Once, long ago, in the misty blue past, the dawn-time of history, there lived a young girl named Trind. This pure daughter of jord lived her life at the edge of the forest, far from the village, different from all the rest. Trind was a friend of the hulder, who haunted the village folk and helped the country folk. But Trind was between. Her mother was a healer and a woman wise in the ways of herbs. Her father: a mysterious huldre who was seldom nearby but had charmed her mother with his dancing one midsummer's eve.

The village folk were suspicious of Trind and her mother. Mother of her herbs, Trind of her books. For Trind knew to read and write, as her mother, and her mother before her. The village people feared this: books had power; they captured words and actions and kept them forever, more accurate than any man's memory.

But sometimes, on holy days and harvest nights, Trind would sidle into town to hear the sweet music of the country dances and from her place in the shadows, watch the girls twirl with bright skirts and young men leap. It was there that she first saw him.

He was a fiddler; they said his name was Lassë and he came from farther north than anyone in the village had ever gone. He was tall and strong and quick to smile with lively fingers and a light bow. It was he who finally spotted her in the shadows and winked. Trind knew at once that she loved him.

When the dance was over and the tired folk were going back to their seters and farms, and their homes in the village, he found her, sought her out among all the pretty girls who were now flushed with exercise. He did not approach her, but rather, played a Telemark springar, that dance where the woman takes the floor and the couple dance round each other. It was soft and low, and this fiddler Lassë played so sweetly that Trind found herself drawn by some force to her feet, and she began to dance.

As they twirled around each other, never touching, Lassë reached out his hand, still playing with his fiddle balanced under his chin, but Trind whirled away. She was too afraid of what might happen if they touched. So, Lassë played another song, and another, and each time he reached out, Trind twirled away from him, until finally, a small voice in the far corner in her head whispered, Take his hand, and she did.

Lassë nearly dropped his precious fiddle, but he stopped playing, held both fiddle and bow in one hand, and grasped Trind about her waist as they danced together, like lovers. Some who were there that night say that they danced like angels, others like folk possessed. But one thing is certain, they danced until dawn broke rosy over the mountains and then waltzed into the blue wood.

There, by a crystal waterfall, Trind learned of Lassë's life of travel and mishap, of losing his family to famine and sickness, of finding work, of finding love. And Lassë learned of Trind's books, and her mother, and the people of the village. And though they were different, they shared a piece of the same soul, and from that day forward, they were married in heart and mind.

To her dying day, Trind kept her library and a journal, and taught her children and others the miraculous ways of words. And when Lassë came back from his journeying, and told his stories, he would play for her, and they would dance like lovers under the moonlit firs and starlit birches of their home in the wood.

Folk in the village marveled then, when the pair would show up uninvited, unannounced, but always welcome at the country dances. Lassë would play all night, and Trind would watch from the shadows, refusing all partners until the night's end, when she would take her husband into her arms, and they would twirl to a graceful pols.

Stories both loving and curious are still told of the mysterious couple, and songs have been composed, just as they would have wanted it. For books hold firm, and stories remember, and music brings it all to life. Such is the way of all things that are held dear.