Margit Sandemo - The Ice People 25 - The Angel

But there was someone else at the confirmation party whom she respected enormously: Eskil’s father, Heike Lind of the Ice People. Tula admired Heike immensely. She would have loved to walk over to him and say: “You and I are of a piece!” However, her instinct told her that she shouldn’t. She wasn’t to reveal her secret just now. She would be much freer if everybody took her for God’s little lamb. So she avoided looking Uncle Heike in the eye. Not in a way that was noticeable – no, not at all. When she was at her happiest and most innocent, she would happily return Heike’s gaze, and he would return her smile without getting suspicious. However, when she was up to something, she didn’t even dare to look in his direction.

Because she knew that he would immediately discover what was hidden in her eyes. She was lucky that there wasn’t a hint of gold in her eyes, not even when she wished anyone harm.

Nevertheless, she had heard the story of Sölve and how the colour of his eyes had changed little by little, so she didn’t dare to run any risks.

Tula behaved very nicely and decently at Skenäs. But she heaved a sigh of relief when they were on their way home again. A sigh of relief and longing. It was nice to have an idol like Eskil, and nice, when she invented fun and mischief, to think, I wonder what Eskil would say about this? He would probably think that I’m plucky. And clever. He would admire me. It was also nice to have him at a distance. That was all she demanded of her idol. Having him nearby all the time would be too much of a strain, because she would always have to remember not to exceed the boundaries of normality. Tula found it natural to wish good luck and happiness to those she liked and misery to those she didn’t care for, and then to strike with some suitable incantations so that what she wanted would happen. But Eskil would certainly begin to ask questions, and she didn’t want that at all. And since he was her idol and not her first love – she was too young for that – it suited her nicely that she lived in another country.

They never wrote to one another. Tula didn’t care for such nonsense. Nevertheless, Eskil became her guiding star, which was a good thing because knowing that he was a normal human being made her jam on the brakes before she went too far with her witchcraft. She needed to learn discretion, and this was why she didn’t seek revenge on Amalia when her friend played with other girls, or on Grandmother Siri when she didn’t want Tula to watch a cow being served by a bull. That didn’t matter so much because Tula watched anyway. Nor did she allow herself to be provoked by her many aunts and uncles on the smallholding, even though Erland’s siblings irritated her intensely. She found them slow on the uptake and stupid. They were her close relatives and she liked them in a way. However, she saw that her own dear father was the only one in the family who was able to use his brain. Not that he was burdened by wisdom, but he had a lot of good common sense. Besides, he was so nice to her and Gunilla that it was impossible not to love him an awful lot.

Tula’s mother and father were very different from each other. But they understood and respected one another, and Tula knew that her mother had had many problems during her upbringing, because Grandmother Ebba had told her. Erland was very patient with Tula’s mother; he would console her when she was scared of other people or was troubled by painful memories. Tula could well understand why the wise and warm Gunilla had married her father Erland, even if he wasn’t all that bright and would brag now and then so all you could do was laugh at him.

Nobody had as good parents as she did!

But when Tula was eleven – almost twelve – years old, she experienced something that was so shocking that she completely forgot her resolution not to practise too much witchcraft.

Chapter 3

Tula roamed about more or less as it suited her. One day on her way from her grandfather’s house at Bergqvara Farm, she stopped near Bergunda Church as a funeral procession passed. The coffin was so very small. Tula knew who was in it: an eight-year-old girl from the parish, who had been found throttled in a grove. This had caused great consternation because the girl wasn’t the first such victim. She was the fourth child in two years to be found like this in Bergunda or Öjaby or Araby or other places around Växjö.

Tula’s mother and father, and everybody else, had banned her from walking about alone. But they couldn’t tie her. She was like the fox: she walked where she wanted. Grandfather Arv had very reluctantly let her walk home to her parents’ house, with strict orders not to speak to anybody. He had followed her down the avenue. After that there were houses all the way, except for the last bit where she was to run and not stop for anything or anybody!

She regarded the mourners behind the coffin. Her face was unreadable. As they passed, she dropped a respectful curtsey. However, nobody could have guessed what the sweet little girl was thinking. She reached home safely.

Tula was a member of a children’s choir. Her mother Gunilla had insisted on this because her daughter had a splendid voice, pure and clear. But Tula got restive. She attended the voice classes in the community hall in Bergunda, because all the children were very fond of the music teacher. But sadly, she was always sick when the choir was due to sing in church. It was true that she had taken part once, because she didn’t want her absence to seem conspicuous. However, on that occasion she had sung shamefully badly. Nobody had any idea that she was in a cold sweat at having to stand up there in the organ gallery, looking down on the congregation.

The choirmaster was a man from Växjö, one of the unfortunate parents who had lost a child in the terrible way just described. He was popular and his personal tragedy meant that people liked him even more. His name was Knutsson.

One day, he asked Tula to stay after choir practice, which she didn’t mind. Knutsson was so nice and he always wore such colourful scarves, which Tula admired. Today, it was one in several shades of purple. He put his hand gently on Tula’s neck and stroked her blonde hair.

“Dear Tula, what are we to do with you?” asked Knutsson.

Tula looked at him with her big blue eyes and said: “What do you mean?”

“You’re so very clever,” Knutsson murmured, giving her a concerned look in which you could detect a hint of sorrow. Tula thought that appropriate, considering that he had just lost his child. He was quite a good-looking man in his forties, slightly overweight but not too much, which actually suited him. He had dark eyebrows over slightly hazy, dreamy eyes and big, sensuous lips. All grown-up women wanted him to pay attention to them, which was horrible!

“You sing so well,” he went on, as he continued to stroke her hair. “But you refuse to perform.”

Only in church, Tula thought. If only he would stop stroking her hair. “Last Thursday, I sang in Växjö and last ...”

“Well, yes. But you seem to panic as soon as it becomes serious. Are you scared of the audience? They all think that you’re so sweet and clever ... and that you have a fine voice.”

Tula thought: how do they know that if they’ve never heard me?

It was horrible the way he was shaking. And sweating. He also smelled so strange. Just like when one of the cows in the barn was in season and the bull was bellowing in its stall.

“I’d better go now. My mother is waiting,” she said.

“Yes, of course,” Knutsson replied, and loosened his grip on her neck. “Where do you live, Tula?”

She explained.

“Oh, I see. I’ve never been there.”

Tula continued politely: “I also quite often stay with my grandfather on the Bergqvara Estate. I’ll be going there tomorrow afternoon.”