Spellbound

by Margit Sandemo

  Silje had realised for some time that she had overreacted to Sol’s strange behaviour towards Abelone’s son on the day he had cut his hand. But his reaction had also been uncalled for. Of course, Sol had been angry with him, and when she was in such a mood, her eyes really could be frightening. The boy had been distracted and possibly scared by the hatred felt towards him, and the knife had slipped. How easy it was then to blame another! It was as simple as that – her outburst had been exaggerated.

  They had now left the parish behind them and were riding through the forest on their way to the next village. They had slowed the pace in order to spare the horses. It was still early in the day, and Tengel had told her they had a long way to travel and must arrive before nightfall.

  ‘There are wolves in the mountains,’ he added. ‘We will not be able to fend them off in darkness.’

  Silje tried to hide the anxiety his words had caused her. She knew full well where they were going, but was trying hard not to think about it. Subconsciously, though, the thoughts kept nagging at her. In a way, things had come full circle. All her fantasies and her nightmares had been a preparation for the time when something preordained would happen – and that time had arrived.

  ‘ls it really so dangerous for us to stay down here in the valley?’ she asked, trying hard to make Sol sit still.

  ‘It is now,’ he answered bitterly. ‘Your dealings with me have put you outside the law.’

  ‘Oh, what an evil woman,’ she grumbled. ‘Poor Master Benedikt and the others will have to put up with those awful people, perhaps for the rest of their lives.’ She hesitated for a moment, then continued, ‘You were right, you know. Master Benedikt did ask me to marry him. I thanked him, but said ‘no’. Perhaps I should have accepted his offer and we could have avoided all this upset.’

  ‘I fear a marriage would not have saved you now,’ said Tengel. ‘Think of all the wives of clergymen they have taken for witchcraft and sorcery! It did them no good, even when the priests vouched for them. Once you have been accused of being a witch, your fate is sealed.’ After a short pause he added cautiously, ‘Master Benedikt has asked me to return as soon as I can. He wants me to help him with his visitors.’

  ‘But isn’t it dangerous for you to be among humans?’ As soon as she had uttered the words she realised that she had fallen into the same trap as Benedikt once had. ‘Among humans’ – how insulting it sounded.

  He replied simply, ‘Yes, it is. But I’ve survived until now.’

  Silje reflected for a moment, then asked, ‘What sort of help does he want?’

  ‘Oh, he believes I have the power to destroy them.’

  ‘On this occasion I almost wish that you could,’ she said in a low voice.

  ‘No, I shan’t do anything like that. I have no desire to awaken any evil that may be lurking deep within me. But I will go back to him, not least because he was kind and took you in at my behest, although I know that he certainly has no regrets about that. They have all come to love you and the children greatly, you know that, don’t you, Silje?’

  ‘Yes, and it’s a very comforting thought. I want you to try to help them. They are all good kind-hearted people, all four of them, and they do not deserve this.’

  ‘I agree. They truly do not. It is hard to accept that evil should triumph so easily in this world.’

  This should have been the time for her to tell him about Sol and the signs of the powers she might have within her. Silje said nothing, however, certain in her own mind that she had exaggerated the whole episode.

  Tengel urged the horses along faster once again. They were leaving the forest and open countryside, dotted with farms, lay before them below the ridge. The direction of the valley had changed, and it was clear they were heading towards the foothills of the Barren Mountains – apparently one side of them could be climbed. A little further on Tengel turned off the road onto a farm track. Silje followed.

  ‘Wee-wee,’ said Sol.

  ‘What a time to choose,’ said Silje. ‘Tengel, can you help her down? I don’t want her to wet us both.’

  ‘Wait until we reach that stand of trees over there. We don’t want the whole parish to see us.’

  ‘I hope she can wait,’ muttered Silje.

  They made it to the trees without mishap. Tengel dismounted, helped Sol down and, as he put his strong hands around Silje’s waist, she looked steadfastly at the ground. She did not want to meet his gaze now, as she had done the first time he had helped her down. But the very nearness of him made her feel light-headed – overcome – and she had to fight the overwhelming urge to throw her arms around him to feel his warmth, her cheek pressing tightly against his.

