Spellbound

by Margit Sandemo

  ‘Are we going to be all right in this weather?’ she shouted to the driver as he sat with a large frozen dewdrop forming under his nose.

  ‘This is good,’ he shouted back, turning away from the wind. ‘The snow will cover our tracks.’

  She could not argue with that. Shortly afterwards he halted the wagon and jumped down.

  ‘Have to put the runners on,’ he yelled, while the scarf he had wound round his cap flapped about his ears. ‘The snow is too deep. The wheels are cutting through it.’

  Put on runners? What did that mean, wondered Silje.

  She watched as he locked the wheels with leather straps and, from the rear of the wagon, pulled out two long runners that had lain along the sides.

  ‘Let me help you,’ she called, jumping down into the snow. ‘No, Sol, not you. The snow’s too deep for you here.’

  As the driver lifted the wagon, she pushed one of the runners under the wheels, where they fitted perfectly. He had no doubt done this many times before. While they were occupied, Sol shouted, ‘Horses!’

  They both looked up, a little surprised. There, far behind them at the edge of the heath, were two riders. On catching sight of them, the driver relaxed.

  ‘It is all right,’ he said, ‘no need to worry.’

  Silje’s heart immediately began to pound with joy and expectation – she felt slightly embarrassed. It was Tengel and only now did she realise how afraid she had been that he might not return. She was cross that she could not control her emotions when he was near her, because he had never given any indication that he had feelings for her. Well, she consoled herself, not openly or directly.

  Heming was with him. As they drew closer, she recognised the aristocratic-looking young man. As soon as they reached the wagon Sol began to jump up and down with joy, shamelessly demanding a hug from Tengel.

  ‘Move away, Silje, we’ll do this,’ said Tengel. ‘I see that you’ve managed very well.’

  ‘She’s made of stern stuff, that young lass,’ said the driver.

  ‘I’m aware of that,’ mumbled Tengel.

  ‘Did you catch sight of the soldiers?’ asked Silje.

  ‘Yes. They galloped past on the highway, going south. We’re still well ahead of them. But the day is short.’

  She saw then that the sky had begun to turn that deep blue colour that precedes dusk.

  ‘Looks like it’ll snow, too,’ said Heming, as he lifted the wagon.

  Silje did not want to look at him – rage still boiled inside her. Tengel turned to face her.

  ‘Listen to me, Silje,’ he said severely. ‘I know that you have good reason to be angry at Heming, but we are going to be living together for a long time in a small community. There is enough ill-will here already – there is no place for more. You at least can show yourself to be wiser than the fools who scowl bitterly and drearily at each other.’

  She said nothing. This was the first time he had looked at her since they had arrived, and the first thing he did was to scold her.

  ‘Understand?’ he asked threateningly.

  ‘Yes, I understand. I shall contain my anger, but do not ask me to love him.’

  ‘That is something I would never ask of you.’

  Heming approached her, showing not the slightest sign of embarrassment, for although he was trying to put on a show of humility and regret, he could not hide that mocking twinkle in his eye.

  ‘Silje, I beg forgiveness. You see, we desperately needed money for the rebel cause.’

  ‘Don’t dress it up,’ muttered Tengel.

  ‘Of course, I should have stolen your virtue instead,’ he teased, ignoring Tengel’s remark. ‘It’s probably a disappointment for you that ...’

  Tengel had grabbed hold of his collar and thrust his face close to Heming’s. Through clenched teeth he hissed, ‘Are you trying to make things worse?’

  ‘No – no!’ said Heming, his voice one of complete innocence – but there was no escaping the worried look in his eyes.

  He stretched out a conciliatory hand towards Silje. She hesitated before accepting it, but his charm was irresistible and she could not stop herself from giving him a little smile. She had forgiven him as she would forgive a child crushed by the guilt of some misdeed, not as a repentant adult.

