Spellbound

by Margit Sandemo

  Silje looked terrified.

  He smiled, ‘For the most honourable of reasons, of course. I only want to make pleasant conversation with you. You’re so sensible.’

  No matter how she racked her brain later, she could not remember saying anything intelligent at that point. A jumble of mindless exclamations was all she could manage.

  ‘I won’t be able to come for some time. We are being hunted and must stay away. It’s a lonely life, believe me, but as soon as the soldiers start searching elsewhere, I’ll return.’

  The touch of his hand on her chin felt strange. No man had ever touched her like that. She had suffered several attempts of rape, of course but, because she had been determined to defend her virtue until the right man came along, she had reacted with spirit and was always left unscathed. Heming’s hand did not bring forth the burning excitement that another’s touch had done when it had held her foot – such a gentle strong hand – but that was different; he had been healing her. But why, oh why, should she think of that man right now? Heming was the one touching her, his wonderful blue eyes looking into hers, a melancholy, almost sad smile on his face. Poor boy, having to live on the run and so unhappy!

  ‘Of course you may come and visit me at Master Benedikt’s,’ she said in a throaty voice. ‘I shall ask them to prepare a wonderful meal in your honour.’

  ‘No – no!’ he whispered. ‘No one must know. There are traitors everywhere.’

  Then Benedikt began calling from below in the nave, so they made their way back down the steps.

  ‘I thought you’d started to grow roots up there, Silje,’ said the painter, giving her an inquisitive look.

  Her answer was a beaming, deeply embarrassed grin, which seemed to depress him.

  ‘You look like a cat that got the cream,’ he said bitterly

  Silje sniffed back a tear.

  ‘Now you’re being unkind, Master Benedikt!’

  The two men melted away from the church to pursue their lawless exploits, leaving the painters to return to their work.

  Suddenly Benedikt said,’ You have many fine qualities, Silje, but you seem to lack a sense of humour.’

  She thought about this. ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ she admitted. ‘I used to enjoy a joke. I’d see the funny side of almost everything. But it was only a few weeks ago that I lost all my loved ones, so I find it hard to laugh and my sense of humour has died.’

  ‘Of course, my dear girl,’ he said, regret in his voice. ‘I didn’t think of that. It must seem as though I only think of my own sorrow. Happiness will return to you, you’ll see. But – well, you need to be a little careful when it comes to that young man.’

  ‘I cannot be sure,’ she answered, ‘but I don’t think he’s as bad as people say. Maybe he’s just unhappy. He seems gentle and pleasant, and very understanding.’

  ‘Yes,’ sighed Benedikt. ‘That’s exactly why you should be careful.’

  ****

  The work at the church came to an end and Silje returned to her chores on the farm. But she did so reluctantly.

  There are those who believe that people have three special powers within themselves: the power to create, the power to preserve and the power to destroy. There are those people who are the perfect embodiment of one of these powers and there are professions that also use only one of them. The work of the housewife is one that embodies preserving and maintaining things as they are. Poor Silje had almost none of this excellent quality. Naturally she carried out all her tasks, dutifully and properly, but she felt nothing for the work. She had tasted the thrill of creating as an artist and knew that was where her future lay. Nothing else would do. She was not a great artist, but the fire was there, the same fire that had tormented and inspired artists since the dawn of time.

  Because she was unhappy doing the chores around the farm, she tended to demand even more of herself. She hated seeing a beautifully prepared table reduced to waste after a few minutes’ eating, or an elegantly decorated dessert just disappear. She loathed the sight of the scrubbed kitchen sideboard, weighed down with pots and pans yet again and knowing all the time that this would happen over and over and over. Continually repeating the same kind of work in the house, the barns and the stables tormented her more than she dared to say. A creative person will usually do something once only and then never again. Repetition takes away some of the power, the driving force. Baking a cake or knitting a colourful garment every now and then was not enough, yet these were almost the only creative works any housewife was allowed to do.

  Silje knew that she would have to force herself to do her daily chores. If she relaxed for a moment, she would soon stop tidying and cleaning, downhearted because she would be doing it all over again in no time at all. She could easily become trapped in daydreams once more and she didn’t want to let that happen here, with these warm-hearted people. She remembered the many times she had been called lazy – and that was how most people regarded the creative artists and dreamers of the world.

  Benedikt, though, had understood her.

  ‘You have an artist’s blood in your veins, Silje’, he said one day, ‘even though I doubt that painting is your forte and that your strengths lie elsewhere. You just haven’t found your path yet. It’s unfortunate that you were born a girl, because there will be little opportunity for you ever to do so.’

  Silently she railed at this. It would have been more unfortunate to be born a boy. Young girls’ dreams, like her dream of Heming, were far too sweet to be missed.

  Benedikt continued, ‘You’ll have to marry money and have lots of servants, and then you can create as much art as you like – either in secret or for the world to see, it doesn’t matter. Yes, a good marriage is the best you can hope for.’

  As soon as he had uttered these words, a sadness about the reality of what he had advised came over him.

  Silje had smiled, saying that she doubted that she would find a wealthy husband. However, she had promised him that she would do her share of the work, so long as she was with them at the farm.

