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The Legend of The Ice People 1
Spellbound
© Margit Sandemo 1982
© eBook in English: Katrin Agency 2012
Series: The Legend of The Ice People
Title: Spellbound
Title number: 1
Original title: Troldbunden
© Translation: Margit Sandemo
Translation: Gregory Herring and Angela Cook
Edition: Katrin Agency
© Cover and illustration: Katrin Agency
Illustration: Ragna Lise Vikre
ISBN 978-87-7107-278-5
www.theicepeople.com
www.legendoftheicepeople.com
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchase.
All contracts and agreements regarding the work, editing, cover, jacket and illustration and layout are owned by Katrin Agency.
The legend of the Ice People is dedicated with love and gratitude to the memory of my dear late husband Asbjorn Sandemo, who made my life a fairy tale.
The Ice People - Reviews
‘Margit Sandemo is, simply, quite wonderful.’
- Emine Saner, The Guardian
‘Full of convincing characters, well estabished in time and place, and enlightening ... will get your eyes popping, and quite possibly groins twitching ... these are graphic novels without pictures ... I want to know what happens next.’
- Christina Hardyment, The Times
‘A mixure of myth and legend interwoven with historical events, this is imaginative creation that involves the reader from the first page to the last.’
- Anne Oughton, Historical Novels Review
‘Loved by the masses, the prolific Margit Sandemo has written over 172 novels to date and is Scandinavia s most widely read author...’
- Mia Gahne, Scanorama magazine
The Legend of the Ice People
Once upon a time, many centuries ago, Tengil the Evil went out to the wilderness and sold his soul to the Devil. He became the forefather of the Ice People.
For wealth and power, one of his descendants, in every generation, would be cursed to serve the devil and perform evil deeds. Their distinguishing feature would be yellow cat eyes and they would possess magical powers. Some say they will never be free of the curs until they unearth the urn that Tengel the Evil is buried in. It is said to hold all his fearsome potions, and indicate how, one day a child of his blood will be born, gifted with knowledge and wisdom the like of which the world has never known before.
So says the legend but no one knows if it’s true.
In the 16th century, a cursed child of the Ice People was born. He tried to turn evil to good, and therefore he was called Tengel the Good. This saga is about his family. Or maybe it is mostly about the women in his family.
Chapter 1
One evening in the late autumn of 1581, as an icy mist played with the blood-red reflection of fire in the sky above Trondheim, two young women made their way along the town’s streets, each unaware of the other.
Not quite seventeen, Silje was a girl whose deep eyes showed an indifference to the world around her, mirroring the loneliness and hunger she felt inside. She hugged herself to keep out the cold, thrusting her hands beneath her clothes, most of which seemed to be made from old sacking. Strips of hide were bound round her worn-out shoes and her attractive hazelnut hair was covered with a woollen shawl, which doubled as a blanket whenever she found a safe place to sleep.
She stepped cautiously around a corpse lying in the narrow alley. Just one more victim of the plague, she told herself. This plague – she could no longer remember how many outbreaks there had been during the last century – had taken her whole family just two or three weeks ago, leaving her alone and forced to scavenge for food.
Her father had been a blacksmith on a large farm to the south of Trondheim, but when he and her mother, brother and sister had died, Silje had been driven out of the wooden cabin where they had lived. What use would a young girl be in a blacksmith’s forge?
In truth, Silje had been relieved to move away from the farm. She had left behind a secret, buried deep in her heart, that she had never shared with a soul. To the south-west lay the strange and eerie mountains she called the ‘Land of Shadows’ or the ‘Land of Evening’. Throughout her childhood their brooding mass had always frightened her, yet also held her spellbound. They were so far away as to be barely visible but, when the brightness of the evening sun lit up the jagged peaks, it gave them a strange ethereal clarity that stirred the girl’s lively imagination.
She would gaze at the mountains for ages, in fear and fascination. Then finally she would see ‘them’, the nameless creatures that lived there. They rose up from the valleys between the peaks, gliding slowly through the air, searching, closer and closer to her home until their evil eyes found her. Whenever this happened, Silje would run and hide.
Except that they did have a name. People on the farm always spoke of the distant mountains in hushed voices and it was probably their words that had first frightened her and excited her imagination.
‘You must never go up there,’ they would say. ‘There is nothing but witchcraft and evil there. The Ice People are not human! They are the spawn of cold and darkness, and woe betide the person who goes too close to their lair!’
The Ice People? Yes, that was what they were called – but Silje was the only person who had seen them riding on the air. She had never known what these creatures were. Not trolls. Oh no, they were not trolls. Nor were they wraiths. They could not be called devils either. Were they some sort of supernatural marvel perhaps, or spirits from beyond the grave? She had once heard their landlord call one of the horses a ‘demon’. This was a new word to her ears, but she felt it was a suitable name for ‘them’. The strength of her fantasies about the, Land of Shadows was such that she would often dream about it while in a restless and troubled sleep. It was only natural that she should turn her back to those haunting mountains as she left the farm.
