Читать книгу The Ice People 31 - The Ferryman - Margit Sandemo - Страница 8

Chapter 3

He was a tourist and didn’t know any better.

In a cheerful voice he asked the people at the first farm for directions to Fergeoset.

They demanded to know why he wanted to go there.

Uninhabited areas interested him, explained the young man, whose winning smile was not returned. “I’m very interested in folklore,” he continued, “And I’ve heard a few things about Fergeoset ...”

And he laughed again. But nothing but dead silence was the reaction from the three people on the farm. His laughter faded into a subdued, awkward sound.

“I don’t think you ought to go up there,” said the farmer finally. “There’s a good reason why it’s uninhabited.”

“Oh? I’m perfectly capable of determining that myself. If you would just be so kind as to tell me which road to take, then ...”

“There is no longer any road that goes there. But if you must get there at all costs, you will have to take the road that leads to the edge of the woods. There is a river there that you can follow, for it ends at Fergeoset.”

“Starts, you mean,” said the tourist teasingly, but when his cheerful smile wasn’t returned with any kind of sympathy he thanked them and trudged on.

The farm people watched him leave from behind their curtains.

He was well equipped for a hike in the fields and forest. He wore knickerbockers and sturdy lace-up boots, a windcheater, a cocked hat and a fully packed backpack from which various tools dangled. In terms of material equipment he had everything he needed.

But other than that ...?

The farmer’s wife shook her head and returned to her work.

Fergeoset had interested him ever since he had heard about it at Christmas. The name implied that it had once been quite a large settlement, since there had been a ferry there. “Oset”, meaning “mouth”, indicated that a river flowed out up there. In other words, there must also be a lake.

The man who had told him about the place had mentioned a small church.

Abandoning an entire church settlement wasn’t something that just happened. But Norway was full of remote settlements, some of which clung to dizzyingly steep hillsides while others lay tucked away in deep valleys. Urbanization, along with the huge migration to America, had left many of these small, lonely places deserted. The forest had crept in and reconquered everything that human civilization had once taken from it.

The overgrown road along the brook was long and steep. Perhaps it wasn’t so strange that people had moved down into the valley. It must have been because of that difficult road.

But it had really been the other explanation that had tickled his imagination and inspired him on that lonely journey.

The legend of a deserted settlement that was haunted.

He had wanted to bring his fiancée with him, but rough hiking wasn’t her cup of tea. Furthermore, all that talk of folk legends frightened her. No, thank you, she preferred the city during the summer months, when the comfortable environment became fresh and exciting as many of the familiar faces disappeared and new ones arrived.

So he had had to set off alone.

But it didn’t bother him so much. Girls could be too talkative, and they were always complaining about something or other.

The landscape seemed to have evened out. Not that he had seen that much of it, because he had mostly been walking through dense forest, but the brook had turned into a calm river and his breathing was no longer so laboured from all the climbing.

Then he burst blindly into the hidden settlement. One moment he was struggling through a spruce thicket – and the next he was looking across an open landscape.

It was rather late in the day, nearly evening in fact. But it was early in the summer, and the daylight lingers for a long time in the countries of the north.

The amateur ethnographer, or archaeologist, or whatever he called himself, stopped in his tracks, spellbound.

The lake was there, but it wasn’t very big. A small mountain tarn is what he would have called it, although the mountains lay farther off in seclusion. And he could just discern the mouth of the river at the other end of the lake. He smiled proudly at the fact that he had been right in his calculations.

“Discern” was the right word, for banks of pallid fog rose from the lake, shrouding the far shore.

But now he understood why the place was known as Fergeoset. The side he was standing on was just stone and bog. It was the bank on the other side that was beautiful, and presumably sunny, which must once have lured people to settle there. But there was only one way to get there. He would have to follow the bank round to the mouth of the river – the route in the other direction was impassable – and hope that there was a boat that would take him across ...