  ‘Get back up on the wagon again,’ commanded Tengel, and he made sure that they were all well stowed. Feeling his hands tuck the quilted blanket round her and seeing the gentleness reflected in his expression made Silje feel quite secure.

  Finally he said, ‘keep a lookout behind us, Silje.’

  Then they were on their way once more, but this time with the riders leading the way. The wind stung her cheeks as they travelled upward, but the children were safe and sound. Dag had started to cry again and, after some difficult searching, Silje had found the piece of knotted rag that he chewed on to comfort himself. This time, however, it was not an acceptable substitute for proper food and they continued their cross-country journey to the accompaniment of his tiny angry cries.

  The going was slow. Sometimes the snowdrifts were so deep that they had to go around them; sometimes they fought their way through them, Tengel and Heming riding beside the wagon horses, gripping the shafts to help pull the load. Silje felt she was just useless extra weight adding to the burden, but she knew that her place was with the children. Eventually they were forced to hitch all four horses to the wagon, using any straps or bindings they could find. With this accomplished, progress became easier.

  The high featureless plain soon ended and they found themselves, once again, surrounded by mountain peaks. Silje tried to get her bearings, but it was impossible. She had never realised that the Barren Mountains stretched so far.

  A little further on they reached a glacier that looked impassable. A cruel icy blast blew around them. With practised hands, the horses were steered down a steep slope to the bank of a river, which they followed into a narrow valley. Here the glacier spanned the river in a great vaulted arch. Silje held on tightly to the side of the wagon throughout this jolting, swaying journey. Wide-eyed she gazed at the mass of packed ice now soaring above their heads.

  They had reached the secret mountain track to the home of the Ice People. The men removed the runners and unhitched the two extra horses. It was peaceful here, but eerie and cold – a strange subterranean world. The ceiling above them varied greatly in height. Sometimes Silje was forced to duck out of the way of outcrops of ice, yet in other places Dag’s screams would echo in giant caverns. It was not completely dark; the ice gave the caves and tunnels an unusual, shimmering green-blue glow. The wagon made its way along, close to the bank of the river, as it crashed and gurgled on its way with an echoing roar, marking its passage under the glacial ice. Silje wondered why there were not more droplets of water from the ceiling, but then realised it was probably too cold to thaw.

  At one point Sol’s frightened face peered round the edge of the covers. ‘Where are we?’ she whispered.

  ‘On the way to our new home,’ answered Silje in a hushed, almost reverent tone, which the tunnel of ice seemed to inspire.

  ‘Our new home’ – the words she had spoken brought a tightness to her chest, as many emotions overwhelmed her. The most powerful of these was great sadness – followed by uncertainty.

  ‘Marie not come too?’

  ‘Not just now. We’ll see them all later.’

  Will we? She asked herself this, as she wondered about their future. It seemed bleak and forlorn, and she kept thinking back to those they had left behind. Perhaps it was just her hunger speaking.

  The glacier was not as extensive as she had expected. Before the frosty mists rising from the surface of the river had begun to penetrate her clothes, the way ahead lightened and suddenly they were in the open again. The wintry dusk was filled with flurries of snow, which was settling over the plain that spread before them.

  Putting Dag down, Silje removed some of the blankets and coverings that had been wrapped about them. Sh
e and Sol stood up in the wagon to look around. Tengel had reined in his horse and rode alongside her. Now he waited nervously for her reaction.

  This is his homeland, thought Silje. He will have strong ties to it and love it dearly, just as one always loves the secret haunts of childhood, every stream and forest glen. Above all she was lost in amazement, for they had entered an oval-shaped valley, completely surrounded by mountains. There was a lake in the centre, the outfall of which they were now passing, and on the southern slopes stood cottages, nestling among thinly wooded areas of birch. It was remarkable that there was so little snow up here – the sun must be very strong and the mountains would protect the valley.

  ‘Tengel!’ she said in amazement, ‘there’s a whole village!’

  He gave a wry smile. ‘The Ice People number many more souls than folk would have you believe.’