  There was one good thing about being there all day – she could spend far more time with Sol and Dag. They all took turns with the children and it was her job to look after them from time to time, while the others were busy with their own work. She would do small jobs around the house as well, when they did not need her full attention.

  She was beginning to understand Sol’s unusual way of talking a little better – she was learning new words all the time and speaking more clearly. But the girl was as impetuous and unruly as any wild animal. Her green eyes flashed mischievously and she could be as stubborn as a mule when she set her mind to it. Sometimes, too, she would get a faraway look in her eyes that frightened Silje. What was the girl thinking then? What was it she could see?

  Dag was growing fast; his little body still swaddled tightly every morning by Grete, as was the fashion. Later in the day, Silje would loosen his clothes and then he would stop crying so much. His hair was blond, but he was still too young to show his own personality. Silje loved this young infant she had found abandoned in the forest on that strange night not so long ago.

  The routine and pace of life was the same, day after day. Now it was winter. Folk stayed in bed until five o’clock in the morning before rising to rake the fire in the hearth back to life, finding their way around with the light from a taper, held firmly between the teeth. Then followed a breakfast of bread and ale, sometimes with some salmon or salted herring. By about ten, the work in the barn and stables would be completed and they ate the midday meal. Hard work continued for the rest of the day until four or five o’clock when they sat down to the evening meal. They were all in their beds by nine.

  ****

  The winter days wore on. When the time came for the slaughter of animals in preparation for Christmas season, Silje escaped to the forest – she could not face being present when that happened. It would mean the end for many of those animals she had cared for fondly and had come to know. It
was all too much, so she took Sol with her and wandered unhappily about over the bare frozen forest floor each day until the difficult time had passed and they could return, safe but sad.

  On one occasion, while making her way between the snow-covered pines, she had stopped – suddenly a little uneasy Sol looked up at her, questioning. They were in the heights above Benedikt’s farm, in an area they had not explored before. Silje stood looking around, unmoving, for a considerable time, and then carried on walking.

  ‘It was nothing,’ she said quietly.

  There was something, though. She couldn’t say what it was. A sound – a feeling that someone was close by – her own imagination, perhaps? Probably just an elk. She knew that there were no predatory animals in the area this winter, otherwise she would never have dared venture out with the little girl.

  Benedikt was away for several days at a time, staying in a distant parish. He drank much more than before and no longer seemed as happy.

  ‘I wish you could be with me, Silje, he told her on one occasion, ‘We had great fun, didn’t we?’

  ‘Yes, it was incredible.’ she agreed.

  ‘But in the church I’m now working on, it’s not possible. I’m staying in a terrible little hovel, and you could never share it with me.’

  Of course, she understood.

  Benedikt let out a sigh that came from the very depths of his soul.

  Another evening he came to her room, very drunk and in a philosophical frame of mind. Although she had gone to bed, knowing who it was, she had let him in. He was the master of the house, her father figure and a completely unthreatening example of humanity. Besides, she thought he might want to discuss something important with her.

  She soon realised that she had done herself no favours. After endless drunken ramblings, which she tried her best to answer while still sitting in her bed, he became emotional and sentimental.

  ‘I’m a lonely man, Silje. Lonely an’ old. I need your youthful warmth to comfort me. We undershtand eash oth’r, don’ we?’

  He sat on the edge of her bed, his face coming nearer to hers. He was close enough for her to see his hazy unfocused eyes and every pore in his leathery skin in the warm light of the fire. He dribbled slightly as he spoke.

  ‘Yes, of course we do,’ she muttered. Her knees were pulled up to her chest; her hands clasped round them under the bedcover. ‘But perhaps it’s best that you ...’

  ‘You are a wonderful woman, Silje! I could see tha’ from the shtart in th’ church, when you shtood painting. D’ya wan’ a drink? S’pose not I saw the shape of your breasts – I keep an eye on sush thin’s, did y’ know that? I can shtill shpot a boot’full woman, an’ I knew I weren’t all old an’ wore out. My breeches can still ge’ too tight! Silje!’

  ‘I’m very sorry, Master Benedikt, but we should not wake the girl and I must be up early in the morning again. Maybe it would be better for us to talk about this then.’

  An’ so I shaid to mysel’ tha’ Silje would be kind t’ poor ole man.’

  His hand groped for the edge of the bedcover to get under it, but he slid forward and almost fell to the floor. Silje leapt up, feeling very uncomfortable, and led the proud old painter to the door, his hat dangling at a rakish angle somewhere behind one ear.

  ‘Don’t forget that we must talk some more about this tomorrow, Master Benedikt. If people see you visiting me this late they may talk. I’m sure I don’t want to lose my reputation and I wouldn’t want yours to suffer either.’

  Benedikt giggled softly. He was a happy soul, not one of those who become belligerent when they are drunk. Meekly, he allowed himself to be shown outside and she shut the door noisily after him.

  Silje stood for a while, shocked, with her back against the door, until she heard the sound of his muttering move away and the door to his painting shed finally closed.

  The next day he had completely forgotten the whole incident – and he argued loudly with Grete about the presence of footprints in the snow outside his door. Grete assured him that they were his own.

