Читать книгу The Ice People 34 - The Woman on the Beach - Margit Sandemo - Страница 8

Chapter 3

The road leads into the wilderness where the valley turns towards the forest and the meadows end. If you try to follow it, your soul will lose its anchor in the day, the light and other people’s lives.

The road you thought you were following is split into small paths, tempting you with games of light and shadow, and you can’t trust any of them. Perhaps one path might lead to the bog, the swamp that swallows up your feet, hiding you forever in the black-brown deep? Perhaps another path leads to the slope that is waiting for straying children that drive the cattle to the pastures alone and who gather moss and lichen by the light of dawn? Perhaps, yes, perhaps one of the trackless paths you see will lead you into the deepest, darkest part of the forest – to that place that people only whisper about as they sit by the fire at harvest time?

Everybody on the farms down in the valley knew the legend. Anybody could tell you about things that had happened there among the silent fir trees. A long time had passed since it happened, and yet it was still spoken of there, alluring, fascinating, tempting, in cabins and cottages during the grey winter evenings. The legend of the virgins of Vargaby.

Nobody now remembers where Vargaby once stood, and those who knew the legend are gone forever.

But once – I think when Gustav III or Gustav IV was king of Sweden – three men came riding through the forested villages of Älvdalen. They were tired and the pouring rain made them fearful for the night.

“We’ll seek shelter for the night at a farm,” said one, a tall man with an authoritative look in his eyes. His name was Diderik Swerd and his mind was set on women and fighting and perhaps a glass of something to fortify him by the fireside in the inn.

The second man was short and stocky, with eyes that burned through falsehood to root out abysmal, sensuous sin. He had just become a priest and was zealous in fulfilling his calling. A person who is short of stature and who doesn’t get on well with others often chooses a career that gives him power. Nobody knew what his real name might be, but Natan was the name he gave. Like Nathan in the Bible, he tried to admonish and discipline and lecture everybody about the fires of hell.

He merely nodded briefly in response to the other, because it was certainly the will of the Lord that priests are to be granted the best. This was weather for dogs and not for men of the church.

The two men were followed by a third. A young man so muffled in his cape that they could only see his eyes glinting from the depths within. He told them his name was Havgrim. That was all they got to know.

The nearest farm was splendid, tempting them with dreams of food and sleep – and a roof over their heads and ice-cold ears. They rode in and were well received; their horses were stabled and they themselves stepped into the warm living room.

Natan offered a greeting: “Peace be with you.”

“Peace be with you,” mumbled the peasant in return, while his wife merely nodded in silence. “What has brought you out on this rainy evening?”

The priest replied: “The Lord has summoned me to work in the pagan villages of Härjedalen. I’m on my way to Sweden.”

“And I plan to go to Trondheim on an errand for the king,” said Diderik Swerd. “The obstinate Norwegians are quarrelling and don’t want to be subjected to Danish rule. They think they can govern themselves. King Gustav has asked me to make enquiries about the mood among the peasants in Trøndelag, as I was already in these parts. I met Mr Natan down in Mora, and as we’re both going in the same direction we decided to travel together.”

André lifted his eyes and pondered. What a strange piece of writing this was. How much was legend and how much had Petra’s mother added to it? To begin with, everything was written with a particular rhythm. But here the rhythm ceased, as if the authoress wasn’t up to continuing with it. André was also struck by something she had written: “Those who knew the legend are gone forever.” If that was the case, how could she have known the legend in the first place? Was what she wrote fiction or was it as she said: something that she had inherited orally from her mother?

Of course, André was searching for what Vanja and Benedikte had mentioned – something that might be a link to the Ice People. He hadn’t come across it – yet. But Trondheim had been mentioned. Might Diderik Swerd have something to do with Petra’s family as he continued his journey to Trøndelag?

Anyway, André would have to carry on reading to find out.

The peasant looked inquiringly at the third man. Diderik Swerd said matter-of-factly: “Oh, him? I picked him up on the way. He’s an old soldier, who took part in the war in Europe as a mercenary. Now he’s my bodyguard, because it isn’t safe to travel alone in rural parts of the country.”

