Читать книгу The Ice People 35 - The Flute - Margit Sandemo - Страница 8
ОглавлениеChapter 3
André Brink had never given up trying to locate the missing branch of the Ice People.
Knut Skogsrud, born in 1850, had left Trondhjem in 1870 at the age of twenty, in order to travel to the capital.
And the trail stopped there.
He might have settled down somewhere on the way, or travelled on to some other destination, or he might already be dead.
Skogsrud was quite a common name. André investigated all those he discovered. But to no avail. No one had a Knut from Trondhjem in their family.
If he was still alive he would be ... sixty-five, which was no age to speak of.
But it was only by chance that André happened to come upon a clue.
It was at Malin Volden’s funeral, in 1916. Malin had lived to the age of seventy-four and everyone in the family had loved her: she was sorely missed. Her husband, Per, had died two years earlier, but everyone else was there at the cemetery one early morning in March.
Old Henning Lind of the Ice People stood silent in his own thoughts as the priest said prayers over the grave. He thought of the first time he ever saw Malin. How she came and saved him, the little boy who had suddenly lost his parents and his best friend Saga, and was now left with responsibility for Saga’s twin sons, Marco and Ulvar. Back then Malin hadn’t been much more than a child herself. But she had been as firm as a rock, an anchor for him, and had continued to be so throughout his life.
It was very difficult to imagine that she was now gone.
Henning’s own wife, Agnes, was also dead. But he knew that he himself would grow old. He came from the resilient Ice People lineage, like his daughter Benedikte and her son André. They were of Heike’s branch, the most vibrant of all.
He looked around. They were all there, those who were still living. Malin’s son Christoffer and his wife Marit. Christoffer did not have that same iron constitution: he was more ordinary. Their son Vetle stood there squirming, looking in every direction except at Grandmother Malin’s grave.
Goodness, that boy – what would become of him? He was neither stricken nor chosen, but wilder than all of them, with ants in his pants and impossible to control.
Sander Brink, now nearly sixty, stood next to Benedikte. He was starting to grow old, thought Henning, who felt fairly youthful himself despite his sixty-six years. And young André had his Mali with him, of course. That girl had really turned out well, and their son Rikard had given her a maternal dignity.
Malin, Mali, Marit ... It was sometimes difficult to tell their names apart, but it had merely been the whims of fortune that they all happened to be part of the family at the same time. Marit had married into the family, and Mali had come from far away, even though she too was one of the Ice People.
Little Rikard was not present at the cemetery, as he was only three years old. But he would most likely have behaved much better than the young Vetle, who at that very moment was busy fiddling with a lady’s fur coat. Luckily the fur was long-haired, so the lady probably hadn’t noticed anything – hopefully. As long as he didn’t start pulling out any of the hairs! Henning tried to catch his eye with a stern gaze, but the boy didn’t look in his direction and wasn’t susceptible .
Rikard ... Henning’s gaze immediately softened at the thought of that boy, now at home at Linden Avenue where a young girl was looking after him. Rikard, his great-grandchild! It was incredible how quickly time had passed! He wondered whether the boy had also inherited that tenacious vitality. It seemed likely: he was an unusually powerfully built child. He had been angry about being left at home when everyone else had gone.
Little Christa, on the other hand, who was now six years old, had been brought to the funeral. She was very, very sweet, with a uniquely fascinating appearance. That wasn’t so strange, if you considered her background: the Ice People, Lucifer, Tamlin ... Her mother, Vanja, had been an exceptional beauty.
Christa’s “father” Frank had brought her. He looked terribly fragile, like an old man. But he worshipped his daughter.
God forbid he should ever discover the truth, Henning thought. That he wasn’t Christa’s real father. That it was Tamlin, the demon of the night, the great and only love of her mother’s life. But then, Vanja’s life hadn’t been very long.
Henning sighed. He was the last of his generation now. It felt lonely. But Benedikte and her family were a great support to him. He was certainly treated as one of the family at Linden Avenue.
