The Ice People 1 - Spellbound (The Legend of the Ice People) (9 page)

“And you’re sure that nobody can come and fetch them? They’re expensive things, you know.”

“No, nobody can come and fetch them.”

“So you’ve hidden them well, I hope?”

“Yes, in the chest underneath my bed.”

“Let’s hope that this is sufficiently safe. Silje, I have to leave now. Thank you so very much for the food. Will I see you again?”

She blushed with happiness. “If you like.”

They both got up and he stretched out his hand, lifting her chin. He stood very close to her.

“Do you realize how sweet you are, Silje?”

She looked down and shook her head. Her ears were hammering from all the blood that rushed to her face.

“Well, you are. May I … come and visit you?”

Silje looked up, startled.

“In all modesty, of course,” she smiled. I’d very much like to talk to you because you’re so wise.”

No matter how much she tried, she couldn’t think of one single intelligent word she’d said. A series of surprised exclamations was all.

“But it’ll be a while before I can come. We’re hunted and must hide ourselves. It’s such a lonely life.

But I’ll come as soon as the soldiers go to another place.”

She felt not used to the hand under her chin. No man had ever touched Silje in this way. She’d experienced attempts at being raped more than once but since she was determined to protect her virtue until the right man appeared, she’d used violence. And she’d managed.

She had to admit that Heming’s hand didn’t have the same burning sensation as the other man’s had about her leg. A cautious, strong hand. But that was quite a different matter as he was supposed to heal …

Why on earth did she have to think of that man right now? After all, Heming had touched her, looked her in the eyes with his handsome, blue eyes, which smiled somewhat wistfully, almost sad, at her. Poor, young man, having to be so hunted and unhappy!

“Of course, you must pay Mr. Benedikt a visit,” she said with an uncertain voice. “I’ll see to it that you’re given a feast.”

“No, no,” he whispered. “Nobody must know anything. You never know where the traitors are hiding.”

Benedikt shouted from down below and they went down.

“I was about to believe that you’d planned to move in up there, Silje,” Benedikt said, sending her a searching glance.

She just replied with a radiant, shy smile, which made him look pretty somber.

“You look like a cat that’s just eaten a rat,” he said grumpily.

“You’re nasty, Mr. Benedikt!” said Silje. Her tone of voice revealed that she was in a good mood and took no notice of what Benedikt said.

The two others left the church, and they began to paint once more.

“You have many good sides to your character, Silje,” Benedikt said, “but you seem to lack humour.”

She thought for a moment: “You might very well be right,” Silje admitted. “Before we would joke and see the fun in almost everything. But it’s only a few weeks ago since I lost all my loved ones. Laughter remains stuck in my throat and my sense of humour is dead.”

“Of course, my dear,” Benedikt said full of remorse. “This never occurred to me. I seem to think that I’m the only person who’s in sorrow. How selfish of me. You’ll be happy again, believe you me. But … watch out for that chap there.”

“I know perfectly well,” she answered. “Only I don’t think he’s as bad as many would make him out to be. Perhaps he’s just unhappy. I find him nice, kind and compassionate.”

“Yes,” sighed Benedikt. “That’s exactly why you should be careful.”

***

When the task in the church was over and done Silje returned to the chores on the farm.

Silje had once overheard a conversation between some grown-ups which she’d only understood very little of at the time. But now it was beginning to make sense. A guest in the house had said that human beings have three special qualities: the creative, the preserving and the destructive qualities. He’d said that there were people who were the pure reincarnations of these forces and assignments where you only used one particular part of these qualities.

A housewife’s job was undoubtedly one of the most preserving that existed. Silje possessed extremely little of this excellent quality. Of course, she would do what she was asked to do, diligently and carefully. But she felt nothing for the job. She had experienced the intoxication of being a creative artist and knew that she was where she belonged. There and nowhere else.

She was by no means a great artist, but her soul was there – the soul which had plagued and inspired artists for centuries. But because she wasn’t happy with working on the farm, she restrained herself even more.

She hated to see a well-laid table being made a mess of, a beautifully arranged dish disappear, and she loathed seeing the well-scrubbed kitchen bench being loaded with dirty plates and pots and knowing that it was all to be done for more than one time … The constantly repetitive work inside the house, in the cowshed, the stable bothered her more than she dared to admit to herself. An artist tends to create one thing at a time, and never again. Repetition makes the glow, the driving force, disappear. In her experience, knitting a pretty peasant’s coat or baking a cake didn’t help matters. These pursuits were, strictly speaking, the only chance a housewife had of creating something.

