Spellbound

by Margit Sandemo

  After the barber had gone, Silje sat with Sol once more. Despair cut through her like a knife. She had become so close to the child that she almost thought of her as a daughter.

  ‘Help us,’ she whispered. ‘Help us, help us! Do not let her die, for she is so full of life. In the name of heaven, do not take her from me. Please let her live!’

  The girl’s fever did not break – quite the opposite. Silje could do nothing but wait for the next fearful sign. When at last Sol looked up, her eyes were glazed over.

  ‘Please get well,’ Silje begged her. ‘I can’t bear to see you in pain. I need you so much.’

  Sol’s eyes widened. ‘Thilea needs Thol?’

  ‘Yes, I need Sol. You and I belong together. We have little brother to take care of as well. It’s no fun when you’re sick. I love you, Sol.’

  A gentle smile lit up the child’s tired face. A little hand – burning hot – rested in Silje’s. At that moment Silje knew for the first time that Sol really had taken to her, loved her and had a sense of belonging. Until then, their relationship had been based more on necessity.

  She had referred to Dag as Sol’s baby brother. This might have been unwise; especially if they were all forced to go their separate ways, but it had come from the heart and felt so right. She did not want to be separated from either of them – and she didn’t want to see this lovely girl lying in a cold coffin.

  Later that evening she heard the sound of a visitor arriving. Benedikt had a rider with him when he returned from the church. Silje did not know what had passed between them, but suddenly the guest stood at the door of the little hut.

  ‘Leave the room, Silje,’ he said, his voice low and hoarse.

  The room was in shadow and he was not wearing a wolf-skin this time, simply a dark brown hooded tunic, but still she knew him. Her hands were shaking as she rose from the bedside. Sol moaned and reached out to her.

  ‘Should I not stay?’ Silje wondered vaguely, forcing herself to meet his gaze, quite certain he could see right through her. She could see now that the strange eyes were like pieces of pale amber nestling between eyelashes as black as coal.

  ‘You’re fond of the child, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. Very, very fond.’

  ‘Then leave! Wait in the kitchen with the women!’

  Reluctantly she obeyed, trying to ignore the child’s tears. No one in the kitchen spoke. The atmosphere was peculiar, the air charged with tension – but from what? Anxiety? Fear? Obviously, it was not a good idea to have the rebel leader visit the farm. It was dangerous, perilously dangerous.

  Benedikt was ill at ease and stood rigidly at the window. The farmhand sat twisting his cap in his hands. Both women sat quite still, then one of them began to pray quietly.

  ‘Stop that!’ Benedikt spat the words unthinkingly. ‘Of course, forgive me,’ said the woman. Her name was Marie – it was she who had taken care of Sol most of the time.

  Abruptly, Silje stood up. ‘He’s been in there for a long time. I shall go and see what’s happening.’

  Strangely, nobody tried to prevent her. Somewhat hesitantly, she opened the door to the hut. The man was bent over the bed. He straightened and turned to her, showing neither anger nor surprise that she had come back.

  ‘The child is strong,’ he said in his unusual hoarse voice. ‘She will live, but ...’ he paused.

  ‘Can that be true?’ Silje was disbelieving, not wanting to hope in vain. ‘How do you know?’

  He gave a wry smile.

  ‘There are many smitten with the sickness that live. You know this. Just stay with her so she will not feel alone.’

  ‘I shall.’

  Sol lay resting; looking at them with a tired feverish smile on her face.

  ‘Why do you limp?’

  He gave Silje a searching look.

  ‘It’s nothing. Just that the frostbite on my foot will not heal.’

  ‘May I look at it?’

  ‘No!’

  She was ashamed that she had spoken so harshly. He just waited, an amused smile playing on his lips. Resigning herself, she sat down on the bed with legs stretched out and, without a word, he sat at her feet and removed her stocking. As his warm hands first touched her skin, it felt to her like the sudden lash of a whip. Impassively, he glanced at her and then gently covered the sore foot with both hands.

