We drove home alongside the big silent deep lake where Borghild told us fishermen used to sweep the waters with cocks; wherever the cocks crowed they got out their fishing tackle. Outside, it was pitch-black. Apart from the road and the trees or the water beside them, which all lay beneath the yellow light of the streetlamps, only the snow-clad mountain peaks were visible. It was a starry sky, everything felt open and spacious. The bus back to Bergen left at four in the morning, we stayed awake till then, and were waiting at the stop, stamping our feet to keep warm, when it arrived, thundering
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