  Heming said quietly, ‘Don’t say ”souls” when you speak of the Ice People. They are damned – the spawn of ice and darkness and evil.’

  Silje understood that Heming was most unwilling to be counted among the Ice People and it did not surprise her. This isolated community would hardly be able to offer much to one of the world’s great explorers! On the other hand, he was safe here. Outside the valley there was a price on his head.

  Tengel retorted, A few of those who live here are fugitives like you, on the run from the injustice of the authorities. They cannot be counted as belonging to the true Ice People, the first ones.’

  She felt his eyes on her. He was still waiting for her verdict on the scene before them. This man, considered by many not to be human, was willing her to like what she saw, afraid that she would be indifferent, or worse – reject it.

  Silje swallowed hard. The desolation, the silent mountains and the loneliness she felt inside were beginning to affect her. ‘It is so very lovely here,’ she said softly. ‘I am a little afraid of the strangeness of it all, but it has great beauty.’

  He breathed out at last and gave her a wide smile. Silje was pleased that she was able to tell him honestly of her fears, but also that he should understand how much the wild landscape impressed her. Looking around she counted ten or fifteen cottages.

  ‘Do you keep animals here as well?’ she asked.

  ‘But, of course! We must be able to provide for ourselves. This place is no different from any other village in Trondelag. It’s just more remote that’s all.’

  Heming snorted, ‘Just like any other village? Silje, this is the most godforsaken place on earth!’

  ‘Is there no church?’ she asked worriedly.

  ‘Did you really think there would be?’ replied Tengel. ‘We hold Sunday prayers in our homes, each family in turn. The chieftain is our preacher.’

  She detected bitterness in his tone and could not help wondering where one such as Tengel would stand on the matter of religion.

  They were coming to a farmstead that stood like a gatehouse by the icy entrance. As they approached, a man came out to welcome them.

  ‘It’s good to see you again,’ he shouted. ‘We’d almost given up hope and begun to count you among the dear departed. Your father will be pleased, Heming,’ and turning to the driver, he said, ‘and so will your wife.’

  No one it seemed was waiting for Tengel, who asked, ‘Is everyone accounted for?’

  ‘Everyone is back for the winter, yes.’

  ‘Good! Then we must block the entrance.’

  With an eye on Silje, the man said, ‘Newcomers?’

  It was both a question and a statement of fact.

  ‘Yes – on the run from the bailiff’s men.’

  ‘Your woman, Heming?’

  The young upstart gave Tengel a quick nervous glance. ‘No – no!’ he said at once.

  The man didn’t ask if she was Tengel’s woman. That thought didn’t seem to occur to him. Though of course she wasn’t strictly speaking his woman. He had simply shown her friendliness and consideration, and she could not ask for more than that. She gave a gentle sigh. She owed him a great debt of gratitude.

  Heming joined the driver and the man from the farm as they tended the horses. One had almost lost a shoe in the icy tunnel and they wanted to take a closer look at it. Sol decided that it was much too cold and cuddled down under the covers again, arranging everything properly and tidily in the special way that only a self-confident young girl can.

  ‘Where do you live, Tengel?’ Silje asked bashfully.

  He was still standing beside her, holding his horse. He pointed towards a farm some way off, up on the slopes. ‘That is my childhood home.’ He was smiling sadly as he spoke.

  It seemed impossible that Tengel had been a child. She couldn’t imagine him as one – she thought of him as always having been big and strong since birth. ‘And, er … where shall the children and, um … I be staying?’

  ‘Over there – on my farm.’

  Silje’s heart beat a little faster, making it hard to breathe.

  Then he added quickly, ‘I will live in my uncle’s cottage. It is not used. It lies at the far end of the valley ~ you cannot see it from here.’

  ‘But is it not better that we live there? Otherwise we shall be taking your home from you.’

  ‘The cottage is not suitable for the children. My way is best.’