The Älvdalen peasant straightened his back and said, in his almost unfathomable dialect: “Gentlemen, if you’re on your way to Sweden and Trondheim, you ought to go back to Mora and take the road northwards instead! You’re on the wrong track here. What awaits you is nothing but detours and wilderness.”

Diderik nodded. “We know the road that heads north is the best one. However, I have some purpose in travelling through this valley. My ancestors came from the villages of Älvdalen. I’ve been enquiring for two days now, but without finding any clues to where they were born.”

“And I wanted to spend the journey preaching about God to the erring souls in the wilderness,” said Natan the priest. “However, my words have fallen on deaf ears in these valleys. People won’t bend to the Lord’s promise of torment for hardened sinners. They don’t want to hear about the horrors of hell because they say that life on earth is shocking in itself.”

“Why not speak about the Lord’s gentle rewards for those who are willing to follow His commandments?” suggested the peasant.

“It’s not until they are writhing in anxiety and agony at the thought of God’s terrible punishment that they will listen to what I have to say about paradise,” snapped the priest. “That is when they ask me for forgiveness for their sins and desires.”

The peasant said no more, but the trembling wings of his nose said a lot about the remarks he refrained from making. He glanced again at the third man, who had sat down in the darkness far away from the fireplace. He had taken off his cape and hood, and brown-black hair framed his closed face. He wasn’t old, rather far too young to have been at war on the bloody battlefields of Europe. He may have been ruthless, although nothing in his features showed this right now. He was a handsome young man, with eyelashes so thick and dark that his brown-green eyes appeared quite bright.

Diderik Swerd was fairer, with ash-blond hair and lecherous lips, and was about ten years older than the other. He was dressed as befits a man in the service of the king: in top boots and a short velvet coat, with lace at his neck and wrists.”

André let the sheets of paper drop once more. How could the authoress know all this? Even the things they said! He thought she must have used her own imagination here and there. Nobody could retell a legend in so much detail.

It was impossible to know which parts were old rumour and legends and what came from Gerd’s imagination. One thing became increasingly obvious as he read: the woman who had written this liked to write. This was also the case among members of the Ice People, who had an itch to write.

Could it be a sign that she had the blood of the Ice People in her veins?

This was much too vague and ill-founded as a hypothesis, but André liked the thought. It made him want to continue reading.

“How do you plan to reach Sweden from the Österdal Valley?” the peasant asked the three men.

“Straight along the road from here.”

The peasant shook his head admonishingly. “No, no! Not even we would take that road – not even if our lives were in danger. Go back to Mora while you still have the chance and don’t even think about the forest between us and Härjedalen. Because you’ll never get out of it!”

“Nonsense! Aren’t we two soldiers and a man of the church? Do you think we’re afraid of wolves? Or bears?”

The peasant’s wife looked up. “Sir, there are other things to fear in those forests.”

“Robbers?”

“I wasn’t thinking of them.”

“If you mean wood spirits, water elves and all that nonsense, then forget them! We’re not superstitious. If there’s an emergency, we have a priest with us.”

This was where the good Diderik Swerd revealed that he wasn’t totally unfamiliar with the kind of thing one might come across in the mists between fact and fiction.

“A priest may be needed,” said the peasant’s wife, “but the wood spirits won’t bother you.”

“Well, then, tell us what we must be wary of! We can’t travel blind.”

“You may get lost,” she said shortly.

“That doesn’t frighten us. We’re not children.”

Without allowing himself to be interrupted, the peasant went on in his Älvdalen dialect, which he tried to make as intelligible as possible for the strangers. “Those parts are full of sorcery. We prefer not to walk about in that forest, because even if you believe you know the trails, invisible powers lead you into the path along which nobody should walk.”

“We can follow the signs of the sun and the trees.”

“You won’t see the sun in there, and the wind can’t enter so it leaves no traces on the tree trunks.”