  ‘Oh, yes! I suppose I’ve been out running errands,’ he mumbled. ‘That’s the trouble with taking a glass or two. What goes in must come out again, at the most inconvenient times!’

  Silje breathed a deep sigh of relief.

  Chapter 6

  The cold dry air of winter had finished off the plague. It needed moisture, warmth and decay to thrive. They heard of an occasional case, but then it disappeared, like the morning mist.

  The mountains beyond the farm still had the same strange thrilling hold on Silje, but fear was no longer her overwhelming emotion. Without her knowing it, they had become linked in her mind to one certain person and now, whenever she looked up at them, coy and feeling guilty, she moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue and her heart began to beat faster.

  She had no more dreams, strange or otherwise, than anybody else. She had forgotten them almost as soon as she awoke. But there was one forbidden dream, much like that about the spirits from beyond, that did return. It was different, but no less shameful for that, and she awoke from it lying on her back and powerless just as before.

  She could not recall how it began, only that she stood between soldiers and bailiffs with weapons drawn. The headsman and his helper were there too. She stood accused, but did not know the charge – only that everyone was raging at her. In desperation, to quench their hatred, she did the only thing she could think of – she started to undress, quickly, garment after garment. In response, they all lowered their weapons, stood and stared at her, expectant, with distorted sweaty faces.

  But the bailiff said, ‘That will not help you. You are still going to die.’

  At that moment, almost as one, the mass of people moved aside and the man in the wolf-skin stood there. Everyone made way for him. Bulls’ horns grew from the shaggy hair on his head, his face shone and his eyes burned like fire, even though he tried to hide his lust by half-facing away from her.

  Slowly he turned back to look at her nakedness, stretched out his hand towards her and then scooped her up and carried her with him to a hilltop. There, where all could see, he caressed every part of her body – but all she wanted was for him to remove the wolf-skin cape.

  He turned her around and stood behind her, exactly like the devil in the church painting, and as everybody looked on, he laid his hands across her breasts. The knowledge that everyone could see this filled her with languid coarse excitement. Yet somehow she knew this was only a dream, and she could abandon herself to her desires, unburdened and free.

  She felt his long firm tongue glide slowly over her, licking her neck, her shoulder, her cheek. He turned her round to face him and went down on his knees in front of her, letting his tongue flow over the contours of her thighs, until they were almost paralysed with an overwhelming fiery sensation.

  And then she woke – panting quietly, her lips barely parted – her mind in turmoil, moaning with desire and shame, full of despair that she could not hold back the passion, the craving, that raged inside her.

  ****

  As the days passed, Benedikt went to great lengths to bring home a couple of young men from nearby farms because, he said, she needed to meet people of her own age and not spend so much time thinking of Heming. When she muttered that she didn’t think of him at all, Benedikt simply laughed and told her that he had seen that pining, brooding look in her eyes again and she should meet nice normal boys.

  The boys were indeed nice. Young and awkward, they found it difficult to make conversation, and each tried to outdo the other in polite behaviour. They only succeeded in being clumsy, treading on each other’s feet and dropping things. Eventually, when one of them took his courage in both hands and whispered that he would like to pay her a night visit next Saturday, she was taken aback. She knew that such visits were common in rural areas, of course, and that she would have to be fully clothed. In his turn the boy was allowed to lie on her bed beside her, also fully clothed except for his
shoes.

  Although it was all done properly and decently, Silje, had never had a ‘night-suitor’ before, and felt neither inclined nor ready to receive one. So she signalled to Benedikt for help and, with great understanding, he ushered the boys out, admitting that it had not been a successful experiment.

  Then Heming arrived. He came one day while Benedikt was away and the farmhand had taken Grete and Marie in the trap to visit friends. They had asked Silje if they might take the children, their pride, and she had agreed.

  The soft knock at the door made her jump, but on hearing that he was there, she opened it at once.

  ‘Welcome. Come in, come in!’ she said, her face lighting up. He bent forward slightly and stepped through the low doorway.

  ‘What a nice room!’ He sounded impressed. ‘Heather, growing in a pot. It’s so inviting and homely. Did you weave that rug? And you’ve done some wood carving as well? You really do have artistic talent, Silje.’

  She smiled, blushing. To call that little woven square a rug was exaggerating, she thought, and although she had decorated everywhere she could, it was no more than anyone else would have done.

  ‘Will you not sit? The farmhand will be returning soon, so we will be chaperoned. I don’t want to deceive Master Benedikt.’

  ‘Unfortunately I cannot stay for long, Silje my little one, so your honour will be spared – this time at least! I’ll be back in a few days, though.’ He laughed lightly. ‘No, I spoke in jest – I am a gentleman and I did not mean that. But I am very thirsty and would be grateful if you could offer me some ale.’

  ‘I shall fetch some at once,’ she said eagerly, and ran to the main house as though she had wings on her feet, returning with a brimming quart-pot.

  He was sitting at the table and she saw that he was elegantly dressed this time. Was he going to visit some of his more distinguished friends, perhaps? Of one thing she was sure: Heming was not of ignoble birth.