Margit Sandemo - The Ice People 10 - Winter Storm

Villemo nodded. She knew that Uncle Mikael’s best friend, the sweet-natured Marca Christiana, had suffered a bitter death. She’d given birth to eight children, three of which she’d lost. The youngest child was only two years old when Marca Christiana had become sick. She was a patient for three years at the Royal Palace in Stockholm before she was released from her sufferings.

Dominic had promised never to let down that youngest son, who he had watched over. Marca Christiana had been concerned for the boy. He wasn’t disposed to become anything great like his father and grandfather. That in itself was insignificant but he was alarmingly indecisive.

Marca Christiana had been given a splendid funeral in the Stockholm Cathedral where she now rested together with her husband. Mikael was deeply saddened by her death.

But now Dominic wanted to come all by himself! Exciting, very exciting! Everything was exciting for Villemo. Just like this adventure they were now experiencing: tracking down injured thieves from the Black Forest. If only she hadn’t been so dreadfully tired! Her legs were giving in and her heart was palpitating.

Now they had reached Graastensholm and took up the pursuit, following the traces of blood up towards the forest. The trail wasn’t difficult to follow, and it wasn’t long before they found one of the thieves lying underneath a tree where he had made himself comfortable.

“He’s dead,” said Niklas frightened. “That’s not good!”

They stood silently, all three of them thinking the same thing: the constant struggle between Graastensholm and the Black Forest had turned into a blood feud. The hatred towards the Ice People would now be twice as strong.

They knew the man, who was about 40 years old. He was a wretch, a scumbag, but none of them had wished him dead.

“We’ll have to let him lie there for the time being,” said Villemo. “The trail of blood seems to continue, so we’d better hurry if we don’t want any more lives on our conscience.”

“Surely we can’t be blamed for this,” said Niklas.

“No,” said Irmelin as they were walking. “But our two farmhands are far too trigger-happy. They’re sure to be reprimanded for this. They’ll probably also appear before the court.”

“I suppose they just wanted to defend the farm,” said Niklas. “But this is definitely going too far.”

The forest was an oppressively calm pine forest carpeted with fungus and moss. Their voices sounded strangely hollow. The only other sound that reached them was the slight, occasional rustling of a frightened squirrel or a bird.

Villemo stole a sideways glance at Niklas as he searched for traces in the moss. With a hidden smile she was reminded of Midsummer Night’s Eve this past summer. Niklas had stood by the bonfire on the mound between Linden Avenue and Graastensholm, gazing into the flames, fascinated by the unique play of colours. She suddenly felt mischievous and had asked Niklas whether he’d follow her home because she was so afraid of the dark. He had looked at her, puzzled, because Villemo was certainly not known to be afraid of the dark. He was even more shocked when they reached the juniper hills above Elistrand.

“Kiss me, Niklas” she’d said laughingly.

“Why in heaven’s name would I do that?” he’d retorted, angry and shocked.

“Not for any particular reason,” she’d replied. “It’s only because I’d love to experience what it feels like.”

“You’re crazy, Villemo!”

“Well, don’t then!”

She’d turned on her heel and walked away.

“Villemo wait!”

“Yeess,” she’d replied, hesitating. He began to stutter.

“Maybe ... maybe I’d also like to experience what it feels like.”

“Splendid!”

“Anyway, it won’t mean anything.”

“Of course not, Niklas!”

They had experienced their first kiss fumblingly and cautiously, like youth has been doing for time immemorial. They acted, pretending as if they were in love with each other, touching each other’s skin with their lips.

“Mmm ... I love you, love you,” she had murmured against his neck.

He’d looked at her in horror. “Are you serious?”

“Oh, you fool. Now you broke the spell.” He seemed slightly offended, but then he was back in the game and when he whispered, “I love you,” to her, she had realised why he had reacted as he had to her words, because she’d almost come to believe that he meant it. She had felt both shocked that he’d used such precious words and disappointed that it was merely a game. And she felt a slight ticklish sensation.

“What emotions you put in the game!” she’d whispered. “Who are you thinking of?”

“It’s none of your business. And you? You’re pretty passionate yourself. Who are you thinking of?”

“I’m not thinking of anybody,” Villemo had said in a sweeping remark. “I just feel wonderful.”

“Mmm,” Niklas said. And then, all of a sudden, “No, this is such a stupid game. We’ll never do it again!”

He let go of her so abruptly that she almost fell.

“But it was lovely,” she giggled.

“Absolutely lovely,” he admitted. “But now it’s forgotten. We’ll have to find our way home on our own.” Then he was gone.

And with a newly awakened thrill quivering in her body, Villemo had hurried home.

“Here’s a new lead,” said Irmelin. Villemo concentrated on the search once more.

They didn’t have to walk far before they found the other man. He lay on the ground, white in the face, teeth clenched, and hair stuck to his sweaty forehead.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. It’s Eldar,” murmured Niklas. “Now we’re in a tight spot!”

“It would seem that he’s in more of a tight spot than we are,” Villemo said.

He was the boy from the Black Forest they had met many years ago on the road outside Graastensholm. They knew that he and his sister, Gudrun, formed the core of the family’s hatred for the Ice People. The dead man was the father’s cousin or something along those lines. The history of the kin in the Black Forest was complicated, but all of them were extremely aggressive. It was many years since Villemo had seen Eldar, and never at close quarters.

‘And I’m so skinny,’ she thought, but without knowing why.

Eldar was now a sinewy, grown man, about 25 years of age, with ash-blonde hair and narrow, greyish eyes. There had always been something wild about the Black Forest people and Eldar was no exception. There was a suggestive, predator-like twinkle in his eyes, which both attracted and repelled Villemo. He was damned good-looking, with the emphasis on damned.

When Eldar caught sight of them, he tried to crawl away. His wild face showed indignation.

The gentle Irmelin said: “Why did you do this? We could have helped you if only you’d asked!”

“Do you think we’d accept help from Satan’s brood?” he hissed between clenched teeth.

“But you can steal from us,” Villemo blurted out.

“Our people are left to die,” he hissed in return. “And you’ve kept food for yourselves and your lot.”

“No, we have not,” said Niklas sharply. “And you know that perfectly well. Just ask any of the farmers. You’re just pigheaded. You refuse to accept what you’re rightly entitled to as part of the Graastensholm farm.”

The man could hardly speak because of his severe pain and exhaustion, but even so his eyes flashed with anger.

“How come you’re the only ones that still have food then? I suppose you’ve entered a pact with Satan, eh? You’ll be punished for that, after death!”

“Rubbish,” said Niklas as he squatted to take a closer look at him.

Eldar immediately pulled back. “Just look at your eyes,” he said with scorn. “At hers,” he added, pointing at Villemo. “Are those eyes normal?”