Now his wife got up and spoke directly to her husband. She didn’t make an effort to speak so that the others could understand her, but used her own dialect, which happens to be one of the most obscure. She said that it had started to rain and that she was going out to the stable. But none of their guests grasped that.

The man nodded and his wife left.

There was a small break in the conversation when she left the room. Diderik Swerd stretched himself in the chair. His feet had enjoyed the warmth from the fire so much that they were now dry and he could walk on them again. They were ugly, square feet with long, gnarled toes that were filthy, but they had served him well. On endless marches in battle or through hours of monotonous guard duties.

Diderik was about to drop off to sleep when the priest’s grumpy sharp voice pierced his ears. “What is it that’s so dangerous in there?”

The peasant looked him straight in the eye. “Have you never heard of Vargaby’s virgins?”

“No, what’s that?” blurted Diderik Swerd. “I must say that word ‘virgins’ appeals to me. Are they young and tender?”

“Stay away from those virgins if you value your life. They’re not for mortal men.”

“Nothing but nonsense, eh?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Vargaby exists – and I’m sure they have some virgins there now. But nobody who doesn’t belong there should enter that village voluntarily.”

The priest breathed disapprovingly through his nose. “Enough of this! Let’s be absolutely clear. Is there a village in the forest?”

The peasant replied hesitantly: “There are bound to be herders’ settlements here and there. Perhaps villages as well. But none like that one.”

“Have you been there yourself?” asked King Gustav’s emissary.

“I’ve seen it, and it’s beautiful. Surrounded by the forest ...”

“Is it big?”

“Heavens, no! Eight or ten farms in a cluster. That’s all.”

“That is bound to lead to terrible inbreeding. Do you know the people there?”

“No. As you can tell by our language, our villages are secluded from each other.”

“Is there something wrong with it then?”

The peasant tried to make himself more comfortable in his seat. Now and then, the flames from the fireplace cast light on beautiful decorated chests, wooden boxes, milk pails on the shelves along the walls and built-in beds in the corners. This was the home of a prosperous farmer.

He said slowly: “It’s only a legend, but we respect it.”

“Let’s hear it,” said Diderik Swerd, and the derogatory mirth in his voice didn’t escape the peasant’s attention.

The silent follower sat outside the circle in the semi-darkness. His silence indicated his subordinate position and, even more, Diderik Swerd’s obnoxious treatment of him.

“They say it happened at the time when Dalarna was converted to Christianity,” said the peasant. “You must know that the peasants of Dalarna weren’t willing to become Christians. The villages in the wilderness believed in the ancient Norse religion.”

“Yes, I can well believe that,” said the priest with a grimace.

André thought about this: here is a legend within the legend! We’re moving even further back in time. Well, well, I suppose I must try to keep pace. Now he was beginning to become curious about Vargaby.

“So the Lord’s messenger came to Vargaby,” said the peasant, “with a cross and the singing of hymns – while the worst paganism, worse than anybody could suspect, reigned there.”

His wife had come in again and had heard the last words. “Ugh,” she said, turning her head away. “Do you have to talk about that?”

The priest replied sharply: “We want to know the facts. This must have happened in the eleventh or twelfth centuries, because I know that the areas on the fringes of Dalarna and Härjedalen refused to convert to Christianity. Obdurate sinners!”

“I don’t want to pass judgement on that,” said the peasant quietly. “Anyway, it turned out that a sort of feudal regime was in place there. One farmer owned virtually the entire village and the other inhabitants were his slaves. It’s said his name was Vret Joar Jonsson. He was a powerful man. With hair and a beard that was like a cloud around his stony face. Vret Joar Jonsson had a vice – or a virtue, if you like. He loved virgins.”

“Who doesn’t!” muttered Diderik with a wry grin.

“Anyway, Vret Joar loved them in his own way. He sacrificed them to the pagan gods. To Freyr, the fertility god.”

“What? Sacrificed them?”

“Yes. It’s true! Every year, he would bare himself on the altar there, and every year a virgin would die.”

