A resinous pine-bough in the bonfire cracked like rifleshot.

Gunnhild jumped. All that talk of war set the thirteen-year-old's nerves on edge. Power struggles on the continent and at sea? The news rattled the peace of the mountain farms. When her family had trekked over from Dalen, she'd expected a merry evening, not such a glum one.

Out in the dark sloping fields of Homme, one of the romping three-year-olds shrieked in pain. Not the voice of Gunnhild's little brother nor of the Homme boy. Must be the little girl visiting from Brekke.

Gunnhild strode down the gloomy hillside. "Are you two picking on Birgit?" she asked the boys as she scooped up the sobbing child.

"Nei," Jon Homme said.

Gunnhild's little brother piped up. "Clumsy picked on herself. Clumsy tripped."

"Don't call names, Mundi. Birgit isn't clumsy. It's too dark to see tree roots. Come on, sweet thing. Your brother Olav will hold you until you feel better."

"Not Olav!" Birgit wailed.

"Well, nei, boys aren't much good at comforting," Gunnhild agreed. "Why didn't your big sister come along, too? She'd have known how to make you feel better."

Birgit snuffled. "Ingebjørg got a black eye. "

"Ooh," Gunnhild said, wincing. "How did that happen?" She expected to hear about a nanny goat too rambunctious during milking.

"Far hit her," Birgit said and sniffled again. "Far is in a big, bad mood. Sveinung took Ingebjørg to the seter to get away, and Olav brought me--" The child sucked in a shuddering breath, threw her arms around Gunnhild's neck, and bawled.

Gunnhild tightened her arms around Birgit. "What now?"

"Bad, I'm bad! Not supposed to tell!" Birgit sobbed.

"Hush! You're not bad." Gunnhild stood still in the deep shadows of the night, out of earshot of the gathering around the bonfire. The flames blazed angry against the black backdrop. Her own father had his share of dark moods, too, and arguments with her mother about his debts.

"Now he'll hit me," Birgit cried, "and I'll have a black eye, too."

"Your far doesn't need to know."

"Not Far." Birgit shuddered again. "Olav."

"Hush! I won't tell Ornery Olav either. Say now, what's your favorite bedtime story?"

"Kari Woodencloak."

"Would you like me to tell it now?"

Sniffling, Birgit nodded against Gunnhild's shoulder.

"Very well. There was one time a king who had a dear wife and a lovely, clever daughter."

"Named Kari."

"The queen died. The king and princess Kari cried and cried, but one day the king was done crying. Soon he married again -- a beautiful woman, a widow queen, who already had a daughter of her own. Now Kari had a stepsister."

"A mean stepsister," Birgit said.

Gunnhild headed back towards the gathering at the bonfire. "The stepsister and stepmother were jealous of Kari because she was so lovely and clever, but as long as the king was at home, they didn't dare do her any harm."

Birgit sighed.

Gunnhild wished this sweet child had a father as devoted as the fairytale king. No wonder this story was Birgit's favorite. Poor little girl.

"But the king had to go off to war," Gunnhild went on as she settled Birgit on a log bench near the bonfire and inspected the fresh scrape on the child's leg. "The wicked stepmother wasted no time in beating poor Kari, and made her go hungry." As she blotted the bleeding, Gunnhild noticed older scabs and bruises. She took a sidelong glance at Olav of Brekke, who was still bragging to Tall Såmund of Åe about his rifle skills and readiness to answer any call to arms.

"I don't like evil stepmothers," Birgit murmured.

"Me neither." Gunnhild went on with the tale of the dun bull that helped Kari escape the evil stepmother's clutches and find a safe home in a faraway land.

Birgit fell asleep snuggled against Gunnhild, while the grownups all around talked about Emperor Napoleon and his iron fist. Europe had its dictator, Gunnhild thought, and so did Morgedal valley.

.

BEHIND THE SCENES

seter :  a summer farm with good grazing, high up in the mountains.

Peter Christen Asbjørnsen and Jørgen Moe grew up hearing the tales transcribed by the Grimm Brothers of Germany, including some from Denmark. Asbjørnsen and Moe wanted to gather a similar collection of folklore in their native Norway. Their first pamphlet came out in 1841, and included the tale of Kari Trestakk ( or Katie Woodencloak). 

An English translation appears in a collection of Cinderella-type tales:

https://www.pitt.edu/~dash/type0510a.html#woodencloak