She dressed swiftly and ran a comb through her hair. Her hands were not bandaged, but they had been treated with an ointment that smelt of mint. She desperately longed to soak her whole being in warm scented water – head, hair, everything – and drown herself in cleanliness. Now I am being unreasonable, she thought, smiling to herself It’s easy to get spoilt. Only yesterday I was grateful for a crust of mouldy bread!
The clothes were comfortable, just a bit too big. A striped pinafore had also been left for her, and she tightened its laces round her waist to a snug fit. She did not have the energy to braid her hair, so it hung loose. A straight collared jacket with puffed sleeves, tight cuffs and short tails lay there also, but she did not put it on. She knew that these had once been the clothes of a servant girl.
With halting steps she approached the door. The wide floorboards creaked – a wooden floor! At home she had been used to bare earth or stone floors. She stepped over the high threshold and onto a flagstone step.
The sun, lying very low on the horizon, made her blink. She hadn’t realised that it was still so bright outside – the green windowpanes had masked the light. She was in a courtyard, covered by a dusting of snow and surrounded by the dark outlines of buildings. The large main dwelling stood beside her and beyond that a fine beautifully decorated house with a loft, roofed gallery and ornate carvings. There was nobody to be seen. She shivered now that she had left the warmth of the hut. She raised her head to look around. The blood drained from her face, her heart froze.
‘Oh dear God – no!’ she groaned.
Feeling faint, she took hold of the doorframe and then, cautiously and fearfully, she took another look. The tallest of the mountains rose high above the roofs of the buildings, but there was an opening between the houses where the road ran up to the farm, and there she could see they soared with compelling closeness. She recognised every peak, every valley and every crevice. The Land of Shadows! The Land of Evening! She had come much closer to the terror of her childhood, the Ice People’s dreadful secret lair.
In fact, she found herself almost at the foot of the mountains, separated from them only by a desolate heath. Beyond the heath a wall of mountain rose straight up, unassailable, piercing the sky and defying God in his heaven! Her first thought was to get away as quickly as she could, but then she began to think properly. She was no longer a child, she told herself, and all her childish fantasies of demons gliding through the air were just that – fantasies. She had dreamt them up; they were not real. As for the stories people had told of the dreaded Ice People, well, she would just keep well away from the mountains. Was she about to leave the only refuge she had found for fear of some childish ideas?
One of the old women emerged from the main house and waved at her to come over. Without another glance at the blue-black snow-capped bastions, she limped across the yard.
‘Come in, come in,’ the woman said pleasantly ‘We are gathered in the kitchen to eat. You must be quite hungry now, my dear?’
‘Yes, I am. But I should like to wash and tidy myself before I eat, please.’
‘Of course,’ said the woman.
This done, she went into the large cheery kitchen with its huge open hearth and a long narrow table, with benches each side, where everyone from the farm sat eating. Greeting them timidly, she made a small curtsey to each one there. They were few in number. The plague must have been savage here, she thought. Benedikt sat at the head of the table and there were the two women, each holding one of the children, and the farmhand. That was all.
The women were so alike that they had to be sisters. Both wore long black gowns and, always smiling, they tried to make everyone feel at ease. Silje felt that she would learn to like them very much.
To her delight, she noticed that the baby, Dag, was feeding. He was being given pieces of bread soaked in milk that he could suck on. Little Sol greeted her with a smile of recognition, but then quickly turned her attention back to the farmhand who was playing with her, making her giggle.
‘Come in, my dear girl,’ said Benedikt. ‘Sit here next to me.’
She thanked him with a small curtsey, said grace silently and sat down. The painter seemed to be a man of simple tastes, as the evening meal consisted only of three dishes – salt beef, cured pork and boiled cabbage – and large mugs of ale. Compared with the habits of the time this was frugal. Country folk would usually have at least six dishes, while the wealthy would have up to fourteen courses. Adults would usually drink at least six jugs of ale every day; many would drink twice that amount.