“But this is awful!” bellowed the priest.

“Absolutely! He wasn’t able to have sex with women, and that was why he offered them up – so that his masculine power might return to him.”

A woman wrote this in the nineteenth century! André thought. Petra’s mother Gerd must have been quite a character. He continued reading but had to switch on the light because darkness had fallen so suddenly. At first, he thought that it was the handwriting that was beginning to be unclear, but then he discovered that it was just the light that had faded.

“Honestly,” protested the priest. “All that belonged in the Bronze Age, perhaps. But not in our era.”

“You’ve heard our language, which you can only just make out. And we live by the river and aren’t completely cut off from the surrounding world. Don’t you understand how secluded the villages in these forests were hundreds of years ago? Human customs and piety had difficulty reaching into the forests and mountains of Älvdalen. The villages didn’t communicate with one another. They probably hardly knew that there was a world beyond the edge of the forest. They were hardly aware of the neighbouring village. Even today, Vargaby and other small hamlets in the wilderness are cut off from all human contact. Evil rituals can blossom in such lonely soil.”

Diderik looked thoughtful. “I can well understand that. But it was only a small village, after all! How could Vret Joar get hold of so many virgins?”

“Oh, there weren’t that many of them. His sacrifices went on for only four or five years before it all ended terribly.”

“Oh, and how did that happen?”

“I don’t need to tell you that people hated Vret Joar. They hated him, but feared him even more. He had a son, whom he had fathered when he was still able to embrace a woman. He taught his son to continue his work. Every virgin in the village was to be sacrificed ...

“But the evil man was punished! Vret Joar Jonsson complained bitterly about his lot. He couldn’t find rest even for a single night. The dead virgins persecuted their slayer in his dreams. They would appear night after night.”

The priest nodded. “That was his guilty conscience.”

“It was worse than that. It’s said that they really came. That their ghosts really harassed Vret Joar. But they were only spirits and were unable to reach him completely. They longed to be able to kill him, as they themselves had been killed – but they weren’t able to. That was why they tormented him in his dreams. He even said that when he was awake, he could swear that he had seen them.”

“This seems to be a worse punishment than being killed,” said Diderik. “Tell me ... How were the women sacrificed? Were they burnt?”

“No, not at all. The Norse god, Freyr, was said to live by a small lake in the forest. There the women were forced into the water. By a wall of spears.”

The priest gave a moan.

Diderik wanted to know: “Wouldn’t it have been more straightforward to stick the spears into Vret Joar?”

“They couldn’t do that because he had guards. Loyal men, who wanted to ingratiate themselves.”

“History repeats itself,” murmured Diderik Swerd.

“Yes, certainly. Of course, more keenly than anybody else, the guards directed their spears at the poor girl. Only there weren’t enough of them. So the family and friends of the chosen virgin, young men who might want her for themselves, were forced to take part. The ancient religion was strong and powerful, and those men knew very little about the world outside the village. Many probably believed that there was no other world than Vargaby. What were they to do? Well, at the time when the missionaries were working their way ever more deeply into the forests of Dalarna, something fatal occurred. One of Vret Joar’s guards fell in love with the virgin who had been chosen that year. In his youthful folly, he had admired the mighty Vret Joar and had been willing to serve him. Now he was full of remorse. He tried to escape with the girl, who was probably not a virgin anymore by then, but he was caught. The girl managed to get away and she roamed the forests for a long time. Finally, she made her way to the people of Älvdalen and give birth to a son. She herself lived for only another eight years. The child was, of course, a poor thing, who led a miserable life. He soon vanished from the village, and I presume that he died of starvation.”

“And the guard? The lover?”

“They made short work of him. All the other guards, and the son of the tyrant, Vret Mats, surrounded him and pierced him with their spears.”

The listeners shuddered.