It would be an impossible place to settle down in, he thought. However, he understood the previous generations who had done so. The cluster of houses, which he could just make out over there on the other side, was beautifully set among green fields that ran down to the lake. He could see the remains of a small church emerge through the fog – in fact the church was still pretty much intact – and he caught glimpses of small, grey-black houses that had fallen into ruin. One of them had a second storey, proving that the town couldn’t have been deserted that long ago. This house, the biggest of them all, was gleaming, though its windows were blind and the roof sagged like a swaybacked horse.

Right beside the church he thought he could glimpse a cemetery. And below it a narrow piece of land ran out to a small but hilly islet overgrown with bristling trees, like a circular grove.

Above the lake the fog grew thicker, and it became increasingly hard to discern the settlement.

How wonderfully peaceful it was! The landscape seemed to be resting in wistful memories of days gone by. Although they had lived in great isolation here, it was nevertheless hard to understand why the inhabitants had wanted to leave this little settlement. What had happened there? Had there been an epidemic? Or had it faded away slowly and naturally over the years? Because the young people wanted to go out into the world?

Or was there some truth to the obscure legends about the settlement being haunted? Legends that weren’t so old but had flared up like a nova in the sky, as his friend had related?

No, of course not. He smiled bitterly to himself. Of course it hadn’t been those silly rumours that had brought him here. It had been the thought of exploring a deserted settlement, perhaps making discoveries, perhaps gaining a nice university degree from it.

But how was he to get across to it?

If the worst came to the worst he would have to swim. The water was probably cold, but the river mouth did not seem at all turbulent. There were no tricky currents. He could easily manage it.

He began to walk calmly through the brushwood growing along the bank and discovered the old, barely visible path.

More than halfway along he stopped abruptly. He frowned as he stared towards the mouth of the river. He peered so hard that his eyes grew teary because the fog had grown so dense.

Was there somebody there?

Everything seemed so quiet and dead. Still, he had picked up a movement behind the milky-white floating veil.

His heart began to pound rapidly and hard. What was that sound? A thudding, creaking, rhythmic sound ...

Goodness! It was a boat! Wasn’t there a man in the stern, slowly moving an oar? A ... ferryman?

He couldn’t see clearly. The boat and the man were merely dark shadows in the fog. The village had completely vanished in the haze now: he couldn’t even see the little church tower any more.

But the creaking and the subdued thudding sound of the oars as they hit the sternpost he was able to hear.

Well, at least he could be ferried across.

He hurried forward, shouting “Ahoy!” forgetting all the horrendous stories he had heard about Fergeoset. It would be perfect if he could get across without having to get either himself or his backpack wet.

It wasn’t until he was almost there that the thought struck him.

The deserted village ...

“The ferryman”: wasn’t that precisely what all the legends had mentioned ...?

He never managed to complete the thought. He stared in front of him in disbelief, shouting “No!” – and then he was silent.

Far away, in the southern part of Norway, a fisherman was out early one morning to collect his net. He listened peacefully to the cries of the seabirds echoing in the quiet hour of dawn, to the sound of his oars being dipped into the water with a soft splash and dripping off when he lifted them again. It was the best time of day, when he didn’t have to think about the animals in the barn or about the money he didn’t have enough of to sustain his big family. He was free here. That was why he never wanted to have a helper, even though it would have unburdened him a little.

But he could easily draw in the nets by himself!

His eyes travelled along the clumps of rushes in the lake. The swans’ eggs must have hatched by now, so he had to be careful not to row too close to the nest. He had great respect for the pair of swans, which would come rushing out, hissing, their heads bent and their wings stretched out.

He rested against the oars. What was that lying there among the rushes? There were no rocks there normally! And now it was moving very slightly, rocking back and forth in the little waves that the boat created in the water.

The fisherman carefully rowed closer, feeling a knot in his stomach.

He didn’t go too close. For it was what he had feared it might be. His arm muscles immediately began to work, steering the boat away from the spot, back to shore, to other people!

But no one had been reported missing, had they?

It must have happened some time the previous night.

No, that didn’t appear to be the case.

