Spellbound

by Margit Sandemo

  It would never have crossed Silje’s mind to take the dead woman’s cape to protect her own frozen body from the cold. The thought of stealing from a corpse repelled her, especially one who had fallen victim to the plague.

  ‘Come,’ she said again, feeling helpless as she faced the tired child’s quiet sobbing. Gently, she opened the child’s hands and took her in her arms. ‘We must try to find you some food.’

  She had, of course, no idea where to find any, but the word ‘food’ worked its magic on the child, who resigned herself and, letting out a final tearful shaking sigh, allowed herself to be carried out of the yard. She cast a last agonising glance back at her mother that was full of grief and heartache – Silje would never forget that look.

  The child wept silently as Silje carried her through the streets, along the last stretch towards the gates. She had obviously been crying for so long that she was now too tired to be able to resist. Silje had another worry. Suddenly she was responsible for another human being, a child who would probably be dead from the plague in a few days, but until that happened, Silje had to make sure she didn’t go hungry.

  They were close to the town gates now and, between the houses, she caught occasional glimpses of the glow from the funeral pyres. It had been bitterly cold of late, making the frozen ground too hard for graves to be dug, so the dead were consigned to the flames. There was a large mass grave that she – but no! She could not allow herself to contemplate such anguish now.

  She saw a woman leaning against the wall of a building, looking as if she would faint at any moment. Hesitantly Silje approached her.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she asked timidly.

  The woman turned and looked at her with anguished eyes. She seemed to be a young lady of noble bearing, but her features were deathly white and beads of perspiration were running down her face.

  As Charlotte Meiden’s eyes focused on Silje, she forced herself upright and started to walk away.

  ‘Nobody can help me,’ she mumbled as she disappeared down a side street.

  Silje watched her go, but did not follow.

  ‘The plague again,’ she told herself ‘There is nothing I can do.’

  Finally she reached the gates. Although they would remain open for a while, Silje knew she would not return to the town. There was no relief to be found there, not for her or the child, of that she was certain. She would have to try and find shelter in a barn in the countryside – or in some other place.

  ‘What if we should meet a wild animal?’ she wondered, not that wild animals could be any worse than the brutes to be found around the marketplace in the town – those drunken debauched wretches who pestered her whenever she came near their ‘territory’. They showed complete indifference to the plague, perhaps because they knew that they would soon be beyond help and were trying to experience all the pleasures of this life before leaving it.

  The guard at the gate asked where she was going so late in the evening, but he was less interested in those leaving than in those who were coming in. She told him that they had been turned out for showing signs of sickness. He understood at once and, with a wave of his hand, sent them on their way. He would not worry that they might carry the sickness to others. Oh no, not at all! Just as long as it left his town.

  Silje walked faster. The warm glow of the flames urged her on – what would she do if the fire died out before she reached it? First she had to find a way through the pine forest that lay between the town and the scaffold.

  Once before, when she had first arrived in Trondheim, she had lost her way and stumbled upon that awful place – she had turned and left as fast as she was able, away from the disgusting stench and in fear of the horrors she had seen there. Now, her desperate need for warmth was making her go back. Just stretching her icy hands towards the flames, turning her back to the fire, feeling the heat through her clothes, warming a body that had known only cold for so many days and nights. lt would be a dream come true.

  The forest – she stopped at its edge, just beyond the reach of the trees. Like many others who lived in open farmland, she had always been afraid of the forest. It held too many secrets in its shadows.

  The girl was becoming too heavy for her tired arms and she put her down.

  ‘Can you walk by yourself?’ she asked. ‘I’ll carry you again in a little while.’

  The child didn’t answer, but, still sobbing quietly to herself, did as she was asked.

  The shadows were very dark amongst the pine trees. Silje’s eyes had grown accustomed to the night, but she still could not see what lay between them. She felt she could detect furtive beings with burning eyes hidden in the undergrowth.

  She tried to think more clearly once again.