  Was she under some kind of spell? Had he enchanted her? ‘Has he used his sorcery on you?’ wasn’t that what Master Benedikt had asked? Silje did not yet understand that affairs of the heart create their own magic.

  When Sol was ready to move on again, Tengel checked their packs with one hand, holding the sleeping Dag gently against his shoulder with the other. As he helped Silje back into the saddle, this time he could not look at her either. He can see it in me, she thought. He feels it, he knows …

  They rode off along the track and after a short while entered a very small farmyard that seemed all but deserted. To her surprise a man came out to greet them.

  ‘Hello, man!’ called Sol happily.

  ‘Hello, you little charmer!’ he called back with a grin.

  What a memory the girl has, thought Silje. It was the wagon-master who had taken them from the execution ground to Benedikt’s farm over three months earlier.

  ‘Yes!’ he said to Tengel, taking a sidelong look at the child, ‘she’s one of us right enough! She is the image of Sunniva.’

  So Tengel had spoken about Sol to others. He was probably quite proud of his little niece.

  ‘Are they coming with us – up to ...?’ asked the man.

  ‘Indeed they are – only death awaits them down here. Well, for Silje anyway.’

  ‘Fine, I’m ready. Everything is prepared.’

  Tengel told him about the bailiff’s soldiers, who would no doubt be on their heels before long.

  The man nodded, ‘My horses are well rested.’

  ‘I must stay behind,’ said Tengel, turning to face both Silje and the man. ‘I have to leave the mare at the bridge, as promised, but I am also sworn to bring Heming home. I know where he is, close by here in the valley, and this time he will be coming with me. I shall drag him by that mane of pretty blond hair, or tear him away from the arms of a woman if I have to! So you get going at once – I’ll follow you later.’

  ‘Please, please come with us,’ Silje begged anxiously.

  ‘Don’t stay, come with us now.’

  ‘I’ll soon catch up with you. Now go – hurryl’

  Her heart sank as they parted once again, but he had made up his mind. Soon their belongings were packed on the wagon and they were travelling up a hidden forest track.

  ‘He takes so many terrible risks,’ she complained to the wagoner.

  ‘Don’t worry about Tengel,’ he replied. ‘It is best we do not ask about some of the things he can do.’

  ‘No, I don’t believe you. People think ill of him, but he isn’t like that – really.’

  ‘My dear Mistress Silje,’ said the Wagoner turning to her, ‘how do you think he has survived down here for so long, taking chances the way he does?’

  ‘Do you mean that he ...?’

  ‘Look, I cannot say if he can make people see things or if he uses some other wizardry, but I do know that this is the first time he has stayed among humans for more than a few weeks.’

  He said ‘among humans’ as well, thought Silje, shaken.

  ‘Well, why does he put himself in such danger?’

  ‘I hadn’t expected that question from you, Mistress Silje,’ he mumbled and turned back to face the road.

  Dag began to cry loudly, shifting Silje’s attention to their present need
s. Whether he was hungry or needed a change, she wasn’t sure – probably both. She couldn’t do anything with him on the wagon. His milk was ice-cold and to undress him would be madness. All she could do was to hold him close to her cheek and rock him, until finally he stopped crying and slept. Bless him, she thought to herself.

  The horses pulling the wagon were powerful. The steep track twisted and turned, with a sheer drop on one side, and they were climbing all the while. Every time she looked down over the valley, the river and the houses appeared smaller and smaller, until finally they were no bigger than toy houses and the river just a rivulet running through them. Eventually they disappeared from view.

  Dag was warmly cradled in her arm, still sleeping, while Sol stood behind the driver’s seat, shouting encouragement to the horses. Silje held tightly to Sol’s leg in case she should fall. Occasionally she looked across at the window mosaic that was wedged against the side of the wagon. She had never possessed anything quite so beautiful and she wondered if she would ever have use for it. What sort of home would they live in? Whatever it might be, she would give the mosaic pride of place, hanging on a wall perhaps. But what if they all lived in wooden huts up there?