Sheriff Sveg – a dignified, hardened man in his fifties – stood up and brushed the knees of his soaking wet trousers. “He’s been lying in the water for a long time,” he said, his voice not betraying any emotion. “A very long time indeed. You can see that, can’t you Olsen? He is showing clear signs of it. But there are a few other things that truly astonish me. Let’s see if you can figure out what they are!”

The hopeful young deputy, who always thought he knew more about everything than the seasoned Sveg, looked thoughtfully at the dishevelled corpse on the ground. “Well,” he said hesitantly, “He seems to have collided with something.”

“Yes, well, that’s pretty obvious. But don’t you notice anything else?”

Sveg’s assistant felt somewhat ill at ease, but he swallowed bravely. “Well,” he said. “Well ...”

“Well, try to reach some conclusion, instead of just standing there bleating!” the sheriff interrupted him impatiently. “Examine his hands and feet and neck.”

The young Olsen didn’t think there was enough left of the limbs for him to draw any kind of conclusion, but in order to look as attentive and intelligent as was suitable for a man with a higher level of education, he bent down to examine the corpse thoroughly.

At long last he brightened up. “He has some wounds to his neck!”

Sveg merely growled. “His hands and feet have been tied up, can’t you see that? There are still some marks around his wrists and ankles from the rope that was tied tightly around them. And ... this is the most peculiar thing. Yes, I’ve seen the wound to the neck. But there’s something else you should notice. His corpse is completely drained of blood!”

“Yes, I noticed that as well,” Olsen said quickly. “But I thought it was much too strange a phenomenon to have anything to do with this case.”

“You thought! Dimwit! Just because you’ve attended a few more schools than I have doesn’t mean you are omniscient! Goodness gracious, what have I done to deserve this millstone around my neck?”

But the sheriff did not express his thoughts aloud. Olsen’s parents were respectable parishioners and they were honest people who hadn’t deserved such a braggart of a son.

He turned the corpse over. Most of the clothes had been torn off the body, but the belt was still there, with some mouldering shreds stuck in it.

But his back was bare. And that was where Sveg discovered something that would force him to seek help from the experts. Another well-educated young man crossed his path, but this time the young man was more appealing.

Sander Brink was still a university student but had got so far in his studies and exhibited such talent that his professor, whom Sveg had originally approached, had recommended him. The professor himself was on his way to Italy with his wife and children, where he was going to perform some archaeological excavations and spend his holiday, and he didn’t have the heart to disappoint his expectant family. So he sent Sander Brink in his stead.

Sveg observed him sceptically. The lad was much too young and precocious, he thought. But Sander had a mild and pleasing smile and a pleasant voice. Women must fall for him by the dozen, Sveg thought bitterly. Having brown eyes and fair hair has always been considered an attractive combination; add to that his mesmerizing charisma, and girls couldn’t possibly avoid having romantic dreams about him.

Yet Sveg had to admit that the lad was extremely knowledgeable, and it became clear that he also knew exactly what he was talking about. Sander was studying cultural and religious history, which was why he had been sent.

The young man, probably no more than twenty-three years old, gingerly touched the bare back of the corpse on the table. The rest of the victim’s body was covered up. All that was visible was livid, sodden skin.

“It is significant that it is a heathen symbol,” said Sander Brink. “Of course, it has been rather primitively and clumsily etched into the surface of the skin, but these bird heads ...”

“Where?” asked Sveg, who couldn’t make sense of the seemingly random lines on the skin.

“Here. Two beaks facing each other.”

“Oh, I see,” said the sheriff, who still couldn’t tell that they were beaks.

“They are typical of the Merovingian Age.”

“The what?”

“The period from the sixth to the eighth century. In Sweden it is known as the Vendel Period, named after the archaeological finds from Vendel in Uppland. But here it is known as the Merovingian due to the influence of the Frankish dynasty.”

“I see. And what are they doing on this man’s back?”

“Yes, well, that’s the question. It doesn’t look the least bit pleasant to me. Very few people are truly familiar with the sacrificial rituals from that period.”

“Sacrificial rituals?”

“Yes, you do realize that, don’t you? Following the rituals of that time, the victims’ throats would be slashed and all the blood collected in bowls, which would then be sacrificed to the gods. Afterwards, the victims would be hung from trees.”“How charming,” Sveg muttered.

