The Ice People 1 - Spellbound (The Legend of the Ice People) (6 page)

Benedikt wasn’t painting the local parish church because this was something he’d done a long time ago. He’d decorated every inch of the vaulted ceiling. The neighbouring parish church was close by and he was currently decorating it. In the late afternoon, he took Silje with him in the carriage. Benedikt wasn’t an early bird and Silje noticed his crimson-veined nose which was a sign that he enjoyed a strong drink.

Silje had been sure that what she had experienced during the night would show on her face. But this was something that she was imagining herself because nobody seemed to notice anything in particular. They spoke to her quite naturally as though nothing had happened.

How odd! It had been a transformation for her and so humiliating that she could have died from it. Besides, it didn’t help matters that she had been attracted to the wrong man.

Benedikt chatted all the time while they sat in the carriage. He held the reins, steering the old mare and Silje sat next to him. He spoke of his triumphs as an artist, of all the beautiful church paintings he’d made. He cursed loudly the priests of the Reformation who had decreed that all the beautiful, old church paintings were to be whitewashed just because some of them were considered indecent.

“Indecent!” he growled. “There’s no such thing as indecency in love, Silje. Everything is natural and beautiful. It’s just the old men who feel let down because their thoughts are indecent!”

His words comforted her somewhat but not enough.

“Fortunately, there were sensible priests who could put some sort of a halt to this moral hysteria. They referred to Pope Gregory’s words that ‘those who can’t read the Scriptures must learn through pictures.’ Now this is the right way of appreciating the value of ecclesiastical art. Silje, you must see my Day of Judgment Angel. It’s a masterpiece! I used Heming as my model.”

Once again she blushed. “I’m sure he was an excellent model,” she mumbled.

Benedikt laughed. “But probably not when it comes to his soul. Anyway, would
you
consider being my model for the Fallen Virgin – in the Judgment Day scene?”

“No,” she replied fiercely.

“Oh, please. You’d be perfect with your golden-blonde hair, Silje. But it will have to be without any clothes on.”

“Good heavens, No!”

Benedikt laughed again. “I was just teasing you. Although you have the soul of an artist, you’re far from broad-minded enough. A narrow-minded upbringing perhaps?” he mumbled almost to himself.

She wasn’t going to listen to any more of this, so she clasped her hands demonstratively and stared down at them in her lap.

If she had turned her head slightly, she would be able to see the mountains, but she didn’t. Not even if they beckoned, today more than ever before. Perhaps the spirits were hovering there in the sky? Perhaps the largest of them was …

“Is that the church over there?” she exclaimed.

“Yes, it is. But it’s nothing to get worked up about.

“No, I’m just …”

She didn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t speak about her fantasies. But to her embarrassment she could feel that she was moist in the most shameful way – just as she was last night.

She walked slowly about in the church, admiring Benedikt’s work, avoiding the ladders and stands.

She recognized some of the paintings: The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, for example. Another was of a wandering group of plague victims, and another the ravages of war. And to one side, Death was pictured. And there … that Doomesday angel was Heming himself, somewhat stylized. It was certainly him, and Silje sighed wistfully.

She was full of praise for everything she saw, and Silje’s honest remarks delighted Benedikt.

“Look at this,” he said eagerly, ushering her along. “What do you think of this one?”

“Well, yes,” Silje said hesitatingly, “but why have you painted a woman churning butter, with a devil behind her?”

Benedikt said in a grating voice: “They always want something like that. A little fun won’t harm – the priests, the churchwardens and the entire congregation.”

“But I don’t understand, “ Silje said naively.

Benedikt stared at her in disbelief. “Do you mean to say … that you don’t understand the symbolism? “Have you never watched someone churn butter? Never done so yourself?”

“Yes, of course, but …”

The next moment she could feel her cheeks begin to burn a bright red and she ran away from him. How vulgar! How …

Benedikt looked full of remorse. “You’re a puzzle, my passionate young lady. Because you’re certainly passionate, that’s very obvious. But could you help me paint?” he said in an attempt to cover up. “You could colour this vine.”

She hadn’t tried that before but she didn’t want to miss this opportunity.

He showed her the colours. Caput mortuum was a red-violet colour. She wasn’t to use too much of the black colour because otherwise the painting would turn out too somber, and she was on no account to mix it with the other colours. Chalk-white, copper powder that turned to blue-green, ultramarine that became light blue and ochre yellow. She was allowed to mix all these provided she didn’t mess up his colours.

