Margit Sandemo - The Ice People 08 - Under Suspicion

Her hair was nice. She could see that, of course. It was golden and had never been cut, so it reached to the hollow of her knees when it was loose. It was thick and slightly wavy by the forehead and temples and more wavy further down.

Her thoughts came in a steady stream. Once – oh so many years ago now – she had looked at all the young people dance in the glade of the forest, and she had felt a pain in her chest. On the way home, a young lad had gripped her and asked her to sit down in the dewy grass and talk. Hilde couldn’t believe her own ears. A man wanted to speak to her! He didn’t look all that charming and his face was covered in spots, with patches of ugly stubble here and there.

She had done as he had asked her to do and sat down to chat. But she couldn’t think of any words, so her vocabulary quickly dried up. Then he had put his arm around her waist and put his face close to hers. “Don’t say anything about this to anybody, OK?” he had whispered, “because otherwise the whole village will tease me.”

Hilde had closed her eyes, breathing deeply. ‘I’m not that lonely after all,’ she had thought. And then she had got up and dashed away with tears of humiliation and misery streaming down her face.

She woke up from her daydreams. She remembered that something had happened in the meadow above Linden Avenue yesterday evening. What a lot of people had gone running along! It seemed as if they had found something or other. And there had been a bonfire all through the night. But it was not for her to go down there. She was an outsider.

When her mother was still alive, she was able to socialise with others, but now it was impossible. She never doubted her duty to take care of her father, but then she never discussed anything with him either. If he was angry or in a bad mood – which he usually was – she just kept quiet.

She knew very well that she was becoming an almost silent recluse, but what could she do to prevent it? It was only the cat and the other animals that got to hear her voice. They could hear that it was full of love, although it was rusty because of a lack of practice.

Andreas had no idea how badly wounded the executioner’s assistant was, but at least he was still alive. Now and then a miserable groan could be heard from the cart.

When Andreas pulled up in front of the small hut by the edge of the forest, he was surprised to see how clean and neat everything seemed. Poor, yes, but everything was in good shape. Not a broken beam or plank to be seen. Flowers had been planted in a remarkably small, hedged garden, and a cat was cozying up on the threshold.

He knocked on the door. Nobody answered. Not a sound could be heard.

Andreas waited for a moment. Then he shouted:

“I’m Andreas Lind of the Ice People. From Linden Avenue. I’ve brought you Joel Night Man. He’s been hurt.”

After a brief moment, shuffling steps could be heard moving across the floor and the door was opened with a jerk. Then the steps vanished once more.

He carefully seized the wounded man, who moaned loudly, and lifted him off the cart. Then he carried him into the small, dark room and put him on the bed.

He could hear somebody in the small bedroom. Andreas cast a glance about the place. Everything was spick and span. Women’s garments hung on a few beams, and he thought that it was probably her bed that he’d put Joel on.

“Hilde Joelsdatter,” he then said. “Shall I put your father in his bedroom?”

The door opened slowly. Hilde stood in the doorway with a small scarf pressed against her face so that all you could see was her shy glance.

He had never seen Hilde, the daughter of the executioner’s assistant, before and he was actually quite surprised. She was taller than he had expected – almost as tall as Mattias, he thought. Her face, the little he could see, was well taken care of, and so were her clothes. She smelled clean.

And what a hair she had! It curled beautifully about her face and was plaited in a long braid. Never before had he seen such long, thick hair.

Andreas was extremely baffled. Here she walked about, day in and day out, keeping everything neat and tidy, and nobody came to see it. Nobody had visited in maybe fifteen years. The unpleasant father was the only other person here, who wouldn’t be particularly cheerful company.

Despite her shyness, Andreas thought that this woman must possess surprising strength.

“Would you please help me move him,” he said as kindly as he could, because he could sense that she was embarrassingly shy.

Without a word, she took hold of her father’s legs and together they carried him into the small chamber, where there was hardly room for them all.

Hilde looked at Andreas out of the corner of her eye. A memory suddenly came back to her. She had once climbed up onto the ridge a long time ago. There she had stood, looking over the countryside right out to the fjord and across the ridges that were hidden by a blue haze in the distance. She felt a pang of emptiness inside, a feeling of being drawn towards something she could never reach. She felt the same sensation now.

“Would you please help me move him?” he had said. He had been speaking to her! Was there not something despicable in those words? ‘Would you please help me move him?’

Andreas was the first presentable young man she had ever seen. Debonair, with a pleasant voice and a kind demeanour. In Hilde’s inexperienced eyes, he was a miracle. Andreas Lind of the Ice People didn’t look at all bad in anybody’s opinion, although he was not exactly unique. He was stocky like his father and grandfather, tall and with a broad chest and a good-natured expression. The dark colours in his hair and eyebrows were charming and his smile was warm and trustworthy.

At that moment, Hilde was very much aware of who she was.

Andreas said something to her about a blanket that had been crumpled, and she swiftly bent down over her wounded father to straighten it.

At that moment, Mattias came in.

Hilde stiffened and sent them a glance of panic. Once more, she lifted her scarf to her head.

“Here comes the doctor,” explained Andreas. “Mattias Meiden. I sent for him. He’s my relative.”

She bent her head, confused. She had a pretty face - that much they had managed to see. Not so young, but with fine, almost classic features. There was no similarity between her and her father.

Mattias, who greeted her so politely that she instinctively dropped him a curtsy, bent over Joel Night Man. Meanwhile Hilde fetched a bowl of hot water and began to wash her father’s face with a clean cloth.

Now and then she would cast a frightened glance at Mattias and Andreas, as if she expected a torrent of mocking abuse.

Mattias sent her a kind smile – and nobody could smile in a more calming way than him. They saw that her shoulders began to drop slightly as she gradually began to relax.

The executioner’s assistant gained consciousness and moaned for a short moment.

“By God, you’re killing me, you damn bitch!” he said through his nose with swollen lips and aching teeth. Then he was unconscious once more.

Hilde bit her lip at the sight of her father’s terribly wounded face.

“He’ll recover. Don’t worry!” said Mattias.

Hilde looked questioningly at them.

“It was hardly his fault,” said Andreas, and Hilde immediately looked at him. “I can well imagine what has happened. They wanted to blame him for the murders.”

She instinctively looked out of the window that faced the meadow.

“Yes, it was down there,” said Mattias. “Did you know that?”

She shook her head.

“Haven’t any of your friends told you about it? There Are four dead women.”

“Friends?” she said in a toneless voice.