André had a perplexed look on his face. Why was that? When the ceremony was over and everyone had conveyed their condolences and the big gathering was about to disperse, Henning went over to his daughter’s son. They had always understood one another; they had similar ways of thinking.
“What are you thinking about, André?”
“Oh, just something someone said. Before we went into the church, as people were flocking in, I heard someone say, ‘Have you noticed how much that girl resembles Erling Skogsrud?’”
“Who said that? And about whom?”
“A couple of elderly ladies, I don’t know who they are. They were looking at Mali. I tried to get hold of them, but Mother called me over at that very moment to see to some flowers that had just arrived.”
“Where are the ladies now?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t see them inside the church because we were sitting in the front row. And I haven’t seen them since. We were right next to the coffin and now ...”
“We must find them before they disappear,” Henning interjected resolutely. “They were talking about Mali and she is undoubtedly the one who is closest to the Skogsruds. You say they mentioned Erling Skogsrud?”
“Yes.”
“And our missing relative was called Knut. He could easily have had children and grandchildren since 1870.”
They had carefully managed to push their way forward through the crowd of mourners pensively strolling along the gravel path.
“But if the ladies were acquaintances of Malin, we would have heard about the Skrogruds earlier,” André objected. “Everyone knows that we are searching high and low for that family. And I’ve looked into every single Skogsrud family for miles around, Grandfather!”
“Perhaps it’s not entirely certain that you have.”
“There, there are the ladies! They are boarding a carriage!”
André and his grandfather broke all the rules of proper funeral etiquette as they rushed past the mourners. They ran the last bit.
“Excuse me,” said André to the surprised ladies in the carriage. “May we please have a word with you for a moment?”
The ladies did not get out of the carriage, but nodded quizzically.
“My name is André Brink,” he began.
It turned out that the two elderly ladies were old acquaintances of Per Volden’s family. Since they hadn’t been able to get to Per Volden’s funeral they felt they ought to make up for the omission by attending his wife’s.
André came straight to the point. “I happened to hear you mention the name Erling Skogsrud. Could he by any chance be part of the family we have in mind? Where does he live?”
Behind them they could hear Vetle banging a stick against the churchyard’s new iron fence, which made an infernal racket, making them cringe with discomfort. But it was probably the boy’s way of expressing his grief over the loss of his grandmother.
One of the ladies answered André: “Erling Skogsrud used to live in Nittedal. Where he lives now ... I really don’t know.”
Wasn’t she hesitating a bit? And why was the other lady keeping her mouth so tightly shut?
“But you do know his family?” Henning asked.
“Not particularly well,” she answered in an oddly reserved way. “They lived far from us.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know whether there was a Knut Skogsrud in that family?”
“That was his father,” they answered quickly, in unison.
Could that really be so? No, it sounded too good to be true.
“Well, then ... perhaps we are talking about the same family,” André said carefully. “We would like to know more about this Knut Skogsrud. Would you do us the honour of dining with us this evening at Linden Avenue?”
Unfortunately, they were unable to do that as they had a train to catch.
So André had to quickly ask them a few questions. “Do you know whether Knut Skogsrud came from Trondhjem?”
“We never heard any such thing,” one of them said. “But he spoke the same dialect as they do up there.”
“Is he still alive?”
“No, he died years ago. His wife is also dead. And their only heir was this ... son.”
The other lady nudged her and they whispered agitatedly to each other. Then they turned back to André and Henning. “Erling was married for a while in his youth. But his wife abandoned him, taking their son, Knut, with her. And we won’t say any more about it. Shortly after that ... they took him.”
She had lowered her voice as though she was ashamed of what she was saying.
André and Henning were certain that they had finally managed to locate the right Skogsrud family.
After many more questions and evasive answers, they managed to get some kind of picture and the ladies went on their way to catch their train.
The two men headed home deep in thought.