She was somewhat anxious but took hold of the brush. It took her a quarter of an hour to put colour on the first vine-leaf because she was just so nervous of painting outside the shape. But then she worked more rapidly. They chatted eagerly about art while Benedikt was suspended underneath the ceiling working on Adam and Eve – who were both protecting their virtue behind huge fig leaves. Gradually, Silje worked her way through the vine. Silje knew nothing about painting so Benedikt acted as her teacher, a role he seemed to enjoy.

“Am I boring you?” he suddenly asked.

“No, no! It’s so exciting. I’ve never experienced such a good discussion before.”

Benedikt grinned. His unbroken monologue could hardly be called a conversation.

When the day was over he came down. They had worked so eagerly that they had completely forgotten to eat the lunch that they’d brought with them.

“Now just look at that,” he said admiringly. I
knew
you could do it. You’ve really added life to the leaves. Where have you learned about shadows?”

“I don’t know anything about it,” she said, slightly embarrassed but also proud. “I just tried to imagine what leaves look like.”

“You must come with me tomorrow as well,” he said eagerly. “Let the old women take care of the children. They’ll love that.”

My word, she’d come to grow very fond of the old man whom she’d known in such a short time.

The most important thing he’d done for her was to help her find her inner core. Silje, the stranger, who didn’t fit in back at the farm, had now discovered that there was another world. Perhaps this was where she belonged?

Chapter 4

Silje was unable to return to the church the following day. She had a very bad infection in one of her legs and was told to rest. Most of the time she played with Sol and did various small jobs which she could do while sitting down.

Sol was a lively little girl, very spontaneous and straightforward and not the least bit pretentious. When she was angry, she was very angry, and when she was happy it really showed. Then she would give everybody a hug in turn. But nobody could understand what she said. They thought that she could be no more than two years old.

The following day, Silje’s leg looked better so it was decided that she could join Benedikt again. This time she brought along Sol to unburden the two women a bit.

Just like last time, they painted apart from each other. Silje was given a slightly more difficult job: She was to paint the halo around the heads of the angels. She did an excellent job of it.

“You’ve got it in you,” Benedikt said. “Come. Then I’ll show you what I painted yesterday when you weren’t here.”

She followed him into one of the side chapels. Under the small, vaulted ceiling he had painted some scenes from the Day of Judgment. Silje immediately saw what it was he wanted to show her. It was a half-finished painting of the Fallen Virgin. She blushed and turned away.

Benedikt laughed. “She resembles you, doesn’t she? Her face, I mean. I had to imagine the rest, of course, but that wasn’t so difficult.”

Silje was lost for words because she was very affronted. The painting didn’t do her justice at all. Her own stomach was much flatter and she had more above the waist than that … thing!

“That doesn’t look like me at all,” she blurted.

“That’s your own fault,” he laughed. You didn’t want to be my model. But I’ll be happy to change it. Just let me know where I went wrong.”

The best thing would have been for Silje to turn round and walk away just to show how cross she was. But Silje couldn’t bear the thought that her face was to sit on this pear-shaped body. So she made a few, embarrassed gestures with her hands over the painting. Benedikt looked her up and down, comparing her with the painting. “You’re quite right. You’re a bosomy person but slim from the waist down. I can fix that. But we also need a devil. Ah, but that’ll have to wait. I must finish the Field Marshal’s Death.

Silje went to the church every day, and she did her best to hide that her leg hadn’t healed. Sol wasn’t allowed to come along anymore because she was far too difficult to look after.

And every day Silje would put on the fine silk cloak. On one trip, Benedikt remarked: “You caress that cloak as if it were a lover.”

She was startled. “It’s just because the silk is so lovely and soft.”

“The way you wrap yourself in it – and breathe in its sensual fragrance – has that anything to do with the structure of the material, I wonder?”

She drew herself upright. “I’ve never worn such a beautiful garment before. That’s all,” she mumbled, embarrassed.

On the fourth day Benedikt told Silje that she had become so accomplished that he would give her a more important task. There was very little time left in which to finish work in the church. It wouldn’t be so long now before it was to be used again, and it looked as if he might not be able to finish in time. Could she paint the devil that seduces the virgin if he drew the outlines?

Silje was lost for words. Was
she
to paint a complete figure?

Even so, she could feel that she would be able to do so. Ever since she was a little girl, she had known that she was better at drawing than most. But she’d never tried anything like this before. “Yes – yes please! I’d like to give it a try,” she stuttered eagerly. “But what if it isn’t good enough?”

“Then we’ll paint over it. But I’m quite certain that you can do it.”