  ‘You have been walking on it too much,’ he said, as she felt an unusual pulsating warmth radiate up her leg. Then her foot began to feel as if it was on fire.

  ‘Was this what you did to Sol as well?’ she asked with a quick look at the girl, who was now sleeping peacefully.

  He didn’t answer her. Instead he removed his hands from her foot and took a small wooden box from his tunic.

  ‘Rub this onto your foot tonight. It will draw the pus from the sore.’

  He stood up, and the room suddenly seemed too small and too hot.

  Silje thanked him and then asked, ‘Did Benedikt ask you to come?’

  ‘No, it was not Benedikt,’ he said. ‘But I did find him at the church.’

  ‘At the church! Good Lord, no!’

  He had read her thoughts, ‘Yes, I saw it.’

  No comment, simply a statement of fact. Silje was relieved to be putting on her stocking; otherwise she would not have known where to look or what to do with her hands. She wanted the earth to swallow her up.

  He was making ready to leave. Quickly she asked, ‘The infant – the boy; will he be smitten?’

  He hesitated, then, ‘Let me see him.’

  As he passed her in the doorway, she sensed the same weakness in her body that she had felt in the dream. The evening sun’s rays caught his face for a moment. She had only ever seen him in shadow or half-light and now she realised how wrong she had been about his looks. The poor light must have been what made him seem so awful, so old and haggard. She saw a relatively young man – not a youth, a man in his prime – but still a lot younger than she had imagined. The beast in him was there too. In the eyes, the mouth, the teeth that flashed in a teasing smile and the elegant cat-like movements.

  She followed him across the yard, watching his tall upright figure with its wide shoulders, seeing him stride confidently through the mud in his deerskin boots. On the doorstep he stopped and waited for her to open the door.

  When they entered the kitchen, the women, frightened, got up and went quickly into another part of the house. The farmhand moved to the other end of the room. Only Benedikt remained unaffected by their entrance – although Silje did notice an odd guarded formality about him.

  ‘Well?’ asked Benedikt. ‘What is the verdict?’

  ‘The girl will be well,’ Silje beamed. ‘But he wants to see Dag also.’

  Benedikt shouted for Grete to bring the boy.

  From the other room her muttered protest could be heard, ‘He has not been baptised yet!’

  The imposing man from the wilderness answered her, ‘Silje said words of baptism when she found him and that is enough for now.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ said Benedikt. ‘Grete, remind me that we must fetch a priest to the children as soon as we can. We have neglected their souls for too long already.’ His voice was high-pitched in a strange way that Silje hadn’t heard before.

  Grete appeared at the door. ‘Yes, Master Benedikt,’ she said accusingly, ‘and what if they had died? Their poor souls would have gone to ...’

  Grete went quiet, casting a timid glance at their visitor. Then she disappeared again and returned with the boy, but refused to cross the threshold into the kitchen. Silje took him and placed him in the man’s arms. He gave her a strange melancholy look and said, ‘You have a trusting soul and for that I shall do my best. But I need to be alone with him.’

  As they left the room Silje looked quickly over her shoulder. It was touching to see this man-beast, large and brooding, holding a tiny human figure in his arms. The boy was almost invisible. Then he looked up at the man through sleepy half-closed eyes
and let out a scream. Silje began to wonder if she had done something terribly wrong, but the child was soon quiet again.

  Benedikt, Silje and the farmhand waited in the porch silently, not looking at one another. When the man came out to them, he handed the infant to Benedikt, saying, ‘New lives will protect themselves. The pestilence does not settle easily on them.’

  He said nothing else. Silje followed him into the yard, believing this was what he wanted, since he had given the infant to Benedikt and not to her.

  ‘I know who you are!’ she said suddenly.

  ‘You do?’ His expression showed amusement and some scepticism.

  ‘Yes, but I shall never betray you. You will always be able to trust me as you would a friend. If ever you should need my help – but you wouldn’t of course.’