“Everything adds up,” said André. “Knut Skogsrud is the right age. Or was, if he is dead now. He had a son, Erling, in 1884.”
“So he must be thirty-two now,” Henning interjected.
“Yes. This Erling married young and had his son in 1909.”
“So he is now seven years old. About the same age as little Christa. And Erling’s wife left him in 1912 and took their son with her.”
“To an unknown location in order to escape her husband,” said André. “These Skogsruds have a habit of disappearing into unknown territory.”
“Yes, unfortunately, for they are members of the Ice People.”
“Yes, we can be sure of that now that we’ve learnt Erling’s fate.”
“Locked up in a lunatic asylum for violent behaviour and, as they put it, vile actions.”
“Yes, and here’s something it’s very important to take note of. He was never a nice boy as a child but he was rather good-looking and girls were attracted to him. But as an adult he started to change. For the worse.”
“Like Sölve,” Henning nodded. “Exactly like Sölve.”
“Yes, but it wasn’t only his character that got worse. His appearance did as well.”
“Sölve is supposed to have developed yellow eyes as an adult.”
“But Erling changed more than that. The good-looking young man started to look ghastly. How did the ladies describe him?”
“They couldn’t really, because they had probably not seen him themselves. They had just heard rumours.”
“At any rate, it sounds to me as if he was one of the stricken of the Ice People.”
“Yes. Well, anyway, he escaped from the asylum in Gaustad a few years ago. I believe it was assumed that he had gone abroad, if I am not mistaken?”
“He went to war, which one can easily imagine with his violent tendencies. Since the first country you come to when leaving this country is Germany, he presumably fought on the Germans’ side. But that’s just a guess: we don’t really know.”
“But he is dead now?” asked Henning, who hadn’t been entirely able to keep up with all the information.
“Yes, that’s what the sweet old ladies said. He fell on the western front.”
“Yes. Well, at least we’re completely clear about Emma Nordlade’s branch of the family, aren’t we?”
“Yes. Emma’s son Knut had a boy named Erling, who in turn had a son called Knut, who is now seven years old. I think we can safely consider that branch of the family to be complete.”
“Wonderful,” sighed Henning. “All that’s left to do now is to locate Erling’s wife and his little son Knut.”
“Exactly. I’m sure that won’t be easy if she’s been trying to hide herself from her violent husband. She may have changed her name.”
“We must find out what her maiden name was and where her family comes from. But we can definitely stop searching for Erling, can we?”
“Yes. He was killed in the war. And I must say that I’m rather relieved. I don’t think we would have liked him.”
“I share that opinion. Goodness, there certainly are a lot of people on their way to Linden Avenue. And I had hoped that we could have grieved over our beloved Malin in peace and quiet by ourselves today.”
“I’m sure you can retreat, Grandfather, if you prefer. We can handle the wake on our own. Ugh! How I’m going to miss Malin!”
“Me too,” Henning sighed. “Me too!”
Six months later, when autumn had begun to blow the leaves off the trees and the garden furniture had been moved inside, Vetle Volden received a visit ...
It happened during the night. His parents, Marit and Christoffer, had gone to Christiania to visit the theatre, and since Vetle hadn’t behaved very well that day he had had to stay at home. His parents were staying the night in the capital.
At first it was very amusing being home alone. The now fourteen-year-old Vetle walked around the house trying to think of something amusing to do. Should he send for the other members of the rather wild gang he belonged to? No, he sensed that his parents wouldn’t appreciate having their furniture and other things ruined while they were away. He thoughtlessly lit the big stove, because watching fire was so much fun and you could burn so many interesting things with it. But he forgot to open the damper and had to air the place for a few hours. Then it was suddenly not so much fun anymore.
Actually, being home alone wasn’t fun.
