Spellbound

by Margit Sandemo

  ‘I don’t know,’ she replied, ‘but I want to know who he is. I am tired of vague answers and frightened looks.’

  ‘You should not judge folk for their fear! Do you really want to know the name of your terrifying guardian?’

  ‘Yes – for heaven’s sake! Yes!’

  ‘His name,’ said Benedikt in a low voice, ‘is Tengel – Tengel of the Ice People!’

  Chapter 7

  Tengel of the Ice People? Icy tendrils of fear snaked down Silje’s spine and horror began to creep through her veins. Her mind was filled with memories of all the past remarks and warnings.

  ’Tengel has no tomb.’

  ’He is whatever age he chooses to be.’

  ’He seldom allows himself to be seen.’

  ’He can manifest himself at will.’

  ’He sold his soul to Satan.’

  ‘No!’ she gasped. ‘No – it is not possible!’

  ‘Of course he is not the old Tengel,’ Benedikt said quickly, chuckling, trying to reassure her. ‘Only superstitious fools still think like that.’

  Silje said nothing. She was sure she had detected a tremble of uncertainty in Benedikt’s voice. The farmhand, scared almost out of his wits by the bold words of his master, also raised his voice in protest.

  ‘In that case everyone is a fool, Master Benedikt. You know full well that creature has powers that are … unnatural.’

  Silje recalled how the man would always come to her aid when she needed it; how he could sense her mood – whether she was down or sad or angry. He was obviously very perceptive. Then there were his powers of healing, and the heat from his hands. What about the first time she had met him? She was exhausted and ready to die, not thinking clearly, and then suddenly she had been able to perform so well in front of the bailiff’s soldiers, managing the almost unimaginable task of freeing the prisoner with such ease. Later, when the man in the wolf-skin had left her, her willpower had died like a spent candle. Perhaps it had not been her willpower at all. Above everything, however, were those unbelievably vivid dreams of him as a spirit from beyond, from the Land of Shadows.

  Silje let out a small cry and hurried away. She stumbled into her room and threw herself headlong onto the bed, pulling the covers completely over her head and body. She still lay there, curled up like a frightened mouse, when Benedikt and the lad came in.

  ‘Silje,’ pleaded the painter, ‘you must understand that it is not Tengel himself. It is just one of his descendants.’

  To herself she said, ‘No, please don’t call him that.’ She felt the ache of cramps in her stomach. Out loud she demanded, ‘Where does he live then?’ but her voice was muffled by the covers.

  Benedikt shrugged. ‘No one knows. He just turns up among humans and then disappears again – never leaves a trace.’

  She let out a long wail, not wanting to hear more. Benedikt believes he is the old Tengel, she thought to herself. No matter what he says, just like everyone else, he does believe it. He had said ‘among humans’ – how could it be clearer?

  ‘Is he not with the rebels?’ she asked quickly, almost defensively, as she peeped out from under the covers.

  ‘I wonder about that. I don’t know,’ replied Benedikt.

  ‘But the night I met him, he rescued Heming!’

  ‘I have never been able to find out how he came to be associated with him.’

  ‘Well, who is Heming, anyway?’ she asked, relieved to be talking about someone else.

  Benedikt and the lad exchanged searching glances.

  ‘We really don’t know,’ said Benedikt. ‘He arrived here in Trondelag about two years ago; since then he has been playing fast and loose amongst the womenfolk.’

  This observation left her cold. She had no feelings left for Heming now. He was nothing more than an extraordinarily handsome face. But when all was said and done, he had never been more than that to her.

  ‘Ah, I can see you’ve decided to forget him,’ Benedikt continued. ‘That’s good. Young maidens often confuse admiration with falling in love. They fall for the good looks, only to learn with age that the beauty of the one they hold dear grows out of their love for him, and not the other way about.’

  He paused for a moment then returned to the subject in hand. ‘Heming lived for some time with a farmer in this parish until he became involved with the rebels. Since then he has had no fixed dwelling. He is no more than an adventurer, completely lacking in character, if you ask me. I don’t think that he believes in the rebel cause particularly – he simply uses it as a way to make himself a hero. He is probably more hindrance than help to the others. The next time you meet, you will have to ask him yourself where he lives.’