To Silje, however, the sight of so much food was like a dream. Helping herself to some, she looked at the children.
‘This is the first time I’ve seen them in the light,’ she said shyly. ‘They are both beautiful, but so different.’
‘The little girl is a wild one,’ one of the women remarked. ‘Such temperament! One moment she’s bright and cheerful, but if she can’t have her way, what rage!’
Silje nodded. ‘I noticed that last night.’
‘She’ll be a handful for the boys when she’s older,’ growled Benedikt. ‘What with those green eyes and that curly black hair!’
If she’s allowed to live, Silje thought sadly. The next few days would tell. Once again she could see the image of the girl’s dead mother.
Trying to put such thoughts out of her mind, she said brightly, ‘The boy is unusually handsome for a newborn, don’t you think?’ She gazed at the tiny face with its halo of fair hair.
‘Indeed,’ said Benedikt. ‘Makes you wonder where he’s from. You saw the blankets he was wrapped in?’
‘Yes, last night in the moonlight. It’s strange.’
‘Scandals will befall the best of families,’ Benedikt mumbled.
‘I was told to keep his things and look after them.’
Benedikt nodded but his expression was serious.
‘Yes, you must do so. But did young Heming really have such foresight?’
Why, oh why did her pulse begin to race and colour rush to her cheeks whenever his name was mentioned? She didn’t know – but the truth was that she was really looking forward to seeing that handsome face again.
‘No. It was somebody else,’ Silje answered, her thoughts confused. ‘A strange man, almost part man, part beast, but I am in his debt for it was he who sent me to you. I do want to thank you all for your kindness towards me. Taking us into your home in the middle of the night without question – you are very generous.’
‘One can do no less,’ mumbled the painter, then, as if trying to avoid further questions, he quickly said, ‘anyway, I never thought Heming would be so sensible.’ A pause, then, ‘So Silje! What are we to do with you? As you see, there are only a few of us left here and we could use an extra pair of hands. Will you stay? We can offer only food and lodging.’
‘Yes, thank you so much,’ she said, looking down at her bowl. ‘I’ll try to keep my thoughts on my work.’
‘And stop daydreaming?’ laughed Benedikt. ‘Folk must be allowed to dream, Silje – those such as you and I, even more so.’ Then he added, ‘My brother and his family, who once lived in this house, are now dead. I beg you not to ask of them, for our sorrow is too great. We that are left behind must try to live on.’
She nodded. ‘I have just suffered in the same way, and I understand. We all have those we mourn.’
The women, the farmhand and Benedikt all indicated their agreement; then Benedikt continued, ‘I live in the ornate building beside this one and I take no part in the workings of the farm.’ To Silje he seemed inordinately proud of his position. ‘But see! You have drunk so little. Ale is one thing we have plenty of – you may have seven jugs a day if you wish.’
‘Oh! Thank you, but no,’ replied Silje. ‘I can scarcely manage three jugs in a day.’
‘What! That’s not enough to keep you alive – but no matter, I feel the same about ale, for as you see, I drink only wine – a drink fit for an artist.’
Silje sat
facing the window. Here in the main house the glass was of better quality, but she had avoided looking outside until now. Encouraged by the painter’s friendly tone, she became bolder and said, ‘Those Mountains – I had the fright of my life when I saw how close they are.’
She began to tell them, as if retelling a dream, of her childhood fears and how, although she had lived far to the north-east, she had seen them clearly and been in awe of them. She made only passing reference to the swirling creatures that lived there, saying merely that the mountains had given her nightmarish visions.
When she had finished, Benedikt said, ‘I am not surprised by what you say. They hold a fear for me too. They bear down on you like a great black cloud rising from the land – and all those horrible stories about the Ice People; you must have had your fill of those, I expect?’
‘Yes, I did – but who are the Ice People really? What are they?’ she asked with some trepidation.