  Silje could not get rid of the gloomy feeling that seemed to have overcome her since they entered the ‘fortifications’. She could not explain it to herself either.

  ‘Are you the only one in your family?’ she asked quietly. ‘Apart from Sol, I mean.’

  ‘No. I have a cousin. She lives in the cottage next to mine, but because I am often away she has taken over all the livestock. Her name is Eldrid and she is a good deal older than I.’

  Silje sat and reflected over the silhouette of this man, outlined against the lake in the failing evening light. She felt irresistibly drawn to him and she gripped tightly on the side of the wagon to allay her feelings.

  Tengel felt her gaze and slowly turned to face her. He had a sad whimsical look in his narrow eyes, but then a slow suggestive smile began to trace across his lips. Her heart beat even faster and she looked away at once.

  ‘Aren’t you going to ask me where I live then?’ said Heming, as he strode back from looking at the horses.

  She grinned. ‘So where do you live, Heming?’

  ‘Can it be so hard to know?’

  She had already noticed a farm down by the lake that appeared to be grander than the others.

  ‘Down there?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, how did you guess?’ he replied in mock surprise.

  The others were ready and the driver urged the horses on again. Slowly the wagon began to trundle forward. Silje was looking around at all the new sights the valley held for her. The homes of the Ice People – how long she had dreamt about them – imagining deformed castles, where deep pits led down to the underworld, buildings continually bathed in moonlight, full of mystery and evil. Then to find this! A perfectly normal settlement, protected by the mountains.

  Yet, try as she might, she still could not shake off a sense of anxiety, almost panic. What was it that was so frightening about this peaceful place? Its reputation, perhaps? Or something else, something in the silence, the way the buildings stood, crouching, as if ready to pounce like wild animals?

  No, Silje thought she knew. She sensed deep melancholy in the wind that swept down the valley. The air was overwhelmed with the harsh memories of bygone centuries – everything that had ever occurred here – famine, poverty, extreme winters, loneliness; the tragedies and drama of life; sickness and misfortune. Who could say? But, worse by far was the curse that one man had placed on his people, which lay like a heavy yoke upon them still, after three hundred years.

  Although Silje did not believe that the evil Tengel had ever met with Satan, it was enough that he had spread uncertainty and suspicion, sowing the seeds of fear among simple folk. That had been his evil legacy, especially in this place, so desolate and damned
by the world outside. A heavy feeling of despair overcame her and she tried to reach out instinctively for Tengel’s hand. He was riding slightly in front of her, lost in thought, and did not notice her gesture. Besides, judging by his expression, his thoughts also seemed to be negative.

  Darkness began to close in around them and pale yellow lights lit the windows of one or two cottages. The Ice People were retiring for the night. Then, from behind the slow-moving procession, they heard a roar that echoed and reverberated down the valley, before it slowly died away.

  ‘The way to the outside is now closed,’ said Tengel. ‘Only the spring thaw will open it again.’ She winced at the thought, but was comforted when he added, ‘You are safe here, Silje. No one can reach you or the children.’

  She glanced down at the little ones, resting in a pile of blankets and furs, and felt immense gratitude.

  They carried on without speaking, listening to the wheels grinding and squeaking after the long journey. Suddenly Silje felt as though a dark shadow had fallen across her, clutching her heart with a vice-like grip.

  ‘Tengel,’ she gasped, ‘what was that?’

  Reaching out over the side of the wagon he took her outstretched hand in his. His eyes seemed to have taken on a dull glow. ‘What is wrong, Silje?’

  ‘I was so afraid. There is something … something watching – something evil, close by. I feel I am being stared at.’

  ‘You do? Then you are more perceptive than I thought.’

  His strong hand squeezed hers. Her eyes followed his gaze down below the track to a hollow where an ancient building lay hidden. In the gathering darkness it appeared to be cowering low, watching and brooding.

  ‘Don’t ever go there, Silje,’ he said slowly ‘Not ever!’