Margit Sandemo - The Ice People 20 - Wings of the Raven

Slowly they inhaled the atmosphere of the warm, humid afternoon. The branches of the trees skimmed the tops of their heads, branches so gnarled and heavy they seemed a thousand years old. The moss hanging from them was slimy with age and stale air. There was no sound to be heard anywhere; only a dense silence reigned.

It was as though the forest was holding its breath because of the arrival of the two men.

“Let’s ride on,” the baron murmured. “I’m hungry and the road must lead somewhere.”

It did. After they had been riding for half an hour the valley suddenly opened at their feet and a small village came into view.

The valley was like a hollow between the mountains. It didn’t look as though there were any roads leading out of it. The baron shuddered. He had a feeling that they had reached the end of the road in more ways than one.

The village houses were densely clustered, as though they were huddling together from fear of something. From the brooding mountains surrounding them? Or something else?

“The road does go farther on,” Yves pointed out. “Look, it bends round and disappears behind that big cliff at the other end of the valley.”

“Yes,” the baron said despairingly. “But it doesn’t look much used.”

Yves had to agree with him. They could barely see the tracks of the wheels that must have ploughed up the road once, though that could, of course, have been because their view was so distant.

Yves felt ill at ease and mumbled: “It looks as if this terrible forest also continues on the other side of the village.”

“Around the whole valley,” the baron said. “I’m afraid we will have to go back along the same road we came on, which is not particularly enticing because it has been a while since we encountered a crossroads. However, as we’re here we may as well ride down and get a bite to eat and a place to stay for the night. It is always easier to start a journey with renewed energy in the morning.”

Yves agreed and they rode carefully down the narrow, winding road, which was really nothing more than a path.

They were stately men, the baron and his nephew, with their sharp hawks’ noses and black eyes. They had led rather idle lives in France, as morally lax as large portions of the aristocracy. They had been blasé and arrogant in their behaviour, but the journey through Europe had been full of hardships and had hardened them, almost making real men out of them. They had managed to smuggle out great riches so that they were never in want of anything, or ought not to have been. But what good was wealth in this deserted, mountainous country? They still carried most of their fortune on their persons, having sewn it into their belts, because at first they had not dared to approach other people. They had lived off the food that they had been far-sighted enough to bring with them.

But their supplies had run out a long time ago, and the day’s long ride had really taken its toll on their bodies. They were both growing irritable from hunger and fatigue, not least because the ceaseless riding was not leading them any closer to the towns they wanted to reach. The atmosphere of the forest they had just left had settled on their shoulders like a damp cape.

They stopped again at the next vantage point, this time considerably closer to the village in the bottom of the valley.

They looked up at the sky to follow the circular flight of two ravens. The birds had taken off from a big cliff face, projecting gloomily from the other side of the village. They flew silently through the air, drawing closer and closer to the two men as they circled them.

The two Frenchmen looked at the huge black birds with fascination.

Finally one of the ravens flew so close they could look straight into its twinkling, pitch-black eye. Then, with a rush of their sweeping, shining wings, the two birds were done with their scouting expedition and returned to their nests, which must be situated somewhere on the wooded cliff.

The two men exchanged brief glances and went on.

“The village looks completely deserted,” Yves noted.

“It’s late in the afternoon. They have probably all gone to vespers.”

There was a small church in the middle of the cluster of houses. It did not resemble the Catholic churches they were familiar with in France. This country was orthodox, as far as they could tell.

Now they had reached the bottom of the valley and the ground levelled out. They rode slowly, almost reluctantly and hesitantly.

That forest, thought Yves, a bachelor of around thirty, that forest really could discourage a person completely.

His uncle was only ten years older. He, too, was an inveterate bachelor. Both of them had had reputations as incurable womanizers in their home country, and it was something they had both been proud of. But now everything that related to their homeland seemed distant in both time and space.

And they knew that they could never return.

“I know there is a large city somewhere in this confounded country,” the baron said. “It’s called Cluj or Klausenburg and it’s the capital of Siebenbürgen. There is another town called Sibiu, and they speak both German and Hungarian in both towns. At least we are able to speak a little German. I just can’t understand why we haven’t reached a big town yet! How long must we go on wandering these plains and valleys in the middle of nowhere where the population consists of a bunch of nonentities, who don’t even understand gestures?”

The baron did not stop to consider the fact that he himself was very much to blame for the lack of communication, thanks to his condescending behaviour towards all the people he encountered.

Take, for example, the man they had just met near the crossroads. He had immediately realized that these two haughty, arrogant gentlemen must be going in the wrong direction, away from the cities. But that was their business. If they wished to ride in the wilderness, it was entirely up to them, the farmer thought to himself, as he calmly continued on his way. He was by no means a hard man, but nobody likes to be shouted at as though he were a dog.

That was why the baron and Yves were now on their way to the little cluster of unadorned houses with blackened, undulating tiled roofs. Since none of the houses had any windows facing the road, the whole place seemed dead at first. In wonder, they rode slowly along the little street until the far end of the valley was suddenly before them.

“Look!” Yves said. “That road that looked so overgrown from a distance is a real road!”

“Yes, upon my word! It looks as if it disappears behind the cliffs, so perhaps we can go straight on from here tomorrow. Of course, we’ll have to ask someone how to get to Klausenburg.”

“Cluj,” Yves corrected him.

“Yes, of course. The natives here surely won’t understand a civilized language like German. Well, now the sun has set behind the hill, I’ll be damned how macabre this godforsaken valley suddenly seems! Have we come to a deserted village? That’s all we need!”

Yves was thoughtful. “There is something that worries me. The Austro-Hungarian Empire doesn’t go on forever. We must be careful not to end up in some wild, barbarian country!”

“You’re right!” the baron nodded. “We discussed it with that very cultivated man in Budapest. He was the one who directed us here, since Budapest has also been affected by all the unrest in the wake of the revolution. And he said that the Turkish Empire starts just to the south and east of Siebenbürgen. We must be careful not to get involved with the Turks, because they are not to be trifled with.”

“Look over there! There are some people!”

They had reached a small, paved square. It was clear that this was where the locals gathered after a hard day’s work. And there was an inn, which was exactly what they needed. Their spirits rose.