He said in German, “What the devil, woman! What has happened?”
She turned round. She looked as if she could not see us, as if she had been dazed by a joy too big to hold, like one who has looked into the sun and is still dazzled by it so that everything seems changed, and the world seems all God’s and everything in it like Heaven. She said softly, with her arms around herself, hugging herself: “My people. The real people.”
“What are you talking of!” said he.
She seemed to see him then, but only as Sibihd had beheld us; I do not mean in horror as Sibihd had, but beholding through something else, like someone who comes from a vision of bliss which still lingers about her. She said in the same soft voice, “They are coming for me, Thorvald. Is it not wonderful? I knew all this year that something would happen, but I did not know it would be the one thing I wanted in all the world.”
He grasped his hair. “Who is coming?”
“My people,” she said, laughing softly. “Do you not feel them? I do. We must wait three days for they come from very far away. But then—oh, you will see!”
He said, “You’ve been dreaming. We sail tomorrow.” “Oh, no,” said the Abbess simply. “You cannot do that for it would not be right. They told me to wait; they said if I went away, they might not find me.”
He said slowly, “You’ve gone mad. Or it’s a trick.”
“Oh, no, Thorvald,” said she. “How could I trick you? I am your friend. And you will wait these three days, will you not, because you are my friend also.”
“You’re mad,” he said, and started for the door of the study, but she stepped in front of him and threw herself on her knees. All her cunning seemed to have deserted her, or perhaps it was Radegunde who had been the cunning one. This one was like a child. She clasped her hands and tears came out of her eyes; she begged him, saying:
“Such a little thing, Thorvald, only three days! And if they do not come, why then we will go anywhere you like, but if they do come you will not regret it, I promise you; they are not like the folk here and that place is like nothing here. It is what the soul craves, Thorvald!”
He said, “Get up, woman, for God’s sake!”
She said, smiling in a sly, frightened way through her blubbered face, “If you let me stay, I will show you the old Abbess’s buried treasure, Thorvald.”
He stepped back, the anger clear in him. “So this is the brave old witch who cares nothing for death!” he said. Then he made for the door, but she was up again, as quick as a snake, and had flung herself across it.
She said, still with that strange innocence, “Do not strike me. Do not push me. I am your friend!”
He said, “You mean that you lead me by a string around the neck, like a goose. Well, I am tired of that!”
“But I cannot do that any more,” said the Abbess breathlessly, “not since the door opened. I am not able now.” He raised his arm to strike her and she cowered, wailing, “Do not strike me! Do not push me! Do not, Thorvald!”
He said, “Out of my way then, old witch!”
She began to cry in sobs and gulps. She said, “One is here but another will come! One is buried but another will rise! She will come, Thorvald!” and then in a low, quick voice, “Do not push open this last door. There is one behind it who is evil and I am afraid—” but one could see that he was angry and disappointed and would not listen. He struck her for the second time and again she fell, but with a desperate cry, covering her face with her hands. He unbolted the door and stepped over her and I heard his footsteps go down the corridor. I could see the Abbess clearly—at that time I did not wonder how this could be, with the shadows from the tallow dip half hiding everything in their drunken dance—but I saw every line in her face as if it had been full day, and in that light I saw Radegunde go away from us at last.
Have you ever been at some great kings court or some earl’s and heard the storytellers? There are those so skilled in the art that they not only speak for you what the person in the tale said and did, but they also make an action with their faces and bodies as if they truly were that man or woman, so that it is a great surprise to you when the tale ceases, for you almost believe that you have seen the tale happen in front of your very eyes, and it is as if a real man or woman had suddenly ceased to exist, for you forget that all this was only a teller and a tale.