Silje knew that she had to force herself to do the daily chores. If she relaxed, she would very soon stop cleaning the house – because it would be dirty again immediately. She would be caught in daydreaming once more, and this wasn’t to happen on these kind people’s farm. She thought of the many times in her home when she’d been told that she was lazy. This was probably how most people tended to regard those people who were creative and dreaming.

Benedikt understood how she felt.

“You have an artistic vein in you, Silje, although I doubt whether it’s painting as such that’s your area. I believe you have your strength somewhere else. I don’t think you’ve found
your
way in life yet. It’s unfortunate that you were born a girl, which means that you’ve very few chances of finding your
true
way in life.”

She protested in silence. She would have thought it would be a greater mishap if she’d been born a boy. She wouldn’t have missed her girlish dreams, such as dreaming about Heming, for anything in the world because they were so lovely.

“You must marry a rich man,” continued Benedikt. “You must have a lot of servants so that you can create as many masterpieces as you want to! In secret or openly. A rich man is your only solution.”

He looked terribly sad the very moment he’d said it.

Silje smiled, answering that she doubted that she would be married rich and she assured him that she would do
her
share of the work while she lived on the farm.

Being at home was an advantage because then she could be more together with the children. They took it in turns to look after them so that that they could all take part in the housework.

She was beginning to understand Sol’s strange language a bit better, and besides the little girl gradually got a bigger vocabulary and a clearer pronunciation. Sol was like a wild cat. Her green eyes would twinkle with delight and she was as obstinate as few when she didn’t get her way. But now and then she would have a distant look in her eyes, something that frightened Silje. What was on little Sol’s mind? What was it she saw?

Dag got bigger and bigger. Every morning, Grete would wrap him tightly but in the late afternoon Silje would loosen the blankets a bit. Then he would stop screaming so badly. They could tell that he would be fair-haired. Apart from that, he was still too young to have developed any characteristic features. Silje could feel how fond she was of him, the little mite, whom she’d found in the forest on that strange night.

The daily rhythm was the same day after day. Now here in winter, you slept until five o’clock in the morning when the fire was lighted, and each carrying a light, they would go about their chores. One drank one’s morning beer accompanied by salmon and pickled herring. When work with the cows and the horses was finished, one would have dinner at nine o’clock in the morning, perhaps at ten o’clock. Then one would slog until supper, which was at four or five o’clock. At nine o’clock, everybody went to bed.

Winter moved along. When the Christmas slaughtering was about to take place, Silje would walk into the forest. She just couldn’t cope with it. The animals she’d tended, talked to and was fond of – this was too much for her. She took Sol with her and walked agitated on the hard, frozen forest floor until the slaughtering was over and done with.

One day as they were walking, Silje stopped abruptly. Sol sent her an inquisitive glance.

It was up in the hills above Benedikt’s farm, in areas where Silje had never been before. Silje stood immovable for quite some time, looked around, and then began to walk again.

“It was nothing,” she said, relieved.

But something
had
been there, only she couldn’t say what it was. A sound, a feeling that something was close by, a sort of feeling worried about something, perhaps?

It was probably just an elk. There were no beasts of prey in these parts during winter because otherwise she wouldn’t have dared to walk out with the little girl.

Benedikt was away for several days at a time. He had to move to a different parish while he painted the local church. He drank more and more solidly and no longer seemed happy.

“I wish you could join me, Silje. We had a nice time together, didn’t we?”

“Yes, very,” Silje would say in agreement.

“Only that’s not possible in that church. I live in a miserable hole, which you could hardly share with me.”

No, she could well understand.

Benedikt sighed deeply.

One evening he walked into her room – as drunk as a lord and clearly very philosophical. Silje had already gone to bed but she opened the door because it was him. He was the lord of the manor, her fatherly friend and not a dangerous man. Besides, she believed that he’d something important to talk to her about.

But she soon realized that she’d done herself a disservice.

He just spoke a lot of drunken nonsense and Silje tried to answer as best she could. Then he turned sentimental.

“I’m a lonely man, Silje. Old and lonely. I need your youth to make me warm. You and I understand each other, don’t we?”

As he sat down on her bedside, his face moved closer to hers. He was so close that Silje could see the watery eyes and every pore in his old complexion. When he opened his mouth, he spoke with a nasal twang.

“Yes, I suppose so,” she mumbled.