  ‘The darkness is never completely black,’ She told herself ‘It has many shades, darker and lighter, mixing into greys.’

  The child was frightened too. Fear had quelled her tears and she pressed herself tightly, ever so tightly, against Silje with a soft moan. Silje’s mouth felt dry. She tried to swallow, but her fear remained. They had to keep going step by step, and she fixed her eyes on the glow of the fires from the far side of the woods. It helped, but she did not dare turn around, for she could feel shapeless creatures of the unknown tugging at her heels!

  When they were about halfway through the trees, she felt her pulse racing and then the blood drained from her face. She was breathless. Then, for the second time that evening, she heard a child cry. To hear that sound again was more than she could bear. Her heart was pounding madly. It was a baby crying in the woods.

  Again came the pitiful sounds of the infant. It could only mean one thing – it must be a myling. Silje was terrified at the thought. Mylings were the spirits of unwanted children, born out of wedlock and left to die without baptism. She had heard so many stories about them and always dreaded the thought that she might meet one. She knew she was in mortal danger – a myling would haunt anyone who passed its secret resting-place. Yes, she had heard all the tales of the fate of those who passed too close to such a grave. They told of an infant child as tall as a house, screaming horribly, that followed the poor passers-by, its footsteps shaking the earth, finally clawing at their backs and dragging them into the ground. She also knew a being like this could transform itself – into a black dog, or a child’s corpse with its throat torn out, into ravens or reptiles, each one as evil as the other.

  Silje was petrified. Her feet would not move, no matter how much she prayed that they would, so that she could run away from that awful place. The little girl, however, still clinging close to her, reacted differently. She muttered something Silje didn’t understand. Just one word – a name perhaps? It sounded like ‘Nadda’ or something similar. Could she have had a little brother or sister who had recently died? That was quite possible.

  The girl began tugging at her hand, willing her towards the cries coming from among the trees, only a short distance from the path that Silje had hoped they were following. Silje held back; she desperately wanted to get away. Again the child repeated the word, her voice choked with tears.

  ‘But it is too dangerous,’ Silje protested. ‘We must leave, quickly – quickly!’

  But how could they run away? Would they have a giant myling snapping at their heels? Oh no! That would be even worse.

  Suddenly, a thought came to her. The souls of the dead children cried out to be baptised and yearned to be reunited with their mothers. How did one bring peace to a myling? Did one read the sacraments for them? She was not a priest, but wait! There was an old verse, a liturgy, if only she could remember it. It was something like, ‘I christen thee ...’ Then she thought it better to say all the prayers she knew.

  Taking a deep breath, she began reciting every supplication she had ever learnt, Protestant mixed with Catholic, half-remembered fragments from childhood and lessons taught by the priest. Her steps uncertain, and ready to run at the slightest sign of danger, she drew nearer to the myling. It was quiet now. The prayers ha
d worked!

  Feeling more confident, she walked a little faster, while trying to think of suitable words for a rite of baptism. The girl was pulling her along, to make her hurry. As they picked their way forward, Silje, in a loud but unsteady voice, said, ‘I have found thee in the darkness of night. Therefore I baptise thee Dag, if thou art a boy Thou wast left to die, I know not when. Therefore I baptise thee Liv, if thou art a girl.’

  Did that sound so foolish? Would it be acceptable as a rite of baptism? Just to be sure, she added, ‘In the name of Jesus Christ. Amen,’ although she knew full well that she had no right to utter such sacred words. Only the priests were allowed to do that.

  Was it dangerous to call a myling ‘Liv’? Perhaps it would become mortal again and rise up with awesome might. No, better not think of such things. She had done her best and could only pray it would be enough.

  The girl seemed determined to find the myling, which made Silje even more certain that she once had a younger brother or sister. The girl would not be stopped; Silje had no choice but to follow.

  It ought to be here somewhere. Bending forwards, she started to search in the deep shadows beneath the tree, her heart still pounding and her stiff and frozen fingers trembling.