  ‘No, thank you – I will have no more to do with him. He’s a thief!’

  Benedikt looked satisfied.

  From that day onwards Silje knew no peace. She was continually preoccupied with the mystery surrounding Tengel, both by day and night. She woke from nightmares, screaming. No matter how hard she tried to force herself to think rationally, she did not always succeed and disquiet grew within her. With mixed feelings of dread and secret longing, she looked towards the ridge, sometimes able to see smoke from a fire, while at other times it looked cold, quiet and dead. At those times she feared that he had left and she would never see him again. Then the wisps of smoke returned and she would grow angry, wishing he would disappear from her life forever, or better still, that she had never met him.

  Christmas season was nearly upon them; the quiet sad days passing swiftly. No one felt the usual happiness or the urge to celebrate this year. Christmas was the time for sharing with one’s family and during the past year they each had lost someone dear to them. Everyone felt painful reminders of loved ones who had gone. Each person tried to hide these feelings from the others and even from themselves. Family gatherings of other Christmases came to mind – with all the friendliness and cheerfulness around the table, laid for a feast, and smiling faces that were no more.

  Benedikt, Silje and the others all did their chores in silence, walking disconsolately among the buildings, often with tears in their eyes. Had it not been for Sol, then they would not have made any preparations for Christmas at all.

  Then, three days before Christmas, their lives were suddenly turned upside down, and it was only at that moment that they realised fully what a wonderful time they had been having that winter, sharing each other’s company.

  A coach drew up in front of the steps and an imperious woman alighted, her ample bosom announcing to the world, ‘I am here!’ followed by a jutting chin that reinforced the message. She was dressed in the latest fashion, with a ruffed collar, knitted bonnet and a dress sporting puffed sleeves and pleated skirts. She was followed by a boy, about fifteen years old, who looked surly and spiteful.

  ‘Oh damnation!’ muttered Benedikt. ‘My nephew’s widow! What in the fires of hell is she doing here?’

  Yet one more person appeared. This time it was a young girl, who seemed to be carrying life’s woes with her. Silje thought that she may have good cause, as fat as she was.

  ‘Abelone!’ Benedikt called a greeting to his relative. ‘What a surprise. What brings you here?’

  ‘My dear Benedikt!’ said the dominating woman. ‘I heard news of your tragedy – that your dear brother and all his family were taken by the plague. I just knew that it was my duty to come and offer my support, now that we only have each other. You and me – and my dear children.’

  ‘There must be a food shortage in Trondheim,’ he muttered. Then in a normal tone added, ‘You know that you’re welcome to celebrate Christmas here with us.’ But the words sounded as though he had just rinsed out his mouth with vinegar.

  ‘Christmas?’ Abelone laughed. ‘My children need country air and you need a woman to run your household. My dear man, we have decided to move in with you. It is my duty to take care of you. You are getting old now and should be spending your last days in peace and quiet.’

  Benedi
kt was speechless – appalled and terrified. In silence, he watched as they began to climb the steps to the grand house.

  ‘Good day, Grete. Good day, Marie,’ said Abelone graciously, and then nodded curtly at the farmhand.

  ‘And who is this little girl?’

  Sol hid at once behind Marie’s skirts.

  ‘This is Sol,’ said Benedikt proudly. And this is Silje. ‘They and little Dag live here with us now.’

  Abelone’s eyes slowly turned to ice. ‘Are they family?’

  ‘No, but they are as dear to us as if they were.’

  The farm lad and the two old sisters nodded their agreement solemnly.

  ‘Is that so?’ Abelone’s reply was terse. ‘We’ll see about that!’

  Life changed from then on.

  Abelone would not hear of a quiet undisturbed Christmas.

  ‘The dead are gone and shall not cast a shadow of discontent over this season,’ was her attitude. She was officious and bossy towards the servants, and especially to Silje, for whom she had an instinctive hatred. She would not allow Dag in the house and Sol was made to keep out of her sight. Benedikt was furious and drank and swore more than ever.