  She ran her fingers across the sketchbook Benedikt had given her. She could feel the woven binding along its spine. How kind of him to part with it! It would have cost a lot, in both time and money, to make. What neither she nor Benedikt knew, however, was that she held something in her hands at that moment which would become of the utmost importance, something that one day would help to solve the riddle of the Ice People – but, for now, it was no more than a few sheets of home-made parchment, bound together.

  She looked again at the pale, well-formed features of the little boy sleeping in her arms. His hair had grown and some wispy strands had escaped from under his fur hood. She wondered what his mother would have said if she had seen him like this, on his way to the realm of fear and cold – on his way to the Land of Shadows! She had frequently wondered about Dag’s mother. What would the woman have been feeling? Relief, perhaps? No – not that. Silje’s instinctive understanding of the human spirit answered her question. There was one small item that had persuaded her more than any other – a small wooden pot with a lid, filled with milk and carefully placed at the side of the abandoned baby. Surely this was the pathetic cry of a lone mother’s despair.

  Chapter 10

  A pensive Charlotte Meiden sat looking through her window at the run-down remains of Nidaros Cathedral. Since the fire of 1531, which had caused extensive damage, no one seemed to have made any effort to repair the enormous building. The country had suffered the effects of the Reformation, followed by famine and countless outbreaks of plague and there was little energy for any activity beyond sheer survival. Only some small parts of the cathedral were being used; most of it still lay in ruins. She could see a small stretch of the River Nid as well, circling its way around the town so delicately and thus making it nearly impossible for an enemy to overrun. There was only one way in – the fortified western gates.

  ‘Tell me, mother,’ she said absent-mindedly, ‘Whatever happened to the nuns’ convent at Bakke? Is it still there?’

  Taken aback, her mother looked up from her needlework. ‘The Benedictine Order? No, they will not be there now. All that sort of thing was swept away by the Reformation, was it not? Yet in truth, l cannot say.’

  ‘The Cistercians at Rein, then? Were they not also nuns?’

  ‘I cannot believe that they are still there either. Did the land not become part of a large manor estate?’

  Charlotte sighed. ‘What about back home in Denmark?’ she asked.

  ‘I really do not know. But why such questions? This is a strange conversation and no mistake.’

  ‘I am thinking of becoming a nun.’

  ‘You! Have you gone mad? Why, you are not even of the Catholic faith!’

  ‘Why should that matter? I shall convert.’

  ‘No – whatever next! I’m sorry, Charlotte, but I will not allow such a thing. What would people say? And what of your father? Now listen, we are invited to attend the County Lieutenant’s seasonal ball this Saturday. That will lift your spirits and soon you’ll forget these silly notions. I am told there will be some agreeable young noblemen from Denmark present as well. There is, as we know, little to choose from hereabouts!’

  Charlotte got up and, impatiently, without a word, left the room, watched by her anxious mother. She wondered whether it was nothing more than religious confusion and contemplation that had been troubling her daughter of late. But a Catholic convent! Well that was impossible, of course. If only they could get her married. Oh, why had they had not been blessed with a pretty child? The protruding nose – an inheritance from a long line of Danish aristocracy, including the royal family, of course – this was Charlotte’s most unattractive feature, poor girl. There could be no doubt that she would be a problem.

  Back in her room, Charlotte threw herself on her bed. She was well aware that she was no beauty. As a young girl she had been betrothed to the son of a count in Denmark, but after the first formal meeting, arranged at a ball, he had made a succession of lame excuses and stayed away. Eventually this breached the contract agreed between the parents and he had quickly found himself a bride, before anyone had a chance to protest. At the time she had felt terribly humiliated and shamed by the episode, but eventually she banished all thought of it from memory, as if it had never happened.

