Margit Sandemo - The Ice People 35 - The Flute

The extremists in the Black Hand didn’t know how closely the central organization, Narodna Odbrana, was following their journey to Sarajevo. Only in thought, of course, for, as much as it supported the little groups of fanatics, it was careful not to be directly associated with any events that might take place during the Archduke’s visit.

The Black Hand perceived Franz Ferdinand to be an enemy of the Slavs. The Archduke was generally not considered a sympathetic sort of man – he was underhanded and simple-minded – so the group didn’t have the slightest scruple as they now grappled with the wildest of plans.

But until now their thoughts had been more fleeting than considered, and they didn’t have a conscious plan. Their ideas were unclear and fumbling, but their loathing and their wish to act was intense.

They were sitting in a circle, wrapped in their own thoughts, a gloomy group who felt that the entire responsibility for their country rested on their shoulders.

But not only that! Responsibility for the entire world.

But they didn’t know that yet.

Tengel the Evil slowly turned his wrinkled bird-head from side to side. He listened, sensed and registered things.

He wasn’t concerned with the Ice People right now. There was someone else who was preoccupying his thoughts.

The one who had played the incomplete signal.

Where, where in the world could that human creature be?

His abominable mouth exhibited a grimace of uncompromising hate. In his nasty, yellow eye slits there wasn’t a trace of compassion. Only a sickly glow, indicating revenge and destruction.

Tengel was a raw and unschooled creature. He had no grasp of geography or foreign places, he didn’t even know where he was himself, and had never heard of a country called Spain. He had never bothered to keep track of irrelevant things like that. But his instincts far exceeded all human knowledge and his head, atop his short neck that could extend like that of a wrinkled, spotted, carrion-eating bird, was now turned towards the west.

That was where ... that was where the notes had come from, he was quite certain. The sound had originated far, far away, which was bad because he was moving so slowly that it would take him forever to get there.

But ... he had other resources.

He focused all his tremendous power of thought on “capturing” whoever had been playing that flute, to get an impression of the person.

A marsh. He saw a huge area of marshland, with swaying grass, twisted, waterlogged trees and huge flocks of seabirds. He saw tall mounds and crags rising out of the marsh. And crowning one of them, a castle.

There!

Tengel the Evil continued his search inside the castle. It was very distinguished, a really magnificent dwelling with arched doorways and cloisters, all of which were decorated with Islamic patterns. Tengel didn’t know that word, of course, he just observed the building and thought it strange. Why did humans waste their time creating such things when they could have been spending it committing murder or torturing others?

Well, perhaps the castle’s former owners had had time for both. And they probably hadn’t done any of it themselves. They had had slaves to do that kind of work. Art and mutilation. All pre-ordered. Tengel the Evil’s far-reaching gaze located the lord of the castle. He was lying in a big canopy bed with black carved bedposts and thick silk hangings.

Tengel had enough power to destroy this man. But why would he want to? He simply couldn’t fathom how this human creature had managed to play his notes – and where was the flute? But he had to spare the man. Make him play again.

After that the poor wretch could be killed. Killed for the presumptuous act of mocking Tengel by not playing the tune to its conclusion.

Tengel couldn’t understand why this man had been playing his melody! He wasn’t a member of the Ice People, that was clear. So who was he?

And how could he be compelled to go on playing?

In the deep night of Slovenia the evil creature turned his head again.

Something was disturbing his concentration on the distant castle.

Something evil. Thoughts of death.

Delicious thoughts of crime.

His own area of expertise.

The impressions pleased him. They nourished him as blood nourishes a vampire. They gave him strength. They were energizing and joyfully wonderful.

He could deal with the flute player later. First, he wanted to find out what was going on in his own vicinity. He felt that in order for him to regain his power it was important that he should get closer to the source of the malicious impulses that were reaching him at an increasing rate. There might be something worthwhile for him in this? He might gain more strength from the evil source?

But “closer” was a relative concept. It wasn’t just a matter of going down a hill or around a mountain, he realized, as he continued to absorb the signals with his acute senses.

But ... on the other hand he had always been able to move faster if he didn’t touch the ground. And things had gone well when he had jumped up from the bedrock down in the cave. He had to give it a try.

Tengel the Evil lifted himself slightly off the ground. His feet were no more than half a metre off the surface, nevertheless in that position he was able to move at dizzying speeds. He didn’t have to move his feet, he could just glide wherever he wanted.

Yes! That was better. He hadn’t lost his old abilities: he was the great one again.

Small yet terrifying, with devilishly malicious eyes, he made his way forward with determination in the direction of the alluring signals that promised crimes, grief and death. Although he himself was not exceptionally strong, he could make use of others and ensure that they caused as much harm as possible.

He was looking forward to it. Finally to have the chance to do something! And to inflict the maximum havoc and tragedy on others!

How wonderful it was all going to be!

Everyone in the group was awake. Their spirits were much too high for them to sleep.

They conversed eagerly as they sat in a little circle on the dry grass of the hillside.

So they didn’t notice when a grotesque little creature that was neither human nor animal landed on the ground above them. It watched its step, making sure that its silhouette wasn’t visible against the sky and that its background was just as dark as itself. It half closed its eyes so that the yellow slits couldn’t be discerned.

The creature listened.

“No, we can’t do that,” one of the men was saying impatiently. “We can’t reveal ourselves and shout slogans. We just want to make our mark. But how?”

“I think it was a good suggestion,” said another. “Just throw a bomb or a grenade in front of the horses – that’s really the only way to do it! That will make them rear and if we’re lucky the royal couple will fall out of the carriage.”

“We must not be seen, I’ve said! Our organization is not to be revealed! God, what a stink there is here! Like rotten fish!”

The others sniffed the air and made faces.

“No, I don’t recognize that smell. It’s like nothing on earth.”

A few of them shuddered slightly, as though something evil and sinister had entered their little group.

“Well, it was probably just on the wind. Is there anything we can do indoors?”

“No, no, it’s got to take place out on the street.”

Tengel the Evil observed them one by one. Their language was no barrier to him since he understood all the languages in the world.

His sluggish brain tried desperately to overcome the haze that was preventing it from thinking clearly. They were so immature, the boys sitting there. Their hatred was strong and genuine enough, but they lacked the ability to conceive plans of real evil.