallgrim and the family that Charlie marry Jarand
than for her to be an unwed mother. Because that would be far too shameful...
Borghild now knew for certain that Charlie would rather die than consummate the marriage Hallgrim had pressured her into. Charlie couldn’t live with being married to a violent man. And cer tainly not with the fact that the person who was officiating the ceremony was him—Reverend R?hmer—the bastard who’d assaulted her when she went to him for advice. The pig who’d gotten her pregnant.
How would Charlie have been able to go through with this? Hallgrim might as well have pushed her off the cliff and into Styggfossen.
Borghild slowed her pace to stall for time before she had to play her part in the last act of this grotesque charade. She
knew that around the same time as she walked through the church doors, the driver, Hansdalen, would be swinging his freshly
polished Mercedes in front of the Dalen family’s house to pick up Charlotte and drive her the short distance to the church.
But he wasn’t going to find anyone there. Because Charlotte was already long gone—farther away than those waiting for her
would ever know.
And Borghild would never be able to look into her beloved’s eyes again.
***
From Borghild Berg’s diary:
... I knew I’d never look into her eyes ever again. Until now. A few weeks ago, I saw those eyes once again. Deep granite
gray, with golden flecks. It took me a while to realize what it meant, but deep down, I think I’ve understood it ever since
I first saw Freya. She does have Charlie’s eyes, after all.