Margit Sandemo - The Ice People 18 - Behind the Facade

“Her son, Uncle Daniel, is thinking of settling there when he retires from office.”

“He’ll never move here; he’s much better off in Sweden,” said her mother confidently. “Graastensholm will be empty when Ingrid passes away. If she ever does. She’ll turn out to be just as tenacious of life as Ulf’s grandfather, Ulvhedin.”

Elisabet looked sadly in the direction of Graastensholm. It seemed as if she could already hear the wind whistling in empty window openings and tumbledown towers. That would be terrible, it just must not happen; it was bad enough that people from outside the family might rent Linden Avenue. “Uncle Daniel is bound to end up here in Norway. If he doesn’t, his children will.”

Tora merely snorted. “You Ice People have never been grounded! Anyway, thank God you didn’t turn out like Ingrid or Ulvhedin.”

“One of the stricken?” Elisabet smiled. “Wouldn’t that have been fun!”

“Fortunately, that abomination seems to be a thing of the past. No one in the family has been cursed either in your father’s generation or in yours.”

“You forget – there was one in Dad’s generation. The one called Mar, whom we’ve never seen. And also young Shira was chosen, wasn’t she?”

“I don’t believe in all that,” Tora said obstinately. “Siberia and God knows what!”

“Shira came here once when Dad was a child,” Elisabet protested. “And her half-brother, Örjan, met her and Mar later when he was in Siberia.” She was pensive. “You’re right, Mum. There aren’t any stricken ones in my generation. Not me, nor Örjan’s son, nor Daniel’s two children. None! Dad and Aunt Ingrid believe that Shira can take the credit for that, and it’s probably because she found the clear water that the curse was lifted from the family.”

“I sincerely hope you’re right,” Tora muttered. She had already forgotten that she did not believe in the crazy story about Shira’s magical walk.

Although she would often complain about her family, because they were Ice People, Tora idolized Ulf and Elisabet. She just found it so difficult to show her love properly because she was an altogether different type of person, and had been brought up differently.

Tora’s thoughts touched upon an area of horror and shame. She accused the Ice People of not being down-to-earth, but she lived in constant fear that they would find out that she allowed herself to be addressed by the title of “Margravine” in her own parish. She would die of shame if they found out.

Elisabet started. “Look, Mum! The old farmhand is running up from the river!”

Tora opened the window at once. “What’s the matter, Nils?”

The farmhand stopped, swaying from exhaustion. It was a few seconds before he was able to answer in a weak voice. “My son fell in the river! They managed ... to pull him out of the water, but he’s badly hurt. The master said that I was to ask you to come down with needle and thread.”

“I’m on my way,” Elisabet said at once. “Hitch a horse and follow after me so that we can bring him home. I’ll saddle my horse and take the medical bag.”

“You’ll use a side saddle,” her mother said in a warning tone. “And put something over your unruly hair. There are men out there! Rough, crude rafters!”

“Nonsense,” Elisabet shouted on her way out of the door. “This is about life or death.”

The major part of the Ice People’s fabled supply of herbs and medicines was with Ingrid at Graastensholm. But Elistrand had its own collection, which Elisabet now fetched.

The farmhand had already disappeared into the stable, and she dashed after him. A moment later, Tora saw her daughter zoom out on her horse.

The mother opened the window again. “Elisabet!” she shouted, shocked. “Not astride! And without a saddle! Elisabet! Elisa ...”

Her resigned voice faded away.

“The party,” Tora murmured to herself. “At last, we had a chance to marry her off to a civil servant! Maybe even a clergyman!”

Now some miserable rafter might upset that chance!

Elisabet’s father, Ulf Paladin – Jon’s son and Ulvhedin’s grandson – was self-confident, robust and horny-handed, with a broad, jovial face. He had been down by the river all day long, bringing some order to the timber on the river, which had got stuck like a cork. He was with Vemund Tark, who had bought the timber from him and who was more interested in this kind of outdoor work than in sitting in an office in town collecting money. All the farmhands were struggling with the logjam. The river that flowed past Graastensholm Parish was not big but it fulfilled its function, creating the basis for fishing, forestry and a sawmill. The rafters shouted to one another above the sparkling splashes of water; their language was peppered with oaths, but they knew their stuff – most of them, anyway ...

“Nils’s blighter of a son is a daredevil,” Ulf said. “If he continues like this, we’ll have an accident on our hands.”

Vemund nodded. He was a jewel of a man who moved swiftly, with a slightly restless manner. He had a noble profile and his personality seemed to reflect something pent-up, wounded and vulnerable. His mouth was strong and sensitive at the same time, his hair dark blond, thick and curly, and his complexion showed that he was an outdoor man.

They sat on a ledge, keeping an eye on the rafting while their soaked clothes and boots dried in the sun, because they had also been making an extra effort out in the river. Ulf said in his good-natured manner: “When I met your brother yesterday, I was quite surprised. He’s not at all like you.”

“No,” Vemund said thoughtfully. “My younger brother is in a difficult position. A life like this intimidates him, but he knows that he’ll inherit neither the businesses nor the estate. Everything will go to me, as the law prescribes. I’ve suggested that he take over at least parts of it, but he won’t hear of that. No charity, thank you! My younger brother is so proud and pig-headed!”

Ulf looked pensively at Vemund Tark out of the corner of his eye. “Oh, well. You also have your quirks. You don’t want to live at Lekenes.”

“That’s a different matter altogether,” Vemund said curtly. “I don’t belong in elevated circles.”

“I would have thought you would fit in beautifully,” Ulf said with a glance at the noble profile. “In different clothes from what you’re wearing now, of course, and with powdered hair. By the way, is your brother just called Lillebror?”

“No, his name’s Arnold, which also happens to be my father’s name – that’s why he has always been known as Lillebror. I believe everyone, including himself, has forgotten that he has another name.”

Ulf smiled. “He isn’t exactly small. A handsome man!”

“I think the girls will agree with you on that. He’s twenty-three now, two years younger than me, and he’s wasting his life; all he does is stay at home with our parents. I’ve often thought that an estate or a business that would allow him to marry would be his salvation. Something to be responsible for. You see, he’s quick on the uptake but right now he’s powerless. No, don’t touch those logs!” Vemund Tark shouted out across the river. “It will cause chaos!”

The rafters saw that the warning made sense and began to loosen the logjam from a different side. “We have a similar problem at home,” Ulf smiled wryly. “We have only one daughter, and she just must not marry an heir to an estate or land because it will cause havoc! She’s to inherit Elistrand, our home, and possibly another two farms in the parish.”

“You mean Graastensholm?” Vemund asked discreetly.

Ulf nodded. “The solution is for her to find a good farmer’s son who isn’t an heir.”