  His tone became serious. ‘You know, Silje, one day I may very well need your help. I believe you understand why I live apart, alone, and how few people I can rely on.’

  She nodded eagerly, full of devotion and understanding. His face creased in a smile.

  ‘Are you happy here?’

  ‘Oh, yes! I couldn’t wish for better. Thank you for sending me here and thank you for … well, everything!’

  His hand moved gently back and forth in the air, a gesture that could have meant many things. It was as though he was chuckling to himself.

  ‘Silje, Silje,’ he said slowly, ‘you are but a child. But now you are looking much better, and not such a scrawny creature – more like the flower in bud that you truly are. If you should need me again, do not wait to send word.’

  With that, he mounted his horse and was soon gone.

  Silje stood still, a puzzled look on her face. ‘Again?’ What had he meant by that? She went back inside to Sol and was surprised to find Marie with her. She had caught sight of a shadow crossing the yard, but had been too engrossed in their visitor to think more about it. Looking ashamed, the woman got up from the floor where she had been crouching beside the child’s bed, mumbling an apology as she stood up and left.

  Sol was sleeping comfortably and, although she still had bright feverish colour in her cheeks, there was sweat at her temples, matting her hair. The fever was breaking!

  Silje was curious to know what Marie had been doing. She leaned forward to Sol and, as she put her weight on the bed, noticed at once that it rocked very slightly. There was something under one of the legs; a coin in fact had been placed there – a silver coin marked with a cross. Silje knew that this was intended as protection from all devils. After a moment’s hesitation, she let it remain where it was.

  Without her wishing it, her thoughts that evening kept returning to her recent dream and her imagination took over again. If she hadn’t woken when she had, what would have happened? Why hadn’t she dreamt that it was Heming who was coming for her? Why had the beast-man awakened her slumbering womanhood? She had wanted it to be Heming – yes, she had. If only she could dream the same dream again, but this time with another – she was almost afraid to think the word – with another lover!

  As soon as she had admitted the thought to herself, a fire began to rage within her. Heming’s image had faded. He was not the one she could see and Silje buried her face in the pillow, moaning helplessly.

  When she awoke next morning the first thing she noticed was that her foot no longer ached or stung as much as it had. Over in her bed, Sol was wide awake and wanting to get up.

  ‘No, no, my little one,’ said Silje. ‘You need to stay in bed today – you don’t heal that quickly – but I will be here with you all the time.’

  Silje noticed that her feelings towards the mountains seemed to have changed. Several times she had found herself looking expectantly up at them, as though hoping that, from above the broken mass of granite, those awful creatures would appear, led by their master. Then straight away she felt ashamed at having such daring and childish thoughts.

  A day or so later Sol was out of danger and Silje was able to go back to the church. She was working alongside Benedikt now, but he no longer allowed her to paint human figures.

  ‘Nobody knows what you might get up to!’ he had said. They worked quietly and thoughtfully together for a long time, then Silje said, ‘He has the power to heal, doesn’t he?’

  Benedikt, working high under the vault of the ceiling, realised at once whom she meant.

  ‘Indeed he does!’

  ‘Then why is he not better known?’

  ‘One calls upon him only when all else fails.’

  ‘And is that because he must remain in hiding,’ she persisted.

  ‘You could say that. He seldom shows himself. I have seen him no more than a couple of times in my life, but he seems to trust me, for some reason. It is strange that he should turn up so often of late. No doubt he has his reasons.’

  ‘How old is he? I’ve often wondered.’

  ‘And I! He is of every age and yet none at all; exactly the age he wants to be at any moment, it would seem.’

  ‘He told me that he came here to the church.’

  ‘Yes. He asked if all was well at the farm and when I told him of our sick little girl, he returned with me.’ Benedikt hesitated for a moment, and then continued decisively, ‘He has taken a liking to you, Silje. Be very grateful for that – but be very cautious as well.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Don’t make this difficult for me,’ he begged.

  ‘Please, I would like to know.’