  Abelone always had a bombastic answer ready for anything.

  ‘As you know, my son is the only heir to this farm,’ she would say. ‘Things will need a shake up around here. He cannot be allowed to inherit property that has gone to ruin – including the workers and servants!’

  ‘I’m telling you, Abelone,’ said Benedikt forcefully, ‘Silje and the children are here as my guests. As long as I’m alive, they shall continue to live here. Nothing more is to be said on the subject!’

  A dejected mood stifled the farm – there seemed no chance of happiness now. On that Christmas Eve morning Silje went and stared up at the ridge, as she had done so many times before. A thin wisp of smoke was rising through the snow-laden trees and she gazed at it wondering – would she dare? She had often wanted to go up there, but fear and a regard for etiquette had restrained her. Now, though, she felt compelled to go. A force within her urged her on.

  Abelone and her children were upstairs rummaging through the dead family’s clothing, when Silje entered the kitchen where ‘her’ people were sitting, looking sad and downhearted.

  ‘May I go and visit someone?’ she asked cautiously ‘I should like to take some food to someone, in the spirit of the season.’

  They all looked at her with surprise. They knew there were many poor hungry souls in the parish, but none that Silje was acquainted with. Nonetheless, she was allowed to go and Grete and Marie prepared a well-filled basket, with all the best Christmas foods, sausage, ham, fish, buns and apples. A small flask of Benedikt’s home-made spirit, brennevin, found its way in as well.

  At that moment Abelone came in and walked straight up to the table. ‘What is going on here?’ she demanded.

  Grete tried to explain. ‘Silje is going to visit.’

  Abelone began to remove things from the basket.

  ‘Nothing leaves this farm, nothing! We have only enough for ourselves. And this Silje has no right ...’

  Although, even at this early hour, he was quite drunk, Benedikt rose to his feet with an ancient majesty ‘We have more than enough! We have given this food to Silje and you would do well not to try my patience. I can easily disinherit that worthless progeny of yours!’

  Abelone gasped indignantly, ‘You cannot do that!’

  ‘No? There are ways and means.’

  Abelone was not a fool and she well understood what he was implying. The look that she gave Silje was so filled with hatred that even Benedikt was taken aback. She left the basket without a word and stamped back upstairs. A door slammed and everyone knew that they had not heard the last of the matter.

  ‘You go, Silje,’ the old painter said gently. ‘Nothing will harm you or the children – that I swear.’

  With a tender smile, she thanked them all and left. It was a clear day and, although there was no bright sunshine, the snow reflected the light from the indigo-blue sky, dotted with clouds. She had to guess where the path to the ridge lay, because the last time she had been there she had merely chanced upon it while wandering aimlessly. The snow was not very deep, barely to her ankles, and she was wearing boots with long leather leggings. As she had hoped, she soon reached the narrow forest path, and her progress became much easier.

  There were no tracks on the path, but, as it had snowed two nights earlier, this meant little. She climbed steadily for half an hour, then found she was becoming weary from the constant uphill trek and stopped to catch her breath. The village lay below her – she could see the church, the farm lad’s salmon stream and Benedikt’s farm. She could even see Marie hurrying to the barn.

  Silje was standing directly opposite the Land of Shadows now and she thought how different it looked from up here. She had been told that the mountains did have a name. Local people called the jagged peaks the ‘Barren Mountains’, and it was a fitting description.

  She turned to carry on up the path, then let out a startled cry. She had almost bumped into him, as he stood leaning against the trunk of a large pine. The snow had muffled the sound of his approaching footsteps. She looked up at him, fear in her eyes, her heart pounding. This was almost the same as when they had first met. He seemed just as noble, as strange and feral – his eyes still glowed, even in the bright daylight, but this time they held a warning. This was the fearful creature she had dreamt about with such intimacy! Had she lost her mind completely? Silje hid the fear that was coursing through her body. If he were flesh and blood, then he would need food and company.

  Somewhat confused, she offered him the basket. ‘I have some food for you, sire. It is Christmas and ... Glad Tidings,’ she added hurriedly.

  He reached forward to take the basket from her.