She sat with her knees pulled up underneath the blanket. “But now it’s best that …”

“You’re a lovely woman, Silje. I noticed this in the church when I saw your breasts in perfile … profile ... profile because … er … this is a matter that I know one or two things about, you see. I’m able to judge beauty, and at the time I could feel that I’m not so dried out as I’d imagined. My trousers can still feel too tight. Silje …”

“Excuse me, Mr. Benedikt, but we mustn’t wake up little Sol. Besides, I must get up early tomorrow. Then we can continue our conversation tomorrow morning.”

“And so I said to myself that Silje would sure to show some mercy to an old, poor man like me.”

His hand moved towards the blanket in an attempt to get under it but she slipped with his leg and almost fell on the floor. Silje felt extremely ill at ease but then she could see a chance of getting away. She crept out of bed, showing the proud painter to the door. His cap had slipped and was now lodged on the one ear.

“Don’t forget that we must continue our conversation tomorrow morning, Mr. Benedikt. But if anybody sees you visit me at this late hour, they might think improper thoughts, right? And I really don’t want to ruin my reputation or yours for that matter.”

Benedikt smiled wearily. He was a good and kind soul when he’d been drinking. He let himself be escorted to the door without objections. And she locked and slammed the door after him.

Shocked, she leaned against the door until she could hear his steps disappear in the distance, and she didn’t go to bed until she heard his door being closed.

Thankfully, he’d forgotten everything the following day, and he made a lot of fuss about the footprints in the snow outside his steps. Grete assured him that they were his own footsteps.

“Well, I must’ve been on some errand,” he mumbled. “That’s the problem of drinking a glass. It wants to get out again at all costs – and at the most awkward moments.”

Silje heaved a sigh of relief.

Chapter 6

The plague had surrendered over the winter. In order to thrive, it needed warmth, humidity and decay. They heard of isolated incidents but then it vanished like dead leaves in the wind.

The mountains behind the farm continued to have a peculiar and inexplicable power over Silje the way they’d always done but terror was no longer the dominant sensation. In her unconscious mind, she would link them to one particular person, and when she looked at them, she instinctively wetted her lips and her heart began to beat faster.

Her dreams were probably not more frequent or stranger than other people’s – and she tended to forget them as soon as she opened her eyes. But once more one of the forbidden dreams like the one about the spirits from the mountains would appear. This time it was different – but just as shameless, and the feeling she had when she woke up was just as horrible.

She couldn’t remember how it started. All she could recall was that she was trapped among armed soldiers and bailiffs. The hangman and his men were also there. She was accused of something she didn’t know what was, and everybody was furious at her. In her despair, the only thing she could think of to make them quench their hatred of her was to begin to undress, piece by piece. The men lowered their weapons and stared at her in anticipation, their faces twisted and perspiring. The bailiff said: “This won’t help you. You’ll have to die anyway.”

At that very moment, the people were pushed aside and the man in his wolf-skin coat stood by her. His hair was straight and he had antlers in his forehead. His face revealed his lust although he tried to conceal this by turning halfway away. But then he turned slowly towards the naked Silje, leading her up to the top of a hill. And while everybody could see them, he stroked his hands over her whole body. All she wanted was for him to remove his wolf-skin coat.

He turned her around, placing himself behind her just like the devil on the church wall. And before everybody’s eyes he now placed his hands on her breasts. The knowledge that everybody could see it filled her with a lazy, heavy sensation because she
knew
somehow that this was a dream – and then she could be free and be herself.

His long, hard tongue went gliding, licking her throat, the lower part of her neck, her cheek … Once more, he turned her round and kneeled before her, letting his tongue follow her thighs until something warm and most between them …

Silje woke up because she was moaning in a low voice, her lips pressed together – followed by despair that she couldn’t stop nurturing the passion that raged in her body.

***

Benedikt had brought some young men from the neighbouring farms with him. He said that she needed to meet some men of her own age so she wouldn’t think so much about Heming. He just laughed when she tried to brush it aside by saying that she didn’t think of Heming at all.

“You need to meet some nice, young, normal men,” he said. “Don’t you think I’ve noticed your dreaming eyes?”

The young men were actually very nice. When they would try to strike up a conversation, they would talk eager in the mouth of one another, falling over backwards in outdoing one another in being polite. This made them fall over each other.

Silje was a bit surprised when one of them plucked up courage and asked her whether he could come and visit her Saturday evening. She knew, of course, that such visits were common, and that these visits were proper and polite. Only Silje had never had such “suitors” before. She wasn’t interested and not prepared for this at all.

