Margit Sandemo - The Ice People 35 - The Flute

It could be interesting to see it.

“But how will I get there?” he asked. His desire for adventure made him forget all about the possible dangers entailed. “And evade the war, I mean?”

The figure turned his head so that the light fell on him, and for a moment Vetle caught a glimpse of his face. It was no more than a dark flash of a bitter smile in a surprisingly youthful and incredibly fascinating face, with a neat, black, demonic-looking beard and yellow eyes.

Then the face was shrouded in darkness once more.

“Had you been of Saga’s lineage, one of the wolves of the dark angels could have accompanied you through the air.”

“As it did Vanja?”

“Yes. But you are only of the Ice People. However, some human-friendly transport is heading south early tomorrow morning.”

Vetle understood that what the Wanderer meant was “humanitarian transport”, but that expression was probably much too modern for him.

“The Red Cross?” the boy asked. “Yes, they are the only ones allowed to drive through Europe at present. How am I to join them?”

“Vetle, you must start using your brain a little for yourself. Please don’t give the impression that we have overestimated your intelligence and honesty so that we have to find someone else.”

“No, no, I’ll manage it,” the boy responded rashly. “Just let me leave a note for my family so that they don’t get too worried about me.”

“Yes, if you wish. Otherwise we’ll let them know, and that we are protecting you as much as we can. But should you put yourself in harm’s way through your own foolhardiness or lack of courage or judgment, things may go very badly for you. We can’t protect you against stupidity.”

That was just the way to put Vetle in a belligerent mood. “I’ll manage,” he said gruffly. “But I need more detailed instructions!”

“You’ll get them in time. Get ready to leave now, the night is short!” The cloaked man bade him farewell, and he was left all alone.

It was while Vetle was getting ready for the trip that he started to visualize just how big this adventure could be. Up until now he had probably cut a sorry figure, but the Wanderer’s sudden appearance had utterly surprised him and had shaken his usual self-confidence. Vetle had never anticipated being chosen for anything. To him, the story of the Ice People was practically a fairy tale; he himself had never experienced anything supernatural. And that is precisely where the great distinction and disjunction lies, between those who have been granted the gift of being able to see through the darkness and those who have never been in contact with occult sensory experiences. How are the clairvoyant ever going to persuade those who are not that there is an invisible world? It will never ever happen. That is why many people choose to keep quiet about their experiences, because they fear being exposed to scepticism and at worst disdain.

Vendel was a borderline case. He had never seen anything himself, but he lived among the Ice People, was one of them: Malin and Christoffer and Henning and Benedikte and André never expressed any doubt about that.

And then there was Imre, Marco’s son. Vetle believed in him, though he never made his presence known.

So Vetle might well have been called an agnostic. One that neither believed in anything nor judged anyone who did.

But now he knew. He was no longer in doubt.

He was one of the chosen! At least, in a way he was.

Of all the Ice People, he was the one chosen! A completely ordinary mortal in the lineage. And only fourteen years old. This was a record in so many ways!

Vetle loved records. Challenges. To outdo one’s own and preferably also the world’s expectations. He didn’t in the least mind being on the receiving end of the speechless admiration of others, and liked the idea of being world famous, spoken about and praised.

And this was the greatest challenge he could ever have received!

The ancestors of the Ice People could count on him. Those who had chosen Vetle knew what they were doing. Vetle of the Ice People! What an impressive name!

He made a huge jump into the air, thrust his legs to one side and clicked his heels. He had been practising that jump for a long time without being able to manage it. He didn’t manage it now either. Crashed down on his side and looked around with a shameful snigger. But the Wanderer probably hadn’t seen it. He was long gone by then.

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