Margit Sandemo - The Ice People 11 - Blood Feud

October came. It was a year since Villemo had met Eldar and fallen in love with him. She had stubbornly cultivated his memory, managing to keep the flame of love alive despite the fact that it sputtered precariously every now and then.

A letter from Dominic had still not arrived. Villemo felt betrayed and she regretted ever having sent him the letter.

Niklas had turned hard and introverted and was difficult to talk to. Irmelin had been sent to Gabrielshus in Denmark for a while so that these two young people would forget one another or change their minds.

Villemo went for a walk, deep in her own dark thoughts. It wasn’t as nice an October as it had been the previous year. Now the autumn mist hung in the tree tops and the fields were marshy after many weeks of rain.

Villemo entered the churchyard to gather strength from her ancestors. So many members of the Ice People would do just the same whenever they felt doubtful or alone. It may have been a pagan ritual, but she and the others of the kin felt that it gave them peace of mind.

For a change, she went over to the oldest grave with the members of her family that she had never known.

“Tengel the Good,” she whispered loud. “And Silje Arngrimsdatter.”

Silje, the maternal grandmother of her maternal grandmother. Everybody spoke of her with great respect. It seemed that there were not enough beautiful words with which to describe her and Tengel.

“What a shame that I never got to know you,” Villemo whispered to them. “I wonder what I’ll be remembered for? Will people say, ‘Villemo, who was she?’ Or, ‘Oh, yes, that indecisive girl who didn’t achieve much of anything in this life. Who just made life miserable for others? By the way, she died a virgin, did you know? She lost the only one she loved and never got married so as not to pass on the evil legacy.’”

It seemed she was now, once again, allowing her self-pity get the better of her. She quickly moved her eyes to Sol’s name: Sol Angelica, the legendary witch, who was loved by everybody.

“I haven’t even turned into an acceptable witch. I’m nothing at all.”

Villemo left the churchyard despondent and with a slightly desperate and ironic laugh. The séance was over.

She continued past Graastensholm and Linden Avenue in the direction of the forest. Villemo was in a state that was hard to define. She was sad and dissatisfied with herself. She was unable to think clearly and didn’t want to talk to anybody. So that was how she drifted about, until she reached the river.

Now, when Villemo paused to think, she realised that the roaring river had prevented her from properly hearing the sounds that had been there during her walk; the rustle of leaves wet from the rain, the small snap of a twig, all the sounds that belong to the forest. Only, there were many more of them than usual.

She cast a glance over her shoulder. She saw the fir trees strung with water drops, and animals dashing here and there to repair the damage of their homes.

Villemo turned back to the river. ‘I don’t think I’m far from the Martha Hole. Yes, it’s right here!’

Fighting against her fear, she tormented herself by walking up to the precipice. She had been there years ago but not since the time Martha, the young girl the place was named after, had thrown herself into the deepest part of the river. Since then, Villemo had been a bit afraid of the place. Now the river ran far below her. She could only catch glimpses of it every now and then. The rest of the time the cliffs and leaning trees stood in the way of the view. She didn’t want to walk closer to the edge because it gave way to a steep bank.

The river roared fiercely as it flowed in a waterfall beneath the cliff. Villemo had now reached the Martha Hole, the deepest part of the river. She stood on the precipice above it, but she couldn’t see it because it lay hidden under the cliff. A well-trodden trail led out of the forest right to the spot where Villemo stood.

She started. A small, wooden cross was placed on the spot, and flowers had been planted in front of it. Villemo felt a lump in her throat. Who would be so loyal as to see to little Martha’s wet grave?

Villemo remembered that Martha had been a quiet girl, and almost a grown-up when Villemo was eleven. She had been shy, poorly dressed and was fairly awkward in her ways. She was just the type of girl to fall prey to the malicious tactics of a practiced seducer. She yearned desperately to experience kindness and love, and never dared to refuse it when it was offered.

The assault on Villemo came so suddenly that at first she didn’t understand what was happening when she was shoved hard in the back. She was unable to prevent the fall. She heard herself gasp and yell and saw the abyss come rushing towards her. ‘Just as it had done for Martha’, Villemo thought to herself in a flash. ‘This must have been how she experienced it as well. The fall into the abyss.’

Chapter 3

Ever since the day Martha was thrown over the precipice, the trees that had clung to it had grown tall. There were a handful of birch and fir trees which leaned out towards the water. Villemo landed on a small birch tree that stretched out right over the river. Her hands instinctively reached out, holding on in despair.

The birch tree gave a strong creak under the sudden weight, but it didn’t give way. Only five seconds after she had been pushed over the edge, Villemo lay on her stomach, balancing along a birch trunk as thin as an arm, as she stared down into rushing water that lay far below her.

Villemo felt dizzy and her arms ached from the effort of having to balance and cling to the trunk. She was scared stiff as she gently reached out one toe. She could just touch the earth beneath the tree.

She ventured a quick glance from the corner of her eye and saw a vertical slate cliff behind her. There was also a narrow ledge on which stood a birch tree and one single fir tree. If only she could pull herself backward and upward ... And exactly how was she meant to do that? The branch she clung to was bending down to the water and she was slowly slipping down it, headfirst.

“Good grief,” she whispered to herself. “Give me strength! Let me not give way to panic!”

Very carefully, she moved the grip she had closer to her body, first one hand and then the other, so that she was able to push herself backward.

The birch tree swayed and Villemo rocked up and down, clinging onto the branch with her arms and legs. She realised what the alternative was: if she lost her grip, she might not fall down in the first attempt, but she would be hanging from the branches of a tree that was already on the verge of reaching its breaking point. How long would she have the strength to remain hanging there? And how would the birch be able to withstand the burden? What was worse, who would think of searching for her here? Nobody knew where she had been walking.

Ever so slowly and cautiously, Villemo pushed herself backward and upward until her knees bent. Then she kept her arms still and began moving her legs. Her feet touched the earth on the small ledge. She had to gain a foothold. But there was nothing she could dig her feet into. She could feel that the small birch tree had moved a fraction as she moved backward.

Once again, she moved her hands closer to herself. At that moment the tree gave a warning creak, shaking so terribly that Villemo froze. It took forever before she dared to move once more. The minutes trickled by slowly as if they were made of sap from the birch tree.

The water roared below her. It roared in her ears and in her head as if she had never listened to anything but this infernal noise. She was drenched from the spray or perhaps it was her own sweat? Villemo didn’t know. All she knew was that her heart was beating so hard that it was bound to suffer permanent injury.