  Quiet but determined, she waited for his answer.

  ‘Ah!’ exclaimed Benedikt, throwing his arms wide, causing a few drops of turquoise paint to fall on the church floor.

  ‘Wipe that up, Silje. Uh! Well, I would not want to be his enemy – that’s all. You will have to learn to tread a fine line.’

  ‘The soldiers are his enemies’ she said with a smile, not taking in his full meaning. ‘I expect they have felt his wrath?’

  An absent-minded Benedikt answered, ‘Ah, yes! Yes indeed. That they most surely have.’

  ****

  In an impressive nobleman’s residence in Trondheim, Charlotte Meiden lay awake for the fifth night in succession. It had only been in the hour or two before dawn that she had succeeded in getting some troubled and fitful sleep.

  Her heart was as heavy as a stone; her eyes wide and dry. Her empty gaze took in the room, which she kept constantly lit by a single candle because, of late, she had become so afraid of the dark. Her cherished old pieces of furniture were still there, but she no longer noticed them. The sideboard was the work of a French cabinet-maker, the armchairs from Spain always reminded her of the Inquisition, and there were the most beautiful tapestries. Yet none of these seemed to matter any more.

  Confused, her thoughts were of the spring, when the air would be warmer. Spring would soon arrive – after Christmas season – and everything would be much better. Nobody would be cold any more.

  Her parents were deeply troubled. They no longer understood her or her irritable manner. Her refusal to travel outside the town to visit friends and relatives on the estate and get some fresh country air left them at a loss. Charlotte’s uncontrollable outbursts when her older sister came to visit, bringing her young offspring, could not be explained. The children seemed to upset her beyond measure and she would lock herself in her room, refusing to come out as long as they were there.

  How had she become so wayward, she who grew up so cheerful and full of life? Their youngest daughter had always been light-hearted, almost frivolous at times – perhaps sometimes even superficial – but she had great charm and was blessed with a quick wit. Being in Charlotte’s company had always lifted the spirits, even though she may not have been graced with the best of looks.

  Now, though? It should be said that she had not been her usual self for quite some while – more than six months, certainly. She had seemed strange and overwrought. Now she was simply impossible!

  Charlotte stared at the lightening shape of the window. She could feel everythin
g continuing to build up within her and threatening to burst forth, no matter how much she tried to withstand it.

  ‘If only I had gone out again that same night.’ This was the thought that kept creeping up on her, burrowing inside her, and she was helpless against it. ‘Or the morning after … you can’t get out at night … or the next evening … or the morning after that. I nearly did once! Put it off, though – afraid, indecisive, uncertain – perhaps things would have been all right then. Now it’s too late!’

  Oh, dear God! The thought kept returning, no matter how she tried to suppress it.

  ‘Too late! Too late! Too late!’

  She took a deep breath and tensed every muscle in her body, as she lay trying to fight the rising hysteria, but the tide of emotion could not be stopped – it had been held back for too long. Thirteen days had passed. Nobody on earth could put up with this torment for thirteen days!

  In her mind she saw the tiny bundle beneath the pine tree, the covers soaking wet and starting to rot, and inside them … motionless, unmoving. No more cries – quite still!

  From deep within, a desperate tide began to engulf Charlotte, rising up to her throat. Now she screamed out her agony, her hopelessness and her despair – all the emotions that had slowly grown ever more powerful since she had set the baby down and walked away, thinking she was free. No – it had begun even before that – while she was still carrying the small life in her arms through the streets of the town.

  A completely uncontrolled fit of crying, heart-rending and unstoppable, racked her body. Her lady’s maid, filled with horror, a nightcap pulled over her plaited hair and with only a shawl covering her nightgown, rushed in. She had never heard anyone sobbing in such complete desperation.

  ‘Mistress Charlotte! What is it? What’s wrong?’

  The anguished crying would not stop. It could be heard throughout the house.

  ‘What shall I do?’ The maid was completely at a loss.

  ‘Shall I fetch Her Ladyship?’