He did not stop until he reached the fence to the outfield. Here he sat down for a moment. He was soaked in mud and sweat; half-congealed blood and spittle trailed down his chest like a beard; his hands and feet were trembling. There was a little stream nearby; he took off his jersey, rinsed and rubbed it in the clear water and wiped the blood and grime from his face.
Heavens above! What on earth had been going on? He started reflecting, as he ran his wounded tongue over his swollen lower lip. He had an empty, cold feeling in the midriff, as though his heart had been torn from his body, leaving behind a cavity oozing with mud.
The talisman! He clutched feverishly at his chest. It was gone.
Trembling, he started rummaging through his clothing. No, it was not there. The talisman was nowhere to be found. It had vanished.
Shivering with cold, Engilbert climbed the fence and set off homewards across the stubbly infield. He was full of regret and torment, but also of wonderment. Never in his life had he experienced anything so remarkable. Powerful forces had been at play. But perhaps they had not been evil forces. Perhaps it had been meant as a test, though if it had, he had failed and received his well-deserved punishment.
Suppose he went home now, changed his clothes and tidied himself up a little, and then went over to Stefan Sveinsson’s to confide in his wife, Svava. She was a shrewd woman, so perhaps he should simply tell her the whole story and ask her advice. He was desperately in need of real company and yearned to hear educated people speaking a real, intelligible language, better and nobler than the one he was exposed to otherwise, that troll-like pseudo-Norwegian tongue of the Faroe Islands. Not to mention Opperman’s double Dutch or Thygesen’s and Myklebust’s drunken gobbledygook. He longed to be together with his own people, people moved by reason.
Madame Svava was taking a bath, but she sent him a message that she would be down in twenty minutes, and the maid showed Engilbert into the sitting room and asked him to take a seat while he waited. Stefan Sveinsson was in England on business.
Engilbert looked around the beautiful room with its vast leather chairs and gleaming mahogany furniture. Einar Jónsson’s world-famous sculpture “Mother Earth” was standing on the harmonium, surrounded by a large collection of photographs in gold frames; dignified, distinguished portraits, all of them. First of all there was Stefan himself, a man of rare good looks in white tie and tails, fair-haired and adorned with a full moustache and gentle, blue eyes. Next to him there as a photograph of his wife, a youthful study of a dark-haired Svava, quite unlike the pure white-haired woman she now was. Her regal, silvery hair was really far more beautiful now.
Then there were photographs of their children, their son, Bjørn, who was in the Embassy, and their daughters Rosa and Viola, who were in America. Rosa, the elder of the two, was a famous porcelain painter and Viola was married to a millionaire who had made his money in pins. And there were portraits of Svava’s parents, a sturdy parson and his wife, and of Stefan’s father, Svein Stefansson, a factory-owner, a powerful man in the land and a poet at the same time.
Engilbert had seen all these portraits before, and Stefan himself had carefully explained who figured on them all.
Now he turned to the huge painting of Vatnajøkull hanging on the wall at the end of the room, a dazzling sight, the sulphurous blue volcano outlined against a sky covered with storm clouds, with the surging river in the foreground. Aye, he could not help longing to get back to Iceland, the land of fire and ice, the strangest land in the world. And, at the moment, the most fortunate land in the world. There was no war, no hunger or misery, everything was in full flower, in heavy, ripe flower; everything the sea and land could produce was fetching top prices; England and America were actually vying with each other to pay them. Money was flowing like lava from a crater; the prices were high: a cigar could easily cost 25 kroner, a bottle of snaps sometimes as much as 500, but that did not matter, for all wages and incomes were correspondingly high, and unemployment was unknown; indeed there was a shortage of labour for the vast new buildings that were springing up everywhere. It was stupendous merely to think of it. And here Engilbert himself was working as a simple labourer in foreign parts, an assistant to Opperman, looking after his foxes…
Not that Engilbert felt either regret or resentment. He was not one of the great men of commerce; he was a simple researcher, engrossed in the things of the spirit; he was satisfied with his lot. Even as a young yogi he had seen through the machinery of society; he knew that it was nothing but a shell, the hard, necessary, indispensable shell around an obscure, enigmatic centre, a core hidden from the light of day, and yet the most important thing of all simply because it encompassed death and life and eternity within itself.
