The Ice People 1 - Spellbound (The Legend of the Ice People) (7 page)

When they entered the kitchen, both women got up immediately and disappeared into another room. The foreman retreated to the other end of the room – only Benedikt remained where he was. But he was also influenced by the situation in the house. Silje sensed a strange, guarded formality about him.

“Well?” he said.

“The girl will recover,” Silje beamed. “But he would also like to see Dag.”

Benedikt shouted for Grete to bring the boy. She muttered from the next-door room.

“He hasn’t been baptized yet.”

“Silje baptized him when she found him,” the imposing man from the wilderness answered. “This ought to be sufficient for now.”

“Yes, of course it is,” said Benedikt. “Grete, remind me that we must find a priest for the child as soon as possible. We’ve neglected to do so for far too long.”

He said it in a peculiar, high-pitched voice, which Silje had never heard before.

Grete appeared in the doorway. “Yes, Mr. Benedikt,” she said in an accusing tone of voice. “What if he were to die? Then his soul would’ve gone to … “

Then Grete went quiet while she cast a timid glance at the guest. Then she disappeared and returned with the infant but refused to cross the threshold into the kitchen. Silje walked over to her and fetched the little boy, placing him in the arms of the stranger.

He gave her a strange, sad look. “You’re very trusting and for that I’ll do my best. But I would like to be alone with him.”

They left the kitchen. Silje glanced over her shoulder. It was strange to see this beast, big and brooding, holding a tiny infant in his arms. The little baby was almost invisible in them. He looked up at the man with eager eyes and let out a yell.

Silje began to wonder whether she’d done something terrible, but the child was soon quiet again. They waited in the porch, she, Benedikt and the foreman, without saying a word and without looking at each other. Then the man came out to them, handing the infant to Benedikt and said: “Newborn children have their own way of protecting themselves. The plague doesn’t infect them that easily.”

That was all he said. Silje accompanied him into the yard, thinking that this was what he wanted her to do since he hadn’t handed the baby to her.

“I know who you are,” she said quickly.

“Do you really,” he said with a slightly doubtful expression on his face.

“Yes, and I shan’t betray you. You can count on me as a friend. If you should ever need my help … But this probably won’t be the case.”

He turned serious. “You know what, Silje? This might very well be the case. I think you’ve realized that I’m a very lonely man because there’re very few people I can trust.”

Silje nodded eagerly. She was serious and understood what he meant.

His face creased as he smiled. “Are you happy here?”

“Definitely. I couldn’t wish for a better place to stay. Thank you for sending me here. And thank you … for everything.”

His hand moved gently in the air, and his gesture could have meant many things.

It seemed as if he was smiling within himself. “Silje, Silje,” he said slowly. “You’re a child. But you’ve recovered a lot because you no longer look so starved. Now you look like the sprouting bud which you are. And … don’t hesitate to call for me next time you need my help.”

Then he climbed on his horse, and suddenly he had left. Silje had a thoughtful glance on her face. “Next time?” What did he mean?

She went into the bedroom where Sol was. She was surprised to see Marie there. Now she remembered that she’d seen a shadow rush over the yard but she’d been too preoccupied with the stranger to think any further about it. With an expression of guilt on her face, the woman rose from the floor next to Sol’s bed. She mumbled an apology and disappeared out of the door.

Sol was fast asleep although she was still red in the face. But there were signs that the worst fever was leaving her body.

Silje was curious to know what Marie had done in there. She bent down and suddenly felt that Sol’s bed moved slightly when she leaned on it. Underneath one of the bedposts …

A coin had been placed underneath the bedpost. It was a silver coin with a cross on it.

Silje knew what this meant: This was as a protection against all devils.

After hesitating for a little while, she let it lie there.

Although she didn’t want it to happen, her thoughts drifted to the dream she’d had after falling asleep. Her fantasies began to grow on it. If she hadn’t woken up, what would’ve happened? Why hadn’t she dreamed that Heming was the one who’d come towards her? Why had it been the beast who’d evoked such strong emotions in her? She wanted it to be the young, attractive Heming. Honestly, she did! If only she could’ve dreamed that dream once more – with somebody else, the right one …! She hardly dared to mention his name in her thoughts. With another … lover?