Vetle wasn’t nearly as much of a problem as many of the neighbours insisted. He just had far too much energy, that was all. He could never seem to settle down; he looked for excitement everywhere, and when there wasn’t any to be found, he would seek an outlet for his colossal sense of vitality in pranks that weren’t always very successful.
Vetle was really rather lonely. The other boys in the gang didn’t have the same sense of imagination or intelligence that he did. He would often get irritated by their lack of sophistication in their antics and would return home disappointed or go out on his own. He wished he had a friend who understood him and thought the way he did.
But friends like that don’t grow on trees.
Suddenly he shuddered slightly. It had grown dark outside! Houses always feel completely different when you are alone in them at night. For it was almost night now. The living room, which was always so cosy when Mother and Father were at home, was now shrouded in a depressing gloom.
It was really dark in the corners, and the room beyond the open door was pitch black.
The best thing would be to go and lie down.
But the staircase was completely dark. A door slammed shut somewhere.
Vetle hadn’t thought about his fear of the dark before, as there had always been other people in the house. If Mother and Father were away, Grandmother Malin used to always be there, and earlier Grandfather Per too. Now there was no one. The dog had died, to Vetle’s great sorrow. He was the only one left, and all sorts of ghosts seemed to be watching him from outside the windows.
Or, even worse, inside the dark rooms.
He didn’t have to go upstairs. He could sleep in the living room on the sofa.
But there were no blinds at the windows. Was that something scurrying across the floor?
If only he had been at Linden Avenue! But he certainly didn’t dare go there now! Could he call them?
No, they would have gone to bed a long time ago.
He was all alone in a world of utter darkness.
“Vetle!”
He sensed all his blood rushing through his veins. It was a deep voice, so deep that it didn’t seem human, and it came from the room he was standing in. It was right behind him.
Vetle had never fainted before, but now he knew what it must feel like. He suppressed a frightened whimper. Did he dare turn around?
Not on his life!
But run and hide? That would be too disgraceful. He stood still, his heart pounding so much that he could feel it through his skin, his mouth dry and his eyes as big as dinner plates.
A gust of wind shook the poplars by the gate outside. The window panes rattled.
It was as though time had stopped.
Then the voice came again. It made him jerk violently. “Don’t be afraid, Vetle of the Ice People! You must have heard of your ancestors? Your helpers and protectors?”
Vetle of the Ice People! That sounded so impressive! Much better than Vetle Volden or Vetle Volden of the Ice People.
And what a language he spoke, this stranger! Though Vetle understood it, it seemed both familiar and alien, completely different.
“Yes,” he tried to answer, but only managed to bring forth a croaky whisper. He cleared his throat and managed to utter a proper “yes”.
“You can safely turn around. I’m not dangerous.”
He swallowed. Took a deep breath and slowly turned around. Hardly dared look.
A shadow. No, more than a shadow. It was a towering figure in a dark robe with a hood that concealed the face.
“You have heard of me, have you not?” the creature asked.
Vetle had finally gained control of his voice, but not of himself in the least. He had a sudden urge to run up the stairs and barricade the door to his room.
But this creature was probably above such material things as doors and locks.
Vetle couldn’t escape, so he just needed to get out of the situation as well as he could. Be courageous.
“You have heard about me?” the creature asked.
“I think so,” Vetle murmured.
He had the impression that the man was smiling crookedly to himself. Then he heard the strange voice once more.
“We need your help, Vetle.”
The boy gasped. “My help?”
That sounded incredible. But also wonderful. He felt a little braver. “I didn’t think that the ordinary members of the Ice People could get into contact with you, not normally,” he said in a trembling voice, bowing instinctively before this tall man. God how stupid that sounded – “not normally!” There was nothing normal about this particular situation!
“We had no choice,” the guest answered. “We had no one else to turn to. The situation is very dangerous for everyone, not just for the Ice People.”
“I know. The war.”
“The war is taking its normal, destructive course. But if your ancestor interferes again, the consequences may be unthinkable.”