Olsen had also been present, but he had left when Sander began talking about sacrifices.

“The Uppsala sacrifice was the best known. It took place every nine years, and a witness, Adam of Bremen, described seeing the bodies of seventy-two horses, dogs and humans hanging in the sacred sacrificial grove at Uppsala,” Sander said.

“I see. But right now we’re in Norway in the year 1891,” Sveg said firmly. “Do you believe that this poor wretch has been hung in a tree?”

“I wouldn’t rule it out. The marks on his skin were clearly made by a rope, though they are also on his hands and feet ... but you never know.”

“Also around his neck,” Sveg said dryly.

“Yes. How old would he have been?”

“Not that young. My guess is around sixty? But it isn’t easy to determine anything about him, he’s in such bad shape. Well, I have to go, I’ve been asked to call on a house farther up the valley. My district is much too big. The story up there was also rather odd – I didn’t quite catch what the messenger was trying to tell me. There are some strange sisters living on that farm who claim that a ghost paid them a visit last night.”

“Is that really a job for a sheriff?” Sander asked with a smile, and Sveg thought to himself once again that the charisma of this young man was truly immense. Had the sheriff had a daughter of a suitable age, he would have immediately introduced her to him. But he didn’t.

“No, actually not, but the old women insist on being compensated for the damage, so I’ll have to go up there and make an estimate.”

Sander looked at him thoughtfully. “Could I possibly come with you? I have to stay here for a while anyway to try to find out more about the body, which I won’t be able to do until tomorrow.”

“Yes, of course,” said Sheriff Sveg. “If you can make do with my old gig and the company of Olsen and me.”

“With pleasure! Thank you for your kindness.”

Sveg snorted. Kind was the last thing he felt at the moment.

While they were sitting in the gig making their way through the winding valley along the river Sveg talked a bit more about the three sisters.

“Apparently the ladies are hysterical and aggressive and are demanding enormous compensation for what are clearly just burn marks in the fireplace that were there all along.”

“And who is supposed to compensate for these small burns?”

“Some of their young relatives who were visiting them. An eight-year-old girl was sleeping in the room when the vandalism started.”

“She must be a fairly strong child!”

“Yes. Her parents are due to go abroad today, they’ve already reserved a hotel room, and the poor child has nowhere to stay. I don’t understand how the parents could bring themselves to take her to that house!”

“What makes you say that?”

“The ladies are dreadful! I’ve only met them on a few occasions, but they are about the worst shrews I’ve ever encountered. They keep themselves to themselves in that haunted castle – well, you’ll soon see it. They used to have a farmhand to assist them who was rather simple, but even he couldn’t stand them in the end. They are really stingy with everything, so he was probably earning almost nothing working for them. Some of the people in these parts refer to it as a haunted house and no one ever wants to go up there ... And we’ll soon be there, it’s just around the corner.”

Sander had something he wanted to confess. “Do you know what I did while I was waiting for you down in the parish? I sent an urgent message to someone I think would be very interested in this haunted house.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. A young girl. I don’t know her personally – I’ve never met her – but my father was a close friend of her grandfather, Viljar Lind. The girl is about nineteen years old, I think, but she belongs to a very peculiar family ...”

“You don’t mean the Ice People, do you?”

“Yes! Have you heard of them?”

“I thought that family was a phenomenon invented by fantasists,” Sveg muttered.

“Oh no, it exists! But then you must also know that they are rumoured to have supernatural abilities. And this girl – her name is Benedikte – is supposed to be particularly gifted in that regard. If there truly are any ghosts in this ghastly house of yours, she’s bound to discover them immediately.”

“I’d have to see it to believe it. And please refrain from referring to that horrendous hovel as mine.”

The road suddenly rounded a bend, and Sander Brink opened his eyes wide.

“Goodness,” he muttered, “We’ll certainly need Benedikte’s assistance here! She should be here soon, she lives just a little way from here.”

“Yes, you had to wait quite a while for us, so she may already be on her way here, don’t you think?”

