Margit Sandemo - The Ice People 25 - The Angel

She was darting about over there on the garden path. She had arranged some sticks and stones in a pattern and was jumping about between them, very preoccupied. She didn’t even look up when he turned up from the meadow and walked across to the barn. Now he was up in the hayloft, but where was his rifle? Yes, it was in its hiding place, well hidden! Olle Creep loaded the rifle, slowly and meticulously. He had plenty of time. The estate owner would have to walk through the stable first. Then he would take leave of his companions and walk across the fields on his own. Olle Creep knew his routine by now. Count Posse was a pensive man. He loved to roam about on his own on the rare occasions when he was at home. He was behind the barn now, and on his way across the meadow ... no one could see him.

People would hear the shot of course, but it would be quite a while before anybody realized where it had come from. Before they found Count Posse out in the fields, the rifle would be hidden away and Olle Creep would be back at work, just as surprised as everybody else.

The sheriff was bound to reach the conclusion that Count Posse had been killed by a stray shot – perhaps from a poacher in the forest?

The rifle was loaded. Olle Creep took his position by a small peephole up in the hayloft.

The estate owner was coming closer ... that snooty devil of a judge. Now Olle Creep would get even with him! He would get revenge for every year he had slogged, every single stone he had carried ...

A little farther into the field! There! Perfect! Now you’re about to die, my friend! Olle’s finger was bent, ready to fire a shot.

“Boo!”

Olle started. A small shadow had appeared behind a pillar and he heard laughter.

“I frightened you, didn’t I?” Tula laughed. “You didn’t see me at all!”

Olle Creep cursed silently as he tried to hide the rifle, which wasn’t easy.

“Are you shooting crows?”

Tula wasn’t tall enough to look out of the peephole. Thank goodness for that, Olle thought.

“Er ... crows? Yes ... yes, precisely!”

For an instant he very much wanted to wring the neck of this unsuspecting little creature, who was hopping about the loft in short skirts. By now the estate owner was far away and he had missed the magic moment. But Olle didn’t want to have to conceal another murder. The little girl was very much loved. There would be general consternation if she disappeared and was found dead on the estate. People were so damned sentimental over children. Now she was climbing down and a moment later she had gone.

And so had Councillor Posse.

Olle Creep swore like mad. He was absolutely livid.

A few days later, he had another chance. The estate owner was out alone riding his horse. He was on his way to see the vicar in Bergunda. As always, he would come back at dusk and ride home along the avenue. As soon as night fell, Olle Creep sneaked out and into the avenue. There he tied a rope right across the road between two trees, at a height that meant the horse couldn’t help stumble on it and fall. Count Posse always rode fast.

Now the snare was set. Olle Creep inspected his handiwork and was pleased as he trudged back up to the farm. He didn’t want to go right home but would lie in wait at a distance, so he would have time to remove the line before it was discovered. But he hadn’t walked far before he heard a soft call behind him.

“Olle Creep!”

What? Did they use his nickname openly here?

He heard small, quick steps behind him. He stopped.

Tula gasped eagerly: “You forgot ... this ... rope. It was very difficult ... to untie. There you are!”

She was so proud of being able to lend a helping hand!

Olle took the rope. He was getting more and more angry.

“Mind your own business, you snotty little brat!” he snarled as he walked away, raging inside. Far down the avenue, horses’ hooves could be heard approaching. Olle Creep didn’t stop to listen. He simply walked away in order not to be seen.

Then there was the time when he was roofing a building and the estate owner happened to stand right underneath him ... He was holding a heavy tile in his hand. All he needed to do was let go of it – and then make himself scarce before anybody caught sight of him.

He heard that young voice he hated pipe up from far below: “Are you up there, Olle Creep? Can I come up to you?”

There he stood – with the tile in his hand, ready to drop it over the side. Tula was standing down there on the lawn. Right below him were the estate owner and the farm bailiff, who had both taken a step back, gazing up at him.

Damn her! Satan’s brat!”

Olle Creep had no idea how right he was.

Then the estate owner returned to Stockholm. But his sons were still there! The estate owner had six sons, and the one who was most frequently out in the courtyard and around the farm buildings was Arvid Mauritz Posse, who was thirteen. Why hadn’t Olle thought of that before? An even better revenge! The son! If he was killed, what would the mighty councillor say about that?

Yes, it was obvious! Such a hothead was much easier to make short work of. Olle began to make new plans.

This turned out to be much more difficult than he had thought. Count Posse’s sons adored the naughty little farm brat, so she seemed to be all over the place at Bergqvara. She, who in her ignorant innocence had upset Olle’s plans several times already almost made him choke with frustration. Tula was always with one of the estate owner’s sons, running along at their heels admiringly. The idiots seemed delighted and flattered; they seemed to like her rippling laughter, which echoed everywhere and which Olle simply hated.

Actually, Tula didn’t really live on the Bergqvara Estate. Her parents had a farm of their own that had grown big and profitable. But her father, Erland, was a good soldier and had been promoted, so he was often away on duty. At those times Tula and her mother, Gunilla, would stay with her grandfather, the estate manager Arv Grip, at Bergqvara. This was safer for Gunilla and young Tula. However, Gunilla really wanted to stay there for quite a different reason. She didn’t care to admit it but she was worried about her dear old father. She was so afraid that he would get hurt or fall ill. This way she could be nearby. Gunilla really had no reason to worry, because her father was neither sick nor frail. He was fifty-seven, which was nothing for a man of the Ice People. But Arv was simply grateful to have his daughter and grandchild staying with him. At long last he had managed to persuade Siri of Kvarnbäcken to marry him, but she still suffered from the effects of her terrible years in the Devil’s Ravine. Young Tula was a breath of fresh air in his life with the two fragile women, Gunilla and Siri.

Olle Creep, on the other hand, wanted that damned little ray of sunshine and her entire family far away.

He would get the better of them, no doubt about that! He couldn’t care less about the manager’s family. They were unimportant. It was the Posse family he wanted to break, and right now he was focusing on that puppy, Arvid Mauritz.

Strangely enough, it never occurred to Olle to render Tula harmless first. He ought to have done that, but his primitive thoughts were still focused on striking at Councillor Posse, who had sent him to prison.

The opportunity presented itself one day when the thirteen-year-old was alone on the farm. Tula, that jinx who happened to turn up at every critical moment, was indoors having dinner with her mother. At least he didn’t have to worry about her this time. Wonderful!

Olle Creep had dared to speak to young Arvid about a promising young animal that the neighbour wanted to buy for a tidy sum. But this was something Olle couldn’t decide on his own. Would young Arvid Mauritz – who was, of course, a true expert – please come with him into the stable and take a look at the calf so that Olle wouldn’t do something stupid? The bailiff? No, he was out in the forest, measuring up timber.