So it was with the woman who had been Radegunde. She did not change; it was still Radegunde’s gray hairs and wrinkled face and old body in the peasant woman’s brown dress, and yet at the same time it was a stranger who stepped out of the Abbess Radegunde as out of a gown dropped to the floor. This stranger was without feeling, though Radegunde’s tears still stood on her cheeks, and there was no kindness of joy in her. She got up without taking care of her dress where the dirty rushes stuck to it; it was as if the dress were an accident and did not concern her. She said in a voice I had never heard before, one with no feeling in it, as if I did not concern her, or
Thorvald Einarsson either, as if neither of us were worth a second glance:
“Thorvald, turn around.”
Far up in the hall something stirred.
“Now come back. This way.”
There were footsteps, coming closer. Then the big Norseman walked clumsily into the room—jerk! jerk! jerk! at every step as if he were being pulled by a rope. Sweat beaded his face. He said, “You—how?”
“By my nature,” she said. “Put up your right arm, fox. Now the left. Now both down. Good.”
“You—troll!” he said.
“That is so,” she said. “Now listen to me, you. There’s a man inside you but he’s not worth getting at; I tried moments ago when I was new-hatched and he’s buried too deep, but now I have grown beak and claws and care nothing for him. It’s almost dawn and your boys are stirring; you will go out and tell them that we must stay here another three days. You are weather-wise; make up some story they will believe. And don’t try to tell anyone what happened here tonight; you will find that you cannot.”
“Folk—come,” said he, trying to turn his head, but the effort only made him sweat.
She raised her eyebrows. “Why should they? No one has heard anything. Nothing has happened. You will go out and be as you always are and I will play Radegunde. For three days only. Then you are free.”
He did not move. One could see that to remain still was very hard for him; the sweat poured and he strained until every muscle stood out. She said:
“Fox, don’t hurt yourself. And don’t push me; I am not fond of you. My hand is light upon you only because you still seem to me a little less unhuman than the rest; do not force me to make it heavier. To be plain: I have just broken Thorfinn’s neck, for I find that the change improves him. Do not make me do the same to you.”
“No worse—than death,” Thorvald brought out.
“Ah, no?” said she, and in a moment he was screaming and clawing at his eyes. She said, “Open them, open them; your sight is back,” and then, “I do not wish to bother myself thinking up worse things, like worms in your guts. Or do you wish dead sons and a dead wife? Now go.
“As you always do,” she added sharply, and the big man turned and walked out. One could not have told from looking at him that anything was wrong.
I had not been sorry to see such a bad man punished, one whose friends had killed our folk and would have taken for slaves—and yet I was sorry, too, in a way, because of the seals barking and the whales—and he was splendid, after a fashion—and yet truly I forgot all about that the moment he was gone, for I was terrified of this strange person or demon or whatever it was, for I knew that whoever was in the room with me was not the Abbess Radegunde. I knew also that it could tell where I was and what I was doing, even if I made no sound, and was in a terrible riddle as to what I ought to do when soft fingers touched my face. It was the demon, reaching swiftly and silently behind her.
And do you know, all of a sudden everything was all right! I don’t mean that she was the A
bbess again—I still had very serious suspicions about that—but all at once I felt light as air and nothing seemed to matter very much because my stomach was full of bubbles of happiness, just as if I had been drunk, only nicer. If the Abbess Radegunde were really a demon, what a joke that was on her people! And she did not, now that I came to think of it, seem a bad sort of demon, more the frightening kind than the killing kind, except for Thorfinn, of course, but then Thorfinn had been a very wicked man. And did not the angels of the Lord smite down the wicked? So perhaps the Abbess was an angel of the Lord and not a demon, but if she were truly an angel, why had she not smitten the Norsemen down when they first came and so saved all our , folk? And then I thought that whether angel or demon, she was no longer the Abbess and would love me no longer, and if I had not been so full of the silly happiness which kept tickling about inside me, this thought would have made me weep.
I said, “Will the bad Thorvald get free, demon?”
“No,” she said. “Not even if I sleep.”
I thought: But she does not love me.