  ‘You should not have come here, Silje,’ he said tersely, his expression unyielding and reproach shining in his eyes.

  At once she turned on her heel to go.

  ‘All right. It doesn’t really matter. I’ve done what I came to do,’ she said in a subdued tone.

  He looked at her, his expression unfathomable, then grasped her arm tightly.

  ‘Well, you’re here now and you look frozen. I must make sure that you get yourself warm. Follow me,’ he said curtly, gesturing for her to carry on up the path towards his home.

  They walked on in silence, retracing the footprints he had left when walking down the path. She suddenly wondered what would have happened if those tracks had not been there. In truth she would probably have turned and run, screaming, back to the village. Still, she did not dare look at him. It was frightening, humiliating and degrading that she should still be attracted to him, that her chest tightened and she found it hard to breathe whenever his arm rubbed against hers. It hurt that he was so angry with her for coming there.

  ‘Do you have visitors?’ he asked.

  At least he was still talking to her.

  ‘Yes,’ she sighed, ‘things are not good.’

  As he obviously expected to hear more, she babbled on breathlessly about Abelone and her children and all the changes on the farm. Nor did she did forget to tell him about the argument in the kitchen earlier that day.

  ‘What did you think Benedikt meant when he said he would disinherit Abelone’s children? I don’t understand.’ he asked impatiently ‘Has he thought to marry you?’

  She gasped in surprise, ‘Oh, no! I’m sure he didn’t mean that!’

  ‘Well it sounds like it. How else could he disinherit Abelone’s children?’

  Silje thought about this.

  ‘He did come to my room one evening and … well, he talked a lot of rubbish. But he was drunk and I gave it no heed. I got him to leave before he had made a fool of himself. It may be that he has some vague plan, I suppose.’

  Her companion was quiet for a long time. She cast a furtive quick glance up at him. He had clenched his jaw so tightly that his lips had lost al
l colour.

  ‘You’ve changed, Silje. You are filled with anguish. Tell me what’s wrong.’

  She took a deep breath and blurted out, ‘I’ve found out your name. Your real name this time.’

  He said nothing for a moment. ‘And still you came?’

  He sounded almost aggressive and Silje wanted to disappear into the ground.

  ‘You have never done me harm,’ she said in a subdued voice, ‘and besides, you also said that you needed me.’

  ‘Did I? That was reckless of me. Almost as reckless as you coming here.’

  Silje wondered what he meant, but didn’t dare ask. She was deeply hurt and disappointed, but put on a brave face and said, ‘Sire, now is the time for me to confide in you. Life has become very difficult on the farm and this thing ... with your name. I am confused and uncertain – completely at a loss. I must know more, sire, please.’

  ‘Perhaps that would be no bad thing. But first of all I think you should stop calling me ‘sire’. You know my name and also that I am no lord or nobleman.’

  They walked on through the silent forest until they came to a clearing where a small low cottage stood. The weathered timbers had turned grey from years of ravaging by the sun and the harsh winter weather. Attached to the cottage was an outhouse. Smoke was still rising from a simple skylight on the ridge of the roof.

  He opened the low door and, bowing her head, Silje went inside. The instant the door closed, a strange mood overcame them that she was unable to explain. Had he been more congenial, she would have called it an affinity or even intimacy. But he showed no sign of such feelings.

  It was a simple log cabin rather than a cottage, with the hearth in the middle of the beaten-earth floor, very like the one she had grown up in. She had only enjoyed the more up-to-date advantages of floorboards and glazed windows at Benedikt’s farm. Of course she did not count the manor house where her father had worked. That had been part of a social class so far above her as to be in a different world.

  Everything here held a certain familiarity. Against the log walls stood benches, rustic dressers and cupboards, and a small high-sided bunk. It was not an especially cosy home, but at least she wasn’t choking, because he had managed to arrange the fire so that the smoke collected in the rafters and went out through the skylight, which also happened to be the only opening by which daylight could enter. Its cover had been made from the caul, or foetal membrane, of some animal, stretched over a frame, which now stood slightly open. Under the roof, spanning the building, a rough-hewn beam supported a chain from which an iron cauldron was hanging.