A primitive instinct had led her to Trondheim, where she would find people – hoping for help now that she was alone and in need. She soon came to realise, though, that none of the townspeople welcomed strangers into their homes, and especially now, at a time when the plague followed in the footsteps of those who travelled the land. What better place for the sickness to spread unchecked than in these overcrowded houses, fighting for space in dirty narrow streets?
It had taken her a whole day to find a way to get through the town gates. When she had noticed some families returning from work to their homes in the town, she followed them and, walking on the far side of one of the wagons, slipped unnoticed past the guards. Once inside, however, she had not found help. Nothing, that is, but a few stale crusts of bread thrown to her now and then from a window, and barely enough to keep her from the grave.
From the marketplace by the cathedral could be heard the sounds of drunkenness and brawling. Once, foolishly, she had gone there, drawn by the promise of the company of others like herself. It hadn�
�t taken her long to understand that this was no place for an attractive young girl. Seeing the mob had been a shock, and although she tried to put it out of her mind, she couldn’t quite forget the experience.
After several days of walking, her feet ached constantly. The long road to Trondheim had exhausted all her energy – and with no comfort to be found there, she felt the consuming pain of hopelessness clawing at her insides.
Rats squealed in the doorway she had begun to walk towards, hoping to find a place to sleep for a few hours, so she turned away and continued on her hopeless wandering. Without thinking, she was being drawn towards the glow of the fire across the hill outside the town. Fire meant warmth. It also meant burning corpses – for three days and three nights a huge funeral pyre had been alight. Just beside it stood the scaffold.
She hurriedly mumbled a prayer, ‘Lord Jesus, keep me from the evil of these lost souls! Give me courage and strength, so that with Thy grace I can rest there safely a while! I desperately need warmth, lest I should perish.’
With dread filling her innocent heart and her gaze fixed on the rising haze of warmth, Silje stumbled on towards the western gates.
****
In the meantime Charlotte Meiden, a young noblewoman, had taken to the street on a secret errand of her own. In disgust, she felt her silken shoes sinking into the filthy waste underfoot. Ice had blocked the gutter that ran down the middle of the street, causing this disgusting mess to remain where it lay. Anxious not to lose her footing, she cradled a tightly wrapped bundle in her arms.
Charlotte had stealthily slipped away from her father’s imposing residence and was now making her way towards the town gates, quietly humming a slow dance-tune, a pavane, to keep herself from thinking about what was wrapped in the bundle. Progress was painfully slow. Her lips were white and beads of sweat shone on her forehead and upper lip. Her hair clung to her temples.
That she had been able to keep her condition hidden for all these hateful anxious months was still a mystery to her. However, she had always been small and slender, and nothing had really shown. The style of dress she wore had helped, with corsets and flowing crinolines, and a surcoat draped from her shoulders, covering everything. Of course, she had dressed herself, always pulling her corset painfully tight. No one, least of all her chambermaid, had suspected anything.
She had hated the life that grew within her with a fierce intensity – it was the unwanted result of a liaison with a most handsome Dane from the court of King Frederick. It was only later that she learned he was married. One evening of blind passion and this torment had been her punishment, whilst he moved on quite casually to make new conquests.
She had tried every means to rid herself of this intruder in her life – strong potions, hot baths, even jumping from balustrades. Why, she had gone as far as visiting the churchyard one Thursday night last summer and there had performed rites so secret and hideous that she had now banished them from her memory. It was no use. The spiteful being inside her body had clung on to life with the persistence of a devil.
How afraid she had been these last months – and was still. Strangely however, at that very moment she no longer felt the same burning hatred towards the unwanted creature. Instead something else began to stir in her heart – a warm glow, great sorrow and an unexpected longing. No, she couldn’t allow herself to think such thoughts. Just walk, walk quickly and avoid the few people out on a night such as this.
It was so cold. Poor thing. No, no!
She caught a glimpse of a young girl, scarcely more than a child, coming down a side street, and slipped quickly into a doorway. The girl, Silje, passed by without noticing her.
‘She looks so alone,’ Charlotte thought with a sudden pang of heartfelt compassion that she could not allow herself to feel. She must not give way to sympathy She must not be weak. Above all, she must hurry. She needed to be back in the town before the gates were closed at nine o’clock. The gatekeeper didn’t frighten her and, if he should ask, she could account for herself. The cloak she had thrown around her shoulders belonged to one of the servants. No one would recognise the elegant mistress, Charlotte Meiden, dressed like this.