But now Madame Svava entered the room. For a moment he felt completely dazzled by her tall radiant figure. She was dressed in a yellow Japanese kimono with bronze ornamentation, and her shimmering white frizzy hair poured down over her shoulders and her back. She was bathed in fragrance like a bed of sweet-smelling flowers. Her white wrists and fingers sparkled with rings and bracelets, and her smiling teeth, too, shone with gold.
Aye, beautiful she certainly was, Svava, despite her fifty years; there were no wrinkles in her face, and her cheeks were red and tulip-like, like those of a young girl. Strangely enough, her wide, arched eyebrows had not turned white like her hair; the original black hue was still to be seen, as it was in her eyelashes. Madame Svava was a woman of the world, and those who knew no better would have put her age at certainly no more than thirty-five.
Engilbert had the strange feeling of having crumpled up deep down within himself, and he scarcely any longer wanted to hear what Svava had to say about the remarkable things he was experiencing. He suddenly thought it was all so loathsome. But she helped him to get going. With a cheerful twinkle in her eyes she asked him to tell her all about his progress in the occult, and after drinking a couple of glasses of strong green liqueur he warmed up and opened his heart to her.
Madame Svava nodded in a mysterious fashion, but she was not impressed; nothing took her by surprise; it was almost as though she knew beforehand what he was going to say. And so she probably did, for she was one of those few chosen ones upon whom Fate had bestowed the gift of second sight. Nor was it of any avail to try to hide anything or employ mild circumlocutions – smiling earnestly, she was constantly on the alert.
“So at no time did you have your full will with her up there in the cave?”, she asked.
“No,” said Engilbert.
Madame Svava pinched her eyes and looked at him through her black lashes: “So there was no orgasm, either? You understand what I mean?”
“Yes,” Engilbert gave a serious nod. “I understand what you mean. No, there was no orgasm, not physically, at any rate, though perhaps spiritually, for when she rolled me over in the mud I felt limp, completely worn out.”
“This is very interesting,” said Madame Svava, opening her eyes. She looked pensive. “Do you know, Engilbert, I think I will tell your fortune. I think that that is the way to discover more than we know now.”
Engilbert felt himself beginning to tremble. He was already profoundly in her power, and this made him uneasy. Did Svava mean him well? That was the question. She was reputed to be an incomparable friend to her friends, but spiteful and wicked in hounding her enemies. Some maintained that her arts had attracted the fury and hatred of leading theologians, and that this was one of the reasons why Stefan had taken her away from her native Iceland and settled her securely in this island fortress out in the ocean.
Madame Svava leaned forward a little, held both her delicate hands up to her face and sat for a moment rocking to and fro. Then she got up, opened a drawer in a bureau and took out a chestnut coloured ring of plaited hair. She sat down in her chair again and placed the ring on her lap. Engilbert was now trembling so much that he had to grit his teeth to prevent them from chattering. He stared at her lap, which was clearly outlined through the light silk cloth.
The ring seemed strangely immodest – it was presumably plaited when she was in her dark-haired youth. He felt she was staring at him.
“Look at me, Engilbert,” she said in a low voice. “No, not at the plait. Look me in the eye.”
As he met her gaze it was at first as though his head was swimming, but then he accustomed himself to it and felt a certain repose in it. It was as though he was surrendering to an invincible but benevolent power.
“One, two, three, four, five,” she began to count, right up to thirty-six. “You will soon be thirty-six, Engilbert,” she said. “Either this month or next.”
“The second of next month,” he said.
