Margit Sandemo - The Ice People 30 - The Brothers

Malin stared at Henning. “What happened?” she whispered, ashen faced.

“It came from upstairs,” he whispered back.

They looked up. In the moonlight, they saw the noses of the two babies poking out between the banister rails. The boys were tiny, but they could just about manage to stand by themselves, and they were looking very pleased with themselves at the tableau in the hall.

The burglars had turned silent. They lay motionless on the floor.

“Heavens,” Malin whispered. “Heavens above!”

Henning said: “They’re breathing. The men are alive, both of them.”

Malin collected her thoughts. “I think that was meant to be. So that we wouldn’t get into trouble with the authorities. Tie them up, Henning, quickly before they come round! Then you can wake up the farmhand and ask him to fetch the bailiff. I’ll take care of the children.”

She walked upstairs. She swallowed a lot and found it difficult to look the two little boys in the eye. Ulvar’s laughter rolled hoarsely through the hall.

Good God, what is it we’ve got in the house? she thought, shocked, as she knelt down in front of them and embraced them. This could have gone so wrong! What if he decides to turn against us, against Henning and me – or somebody who hasn’t done any harm? No, no, that’s something that Henning and I will never be able to cope with. Never, ever!

“Thank you anyway, little Ulvar,” she whispered into his hair. “Thank you for showing us that somehow you like us. I’m so grateful.”

Defenceless was what she had thought. How ironic!

Ulvar seized a fistful of her hair, and shook it so hard that Malin had to flex all her muscles in order not to scream. His delighted laughter bounced off the walls.

Chapter 3

The hospital wasn’t that old but it had been poorly built and had quickly become shabby. It was also neglected. Cobwebs fluttered under the grey-black roof and the paint was peeling. Nobody gave a thought to the balls of fluff that stirred under the beds every time a door was opened.

This was the public hospital. Usually, members of the “public” were treated at home under the random care of more or less devoted relatives. Only those without any relatives would go to the hospital. It might as well have been called a home for paupers, had it not been for a charitable Christian organization that wanted to do something for the most insignificant members of society, placing an operating theatre at the disposal of the doctor and his small staff. There wasn’t enough money for any effective treatment, and whenever a sick person was shown the mercy of being admitted to this hospital, the poor patient would cry bitterly as he took stock of his life. And rightly so.

The death rate was staggering, and those who survived left sicker than they had been when they were admitted. Well, that was probably an exaggeration, but it was certainly not a presentable hospital.

The doctor was doing his usual round, visiting the long-term sick. He stopped by a bed and sighed: “Is it worth keeping this man here?”

The deaconess who was accompanying him stepped forward and, with pious reproach in her voice, said: “We can’t put him on the street!”

“No, of course not,” the doctor muttered. “I suppose he has nowhere to go. Wasn’t there someone else with him?”

“Yes, she’s in the women’s ward. They’re a problem, but our sense of mercy tells us that they must stay here.”

“Isn’t there a nursing home they can be moved to? They’re taking up the beds that others need!”

“We simply haven’t enough beds at the moment. We just have to wait for somebody to die.”

“That is if these two aren’t the first to go,” the doctor said quietly. “This one is so emaciated. Does he eat at all?”

“The sisters of mercy feed him. They manage to get him to eat a bit morning and evening. But he doesn’t respond at all.”

The doctor lifted the man’s hand, which rested limply on the grey woollen blanket. “Only two fingers left. The other hand isn’t much better. But at least we succeeded in stopping the gangrene in his feet. Although ... what’s the point?”

The doctor turned back to the deaconess. “And the woman? Is she showing any signs of improvement?”

“She has a good appetite and is recovering. But she wouldn’t be able to take care of herself outside the hospital. Her mind is completely confused.”

“What does she say about that?”

“She just talks rubbish. Not even in our language: I don’t understand a word of it.”

“And they were the only ones who survived?”

“Yes, all the others perished.”

The doctor sighed once more, gazing for quite a while at the exhausted man in the bed. His eyes were closed and he was so skinny he looked like a shadow.

“He’ll have to stay here until we can find some space in a rest home. It’s hopeless for people like him who have no close relatives. There ought to be a law ...”

He didn’t finish the sentence but merely walked on. The deaconess looked stern, because she understood very well what the doctor had wanted to say. She would take care of the poor man and the woman, though as it was only her mind that was frail they would probably find a place for her in a home for people with her kind of health problem. Things would be far more difficult for this handsome man ...

THE VOICES, AGAIN!

He had been hearing the voices for quite a long time but had been unable to reply. Now and then he thought that he answered, but it was as if he didn’t say anything. He was just so very tired and all he wanted was to sleep. These people who turned up every now and then, trying to force him to open his mouth ... they annoyed him but he was unable to defend himself. Some sort of gruel trickled into his mouth and he had to swallow it. What they poured into him was sticky. Most often, it would get stuck in his throat.

What was going on? Where was he, and why wasn’t his brain functioning? As soon as he tried to shape a thought, it was scattered like a veil of mist by a puff of wind. He couldn’t even remember or grasp who he was. Occasionally, faces and names whirled through his dazed mind, then they were gone before he had time to catch them.

Did somebody ... need to be told?

No, no, that thought slipped away again.

One day, there was a new voice among the others, an authoritative voice he hadn’t heard before. The problem was that he had great difficulty in understanding what all these people said as they stood around him in the void. He was only able to catch a few words, which he would quickly forget. He thought they spoke so fast and they didn’t articulate very clearly.

But this new voice was loud and clear. It spoke a peculiar language but now he was beginning to understand it a bit better. The man with the high voice said something about being given the wrong treatment. Bla-bla-bla was missing. The food was too poor and nobody would ever be able to get well on that gruel he was being served. Well, anyway, the high voice said that it was a fine hospital but what else could you expect in the provinces because, of course, they didn’t have bla-bla-bla.

After some time, he didn’t know how long, he could feel that he was getting better. Could it be because the food had improved? He wasn’t quite so exhausted and his eyelids didn’t feel like lead any more. One day, he was able to lift his hand. Only it felt rather odd. Was there something the matter with it?

He was beginning to remember. Small hints. Most of all he felt a terrible anxiety. Anxiety on behalf of somebody else, somebody he was fond of. And for the one who had to be told. The one who touched his heart; somebody it hurt to think about because this ... this little ... warmed his heart ...? The memory slipped away from him once more.