  Should a human touch a myling? What would it feel like? Would there be anything to touch? Perhaps nothing remained but the dry, brittle bones? Or would it be slimy and horrible? Would she suddenly find something taking hold of her wrist in a vice-like grip? She drew back her hand with an involuntary intake of breath – it was all she could do to stop herself from running away.

  The child must have discovered something. She was talking excitedly, but incoherently, and then Silje heard a scratching sound like bits of broken wood rubbing together. Again she stretched out her hand, searching blindly in the darkness. Her fingers touched something – something round with a handle. It felt like a wooden pot with a lid. No danger there, she thought, and carried on searching. A piece of cloth – a small bundle – warmer than the frozen earth on which it lay. As she touched it, the weak cries started again. Plucking up all her courage. Silje gently felt inside the shawl. She touched warm skin. It was a baby – and alive. It was not a myling, but some poor abandoned child left to its fate.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered to the little girl. ‘Tonight you saved the life of this baby.’

  The girl’s hands were clutching eagerly at the blanket.

  ‘Nadda,’ she said again.

  Silje did not have the heart to stop her, even though she was probably carrying the plague. Then she remembered the pot. She picked it up and shook it, splashing some of its contents. Silje stuck her finger into the liquid – it was not yet frozen – and tasted it. Milk! Oh, Dear Lord – it was milk!

  For one awful moment she held the pot to her lips, quite ready to drain every last drop. The girl and the infant? She mustn’t forget them and she knew that, if she took even the tiniest sip, she would be unable to stop. The girl first – she must have a third. She listened to the deep delighted gulps as the child drank.

  It was not easy to take the drink from her, but she had no choice. The girl fought to keep it with a fury that Silje found frightening. To calm her, Silje whispered, ‘Nadda must drink, too.’

  Anyway the milk seemed to have taken the edge off the girl’s hunger – it had not needed much to fill that small belly.

  She turned her thoughts to the infant. The babe was wrapped in several layers of blanket, inside which she could make out a gown that reflected a grey sheen in the dark. Silje pulled up a corner and twisted it into a point, dipped it into the milk and put it into the infant’s mouth – but it would not drink.

  Silje knew very little about newborn babies; did not understand that they were seldom hungry during their first day of life. Nor did she know that they would not all have a strong instinct to suckle. She began to feel helpless and desperate. No matter how she tried, the infant refused the milk. Finally she gave up. They had to move on and she would not be able to carry the pot as well as the children – she only had two arms. Feeling guilty, she drank the remaining milk, although it left a bitter taste, because she knew she had taken the infant’s share.

  She rose to her feet, cradling the baby, took the girl by the hand and suddenly let out a loud uncontrollable laugh. What on earth was she doing? ‘The blind leading the blind,’ she told herself. How could she possibly help these children?

  The milk had eased their hunger and given both Silje and the girl renewed strength. Her fear of the forest had begun to release its grip on her and not far away she could clearly see the glow of firelight.

  At the edge of the woods she stopped, her eyes taking in the dreadful sight that lay before her: a huge funeral pyre spewing clouds of stinking smoke in her direction. The gallows, a black silhouette against the flames, stood surrounded by the implements of torture – evidence of the extent of the cruelty the human mind can conceive when the opportunity to inflict pain on others presents itself.

  To one side stood the pillory, with a small forge nearby to provide red-hot tongs and swords when called for; there were also huge, vile-looking hooks for piercing the skin of the condemned, on which they would be left to hang. Silje knew there would be thumbscrews, vices and many other grotesque instruments of satanic torture, and shuddered at the thought.

  Standing out from the rest, however, was the rack on which the bodies of the unfortunate victims were broken and …

  ‘Oh no! ’ she groaned quietly ‘No, no!’