  When a second charming young Dane had courted her, about a year ago, she had been easy prey for his attentive advances, deprived as she had been of male admiration. She had learnt to hide her natural shyness behind a hectic social facade, with glittering smiles and light-hearted conversation – not allowing anyone to see how ugly and clumsy she felt inside. The young man was an accomplished seducer and Charlotte’s virtue proved no match for him. Afterwards, in a rush of euphoria, she had floated on air for days, until news reached her that he was already married – followed soon afterwards by the crushing discovery that she was expecting a child.

  None of this mattered to her any longer, but she did still yearn to turn back the clock and hold the child in her arms once more. This was the constant unremitting notion that tormented her. Again and again panic tore at her when she thought of her baby, lying helpless and uncomprehending, abandoned in the forest, left for days without food or human affection.

  Enough! She turned and buried her face in the pillow lf only she had somebody to talk to. Someone to whom she could unburden her woes – her pastor perhaps? No, he would not understand – merely judge her. Everyone would judge and condemn her. But deep down, was that not what she really wanted? Someone to condemn her, force her to her knees, whip her and beat her. That would never bring the infant back, of course – and yet another thought troubled her. The child was unchristened, cursed. She had left a myling in the forest. Should she go back there and read a prayer? No, never, never would she visit that place again! Could she ask the pastor? She could not bring herself to do that either. Was it cowardice – fear of what he might find out there? She was irredeemable, doomed. What sort of life would she have now?

  ****

  At that moment the baby son Charlotte Meiden had abandoned so rashly was sleeping, snug in Silje’s arms, as they travelled higher into the Barren Mountains. The track was ever steeper and Sol had begun to tire of the constant jolting of the wagon. She was hungry too. Silje brought out the bag of food she had been given and handed the girl two small bread baps.

  ‘Give one to our driver, as well,’ she asked her.

  ‘Here, man,’ said Sol eagerly

  With great aplomb, the driver took the roll.

  ‘Why, thank you so much!’ he said and then asked, ‘would you like to sit up here with me for a while?’

  Sol didn’t need to be asked twice. She has a way with men, thought Silje, amused. The farmhand had been her favourite, and now it was the turn of the wagon-driver. Sol, one hand on the reins, sa
t safely beside the driver, looking like a round bundle, parcelled up by Grete in layer upon layer of winter clothes. From time to time she turned to make sure that Silje was witnessing her achievements.

  The landscape through which they passed was wild and frightening. They had left the view of the valley far behind and were now travelling between sheer black cliffs, where snow lay packed in the crevices. The ‘track’ had petered out long since, but the wagoner clearly knew where they were headed. Silje was worried by the deep ruts they were leaving in the snow – they would be easy to follow.

  The wagon made its steady way alongside a large river, where it cut through the mountain. The high sides of the pass had shielded it from the worst of the snow, making lighter work for the horses, as the heavy wheels turned more easily. However, Silje was only too aware that the snow would be deeper the higher they climbed – and how high would that be in the end?

  Wherever she looked lay a dismal wilderness. The wind whined as it blew relentlessly through the mountain pass, following the path of the river. The winter ice had created hideous shapes, which transformed and slowed the rushing torrent. They sucked and spurted the water from deep holes and blew cascades that froze in the air. In places the cutting was so narrow that it was like driving through the packed streets of Trondheim, with high dark buildings on either side. Here, though, there was not the slightest sign of human life, of any habitation – only the close menacing presence of the river. Now and then, as they bumped over the rugged surface or crept too close to the water’s edge, she could not help a sudden rush of fear and tightened her hold on Dag. She noticed that the horses were also getting nervous.

  Then, quite without warning, they were out of the pass and wide-open countryside lay before them. They had left the shelter of the mountains behind and now the wind buffeted them even more strongly. Freezing cold, it blew the snow into hard-packed drifts. Silje hurriedly pulled out a quilted blanket to warm the three of them, although Sol was reluctant to climb down from the driving seat to get beneath the covers. They huddled together under a small canopy, draped over them, Silje with one arm around Sol and the other holding Dag. She had seen to it that the driver was as warm as he could be in his exposed position up front. She pulled her shawl more tightly round her and wished that she had thicker mittens.