That language! Now that Vetle was no longer dizzy with shock he was able to recognize it. It was old Norwegian. Not the most ancient, which was more like Icelandic. No, it was ... something in between. He guessed from somewhere between the eleventh and fourteenth centuries.
Despite his youth and uncontrollable nature, Vetle had a voracious hunger for knowledge. On top of that he had a retentive memory. Whatever he had learned in the past remained in his memory.
With his hollow voice the visitor spoke again. “We can’t ask Benedikte, who is the only stricken one now. A woman of her age can’t handle such hardships. Your father, Christoffer, isn’t strong enough either, and André is too heavily built. Also, they aren’t courageous enough and might hesitate to take action in crucial situations. And that simply won’t do. We need a small, skinny person and, more importantly, one who isn’t afraid. And you’re just that kind of person, Vetle.”
The boy thought of the undeniable fear of the dark he had experienced at that very moment. But of course that was completely different, he believed.
“I’m not afraid of anything,” he said with a slightly insecure note in his voice. “At least when it comes to physical danger. But why don’t you ask Imre?”
“Imre is not to appear in this particular situation.”
“Oh,” he said as calmly as possible. “In other words, it has something to do with Tengel the Evil.”
“Yes.”
“That isn’t exactly a physical danger ...”
The man answered in a voice as calm as Vetle’s. “It’s precisely the kind of danger that you are afraid of. Everything that belongs to the dark world and the occult. So I am going to ask you once more. Do you dare?”
Vetle swallowed again. Damn his fear of the dark, and that it was so apparent! But this man gave him a feeling of safety and trust.
“What am I to do?”
“You must travel far, far away. And you must do it alone. No, don’t worry, we’ll tell your parents about it.”
Suddenly the boy remembered his manners. “Won’t you sit down?”
At that point he could clearly sense that the man was smiling.
“Sit down? It’s been a long time since anyone’s asked me to do that! But no, thank you.”
“You’re used to walking, isn’t that right? You are the Wanderer of the Darkness, aren’t you?”
“That is what I am called, yes. You know your history, I see.”
“But I thought ...”
“That I lived down in the south? I do. But, as I said, we need your help right now, Vetle, and this particular situation is my area of responsibility.”
The man was markedly friendly – as though he were speaking to a child, the boy thought, somewhat insulted. But there was something a little jocular and ironic in his hollow-sounding voice.
Vetle grew a little bolder. He wanted to show his courage now that he knew there was no need to fear any “ghosts”. He didn’t get the feeling that he was facing a ghost right now, but rather an odd sort of friend.
“I’ve always believed that the Wanderer was the rat-catcher of Hamelin.”
“I see,” the man muttered. “That’s not a bad guess. No, I’m not the rat-catcher of Hamelin. But I’ve met him. And I received a flute from him. He was a strange man!”
“But Tengel the Evil didn’t manage to catch him?”
“The rat-catcher didn’t wish to meet him.”
“So there were two members of the Ice People on that trip?”
“I travelled ahead. In order to find the right places – that’s why no one has ever heard of me in connection with Tengel’s journey. We already had one flute, the Ice People’s or Tengel the Evil’s flute. The one that was supposed to wake him up. We heard of the rat-catcher and wanted him to lull Tengel into a state of slumber. But he wouldn’t do it. However, I was given the flute because he trusted me.”
“But you didn’t have Tengel’s flute with you?”
“No. That’s what Tengel thought. But I knew it had been stolen.”
“By the first Jolin? Stolen along with the Ice People’s old totem and hidden in Eldafjord?”
“You certainly do know a lot!” the Wanderer said with a smile. “That’s completely correct. To be honest, I knew that Jolin intended to steal our great totem, the yak horns in which the flutes were hidden. But I didn’t stop him. I knew how dangerous the flute was for us.”
“Jolin wasn’t one of us, was he?”
“No, he was a petty criminal who had been hiding in the Valley of the Ice People.”