“The girl was one of three sisters. One of them had already been sacrificed the previous year, but the third one was an extremely strong character. She knew that she was the next in line. However, that wasn’t the main reason why she decided to kill the tyrant. It was the sorrowful plight of her two sisters and the thought of the little girls that still lived in the village. She knew that after her, it would be their turn. Small, innocent young girls ...”

The fire was dying down and the peasant’s wife placed some more juniper twigs on it, which crackled. As the fire flared up, she turned around and looked at the faces of the guests in the warm glow: Diderik Swerd’s, cynical and jolly, Mr Natan’s, which was fanatical, and the young follower, who was unfathomable.

Now Gerd is giving her imagination a free rein, thought André with a little smile. This Gerd, who had written this ... Was she married to Ole Knudsen when she wrote it? Hardly! She reminded him a lot of the Brontë sisters: withdrawn, fearfully isolated, but with a creative ability that wouldn’t allow itself to be stifled. Gerd had an aptitude for writing, and for plotting in a rather limited way. She put replies in the mouths of her characters, and visualized how they and their surroundings looked.

There was undoubtedly a grain of truth in her written fantasy. It wasn’t an invented legend. The virgins of Vargaby, or at least the legend about them, must have existed, and her creative talents had supplied the details, the trivialities. André wanted to know whether she had ever thought of writing a book about all this? The little notebook he had in his hand was too thin, the story too short to make a whole book. Wasn’t this the sin that all authors commit? That they didn’t make their episodes long enough?

Perhaps she had even sent it to a publisher? And received a refusal? No, he didn’t believe she would have had the courage to do that.

The peasant, who had waited while his wife was tending to the fire, continued his account: “The girl, who was called Mait, succeeded in tricking Vret Joar Jonsson into coming to the forest lake by making him believe that the god Freyr had appeared to her and that he wanted to speak with Vret Joar alone.”

The peasant lowered his voice: “They say that the idol they had carved of Freyr was pretty fruity ...”

“Husband!” said the wife. “You mustn’t talk of such things!”

Diderik, leaning forward with an expectant, lustful smile, said: “Yes, let’s hear it.”

The peasant wriggled and writhed and didn’t quite know which of them to listen to. “Well, you gentlemen know how Freyr was equipped. He was the god of fertility, after all. They say that Vargaby’s idol was so well endowed that ... yes, yes, wife, I’ll keep quiet.

“Ah well, when Vret Joar arrived unarmed at the forest lake, Mait stepped out of the forest with a big knife in her hand to kill the village scourge. But she made the mistake of wanting to lecture him on what sort of scum he was. Of course, he ran off into the forest, because an indignant and armed Mait was no laughing matter. She chased him, and as she was younger and in better health, she had just about caught up with him – when at that very moment the missionaries coming through the forest were about to pass the lake.

“Of course, Vret Joar had heard about the new religion that had come to the nation. He wasn’t keen on it, but now he saw his salvation. He very loudly accused Mait of being a witch, who wanted to bewitch him. Vret Joar knew perfectly well that all kinds of sorcery were obnoxious to the men who believed in Christianity. The missionary signalled to his men and before Mait had had time to realize what was happening, they had killed the ‘sorceress’ in the name of God.

“Vret Joar went to Vargaby with his rescuers, pretending that he was a follower of the new creed. However, very soon the missionaries got to hear of the atrocities he had committed, including the human sacrifices. Having killed his vassals, the guards, the missionaries chased Vret Joar Jonsson and his son, Vret Matts Joarsson, out of the village and into the forest. The hunt was harsh and brutal. Nevertheless, the two men, father and son, managed to reach inhabited areas. The flight through the forest took its toll on Vret Joar, who died in his son’s arms by the banks of Lake Siljan. What happened to Vret Matts is also known. He became a vagabond, who drank, whored, starved and died pretty young.”

“What about Vargaby?”

“The missionaries tried to introduce Christianity to the villagers. When this didn’t work, they torched several of the houses in this ‘pagan nest’ so that the inhabitants had to rebuild them.”

Everybody in the room was silent.

“Do the people still live there?” asked Diderik shortly.