“You have two sisters,” she continued.
Engilbert opened his mouth to reply, but she was there first: “One of them is dead, yes, now I see, she died very young. She was called … Nora?”
“Naomi,” he whispered.
“Yes, right, Naomi. Such an unusual name. And, Engilbert, you have two, three, or perhaps more children. Three, I see. With two different women.”
“Two with one and one with the other,” Engilbert corrected her. He noticed that he had begun to sweat profusely. “I have four altogether,” he said.
“Yes, four,” she confirmed. “The first woman has married since.”
“Yes, she married an American.”
“The other one is unmarried.”
“Yes.”
“But then there’s a third,” she continued. She sighed as though saddened by this.
Sweat was pouring down Engilbert’s brow and cheeks, and his tongue and lower lip were burning.
“There is a third,” repeated Madame Svava. “I can’t really make it out. She is very young. Have you a child with her as well, Engilbert? It is not clear to me. You needn’t be ashamed of telling me, Engilbert.”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know. I’m not aware of it.”
“But it was for her sake that you … went abroad, Engilbert. That you came here.”
Engilbert shook his head gently. “Yes,” he said.
“I can tell you that she has had a daughter since you left, and that this child has been christened Engilbjørg.”
Engilbert groaned weakly and rocked to and fro in his chair.
“Hush,” Svava admonished him. “Now there is something very strange. Sit completely still. Close your eyes.”
He closed his eyes and felt the light movement of her finger tips over his forehead. He felt almost anaesthetised by the perfume on her dress and skin.
“Open your eyes,” she commanded. She was sitting in her chair facing him, and the ring of hair lay in the same position on her lap.
“No,” she said. “I can’t see anything clearly. You will be going on a long journey, I think. There is a woman who is pursuing you in her thoughts day and night.”
Engilbert broke into a dry sob and seemed to swallow.
“Is she stronger than you?” he managed to say.
Madame Svava was silent.
“Am I under a spell?” Engilbert asked in a hollow voice.
It was some time before Madame Svava replied. At last she said tersely: “The powers are doing battle for you, Engilbert. I cannot say more.”
“Will you help me?” he breathed.
She did not reply to the question, but said with a little smile: “You are a well-read man, Engilbert. Do you remember where these lines come from:
I know yet a tenth:
Whenever I see
Witches playing on high
I can send them astray
So they lose their own skins,
Their longing for home.”
“Ljóðatal from the Hávamál,” Engilbert hurried to answer.
“Correct.”
Engilbert blushed slightly; their eyes met; he felt overwhelmed and could not help recalling how, as a young boy, he had for the first time met and reciprocated the glance of a woman in love.
He got up and grasped her hand, pressed it to his lips, kissed it deliriously, kissed her wrists and the naked arm in the wide sleeve.
“You are terribly worked up, Engilbert,” she said tenderly. “Look, have a glass of this. I’ll add a few drops of something that will do you good.”
She fetched a small medicine bottle and measured seven drops into the liqueur glass.
“Now, Engilbert,” she said. Her voice was kindly, almost merry. “Just drink this, and then go home and have a sleep. And now I want to give you something. Look.”
She started examining the ring of hair, turning it over and round, and twice putting it to her lips. Then she drew a long, dark hair out of it and handed it to Engilbert.
“Keep this. Carry it on you. It will help you far better than your other talisman.”
Engilbert thanked her emotionally. He twisted the hair carefully around his little finger and placed his finger to his lips in silent adoration. Then he emptied the glass, sighed deeply and said: “Thank you, Madame Svava, I thank you from the very bottom of my heart. You know I can never repay you, much as I would wish I could.”
He felt weak at the knees, and like one intoxicated he stumbled out of the door and down the soft-carpeted staircase.
“Now they are battling for your soul, Engilbert,” he said to himself.