Silje began on the task with all her heart and soul. She would be working on her own now, in the side chapel, and so they could only shout one word to each other every now and then. But she was so absorbed in what she was doing that she would often forget Benedikt and her surroundings.

As evening was approaching, Benedikt came down. He’d only looked in on her a few times during the middle of the day to make sure that she was alright. She was now so far in her work that all she needed was the devil’s hoof, which was to appear behind the woman’s legs.

As Benedikt walked over to Silje, he exclaimed: “You haven’t had anything to eat the whole day. And soon it’ll be dark. We’ll call it a day.”

Then he stopped. Silje had stepped aside so that Benedikt could get a full view.

He stared.

“Good heavens,” he mumbled. “What on earth have you done?”

Now
she could see what she’d done. She saw it with Benedikt’s eyes.

The devil stood behind the woman the way Benedikt had sketched it for her. But she had elaborated because she had placed the claw-like hands around her breasts, and her head was thrown back against the devil’s shoulder. His long tongue stroked her throat, and his face …

“Oh dear,” Silje exclaimed, putting her hand to her mouth. “I hadn’t noticed it.”

Nobody who’d ever seen the man in the wolf-skin could be in any doubt as to whom Silje had used as her model.

“We must get rid of it,” Benedikt said, shocked.

Silje was about to paint over it but then Benedikt took her hand and said: “No, don’t. It’s far too good to be destroyed. You’re no master painter but this painting has
character
. Let’s hope the King’s soldiers don’t come in here. Dear Silje,” he said, shocked,” I had no idea that a modest girl like you could create anything like this. Look at the groping hands of the devil! Look at his posture as if you could imagine what’s going on behind the woman’s back.”

Silje was aghast. “I don’t understand. I had no idea I’d painted it like this. It must’ve created itself!”

“Either you’re under a spell or you’ve the soul of an artist. You must’ve been transfixed. That’s what happened. Often an artist doesn’t know what he makes once inspiration takes hold. But I’d no idea that you’d lost your heart to young Heming.”

So he’d discovered her secret.

“So I have,” Silje said, angry and confused. “That’s who it is. I don’t understand how
his
face ended on this wall.”

Then Benedikt began to laugh, first quietly but subsequently louder and louder. “Tell you what! You couldn’t have chosen a better model. My word, what an experience! What an experience! But better not tell anybody about it! Thank goodness, it’s dark in here.”

Then they set off for the farm. The air had turned warmer and the powdering of snow that had fallen had melted. The sky was heavy and grey. They both knew that this warmth was fleeting and treacherous. Winter had tightened its grip, its frozen claws digging ever deeper, and the sun rose later with each day.

This had been an evil autumn.

***

Silje had been at Benedikt’s farm for ten days when Sol fell ill. Flushed and crying, the little girl lay in her bed in their bedroom. Silje sat by her bedside all day long, changing her clothes, trying to keep her warm and comfortable.

The barber, who was one of Benedikt’s drinking companions, came by and passed the verdict: “There’s no doubt. Keep the baby boy away from her! The rest of us will pull through. After all, this is what we’ve done so far. Is the girl baptized? Perhaps the best thing would be to call the priest?”

“The priest has died,” said one of the women, “and we haven’t had anybody to replace him yet. Such a shame. The priest was such a good person. We moved about among the sick – and caught the disease. But the girl is so big that she must’ve been baptized.”

She tried to choke her tears. Everybody had become extremely fond of little Sol.

When the barber had left, Silje sat with little Sol once more, and she could feel how she was overcome with despair. She had become so close to the little girl that it was as if Sol was her own daughter.

“Help us,” she whispered. “Help us, help us, please don’t let her die – she’s so full of life. For heaven’s sake, please don’t take her from me. Please let her
live
!”

But little Sol continued to run a temperature. So Silje began to fear for the next fearful sign.

Sol looked at Silje with glazed eyes.

“Please get well!” Silje begged her. “I can’t bear to see you in pain. I need you.”

Sol’s eyes grew big as she said, “Tilja needs Tol?”

“Yes, I need Sol. You and I belong together. And we have little brother to take care of as well. And nothing is fun when you’re ill. I’m so very fond of you, little Sol.”

A gentle smile lit up the little girl’s face. She placed her burning, hot feverish hand in Silje. From that moment, Silje knew that Sol had bonded with her, felt comfortable with her and that Silje loved her. Up until now, Silje had tended to feel that their relationship had been based on necessity.