As soon as she thought this, she sensed a warm feeling stream through her body. Only Heming’s image had faded.
He
wasn’t the one she’d seen before her mind’s eye.

Silje buried her head in the pillow, sighing in despair.

When she awoke the following morning, the first thing she noticed was that her leg wasn’t so painful any longer. And little Sol had woken up and wanted to be lifted out of bed.

“No, no, little one. I’m afraid you’ll have to stay in bed today as well, and I’ll be with you the whole day.”

She noticed that gradually she’d come to change her attitude towards the mountains. Several times she would inadvertently look at them with a glance of expectation – as if she hoped that the grotesque figures would appear over the rugged massif, headed by the master. Then she felt ashamed that she could be that childish.

After a few days, little Sol was out of danger, and Silje could return to her work in the church.

Now she worked with Benedikt, but she wasn’t allowed to paint any more living figures. “Nobody knows what might enter your mind,” said Benedikt.

After they’d been painting intensely for a long time, Silje exclaimed: “He’s very knowledgeable about medicine, isn’t he!”

Benedikt knew exactly what she meant. “You bet!” he answered from on top of the roof.

“Why is it then that his skills aren’t more widely known?”

“You only resort to them when you’re in very dire need.”

“I suppose this is because he must hide?”

“Yes, that’s a good way of putting it. He appears very seldom. I’ve only seen him a few times in my lifetime. It’s as if he feels some kind of affinity with me. It’s strange that he’s begun to appear so frequently now. I suppose there’s a reason for it …”

“I’ve often thought how old he is in actual fact?”

“Me too. He’s of all ages and yet no age, precisely as it suits him on the spur of the moment. At least, this is how it seems to me.”

“He said that he often visited the church.”

“Yes. He asked whether everything went well at home. And then I told him about you, and then he wanted to come home with me.”

Benedikt hesitated for a moment. “He’s taken a liking to you, Silje,” he said in a resolute tone of voice. “This is something you must be thankful of – and very careful about.”

“Why?”

“Please don’t make it so difficult for me,” he answered awkwardly.

“I’d like to know,” Silje said in a determined and calm voice.

“Er … well,” said Benedikt with a movement of the arm that made him spill some paint on the stone floor. “Wipe it up, Silje. Well ... er.
I
for one wouldn’t like to fall out with him. You must learn to balance on a very thin knife edge.

“The soldiers aren’t on friendly terms with him,” she smiled without noticing Benedikt’s dilemma. “They’ve probably felt his anger.”

“Yes,” Benedikt answered absentmindedly, “they probably have.”

***

For the fifth day in a row, Charlotte Meiden lay wide awake in the rich palace in Trondheim. She managed to catch some sleep just before dawn but it was restless and full of nightmares.

She was petrified and her eyes were dry. She gazed blandly in the room in which a wax candle was always lighted. She was scared of the darkness all the time now. There stood the old, cozy furniture but she didn’t seem to notice them. The corner cupboard with French wood carvings, the elegant chairs, which always made her think of Cardinal Richelieu, the beautiful dresses ... Somehow, they didn’t seem to be there.

“The air will be warmer in spring,” she thought to herself. Soon it’ll be spring – after Christmas – and then things will be much better. Nothing will be cold any more.

Charlotte Meiden’s parents were concerned about her. They didn’t understand her any longer; couldn’t understand why she was so touchy; her unwillingness to travel out of town and get a spot of fresh country air; or greet relatives and friends on the big estates; and her uncontrolled words when her eldest sister called on them with her young children.

It seemed that her sister’s children irritated her enormously. She locked herself in her room and refused to leave while they were there.

And the ideas she’d got into her head! Charlotte, who’d always been so lively and cheerful. Their youngest child had always been carefree and somewhat careless. She always had a quick answer, perhaps a bit bold, but it had always been a great joy to talk with her. Everybody felt happy in her company although she wasn’t exactly smashing in appearance. But now …?

Besides, she’d been beside herself for quite a while. More than six months. So absentminded and strange. But now she was quite impossible!