She could not believe that they were all sitting here together talking, the master with the servants. Not many years ago that would have been unheard of. Now times had changed and people sought companionship wherever they could, never knowing where or when the pestilence would strike – and besides, Benedikt was an unusual man, a highly respected artist, and he would do as he pleased.
He had taken a liking to Silje, of that there was no doubt, and she in turn felt that she had found a soul-mate.
‘The Ice People,’ he said slowly, every eye on him. They had all finished eating, but they remained seated, each reluctant to leave the company of the others. ‘The Ice People are just a legend. They were thought to have magic powers and be spawned by evil – I expect that you have heard of Tengel, the evil spirit of the Ice People.’
‘Master Benedikt’ exclaimed one of the women, her voice shrill, as the other crossed herself The farmhand stood up and walked over to the door, holding his knife, which he then stabbed into the wall above it to ward off evil.
‘Ah, superstitions,’ said Benedikt. ‘Have you heard of him, Silje?’
‘Only in secret whispers. Nobody would ever tell me much.’
‘Well, I shall tell you about them now, for I am not afraid – not of magic or the Devil! Young Tengel fled to the mountains about three or four hundred years ago, driven from his lands, together with some other farmers, by the new decrees of some long-forgotten king. Tengel swore revenge. He sold his soul to the Devil, Silje, and became chieftain of the Ice People. Tengel, by the way, means chieftain – I don’t expect you knew that? And they came to be called the Ice People, because it is thought to be impossible to find a way to where they live – their lair. To get there it is said that one must travel beneath the ice, through a tunnel beside a great river.’
‘Was Tengel able to cast spells and work magic before he went to the mountains?’
‘We don’t know. It is said he was an ordinary man, but that his pact with the Devil left him with amazing abilities. Over the centuries the Ice People’s notoriety grew and the rumours spread, because the children he fathered shared his magic powers.’ Benedikt paused and lowered his voice. And they say that Tengel has no grave!’
Silje was wide-eyed. Unwittingly she peered across into a dark corner where a door led into shadows beyond.
‘Do you mean that the Evil One took him? Spirited him away?’
The painter lowered his gaze. ‘I didn’t say that. I never said that.’ He looked up again. ‘There is supposed to be nothing the Ice People cannot do – but it is all just talk, Silje. Just silly foolish superstition.’
‘So they don’t really exist?’ she asked.
‘I’ve never seen them and I have lived here all my life. I am honest enough to admit that I will not willingly go up into those mountains, but that is another matter. It’s because the mountains themselves frighten me.’
The woman holding Sol in her lap had put her hand over the child’s ears. ‘Master Benedikt, you should be more careful what you say’ She said resentfully. ‘One must not speak of them.’
The farmhand had more courage. ‘They don’t exist!’ he said. ‘Maybe long ago, but not now. They probably all perished in the Black Death two hundred years ago, along with nearly everyone else. I have been into the mountains many times and have seen neither people nor their ”lair”.’
So it was all in my imagination, thought Silje. She was now more relaxed. She would not think about it again and would no longer feel afraid. It was just wonderful to eat her fill, be warm again and wear clean clothes once more – even though they had belonged to some poor girl on the farm. She was elated, and suddenly exclaimed, ‘I am so very happy. I don’t think that even heaven can compare to this!’
The others all laughed, sharing her joy. Then she thought once more of Sol and the plague. She looked worriedly at the little girl. How long would it be before they knew? She had seen enough of the plague to recognise the signs, but so far the child was bright and cheerful. Only once, while they were eating had she looked sad, her chin trembling and a faraway look in her eyes.
‘Mummy,’ she had said with an unsteady voice. ‘Mummy!’
One of the women had cradled her in her arms, saying, ‘She is so young. She will soon forget.’ Then the woman had rocked her gently until she was calm again.