When it dawned on Benedikt what was going on, he helped her out of her tight spot, and when they’d left he had to admit that the experiment hadn’t been much of a success.

***

And then Heming came.

One day when Benedikt had left to paint in a church and the two women had taken the little children on a visit, he came to the farm.

Silje was very startled when she heard a knock on the door, but when she saw who it was, she open it immediately.

“Welcome,” she said and her smile clearly showed that she meant it.

He bent under the low door opening and entered.

“Your place is so cozy!” he said, impressed. “A vase with heather standing on the table and the smell of a clean floor. Did you weave this carpet and the woodcarvings as well? You’re quite an artist, Silje!”

She smiled shyly. To describe the small, woven square as a rug was to exaggerate. Although she’d done what she could to make the small cabin cozy, it was no more than what others would also have done.

“Please sit down. The foreman will soon be back,” she added as if to hint that she was a modest girl.

“I’m afraid I can’t stay so your virtue isn’t in danger. Not this time. But I’ll be back in a few days. No, no, I’m a decent man. My remark about virtue was just a joke. But right now I’m just extremely thirsty. I wonder whether I could have a spot of beer?”

“Let me fetch some,” she said eagerly and ran quickly to the main building.

When she returned with a tankard of beer, he sat at the table. She noticed that this time he was elegantly dressed. Perhaps he was on his way to visit some of his noble friends because she was sure that Heming was of noble stock.

She sat opposite him. “May I ask you an indiscreet question,” she suddenly said.

“Yes, just ask,” he said, giving her a teasing look. “I can tell you straightway that I’m not married and that I love you to distraction but that I’ll restrain myself for your sake.”

“Stop making a mockery of me,” she said. She was both shy and slightly offended at the same time. “I would like to know why they call you the Bailiff Killer?”

He shrugged. “Well, this is what I am. It’s an old story – and the reason why I’m an outlaw. A man must fight for what he believes in, you know, and I’m fighting for a free Norway. Don’t imagine that I lay in wait and attacked the bailiff from behind! It was him or me – and I won.”

Silje nodded. She didn’t feel so well at ease. “Wasn’t it dreadful?”

“Yes, it was.”

“And you’re Dyre Alvsson’s closest ally?” She couldn’t hide the admiration in her voice.

“Yes, I suppose so,” he said in an indifferent tone of voice. Nevertheless, she could see that he was proud of it. And this time he forgot to deny his master. Silje took this as a good sign – he had sufficient faith in her.

But … the letter with the Royal Letter? With the King’s seal and everything ... how did you get hold of it?”

“You’ve asked that question before, Silje. But as you will. It was my first task for the insurgents. We needed such a letter … and a messenger came on horseback. And … er … we had a letter.”

“What about the messenger?”

“Well, he’s probably not around anymore. But you bet that
that
letter helped us a lot!”

Silje saw before her mind’s eye what might have happened and she had to gather all her strength in order not to show that she felt ill at ease.

Heming leaned backwards, placing his hands behind his neck. “I’m very valuable for the movement, Silje, for various reasons that I can’t tell you about.”

“No, I understand.”

He emptied his glass of beer and got up.

“Don’t you want to have something to eat?” she asked in an attempt at keeping him. “I’d like to get you some food.”

“No, not now. I’m short of time. But I’ll be back soon, very soon.”

The last words came like a whisper but before she realized it he’d kissed her lightly on the mouth. Then he was gone.

Silje stood there with her hand on her lips, utterly confused. He’d kissed her! The handsomest man in the world had kissed
her
, Silje Arngrimsdatter, a quite inconspicuous girl!

And he’d behaved in a very debonair manner! It wasn’t quite the thing to do to let a man into her room but she’d nothing to fear from Heming. He’d said himself that he was an honest man, and so he was!

Nevertheless she had a horrible taste in her mouth. She didn’t like to hear what he’d told her, nor did she like the manner in which he’d said it.

But she mustn’t forget how young he was.

She walked quickly to the window in order to catch a final glance of him. But as she did so she happened to bump into something with her foot, which was extremely painful. She immediately bent down to rub the tender spot.

What was that? The chest? It had been in the way because a corner of it appeared from underneath the bed.

She hadn’t touched it for a long time, had she?

She pulled it out and opened it. There was her apron, jacket and …

She could feel her heart beat and her hands began to tremble.

The things which Dag had been wrapped in when she found him had gone!