“Thank you! The riddle is solved, then! I never liked the thought of him being a part of the family.”
“Oh, but you’ve had worse family members, haven’t you?” the mysterious guest murmured.
“Yes, I know that, of course. But Jolin was so ... lowly and scurrilous!”
“You’re right about that.”
“But I suppose Jolin didn’t know that the flutes were hidden in the horns?”
“No, all he saw were some valuable objects that could be sold. But he died before he had a chance to embark on that enterprise.”
Vetle hesitated for a moment. Then he said, “What is happening now? Why are my ancestors so anxious these days?”
“Someone has played a small part of Tengel’s signal on a flute.”
“Oh no!” gasped Vetle, suddenly growing cold with fear.
“Only a part. But he managed to do a great deal of harm in the brief period that he was active.”
“What kind of harm?”
The wanderer made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “Just look at the state of the world.”
“You mean ... the world war? Is that Tengel’s doing?”
“Well ... not entirely his doing. Human folly had set the stage for it to a great extent. But his incentive caused the eruption.”
“But now he’s sleeping again?”
“Yes, I cornered him, though just a little too late, but I managed to get him to return to his resting place, something that I would never have been able to do if the entire signal had been played.”
“So what is the danger now?”
“Two years have passed since I returned him to his hibernation, and since then he has managed to gather strength and he wants to locate the flute player who played the partial signal. We must prevent that.”
“How are we to do that?” Vetle’s heart was pounding. This sounded truly unpleasant.
“The unfortunate man composed a melody practically identical to Tengel’s. He played only two bars of it but he wrote down the entire theme on a sheet of paper, which he threw into a chest together with a pile of other sheets of music. That sheet of music must be destroyed.”
“Can’t Saphira manage that?”
“Not alone, and you know that, Vetle! The ancestors can only act through those family members of the Ice People who are living. And you have been selected.”
Once again he had difficulty breathing, as he was trying to swallow at the same time. “But the dark angels can help me, I suppose?”
The figure shook his head. “You are not of their lineage.”
“Henning wasn’t either, and they helped him when he was a child. They also helped Malin.”
“The dark angels helped Henning because of Saga and her twin sons. And they helped Malin against Ulvar who was of their lineage. None of that is relevant in your case.”
Vetle took a deep breath. “I will, of course, do as you wish. But if Tengel the Evil is unable to move, he can’t get hold of anything, can he? Not the man or the flute or the music sheet.”
“That is true. But you are forgetting his enormous mental power. It has been slumbering for two years now. But it is once again as potent as it was before.”
“And?”
“And so he will make use of whatever human tools he can find to perform his evil tasks for him.”
“But he doesn’t have any stricken ones to use at the moment. For Benedikte ...”
The figure lifted his hand under his cloak. “Benedikte doesn’t do his errands for him. But he has others ...”
“Who, for example?”
“I don’t yet know whom he intends to choose.”
Vetle waited but the man didn’t say anything more.
“So what am I to do?”
“You must go south.”
The boy stepped back automatically. “To ... his hiding place?”
“No. Much farther west. To the land of the Moors.”
As we have said, Vetle was an intelligent boy and quick-witted; on top of that he was also very tactful. In the Wanderer’s own day it had been the land of the Moors. But it wasn’t anymore.
“I understand,” he said. “Do you mean Spain? On the Iberian Peninsula.”
“That is probably right,” said the Wanderer solemnly. “Out by the river, in Wadi-al-Kabir’s great delta, there is a castle, and that is where the man lives who played the flute that woke Tan-ghil the Evil.”
“And I am to kill the flute player?” Vetle asked bravely.
“No, no. Are you really that bloodthirsty?”
“Of course not,” said Vetle, blushing from embarrassment at his own words. “I just blurted it out.”
“Yes, that’s understandable. No, you just need to find the sheet of music. And destroy it before the master of the castle or anyone else manages to play what is written on it.”