On his way home he went in to Pontus’s shop and bought a tiny purse made of some pearly material, and fitted with a fastener. Then, in Masa Hansen’s shop he bought a piece of string which he cut into three and plaited together. He fastened the purse to this. He would always carry it on his chest. He unravelled Madame Svava’s hair. It coiled itself together like a tiny snake snuggling down in its nest.
11
Throughout the day the clouds had hung in great swirls down over the mountains. By mid afternoon the wind had dropped, and the mist settled thick and clammy over the village and the bay. The Manuela was now almost ready to sail; the bullet-riddled wheel house had been repaired and furnished with a double layer of sandbags. The ship had been stocked with provision, and the machine gun serviced and tested by men who knew their job. Ivar had been on board all day; he was reluctant to go ashore, and had asked Frederik to go up to Angelica Cottage and take leave on his behalf.
“I don’t like showing myself after that damned affair last night,” he said.
“I know, but you ought to go with me even so,” Frederik maintained. “I think your father and sisters will be terribly disappointed if you don’t come. Besides, it’s so foggy that there’s not a soul will recognise you.”
The upshot was that they both went. Ivar took a bottle of gin. Before turning off the road and starting up the tiny path leading to Angelica Cottage they took a swig. The air was filled with minute drops that settled like flour on their jerseys. The path shone with potentilla and dandelions. In one place there was also a patch of big marguerites. Ivar pulled one of them and fanned his nose with the wet, elastic petals.
“These flowers,” he said, twisting his mouth in a rueful smile, “these flowers have grown here as long as I can remember. And the tansies there. We used to pick those as children.”
“Yes,” said Frederik. “Plants like those die off each winter – but what the hell, they come again. They’ll perhaps still be there in a hundred years…”
Frederik felt animated by the hefty drink, and he started telling of the girl he had been with the previous night. She was a singularly bright girl; she had read several books, and she had also told him something he hadn’t known before: that ravens and puffins could live to be over a hundred and that somewhere or other in the hot lands there was a bird that entered a fire every time it grew old and allowed itself to be burned, whereupon it took on a new shape and became young again.
“That’s the phoenix,” said Ivar.
“Yes, that’s it, that was what it was called,” confirmed Frederik. “So you’ve heard of it, too.”
“Yes, but I don’t think you can really take much notice of that story, Frederik,” said Ivar with a smile.
“Aye, maybe it was a load of rubbish. Perhaps she was making a fool of me,” admitted Frederik. “I couldn’t make her out. I’ve never been able to keep a girl; they never take me seriously. Is there something a bit ridiculous about me, Ivar? Is that what it is?”
“Yes,” said Ivar, flinging down the marguerite. “Girls see all men as being stupid and ridiculous.”
He turned towards Frederik and said scornfully: “Most women are harpies. All they want is praise and flattery and money. They’re not interested in anything but themselves.”
Now the hipped turf roof of Angelica Cottage emerged from the mist. The damp air smelled heavily of smoke.
“You know, they’re not all harpies,” said Frederik reflectively. “There’s good stuff among them, too. You’ll find yourself one some day. Forget that one in Aberdeen; she wasn’t your type any way.”
The family in Angelica Cottage had just sat down for their evening meal, but now the girls got up to make room for the seamen. “No, we’ve had our supper, we don’t need anything,” said Ivar. “We’ve just come to say goodbye before leaving, and we haven’t much time.”
He held out his hand to his father, but was immediately almost knocked over backwards by Alfhild who had flung both her arms around his neck. He laughed as he tried to push his sister off, but it was in vain; the girl clung tight to him and whispered something in his ear.
“No, you can’t come,” said Ivar. “Not until the war’s over. Then we’ll all go up in an aeroplane and fly right up to the North Pole.”
“Now, Alfhild,” scolded Magdalena, pulling her sister away. “Say goodbye properly to Ivar and Frederik and stop hanging all over them like that. See, here are your chimes. Play something for us.”
The Black Cauldron Page 9