Margit Sandemo: The Ice People 21 - Devil´s Ravine

The Devil's Ravine

The Legend of the Ice People 21 - The Devil's Ravine

© Margit Sandemo 1984

© eBook in English: Jentas A/S, 2018

Series: The Legend of The Ice People

Title: The Devil's Ravine

Title number: 21

Original title: Vargtimmen

Translator: Anna Halager

© Translation: Jentas A/S

ISBN: 978-87-7107-559-5

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchase.

All contracts and agreements regarding the work, translation, editing, and layout are owned by Jentas A/S.

Acknowledgement

The legend of the Ice People is dedicated with love and gratitude to the memory of my dear late husband Asbjorn Sandemo, who made my life a fairy tale.

Margit Sandemo

The Ice People - Reviews

‘Margit Sandemo is, simply, quite wonderful.’

- The Guardian

‘Full of convincing characters, well estabished in time and place, and enlightening ... will get your eyes popping, and quite possibly groins twitching ... these are graphic novels without pictures ... I want to know what happens next.’

- The Times

‘A mixure of myth and legend interwoven with historical events, this is imaginative creation that involves the reader from the first page to the last.’

- Historical Novels Review

‘Loved by the masses, the prolific Margit Sandemo has written over 172 novels to date and is Scandinavia s most widely read author...’

- Scanorama magazine

The Legend of the Ice People

The legend of the Ice People begins many centuries ago with Tengel the Evil. He was ruthless and greedy, and there was only one way to get everything that he wanted: he had to make a pact with the devil. He travelled far into the wilderness and summoned the devil with a magic potion that he had brewed in a pot. Tengel the Evil gained unlimited wealth and power but in exchange, he cursed his own family. One of his descendants in every generation would serve the Devil with evil deeds. When it was done, Tengel buried the pot. If anyone found it, the curse would be broken.

So the curse was passed down through Tengel’s descendants, the Ice People. One person in every generation was born with yellow cat’s eyes, a sign of the curse, and magical powers which they used to serve the Devil. One day the most powerful of all the cursed Ice People would be born.

This is what the legend says. Nobody knows whether it is true, but in the 16th century, a cursed child of the Ice People was born. He tried to turn evil into good, which is why they called him Tengel the Good. This legend is about his family. Actually, it is mostly about the women in his family – the women who held the fate of the Ice People in their hands.

Chapter 1

The hour before dawn. The hour when life and energy on our planet is at its lowest. The hour between night and day, the quiet hour when everything is dormant. Where weakened bodies go into their death throes, the flame of life flickers, and many people have to give up and relinquish life on earth. Men and women get lost in the dark corners of their souls and the mentally sick shout silently for help in the grey gloom of the fading night.

This is the hour when shady beings play havoc: humans with the invisible mark of crime on their forehead. Wolves and wild beasts roam about searching for prey, and their timid victims tremble, hidden among the leaves. Nameless creatures rise from the abyss to mingle with the living on earth. At this hour they can glide around the beds of the sleepers, searching for a prodigal soul that they can seize before day breaks.

It was at such an hour, at the end of a blue-black night, that the smallholder of Knapahult woke and sat up in bed.

What sort of sound was it that he had just heard?

His wife, Ebba, that sinful slut, was sleeping shamelessly after seducing him yet again with her devilishly beautiful body. He had beaten her, as one ought to, as punishment!

All was quiet in the kitchen where their daughter slept.

The sound had come from outside.

He swung his skinny legs cautiously over the edge of the bed – but not cautiously enough. The bed creaked and in the middle of that he heard the peculiar sound again, but so low that he could not quite make it out.

Could it have been a shout?

He wasn’t sure. It could have been a tremulous screech from a fox or an owl. It could have been the ice cracking with a loud noise. But it could also have been something else. Something unknown. Cerberus? Or ghosts that had made their way from the “other side”? The hair on his neck almost began to rise. Karl of Knapahult shuffled on bare feet to the kitchen door, and opened it very carefully. It creaked, but not so badly if you moved it very slowly.

In the kitchen he glanced in the direction of the bench where his daughter, Gunilla, was fast asleep, exhausted after her hard day’s work. Oh, well, he thought brusquely. It does children good to work hard. They have to learn what it is to have a bent back from slogging from early morning till night.

This was Karl’s philosophy of life, which he was very pleased with. Besides, he could turn everything to his own advantage by asserting that God would relish it. It was also the philosophy he used when he bullied his daughter. “Get busy, girl. Laziness leads straight to hell!”

That way, he got a lot of work done on the farm ...

Out in the hall he pulled on his boots. They were still damp from the day’s toil in the oat field, which he was preparing for the summer sowing.

Then he went outside. The few patches of snow that remained shone bluish in the dark night. The stars were out but not the moon. There was a hint of spring in the air, but it was still so cold that he shivered in his thick, homespun underwear.

Far away, the river roared as it always did.

Otherwise everything was still.

That was just what you would expect, the farmer thought grumpily. When you really listen, you don’t hear anything. But he went on standing there because after all he had definitely heard that sound. It had been so unexpected that it had woken him up.

Just as he turned around to go inside, he heard the sound again. He stiffened all over. It was a shout, several shouts, coming from the forested moor that lay beyond Knapahult. The sound came from so far off that he couldn’t hear what was said, but it was also sufficiently close that he suddenly felt very scared.

He could hear the sound again, roaring, in waves, as if it came from a whole chorus of voices.

Good heavens, Doomsday has come, Karl thought, his face turning pale under the stubble. At least I have nothing to worry about, but Ebba, poor soul, won’t be shown any mercy. She’ll go straight to hell, that’s how wicked she is. Nothing can be done about that. The Lord has passed His sentence.

Karl knew his Bible, and certainly the texts that suited his opinions.

Once again, he heard the sound coming from the moor. He could swear that no animal screamed like that. Nor any human being. But now, he mustn’t be too macabre. It was just the bewitchment of night putting grotesque thoughts in his head. Although he was cold he went on standing on the doorstep, but he heard no further screaming. At last he went indoors again.

He stopped in the kitchen, glancing in slight annoyance at the outline of his daughter’s body under the blanket. Women had always been second-class citizens to him, and he still fretted because he had never had a son. He took it out on his daughter, Gunilla, who had to work just as hard as a boy even if she was only fifteen years old and not particularly big.