Heming’s wide cloak could hide a bit of everything …

Ah, so this was why he’d been so keen to know whether she’d hidden them so well so that nobody could steal them! And she’d been stupid enough to fall right into the trap and to let him know that they were safe in the chest under her bed.

Interested in her well-being? Come on!

Sadness and sorrow overwhelmed her. No, it couldn’t be true, it just couldn’t!

She ran out on the stair.

There he was dashing away on horseback and down the drive to the farm. He’d almost reached the road by now. Silje lost her temper and began to run after him.

“Wait! She shouted at the very top of her voice: “Wait! Please wait!”

She ran all the way down to the road but by then he’d already disappeared in the direction of Trondheim.

Silje kept on running without considering how ridiculous it was. Thanks to her, Dag had lost the only thing he possessed in life!

“Please bring at least the shawl,” she shouted into the empty air. “It’s his! Nobody must steal from a baby!”

At some point, everybody on the farm had gone over his things together. The small shirt had some fine, embroidered letters on the collar. Benedikt believed that it said C.M. And above the letters there was a crown, a baron’s crown, Benedikt had said.

It wasn’t until she got close to the forest that she regained more of her composure. Suddenly the road lay in the shadow of the tall mountains. The legends about the Ice People rushed through her head, and she thought what Benedikt had once told her about mad Tengel – that he would keep an eye on people in this valley from one of the mountain tops. How with imprecations and incantations, Tengel would curse all those who had chased him away from farm and land. All he did was evil. In return for the services he granted Satan, he had been allowed to live in a spirit world.

Silje imagined that she could see him in the shadows; that he sat up there, gazing at her with a demonic grin on his face.

She shook the fantasies off her mind, deciding to defy Tengel and continued northwards. She wouldn’t be able to be held responsible to Dag if it occurred to him to ask her sometime. She simply
had
to retrieve those clothes, if not for anything else but the magnificent shawl.

The forest closed around her

How could Heming deceive her like this? And he’d even kissed her! “I’ll be back soon!” Well, she’d see this before she believed it. He probably wouldn’t turn up again. And
if
he did, then …

The tears began to pour down her cheeks of pure exasperation and humiliation. She wiped them away but new tears came all the time.

Twilight was falling but Silje hardly noticed it. She continued, undogged.

Suddenly she heard the sound of horses’ hoofs in front of her.

She looked up and wiped away the tears so that she could better see. Perhaps he’d regretted after all? A mad hope was lit in her. But it wasn’t Heming.

It was his lord and master, he who nobody wanted to know and who everybody feared. He was the man who’d helped Silje previously. He who’d never left her thoughts although she’d asked that she would forget him. She’d seen him, very briefly, twice before.

He stopped the horse.

Silje walked up to him and put her hand on the saddle. “He took it,” she wept. “He took it.”

The man stiffened. “What did he take?”

“Dag’s only possession. The inheritance from his mother. The exquisite shawl and the other clothes he wore. The ones you asked me to take care of. He lured me out of the room and stole them. What am I to do? The items all belong to Dag.”

Exhausted she leaned her head against his thigh and felt his warmth through the dark winter clothes. It was as if he relaxed when she mentioned Dag’s clothes. What had he thought? He looked down on her slim neck, her shoulders that shook as she cried. For one moment, he held his hand over her head but then he withdrew it.

She heard him laugh and lifted her head. At that moment he bent down over the saddle bag.

“I have them here, Silje. I met Heming on the way and forced him to give them to me.”

He pulled out the clothes. Her face was one big smile but one could still see on her face that she’d been crying.

“You
have
them! Oh,
there
they are!”

But her smile stiffened and she turned serious. Perhaps
he
intended to keep them himself?

But he shook his head. “They are yours,” he said. “You take care of them for Dag. But from now on you must lock them up better! Get up on the horse and we’ll ride back to the farm.”

He helped her up on the horse in front of him, placed her so that she had both legs on the same side, the way a woman was supposed to ride side-saddle.

“What on earth are you doing out here in the middle of winter?” he asked in his deep voice. “Bare-headed and without a coat. Thank goodness it isn’t so cold yet. Look, my coat can reach around both of us, and then you must put Dag’s shawl on your head.”

She protested. “I can do that. It’s much too exquisite.”

“Not for you, my little friend. I can’t think of anybody else who’d be more worthy of it than you.”

He put the thin shawl around her head and tied it underneath her chin. She was surprised at how much it warmed her. Actually, her ears were so cold that they hurt. Then he put his cloak around her. She felt that she was sitting in a tent which his body had warmed.