At last she reached the gates, and as expected, the gatekeeper stopped her. She held out the bundle for a moment.
‘Just one more dead. I’m going out to ...’ she muttered.
The man waved her through without a second glance.
She saw the forest in front of her now, the jagged tops of the pines in silhouette against the glow from the fire. Bright moonlight shone over the frozen evening landscape, making it easy to find the way. If only she hadn’t been so exhausted. She was in pain now, more afraid, and from time to time she felt a warm stickiness soak into the towel she had used to staunch the bleeding.
The child had been born in the hayloft above the stables. She had bitten hard on a piece of wood to stop herself from crying out and had done her best with the cord. Afterwards, exhausted from her ordeal, she had lain for a long time before, without looking at it, she had bundled the baby up and risen unsteadily to her feet. In her mind, it seemed, she needed nothing to do with this child. She had smothered its weak and pitiful cries with the blanket. It was still alive – she felt it move now and then. Thank goodness it hadn’t cried out as she passed the gates.
She was certain she had removed all trace of the event in the hayloft. If only she could be rid of this shameful burden and return home unnoticed. Then she would be free, finally free of all the worry.
She had come far enough into the woods. Over there, she thought, beneath the tall pine tree, a long way from the path. Charlotte Meiden’s hands shook as she laid the bundle down on the bare frozen ground. Her chest tightened and tears welled up as she tucked a woollen blanket and a shawl around the small spark of life, and placed a little pot of milk she had brought with her beside the baby’s cheek. Deep down, of course, she knew it could never drink the milk, but she could not bring herself to acknowledge that.
She hesitated for a moment, as an overwhelming feeling of loss and despair raced within her, until finally she staggered off, her frozen footsteps taking her back towards the town.
****
Inside the walls, Silje kept on walking, grateful for the moonlight that cast its pale aura over the streets and alleyways, making it easier for her to avoid the bay windows and other strange features on the buildings as she passed. Step by step, one foot followed the other – half asleep, she kept going. If she allowed herself to think, she would feel the cold, the hunger, the utter weariness and the certainty that she had nowhere to go and no future.
Someone was sobbing nearby.
She stopped. She was at the entrance of a narrow alleyway, making her way towards the western gates.
It was dark in the alley; the moonlight did not reach beyond its entrance. The crying came from a yard at the back, where a door stood half open. It was the sound of a child – the heart-rending sobs tore through her. Hesitantly Silje drew closer and stepped inside. Moonlight filled the small open space, which was surrounded by low houses. A little girl, perhaps two years old, was kneeling beside a dead woman. The child was pulling and shaking her mother, trying to wake her up.
Although Silje was little more than a child herself her young heart was touched by the plight of the infant, but the sight of the woman’s corpse held her back. The tortured face and the froth around her mouth were clear signs that the plague had struck again.
Trondelag, as this part of the country was called, had been overwhelmed by a pestilence, which in reality consisted of two different illnesses. Plague was the common name for all sicknesses, but this virulent illness had come from Denmark. Sometimes known as the ‘Spanish wheeze’, it was a catarrh that caused fever, headaches and pains in the chest. At the same time, another type of plague had been brought from Sweden, this kind causing boils and open sores, pains in the side and headaches that eventually led to madness. Silje knew the symptoms – she had seen them all too often.
As yet, the child had not caught sight of her. Silje was so exhausted that she could not think quickly, but she knew that she alone among her own family had survived. She had been wandering through the town, amongst its dead and dying, for a long time now without becoming infected and so did not fear for herself. But what of the little girl? She had a slim chance of escaping the sickness and were she to stay here, alone with her dead mother, she would have no chance at all.
Silje moved forward and knelt beside the child, who turned a tearful face towards her. She was quite stocky, but beautiful, with dark curly hair, dark eyes and small strong hands.
‘Your mother is dead,’ Silje said softly, ‘she can’t talk to you any more. You need to come with me.’
The girl’s lips trembled, but surprise had served to stop her tears.
Silje rose to her feet and pushed in turn at each of the doors that opened onto the yard. All three were locked. The dead woman probably hadn’t lived here; she had perhaps just decided this dark alley was a fitting place to die. Silje knew from experience that it was pointless to knock – people would not open their doors.
With a few swift movements she tore a strip of cloth from the hem of her tattered skirt. She knotted it deftly to make a rag doll and placed it in the dead woman’s hand, to stop her returning from beyond the grave to look for her daughter. Then she said a silent prayer for the poor woman’s soul.
‘Come along,’ she said firmly to the little girl. ‘We must leave now.’
The child did not want to go. She clung to her mother’s cape – it was pretty and didn’t seem too worn. The girl was also well-dressed; nothing extravagant, but simple and well made. The girl’s mother had once been a real beauty, but now her black unseeing eyes stared at the moon.
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