“I love thee,” said the strange voice, but it was not the Abbess Radegunde’s and so was without meaning, but again those soft fingers touched me and there was some kindness in them, even if it was a stranger’s kindness.
Sleep, they said.
So I did.
The next three days I had much secret mirth to see the folk bow down to the demon and kiss its hands and weep over it because it had sold itself to ransom them. That is what Sister Hedwic told them. Young Thorfinn had gone out in the night to piss and had fallen over a stone in the dark and broken his neck, which secretly rejoiced our folk, but his comrades did not seem to mind much either, save for one young fellow who had been Thorfinns friend, I think, and so went about with a long face. Thorvald locked me up in the Abbess’s study with the demon every night and went out—or so folk said—to one of the young women, but on those nights the demon was silent, and I lay there with the secret tickle of merriment in my stomach, caring about nothing.
On the third morning I woke sober. The demon—or the Abbess-—for in the day she was so like the Abbess Radegunde that I wondered—took my hand and walked us up to Thorvald, who was out picking the people to go aboard the Norseman’s boats at the riverbank to be slaves. Folk were standing about weeping and wringing their hands; I thought this strange because of the Abbess’s promise to pick those whose going would hurt least, but I know now that least is not none. The weather was bad, cold rain out of mist, and some of Thorvald’s companions were speaking sourly to him in the Norse, but he talked them down-—bluff and hearty—as if making light of the weather. The demon stood by him and said, in German, in a low voice so that none might hear: “You will say we go to find the Abbess’s treasure and then you will go with us into the woods.”
He spoke to his fellows in Norse and they frowned, but the end of it was that two must come with us, for the demon said it was such a treasure as three might carry. The demon had the voice and manner of the Abbess Radegunde, all smiles, so they were fooled. Thus we started out into the trees behind the village, with the rain worse and the ground beginning to soften underfoot. As soon as the village was out of sight, the two Norsemen fell behind, but Thorvald did not seem to notice this; I looked back and saw the first man standing in the mud with one foot up, like a goose, and the second with his head lifted and his mouth open so that the rain fell in it. We walked on, the earth sucking at our shoes and all of us getting wet: Thorvald’s hair stuck fast against his face, and the demons old brown cloak clinging to its body. Then suddenly the demon began to breathe harshly and it put its hand to its side with a cry. Its cloak fell off and it stumbled before us between the wet trees, not weeping but breathing hard. Then I saw, ahead of us through the pelting rain, a kind of shining among the bare tree trunks, and as we came nearer the shining became more clear until it was very plain to see, not a blazing thing like a fire at night but a mild and even brightness as though the sunlight were coming through the clouds pleasantly but without strength, as it often does at the beginning of the year.
And then there were folk inside the brightness, both men and women, all dressed in white, and they held out their arms to us, and the demon ran to them, crying out loudly and weeping but paying no mind to the tree branches which struck it across the face and body. Sometimes it fell but it quickly got up again. When it reached the strange folk they embraced it, and I thought that the filth and mud of its gown would stain their white clothing, but the foulness dropped off and would not cling to those clean garments. None of the strange folk spoke a word, nor did the Abbess—I knew then that she was no demon, whatever she was—but I felt them talk to one another, as if in my mind, although I know not how this could be nor the sense of what they said. An odd thing was that as I came closer I could see they were not standing on the ground, as in the way of nature, but higher up, inside the shining, and that their white robes were nothing at all like ours, for they clung to the body so that one might see the peoples legs all the way up to the place where the legs joined, even the womens. And some of the folk were like us, but most had a darker color, and some looked as if they had been smeared with soot—there are such persons in the far parts of the world, you know, as I found out later; it is their own natural color—and there were some with the odd eyes the Abbess had spoken of—but the oddest thing of all I will not tell you now. When the Abbess had embraced and kissed them all and all had wept, she turned and looked down upon us: Thorvald standing there as if held by a rope and I, who had lost my fear and had crept close in pure awe, for there was such a joy about these people, like the light about them, mild as spring light and yet as strong as in a spring where the winter has gone forever.