“Yes, that’s what I’m counting on,” said Sander Brink. “I do hope she’s in town and willing to come here!”

Young Olsen, who, to his dismay, had had to ride backwards in the gig, pointed over their shoulders. “There are two riders approaching us at a gallop.”

Sander turned around. “Oh, that’s my express messenger. And he has a woman with him, I can tell by her fluttering petticoat. Thank goodness that worked out, Sheriff: now we can safely enter that frightful mansion! No ghost will escape us now!”

Benedikte had been playing with little Vanja at home in Linden Avenue when the messenger arrived. She was nineteen years old now, while Ulvar’s and Agnete’s daughter was seven. But since Benedikte was rather childish and adored her stepsister, they tended to play well together.

While Vanja was a nimble, delicate little beauty, Benedikte didn’t have many physical attributes. She was a heavy-set, clumsy girl, with tousled hair that it was impossible to do up in coquettish hairstyles. Her voice sounded like a foghorn and her hands were as big as sledgehammers. Her face had many of the features characteristic of the Ice People and since, on top of it all, she had inherited Henning’s friendly but rather heavy features, the result was doomed to be unflattering.

Nevertheless, Benedikte had many friends. Some of them may have felt sorry for her. “Poor girl, she’ll never manage to marry with those looks. It’s such a shame, really, because she’s so sweet. Just look at how she’s embraced Vanja as her little sister, even though they are barely related to one another. At least only very distantly!” Chatterboxes like that were always full of opinions. But most people just accepted Benedikte the way she was and only saw her warm, joyful eyes and her constant friendly smile.

To his relief, Henning noticed that Benedikte had not inherited the many unfortunate characteristics or evil blood of those who were cursed. Though as a child she could get frightfully upset when she felt she was being unfairly treated, in recent years she had discovered that the friendliness she displayed had been met with friendliness by the outside world, and she eventually grew much calmer.

And yet no one really knew what was going on in Benedikte’s mind. No one knew of the nightmarish fantasies that tormented her at night. As a little girl she had often run into the bedroom of her father and Agnete to seek consolation. But she never talked about it. The gloomy world she frequented when the house was dark and quiet was her own. She would roam about there in dizzying depths, through secret, dark hallways where frightening creatures would emerge and stare at her, then vanish. She learned a lot about the secrets of the world beyond on those nights; she got an insight into hidden things, but she never gave any of it away. For she knew that there was no one on earth who could share those experiences with her.

She had been in contact with the ancestors of the Ice People many times. They had supported and assisted her on her hazardous mental journeys, and had taught her much wisdom. They were her true friends, who knew what she had to endure. And they gave her the strength to face the inconsiderate remarks or stupid or downright evil comments that ordinary people would make about her appearance.

She had the ability to perform magic. This was partly her own, still latent, ability and partly what her parents had given her. Benedikte’s strength lay in being able to see the past history of an object by holding it in her hand, as well as other obvious, extrasensory gifts. Henning had permitted her to take possession of the treasure of the Ice People on the day she turned eighteen, as he considered it to be harmless. Benedikte had been ecstatic and in complete awe, but he knew that she read and studied and experimented with the recipes. It was something she was allowed to do, for those things might prove useful to her some day.

The only thing he kept back was the mandrake.

He felt he could justify doing that. Once, years ago, a dark angel had given it to him so that he could take the place of Saga. He had managed the task well, he thought, which had to be thanks to the mandrake. For how could an eleven-year-old have managed to care for two strange twin boys if he hadn’t received help of some kind?

Yes, those eight years from 1883 to 1891 had been good years for the Ice People.

Henning was a good farmer at Linden Avenue. His marriage to Agnete had turned out to be very happy after her depression in the first year. Ulvar’s rape of her had taken its toll, of course, but once she had given birth to his child, Vanja, she seemed to settle down. And that was mostly thanks to Henning. His eternal kindness and understanding meant the world to Agnete. He embraced Vanja as his own child and thus he acquired two daughters. Vanja’s stepsister, his own daughter Benedikte, adored the new child – her little sister, as she said. They couldn’t have found a better babysitter.

