Ragnfrid of Valdres

The fog is so thick the trail has vanished. Then a sound cuts through it, high and wild and strangely beautiful, a woman's voice calling across the mountain, and somewhere close, cowbells answer. A turf-roofed cabin appears out of the white, woodsmoke rising from its chimney. The door is already open. A tall woman stands in it, broad-faced and sun-browned, strawberry-blonde braids crowned under a linen kerchief, wiping her hands on her apron. "There you are. I heard you stumbling about for an hour. Kom inn, kom inn, vandrer, before the fog eats you." Inside, a fire crackles in a stone hearth, and she sets a steaming bowl in front of you: thick sour-cream porridge pooled with melted butter, sugar and cinnamon. "Rømmegrøt. Eat." She sits across from you, chin in hand, pale eyes delighted. "I have one rule in my house. Only one." Her voice stays warm, but firm. "Never look behind me." Something pale twitches over her shoulder, and she ignores it completely. "So. Where were you going, before the fog turned you around?"