“Come to me, Thorvald,” said the Abbess, and one could not see from her face if she loved or hated him. He moved closer—jerk! jerk!—and she reached down and touched his forehead with her fingertips, at which one side of his lip lifted, as a dog’s does when it snarls.
“As thou knowest,” said the Abbess quietly, “I hate thee and would be revenged upon thee. Thus I swore to myself three days ago, and such vows are not lightly broken.”
I saw him snarl again and he turned his eyes from her.
“I must go soon,” said the Abbess, unmoved, “for I could stay here long years only as Radegunde, and Radegunde is no more; none of us can remain here long as our proper selves or even in our true bodies, for if we do we go mad like Sibihd or walk into the river and drown or stop our own hearts, so miserable, wicked, and brutish does your world seem to us. Nor may we come in large companies, for we are few and our strength is not great and we have much to learn and study of thy folk so that we may teach and help without marring all in our ignorance. And ignorant or wise, we can do naught except thy folk aid us.
“Here is my revenge,” said the Abbess, and he seemed to writhe under the touch of her fingers, for all they were so light. “Henceforth be not Thorvald Farmer nor yet Thorvald Seafarer but Thorvald Peacemaker, Thorvald War-hater, put into anguish by bloodshed and agonized at cruelty. I cannot make long thy life—that gift is beyond me—but I give thee this: to the end of thy days, long or short, thou wilt know the Presence about thee always, as I do, and thou wilt know that it is neither good nor evil, as I do, and this knowing will trouble and frighten thee always, as it does me, and so about this one thing, as about many another, Thorvald Peacemaker will never have peace.
“Now, Thorvald, go back to the village and tell thy comrades I was assumed into the company of the saints, straight up to Heaven. Thou mayst believe it, if thou will. That is all my revenge.”
Then she took away her hand, and he turned and walked from us like a man in a dream, holding out his hands as if to feel the rain and stumbling now and again, as one who wakes from a vision.
Then I began to grieve, for I knew she would be going away with the strange people, and it was to me as if all the love and care and light in the world were leaving me. I crept close to her, mean
ing to spring secretly onto the shining place and so go away with them, but she spied me and said, “Silly
Radulphus, you cannot,” and that you hurt me more than anything else so that I began to bawl.
“Child,” said the Abbess, “come to me,” and loudly weeping I leaned against her knees. I felt the shining around me, all bright and good and warm, that wiped away all grief, and then the Abbess’s touch on my hair.
She said, “Remember me. And be . . . content.”
I nodded, wishing I dared to look up at her face, but when I did, she had already gone with her friends. Not up into the sky, you understand, but as if they moved very swiftly backwards among the trees—although the trees were still behind them somehow—and as they moved, the shining and the people faded away into the rain until there was nothing left.
Then there was no rain. I do not mean that the clouds parted or the sun came out; I mean that one moment it was raining and cold and the next the sky was clear blue from side to side, and it was splendid, sunny, breezy, bright, sailing weather. I had the oddest thought that the strange folk were not agreed about doing such a big miracle—and it was hard for them, too—but they had decided that no one would believe this more than all the other miracles folk speak of, I suppose. And it would surely make Thorvald’s lot easier when he came back with wild words about saints and Heaven, as indeed it
did, later.
Well, that is the tale, really. She said to me “Be content” and so I am; they call me Radulf the Happy now. I have had my share of trouble and sickness, but always somewhere in me there is a little spot of warmth and joy to make it all easier, like a traveler’s fire burning out in the wilderness on a cold night. When I am in real sorrow or distress, I remember her fingers touching my hair and that takes part of the pain away, somehow. So perhaps I got the best gift, after all. And she said also, “Remember me,” and thus I have, every little thing, although it all happened when I was the age my own grandson is now, and that is how I can tell you this tale today.
Nebula Award Stories - 1983 #18 Page 6