Malin and her Per and their son Christoffer still lived in the parish: they never did move back to Sweden. In 1889 Malin received a letter from her parents, Christer and Magdalena, who lived there, to tell her that the two noble families the Ice People had served through the centuries had been united. Charlotte Posse’s son, Alex Reuterskiöld, had married the Oxenstiernas’ daughter, Gabriella. The circle was complete, and the Ice People’s duty was fulfilled.

But on this summer’s day a man rode into the courtyard of Linden Avenue asking for Henning’s daughter, Benedikte. The man produced a letter from a man who was unknown to them – Sander Brink. However, it seemed that Brink’s father knew Henning’s father, Viljar. They briefly consulted in the parlour, the whole family and the stranger. Yes, Viljar could vouch for Sander Brink, whom he had heard was a very promising researcher currently attending university. His name was Alexander, but he used the abbreviated form, Sander.

The young Brink had asked for Benedikte’s assistance. A haunted house? It was apparent from the letter that he was also working on another case, but the first thing on his agenda was the haunted house, and he wanted to have someone there who was familiar with the phenomenon. Someone who could detect human imposters or find out what it was all about.

Benedikte’s pleading eyes rested on her father Henning. Would he give her permission? No one had ever sought her advice about anything outside her closest family circle, for Henning did not want her to be taken advantage of or to become a kind of public oracle.

“I think she should be allowed to go,” said old Viljar calmly. “She’s a big girl now, and she’s much too isolated here on the farm. And the Brinks are trustworthy people.”

“And it’s not that far from here,” Belinda added.

Henning thought with desperation of all the rudeness his sweet, yet physically disadvantaged, little girl might encounter out on her own among strangers. Would she be able to endure all the unpleasantness that might be thrown at her simple, childish soul?

“Yes, yes,” he said reluctantly. “If you promise to come back home as soon as possible. No one here has time to escort you, or we would do so. But you are old enough to manage on your own, aren’t you?”

Benedikte’s face lit up as she threw her arms around her father.

Then Henning stepped back so that he could give her a serious look, but a tender little smile lay just below the surface.

“I guess it’s time for you to have the rest of your inheritance,” he said wistfully, as he took off the mandrake. “You may need this now, and I know it will protect you. Take good care of it!”

Benedikte forgot to breathe for a moment. She was so solemn when she bowed her head to receive the mandrake; her eyes grew huge and gleamed with a light green colour.

“It feels as though, as though ... it likes it,” she said in her simple, naive way. “This is where it belongs, it seems.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I thought,” Henning nodded. “As you all know, I was never really one of the chosen ones, much less one of the stricken. It was only lent to me.” He sighed. “The only thing now is that I suddenly feel so naked without it. Bless you both! Both you, my daughter, and our family’s loyal follower – the mandrake!”

In his secret cave Tengel the Evil smiled with satisfaction and great anticipation.

Everything had gone as planned: he was still able to control the fate of other people.

But it had been hard to get Benedikte where he wanted her. It had demanded a lot of concentration on his part and had involved other people.

He felt tired. Some day soon, when he was fully awake again, nothing would ever tire him. But right now he had to work under very strenuous conditions. Without being able to be present. Without being able to hear or see people directly. And then there was the slumber itself that oppressed and tormented all his senses and thoughts. He had to exert himself many times over in order get his way with these wretched human creatures.

The words “human creatures” made him feel ill at ease. That was what the gods and spirits in Taran-gai had called him, back when he had found the path to the cave of evil. He recalled that journey with fear and loathing. It had been a horrendous walk through all the passages of evil, where it was essential that he didn’t execute a single act of goodness if he was to reach the source of the black water.

Fortunately, he had never done anything good in the world, or else he would have suffered the same fate as those wretches whose remains he saw along his path and whose bones he had tauntingly kicked aside. He was the only human who had ever reached the source of evil! But it had cost him dearly! His own screams of pain still echoed shrilly in his ears at the memory of reaching it.

But it had been worth it. Now he was ruler of the world.

If he could only get up soon!