They all wanted Silje to tell them everything she had experienced in her travels and especially about the past day and night, when so much had happened. No one could explain who it was who had helped her, but she saw how the two women exchanged expressionless glances. One of them said something like ‘Miserere’ and the young farmhand hid his face, looking at the floor.
They all heard it at the same moment, and looked around startled. Horses were galloping up the road and they could hear the rattling of weapons and armour.
‘Bailiff’s soldiers!’ said Benedikt looking through the window into the courtyard where a number of riders had begun to dismount. ‘Silje! Were these the men you spoke to last night at the gibbet hill?’
Dusk was falling and the glass was not easy to see through, but she was certain. ‘No, I don’t recognise any of them?
‘Good, then you need not hide.’ He paused, then addressed one of the women. ‘Grete you must take away the little one at least and perhaps the girl too.’
The woman took the two children and went into an adjoining room. Benedikt stood up and went outside to meet the riders. The others waited behind, straining to hear every word. In the yard, Benedikt greeted the men and asked them the nature of their business. The officer walked up and stood on the step.
‘Have you seen any strangers here last night or today?’
‘No, we have not. Who are you looking for?’
‘You know damned well, painter Benedikt! That rebellious troublemaker Dyre Alvsson and his men were out last night. They burned the house of one of the King’s men. We shall put a stop to his lawlessness. You will not object if we look in your stables?’
‘As you wish, if you think my old mares are worth looking at. Surely you don’t believe that I ...’
The officer cut him short. ‘Believe!’ he snorted and turned on his heel.
All the soldiers walked at once towards the same building. They had obviously been here before searching for strangers’ horses. After a short while they came back outside.
‘And Heming, the bailiff-killer?’ called the officer.
‘Haven’t seen him in ages,’ replied Benedikt, so convincingly that even Silje would have believed him, had she not known otherwise. ‘I steer clear of that rogue.’
‘Best that you do, for your sake.’
Some of the men searched one or two of the other buildings. Perhaps they thought a horse had been taken in and hidden among the cows in the barn. Then they made ready to leave.
‘You had better be careful, Benedikt!’ shouted the officer over his shoulder. ‘Splashing paint on church ceilings does not give you free passage to heaven.’
‘Neither does upsetting the homes of honest folk!’ Benedikt sho
uted back.
So now she knew who he was – the man in the wolf-skin. Dyre Alvsson! Hadn’t she heard that name before? The Danes’ greatest enemy in Trondelag He was impossible to find, no matter how hard the bailiffs tried to hunt him down, because the people protected and sheltered him.
There was no obvious hatred towards the King. Farmers and peasants cared nothing for who ruled the land. When the Swedes had taken control fifteen years earlier they had been well received as the new masters. When they left Trondelag again, the Danes returned without much fuss from the inhabitants. Copenhagen or Stockholm – either one too far away – others could govern the country. As long as they had their daily bread, they didn’t much care what the King was called. Farmers only complained about taxes and other matters close to home.
There were only small numbers of rebels who were continually active. The most notable of these at that time was Dyre Alvsson. He was the most daring and the most admired. Silje had not known until now what he looked like, how old he was or where he came from. Still, even though she knew, she would never inform on him! It was not surprising that nobody wanted to speak about him when she had asked.
She wondered about Heming, that warm feeling taking hold again. Yes, he was a rebel; she had already guessed as much. Benedikt obviously supported them. So maybe she would have a chance of seeing Heming again. Oh, she could see that teasing glint in his eye, his shapely nose and his mouth with its ready smile – and that golden hair that shone in the moonlight!
Silje’s innocent young heart was filled with new emotions. This was an infatuation entirely based on appearances that would be normal for any sixteen-year-old girl – the unquestioning adoration that is only found in the spring of youth – idolising someone, always blind to his faults, endowing him with the virtues, feelings and interests that he ought to possess, but may not.
That day was not a long one for Silje. The farm was soon made secure and the people prepared for their beds. The women, being kind-hearted, insisted on keeping the children with them for one more night.
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