In the Wilderness, Page 3

  The constant sound of bells from the wood under the Horse Crag came nearer. Ragna was calling the cows home: the herd came in sight at the gate at the brow of the wood. The line of roan and dappled cows moved forward along the edge of the top field.

  Again a breath of distasteful memory crossed the boy’s mind. Just before his father went to Oslo he had sent him on an errand to Saltviken. Up on the hill he had met the cattle, and then he had gone and stuffed the cow-bell full of moss—not for any reason, it had just occurred to him to do it. But Jon, the herdsman, had gone on about it and complained to the master when he came home in the evening. And once more the devastating thing happened that his father was moved neither to wrath nor to laughter by his prank; he only muttered something about child’s tricks and looked unconcerned.

  There went Liv up the path from the quay—she had been to the shed again, with Anki no doubt. Eirik moved uneasily. His body was hot and tingling, he felt guilty and ashamed. Though indeed he had done nothing wrong—he could not help it if she said such things to him, and it only made him angry and ashamed when she tried to take hold of him and hug him in the dark. What did she want of him? He was not yet grown up, and she had men enough without him, the ugly trollop.

  But he could not get it out of his thoughts, for he guessed that she hung about his father too. And then it all came back to him, all the evil he had had in his mind when he found out about his father and Torhild Björnsdatter—his dread and his despair, not knowing whether he were sure of his right to his father and to Hestviken, and a miry flood of foul and evil thoughts and visions, and a mortal hatred that made his cheeks go white and cold when he thought of how he hated.

  His father’s fits of silence, which lasted from morning to night, the tired, drawn look of his mouth, of his eyes with their thin, filmy lids—even the way he rose to his feet after a rest, to go back to his work, as though laboriously collecting his thoughts from far away—all this filled the child’s mind with insecurity. He guessed that he was living under the same roof with a pain of such a kind that it must strike him with terror if he ever saw it laid bare. And he hated, he raged against anything in the world that prevented him from ever having peace and happy days. And at the same time the boy could see that his father was still a handsome man, and no old man. The house-folk openly discussed what maidens and widows might be reckoned a fit match, both in the parish itself and in the neighbouring districts—little joy as Olav had had of his wife for many years, they doubted not he would marry again as soon as might be.

  Had not this Liv been such a loathsome creature, it were almost better—for his father could never marry her. Many men were content to keep a leman in their house. But then he recalled the time when Torhild was here. No, his father must not bring any strange woman to dwell at Hestviken—he would not have anyone going about here, keeping the stores and dealing out the food, whispering in his father’s ear at night, asking a boon or giving a word of advice, making mischief for him and Cecilia with their father, and filling the place with her own brood the while.

  From here not much more was seen of the houses of Hestviken than the row of turf roofs on the slope under the crag. The shadow crept higher and higher up the hill, but the sun still shone on the roofs and the black cliff behind, with green foliage brightening the crevices. Up on the back of the Horse the red trunks of the firs were still ablaze.

  All at once the tears burst from his eyes. His love of the manor smarted like homesickness; his grief at his father’s leaving him was overwhelming. The relish had gone out of all his former joys. Eirik gave himself up entirely, he lay on the ground weeping so that the tears ran down.

  There was a rustling sound on the edge of the cliff above him. The boy started up, burning with shame. A sheep thrust out its black face among the bushes—there was a white gleam of sheep behind it. Eirik scrambled up and chased them away. A good thing it was not men. Or Jörund—

  Slowly he came down again. There stood his wooden horse, a wretched little toy. He snatched it up, ran forward to the brink, and threw it over.

  It was now just dark enough under the cliff to prevent his seeing what became of it—whether it landed on the rocks below or in the water. For an instant he stood as though spellbound—now he had done it! Then he turned and ran, sobbing with remorse. He slid, leaped, tumbled almost, down the steep path in the cleft, to where his boat lay.

  Eirik reached it and cast off. “Oh nay, I must find the copper horse again”—so intent was he that the faint gurgling of the water against the bottom of the boat troubled him. As noiselessly as he could, he poled and rowed along under the cliff, staring and listening intently in the shadows. There was something black floating among the rocks—he raked it toward him with an oar. No, it was only a stick of wood. And there—no. What if he searched all over the beach tomorrow—it was so small.