“Yes, they do. Once a year we see just a few of them in church. Shy and silent, they step aside for people, and then return to their hidden meadows once more.”

“I see ... But you still haven’t told us. What is it that’s so dangerous about that forest?”

The peasant lifted his head. “Haven’t you grasped it? The virgins of Vargaby are still there. The people of the village go free and don’t see the spirits. But a stranger who enters the forest ... He’s led onto the hidden pathway to Vargaby.”

Diderik’s mouth curled in disgust: “Why?”

“Because the virgins are still searching for Vret Joar Jonsson and perhaps also his son. But above all for Joar. How do spirits know that a man died several centuries ago? They are still searching. Full of the thirst for revenge. Especially Brants Mait, but also her sisters. The other little girls, the first to be sacrificed, seem to have found peace. Nobody speaks about them anymore.”

“But they can’t make contact with the living?”

“No, not in a tangible way. They can only frighten them out of their senses so that they can’t find their way out of the forest.”

“Has this ever happened? That somebody never made their way out of the forest?”

“I don’t know. After all, it’s a legend. However, my wife and I don’t go near those parts.”

Natan breathed out. “What an extremely realistic and detailed legend. A bit too precise. How can anybody know so much, especially as you’ve never been there. And as nobody has escaped from the forest alive?”

“Well yes,” the peasant replied slowly. “We have to assume that much has been added or improved over the centuries.”

“Undoubtedly,” said Diderik acidly. “Well, my fellow travellers: are you scared?”

“Not I,” said the priest. “I have God as my companion.”

“You, Havgrim. Are you hesitating?”

The young man shook his head.

“Very well,” said Diderik Swerd. “Dear sir, thank you for this entertaining tall story, which you have told well. However, my companions and I shan’t be taking the long route back to Mora. After a good night’s sleep, we’ll travel through the wilderness and up to Härjedalen.”

The peasant sighed. “I see that I can’t deter you. If that’s the case, you shall have our goat girl as a guide during the first part. Nobody knows the forest like her, and sorcery has never bothered her. Wife, will you fetch her?”

Diderik giggled. “A goat girl is bound to be good company for men like us.”

The peasant kept a straight face. He waited until his wife returned with the goat girl.

Diderik Swerd stared open-mouthed. She wasn’t exactly the girl of his dreams! She wasn’t a day younger than sixty, bent from toil and hardship, and riven with fear for the cattle in this forest full of dangerous predators.

“This is Barbro,” said the peasant. “I see you were expecting a younger version. Barbro came to my father’s farm years ago, alone and orphaned. Are you sure, Barbro, that you can lead these men past Vargaby at a safe distance and put them on the road that takes them to Lillhärdal and Sweden?”

Barbro nodded and said a long string of words they didn’t understand at all.

Diderik got to his feet so that they could see how impressively tall he was, “No, stop! We must have a guide that we understand!”

“I’m sorry, gentlemen,” Barbro said. “In my youth, I served my master’s sister when she married and moved to Gagnef. I still remember the peculiar language they speak there.”

Diderik was satisfied, albeit still with a tiny, mocking twinkle in his eye that marked his condescension towards his peasant host and hostess. “Very well. Then we’ll say goodnight and retire for the night. Doubtless I could have asked for a servant girl to warm my bed, but I’m too tired this evening. We’ll leave before the sun rises tomorrow morning.”

The peasant nodded. He followed the men with his eyes when the other two got up with Diderik to go to their bedroom in another building on the farm. As they passed the peasant, he met the gaze of the third member, who was full of sympathy and compassion. It said a lot about Havgrim’s knowledge of human nature: he had grasped who had the right disposition and the most humanity in the room.

That look touched the peasant and made him grateful.

A new group of travellers rumbled along the corridor outside André’s room. He put away the notebook and rested his eyes while he waited for the new arrivals to be quiet.

Outside the window, the moon had risen, throwing a cold glow into the room. André got to his feet and closed the curtains.

Half an hour later, the place was quiet and he could resume reading.