Margit Sandemo - The Ice People 34 - The Woman on the Beach

The second man was short and stocky, with eyes that burned through falsehood to root out abysmal, sensuous sin. He had just become a priest and was zealous in fulfilling his calling. A person who is short of stature and who doesn’t get on well with others often chooses a career that gives him power. Nobody knew what his real name might be, but Natan was the name he gave. Like Nathan in the Bible, he tried to admonish and discipline and lecture everybody about the fires of hell.

He merely nodded briefly in response to the other, because it was certainly the will of the Lord that priests are to be granted the best. This was weather for dogs and not for men of the church.

The two men were followed by a third. A young man so muffled in his cape that they could only see his eyes glinting from the depths within. He told them his name was Havgrim. That was all they got to know.

The nearest farm was splendid, tempting them with dreams of food and sleep – and a roof over their heads and ice-cold ears. They rode in and were well received; their horses were stabled and they themselves stepped into the warm living room.

Natan offered a greeting: “Peace be with you.”

“Peace be with you,” mumbled the peasant in return, while his wife merely nodded in silence. “What has brought you out on this rainy evening?”

The priest replied: “The Lord has summoned me to work in the pagan villages of Härjedalen. I’m on my way to Sweden.”

“And I plan to go to Trondheim on an errand for the king,” said Diderik Swerd. “The obstinate Norwegians are quarrelling and don’t want to be subjected to Danish rule. They think they can govern themselves. King Gustav has asked me to make enquiries about the mood among the peasants in Trøndelag, as I was already in these parts. I met Mr Natan down in Mora, and as we’re both going in the same direction we decided to travel together.”

André lifted his eyes and pondered. What a strange piece of writing this was. How much was legend and how much had Petra’s mother added to it? To begin with, everything was written with a particular rhythm. But here the rhythm ceased, as if the authoress wasn’t up to continuing with it. André was also struck by something she had written: “Those who knew the legend are gone forever.” If that was the case, how could she have known the legend in the first place? Was what she wrote fiction or was it as she said: something that she had inherited orally from her mother?

Of course, André was searching for what Vanja and Benedikte had mentioned – something that might be a link to the Ice People. He hadn’t come across it – yet. But Trondheim had been mentioned. Might Diderik Swerd have something to do with Petra’s family as he continued his journey to Trøndelag?

Anyway, André would have to carry on reading to find out.

The peasant looked inquiringly at the third man. Diderik Swerd said matter-of-factly: “Oh, him? I picked him up on the way. He’s an old soldier, who took part in the war in Europe as a mercenary. Now he’s my bodyguard, because it isn’t safe to travel alone in rural parts of the country.”

The Älvdalen peasant straightened his back and said, in his almost unfathomable dialect: “Gentlemen, if you’re on your way to Sweden and Trondheim, you ought to go back to Mora and take the road northwards instead! You’re on the wrong track here. What awaits you is nothing but detours and wilderness.”

Diderik nodded. “We know the road that heads north is the best one. However, I have some purpose in travelling through this valley. My ancestors came from the villages of Älvdalen. I’ve been enquiring for two days now, but without finding any clues to where they were born.”

“And I wanted to spend the journey preaching about God to the erring souls in the wilderness,” said Natan the priest. “However, my words have fallen on deaf ears in these valleys. People won’t bend to the Lord’s promise of torment for hardened sinners. They don’t want to hear about the horrors of hell because they say that life on earth is shocking in itself.”

“Why not speak about the Lord’s gentle rewards for those who are willing to follow His commandments?” suggested the peasant.

“It’s not until they are writhing in anxiety and agony at the thought of God’s terrible punishment that they will listen to what I have to say about paradise,” snapped the priest. “That is when they ask me for forgiveness for their sins and desires.”

The peasant said no more, but the trembling wings of his nose said a lot about the remarks he refrained from making. He glanced again at the third man, who had sat down in the darkness far away from the fireplace. He had taken off his cape and hood, and brown-black hair framed his closed face. He wasn’t old, rather far too young to have been at war on the bloody battlefields of Europe. He may have been ruthless, although nothing in his features showed this right now. He was a handsome young man, with eyelashes so thick and dark that his brown-green eyes appeared quite bright.

Diderik Swerd was fairer, with ash-blond hair and lecherous lips, and was about ten years older than the other. He was dressed as befits a man in the service of the king: in top boots and a short velvet coat, with lace at his neck and wrists.”

André let the sheets of paper drop once more. How could the authoress know all this? Even the things they said! He thought she must have used her own imagination here and there. Nobody could retell a legend in so much detail.

It was impossible to know which parts were old rumour and legends and what came from Gerd’s imagination. One thing became increasingly obvious as he read: the woman who had written this liked to write. This was also the case among members of the Ice People, who had an itch to write.

Could it be a sign that she had the blood of the Ice People in her veins?

This was much too vague and ill-founded as a hypothesis, but André liked the thought. It made him want to continue reading.

“How do you plan to reach Sweden from the Österdal Valley?” the peasant asked the three men.

“Straight along the road from here.”

The peasant shook his head admonishingly. “No, no! Not even we would take that road – not even if our lives were in danger. Go back to Mora while you still have the chance and don’t even think about the forest between us and Härjedalen. Because you’ll never get out of it!”

“Nonsense! Aren’t we two soldiers and a man of the church? Do you think we’re afraid of wolves? Or bears?”

The peasant’s wife looked up. “Sir, there are other things to fear in those forests.”

“Robbers?”

“I wasn’t thinking of them.”

“If you mean wood spirits, water elves and all that nonsense, then forget them! We’re not superstitious. If there’s an emergency, we have a priest with us.”

This was where the good Diderik Swerd revealed that he wasn’t totally unfamiliar with the kind of thing one might come across in the mists between fact and fiction.

“A priest may be needed,” said the peasant’s wife, “but the wood spirits won’t bother you.”

“Well, then, tell us what we must be wary of! We can’t travel blind.”

“You may get lost,” she said shortly.

“That doesn’t frighten us. We’re not children.”

Without allowing himself to be interrupted, the peasant went on in his Älvdalen dialect, which he tried to make as intelligible as possible for the strangers. “Those parts are full of sorcery. We prefer not to walk about in that forest, because even if you believe you know the trails, invisible powers lead you into the path along which nobody should walk.”

“We can follow the signs of the sun and the trees.”

“You won’t see the sun in there, and the wind can’t enter so it leaves no traces on the tree trunks.”