She’d referred to Dag as Sol’s baby brother. That might have been unwise, especially if they were forced to go their separate ways. But it had come from the heart. It just seemed so right, and she didn’t want to be separated from either of them. She didn’t want to see this pretty little girl placed in a coffin!

Later that evening she heard a visitor arrive. Benedikt had a rider with him when he returned from the church. Silje heard voices talking to each other, and suddenly the guest stood in the doorway to the small cabin where she and the children stayed.

“Leave the room, Silje,” he said, his voice low and hoarse.

The room was dark, and this time he wasn’t dressed in a wolf-skin. He wore a dark brown cloak over his tunic, but she recognized him nevertheless. Her hands trembled as she got up from the bedside.

Sol began to whimper, stretching out her arms towards Silje.

“Perhaps I ought to stay here?” Silje said, forcing herself to meet his gaze, quite certain that he could see right through her.

He looked at her with his peculiar eyes. Now she could see that they were ice-blue between the black eyelashes.

“You’re fond of the child, aren’t you?”

“Yes, very much so. I’m very fond of her.”

“Then leave. Wait in the kitchen together with the women.”

Silje left reluctantly, trying to ignore Sol’s tears.

Nobody said a word in the kitchen. The atmosphere was so strange, the air charged with tension – but of what? Anxiety? Fear? Not that it was a good idea for the insurgent to visit the farm. In fact it was dangerous, perilously dangerous!

Benedikt was ill at ease and stood rigidly at the window. The foreman sat turning his cap in his hands, and the women sat quite still. Silje sat down, placing her hands in her lap.

One of the women began to pray with a low voice.

“Stop
that
!” Benedikt hissed uncontrollably.

“Sorry,” the woman by the name of Marie said. She was the one who’d taken most care of Sol.

Silje rose abruptly. “He’s been in there for quite a long time. “I’ll go in and see what’s happening.”

Strangely, nobody tried to prevent her from doing so.

Somewhat hesitantly, she opened the door to the small cabin.

He straightened and turned towards her, looking neither angry nor surprised that she had entered the room.

“The child is strong,” he said with his peculiar, harsh voice. “She’ll survive but … “

He interrupted himself.

“Will she really?” Silje asked doubtfully. She didn’t dare believe him. “How d’you know?”

His smile was gentle: “You know, many people catch the disease, and yet they survive. Just sit at her bedside so that she won’t feel lonely.”

“Sure.”

Sol was more relaxed now, sending both of them a tired, feverish smile.

He gave Silje a searching look. “Why are you limping?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. It’s just the frostbite in my foot that won’t heal.”

“Can I have a look?”

“No!”

She was quite embarrassed at the sharp tone of her reply.

The man just waited with a calm smile on his face.

She resigned and sat up in bed. Without a word he placed himself at the foot of the bed and took off her stocking. As his warm hands touched her skin, it was like a swift, electric shock. He glanced at her impassively and then placed both hands on her foot.

“You’ve been walking too much on it,” he said. She felt a strange, vibrating warmth radiate from her sore foot and up her leg. Then her foot began to feel as if it was on fire.

“Was this also what you did with Sol,” she asked, glancing at the little girl, who was now sleeping peacefully.

He didn’t reply. Instead he removed his hands from her foot and took a small, wooden box from his tunic. “Rub this on your foot this evening,” he said. “It’ll make the tenderness disappear.”

He stood up, and the room suddenly seemed far too small and warm.

Silje thanked him. “Was Benedikt the one who asked you to come?” she asked.

“No,” he answered. “It was Benedikt,” he said. “But I found him in the church.”

“In the church? Oh dear!”

Yes, I saw it,” he said, answering her thoughts.

No comment, simply a statement. Silje was relieved that she was putting on her stockings because she wouldn’t have known where to look or what to do with her hands. Right now, she just wanted to vanish.

She pulled herself together when he was about to leave. “And the infant? The baby boy? Will he catch the disease?”

He hesitated and then said: “Let me see him.”

As he passed her in the doorway, she sensed the same peculiar weakness in her body that she felt during the dream. For one moment, the light from the evening sun fell on his face, which up until now she had only seen in half-light. She was struck by how wrong she’d been about the way he looked. She blamed it on the poor light, which must’ve made him look so awful, so old and haggard. What she now saw was a fairly young man – not a young man but a man in his prime – but nevertheless much younger than she had imagined.

The animal in him was still in the mouth, eyes, and his cat-like movements.

She accompanied him across the yard, watching his tall, upright figure with the very wide shoulders, striding confidently towards her. He stopped and waited for her on the doorstep so that she could let him in.