Charlotte stared towards the window. What had been simmering in her for so many days and nights was about to come out now. “If only I’d gone back to the forest that very same night.” Her thoughts crept in on her, and there was no point in fighting against them because she was defenceless. “Or the morning after because one couldn’t slip out at night. Or maybe even the night after or the morning after, as I’d thought of doing. But I kept on putting it off.” She sighed.

“Then things might’ve worked out – perhaps, but now it’s too late.”

She took a deep breath, flexed her body to hold back the hysteria. But it was impossible to dispel her thoughts. She’d kept them away for far too long.

Thirteen days had passed. No living human being could survive being alone for thirteen days.

In her thoughts, she saw the little bundle underneath the pine tree. Clothes soaked from the snow that would rot away. And inside the clothes – deathly silence. No crying, no movement.

A scream from deep within worked its way up through Charlotte’s throat. She screamed in despair. Her despondency had increased since she had left the baby, believing that now she was free. No, her thoughts went even further back to when she cradled the little, helpless newborn baby on her way through Trondheim.

Her whole body trembled and she wept quite uncontrollably. The chambermaid rushed to Charlotte’s room with a nightcap and a shawl over her nightdress. She’d never heard anybody cry like that.

“Miss Charlotte. What’s the matter? What on earth’s the matter?”

Charlotte’s cries, which most of all sounded like cries for help, just continued. They could be heard throughout the palace.

“What am I to do?” The chambermaid was completely at a loss for words. “Shall I fetch Madam?”

“No, don’t!” Charlotte sobbed.

“What’s the matter? Is Miss Charlotte ill?”

It sounded as if she said “No, not at all” but it could also be everything else. The chambermaid, who’d always kept a respectful distance to her mistress, hesitated. She felt awkward and seated herself at the very edge of the bedside.

Charlotte sat up at once, flinging her arms about her.

“Help me! Please help me!”

“What’s wrong?” the chambermaid asked in an embarrassed tone of voice. She had to force herself to stay at the bedside. She certainly didn’t like this kind of intimacy!

Charlotte would’ve asked her to go into the forest and look, but as she instinctively sensed the dislike coming from the chambermaid, she didn’t ask. Instead Charlotte’s breakdown got the upper hand once more.

“It’s too late!” she screamed. “Far too late. Dear God, if only you could move back the time!”

If only she could turn back the clock, if only she could have the child again – hold it, warm it – and take all the abuse and excommunication that followed.

The doors opened and her parents entered, followed by curious people standing outside.

“My dear child,” her mother exclaimed. “What’s the matter? Have you had a nightmare?”

Oh, dear God, if only it were a nightmare,” Charlotte sobbed. But she cried and sobbed so violently that nobody could grasp what she said.

The mother and the chambermaid changed places, the chambermaid visibly relieved and the mother pretty unfamiliar with the situation.

“What’s going on, Elsbeth?” the mother asked calmly.

“I don’t know,” answered the chambermaid. “I don’t understand anything. All she says is that it’s too late.”

“Too late, Charlotte? Too late to find yourself a husband? Nonsense, you’re only twenty-five.”

“No, no. I will never marry,” Charlotte screamed. “Never, ever!”

The mother was at a loss. “You spend far too much time indoors. Tomorrow we’ll go for a walk in the forest. It’s so …”

The words triggered a new and far more violent attack. Charlotte cried at the top of her voice. She gasped for breath and hit about until she leaned back on the beautifully embroidered pillow, completely exhausted.

“Shall we call the barber and ask him to place a few cups?” her father mumbled. “Perhaps her blood needs to be cleansed of evil spirits?”

“No,” was Charlotte’s tired reply. “It’s over now. It was probably just a nightmare.”

Some exhausted moans was all that was to be heard now.

All three left the room, worried and full of compassion. “She was just indisposed as women sometimes are,” the mother said in the corridor. “She’ll soon recover.”

Then they closed the door carefully after themselves.

Charlotte, however, knew that despite her breakdown, nothing had changed. She knew that through her whole life she would be plagued by the open wound in her chest and of the anxiety – and that the thoughts would trouble her, come to her like silent, pattering feet in the lonely hours of night.