Vetle thought for a moment. He didn’t know about the river Wadi-al-Kabir. But he did know about Guadalquivir. The latter was probably a Spanish version of the former, which was the Arabic name for the river.
And it had a delta that was practically boundless, he was certain of that. The great marshy area known as Las Marismas. Eldorado for seagulls and migratory birds.
It could be interesting to see it.
“But how will I get there?” he asked. His desire for adventure made him forget all about the possible dangers entailed. “And evade the war, I mean?”
The figure turned his head so that the light fell on him, and for a moment Vetle caught a glimpse of his face. It was no more than a dark flash of a bitter smile in a surprisingly youthful and incredibly fascinating face, with a neat, black, demonic-looking beard and yellow eyes.
Then the face was shrouded in darkness once more.
“Had you been of Saga’s lineage, one of the wolves of the dark angels could have accompanied you through the air.”
“As it did Vanja?”
“Yes. But you are only of the Ice People. However, some human-friendly transport is heading south early tomorrow morning.”
Vetle understood that what the Wanderer meant was “humanitarian transport”, but that expression was probably much too modern for him.
“The Red Cross?” the boy asked. “Yes, they are the only ones allowed to drive through Europe at present. How am I to join them?”
“Vetle, you must start using your brain a little for yourself. Please don’t give the impression that we have overestimated your intelligence and honesty so that we have to find someone else.”
“No, no, I’ll manage it,” the boy responded rashly. “Just let me leave a note for my family so that they don’t get too worried about me.”
“Yes, if you wish. Otherwise we’ll let them know, and that we are protecting you as much as we can. But should you put yourself in harm’s way through your own foolhardiness or lack of courage or judgment, things may go very badly for you. We can’t protect you against stupidity.”
That was just the way to put Vetle in a belligerent mood. “I’ll manage,” he said gruffly. “But I need more detailed instructions!”
“You’ll get them in time. Get ready to leave now, the night is short!” The cloaked man bade him farewell, and he was left all alone.
It was while Vetle was getting ready for the trip that he started to visualize just how big this adventure could be. Up until now he had probably cut a sorry figure, but the Wanderer’s sudden appearance had utterly surprised him and had shaken his usual self-confidence. Vetle had never anticipated being chosen for anything. To him, the story of the Ice People was practically a fairy tale; he himself had never experienced anything supernatural. And that is precisely where the great distinction and disjunction lies, between those who have been granted the gift of being able to see through the darkness and those who have never been in contact with occult sensory experiences. How are the clairvoyant ever going to persuade those who are not that there is an invisible world? It will never ever happen. That is why many people choose to keep quiet about their experiences, because they fear being exposed to scepticism and at worst disdain.
Vendel was a borderline case. He had never seen anything himself, but he lived among the Ice People, was one of them: Malin and Christoffer and Henning and Benedikte and André never expressed any doubt about that.
And then there was Imre, Marco’s son. Vetle believed in him, though he never made his presence known.
So Vetle might well have been called an agnostic. One that neither believed in anything nor judged anyone who did.
But now he knew. He was no longer in doubt.
He was one of the chosen! At least, in a way he was.
Of all the Ice People, he was the one chosen! A completely ordinary mortal in the lineage. And only fourteen years old. This was a record in so many ways!
Vetle loved records. Challenges. To outdo one’s own and preferably also the world’s expectations. He didn’t in the least mind being on the receiving end of the speechless admiration of others, and liked the idea of being world famous, spoken about and praised.
And this was the greatest challenge he could ever have received!
The ancestors of the Ice People could count on him. Those who had chosen Vetle knew what they were doing. Vetle of the Ice People! What an impressive name!
He made a huge jump into the air, thrust his legs to one side and clicked his heels. He had been practising that jump for a long time without being able to manage it. He didn’t manage it now either. Crashed down on his side and looked around with a shameful snigger. But the Wanderer probably hadn’t seen it. He was long gone by then.