  She could see men moving around the scaffold and between the contraptions. She caught sight of the executioner, his black hood covering his severed ears, and his assistant, the most despised and hated man in all of Trondheim, fussing officiously around him while the bailiff’s soldiers swarmed about. Some of them were restraining a man. He was young, with wavy blond hair, and his hands were tied behind his back. They were forcing him towards the rack.

  ‘No! Please don’t do it,’ she whispered.

  Silhouetted by the fires, the young man looked so handsome. Her heart sank and her blood ran cold as she thought of the torment he was about to endure.

  The group of men stood beside the rack and other equipment with which every bone in his body would be crushed. The executioner – headsman or hangman, it didn’t matter what he was called – paced around with heavy determined steps, carrying a large broad-bladed axe in one hand. So the prisoner was to suffer torture before being beheaded.

  Silje wanted it all to stop. She had not known many young men in her life, but she knew that this one was special. Who could he be, she wondered? Was he a thief? Surely not, for there were far too many soldiers for that. He must be someone of considerable importance.

  All thoughts of the young man stopped suddenly and she started in fear, as a deep voice from the forest behind her asked, ‘What are you doing here, woman?’

  Silje and the little girl both spun round, the child letting out a shriek. Silje just managed to stop herself from doing the same.

  There, among the trees, was the tall shape of a figure who looked part human and part animal. With considerable relief, she saw it was a man wrapped in a wolf-skin cloak, the shaggy hood resembling the head of an animal. Yet, his shoulders were strange and broad, like those of a bear. Narrow eyes gleamed at her from a face filled with drama, exquisite yet sinister, white teeth reflecting a wolf-like grin. The firelight shone on his features at one moment and the next he was in darkness. He stood motionless.

  ‘Just wanted to warm ourselves at the fire, master,’ she answered, her voice trembling.

  ‘Are these your children?’ His voice was deep and strong.

  ‘Mine? Oh no, I am but sixteen years, master,’ she replied with a nervous smile and shaking from the cold. ‘I found both this very night. They are foundlings.’

  He let his eyes rest thoughtfully on her for a long time – fearfully Silje lowered her gaze. The little girl was also afraid and hid herself in Silje’s skirts.

  ‘You
saved them, did you?’ Then he asked, ’Do you want to save another life this night?’

  The burning eyes made her anxious and uncertain.

  ‘One more life? I don’t know – I don’t understand.’

  ‘Hunger and worry show on your face,’ he said. ‘You can pass for someone two or three years older. Perhaps you can save my brother’s life. Will you help?’

  She wondered briefly how it was that two brothers could look so different. The handsome blond-haired boy below and this creature, with his dark lank hair hanging over his eyes.

  ‘I do not wish to see him die,’ she said hesitantly. ‘But how can I save him?’

  ‘I cannot do it alone,’ he said. ‘There are too many of them, and besides, they are looking for me. They would arrest me and that would be of no help to him. But you ...’

  From his pocket he took a small scroll of parchment.

  ‘Here! Take this message; it bears the royal seal. Tell them you are his wife and that these are his children. You live hereabouts and his name is Niels Stierne. He is the King’s Messenger. And what is your name?’

  ‘Silje’

  With a look of irritation, he said, ‘Cecilie, you foolish girl! You can’t have a peasant girl’s name like Silje. You are a countess, remember that. Now, you must slip this message into his clothes unnoticed and then pretend to find it.’

  This was a daring idea, she thought.

  ‘How can I pass for a countess?’ she asked. ‘Nobody will believe me.’

  ‘Have you not looked at the child you are carrying?’ he snapped from among the shadows.

  Startled, she looked away.

  ‘No, but ...’

  As the fire began to burn more brightly, it lit up the area where they stood and she could clearly see about her. The infant was wrapped in a shawl of the finest wool, beautifully woven, with shining threads of gold, the like of which Silje had never seen. The thicker blanket beneath had a brocade pattern – French lilies, she thought it was called – and finally there was a shining white lace and linen sheet, the one she had dipped in the milk.