  “Dear, holy Mary, help me, let me find the copper horse! I will give my three pennies to Helga with the tooth, next time she comes.—Ave Maria, gratia plena Dominus tecum—”

  There it was! On the other side of the boat, a little way out. It was almost a miracle that it had not drifted in among the stones of the beach, and then he would never have found it. The boy drew a deep breath of happiness when he held the wooden horse in his wet hand. Now that it was so late he dared not go up again and hide it in the cave; he stuffed it into the folds of his coat.

  Then he seized the oars and rowed briskly across to the other shore.

  The quay was deserted when he came ashore. In the wood above, the thrush was singing—Eirik had to stop and listen to it. Then he went at a run up the path to the houses, he was so beside himself with happiness. And every now and then he had to stop to listen to the song of the birds.

  All was still at the manor. As the lad opened the house door the thought struck him: now he was to lie alone in this house the whole summer. He had slept alone there now and then for a few nights, when his father was from home, and never been afraid, but now he felt his flesh creep a little.

  The smoke-vent was not closed. Some food was left for him on the bare, clean-swept hearth. But the room had a cheerless look in the pale twilight. Eirik made haste to close the door leading to the black hole of the closet. He would close the outer door too, before sitting down to his food. But on coming to the doorway he could not help staying a moment to listen—how the birds sang tonight!

  Out on the meadow a dark shadow stirred. Eirik whistled softly—the dog dashed up, but stopped a little way off, wagging his tail and not daring to come nearer. Eirik coaxed and coaxed—“Come along, King Ring—what have you been doing now?” The rascal was a most mischievous beast; his life had long been threatened daily both by Olav and by the servants, but none had yet had the enterprise to make an end of him.

  At last King Ring took courage and slipped through the door, crouching down and rubbing his head against the boy’s calf. Eirik hastened to bolt the door, and as he stooped in the darkness, the dog nearly knocked him down as he whimpered affectionately and licked his face with his hot tongue.

  Sitting on the edge of the hearth, he ate cold porridge and sour milk and shared the wind-dried meat with the dog. Now his only thought was that it would be fine to have the living-room to himself this summer.

  He hid the copper horse under the pillow in his bed. King Ring jumped up and lay down over his feet.

  “—And when the ogress comes in and gropes about in the dark for this Christian man, he whistles for his white bear—”

  Eirik drew his legs up closer under him and thought it all over again from the beginning. There is a man—and this man is himself, as it might be—who has wandered all day through wild forests; late in the evening he comes to a house. It is deserted, but he finds food and a bed prepared, and he goes to rest. In the course of the night he hears a great noise, and in comes an ogress—she is so tall that she reaches to the roof-beams and as broad as she is high. And she sniffs and scents the blood of a Christian and gropes and searches, for she
wants to take the man and roast him on the fire. But then he whistles for his dog—

  Sleep began to creep over Eirik; his thoughts were confused. He took it up again—through wild forests all day long, he and the white bear—and then there came in an ogress—first they came to a great house in the depth of the forest—he saw it all as large as life, the little clearing and the empty house.—Then sleep overcame him and quenched all visions.

  1 In Norse mythology the Fimbul (i.e., mighty) winter, lasting for three years, precedes Ragnarok, the death battle of the ancient gods.

  2

  CALMS and contrary winds delayed the Reindeer’s voyage southward along the shore, and only on the twelfth day after their departure from Hestviken were the men able to stand out to sea. But once in open sea they had a good breeze and by the third morning Olav made a landfall on a high, mountainous coast that he took to be Scotland. He had heard that there was war between the English and the Scottish Kings; therefore he chose to bear off to sea again. They stood off and on for the best part of a day, and then the wind became more northerly. Now the men put on their shirts of mail and steel caps, for the southern sea between England and Flanders was never peaceful and safe for trading voyagers.

  Since his life had been spent far up country until he was grown up, there was always something adventurous about the sea and a sea-voyage for Olav Audunsson; and though his body was tired out, his heart felt wonderfully fresh and rested. He had watched through the long, grey summer nights, always with mind and senses calmly alert, directed toward sea and sky—it was as though he were sailing away from the very memories of endless wakeful nights, when he had lain imprisoned at the bottom of a dark bed in the pitch-dark cave of the closet. They sank beneath the horizon at his back like the very coast from which he had steered. The weather had been fair almost all the time—the steady wind whistled in the rigging and bellied out the sail; the long, heaving ocean waves lifted the little hoy. For an instant it seemed to hesitate and think about it before plunging into the hollow—then a foaming at the bows, a little flying spray, a glimpse of grey-green water along the gunwale, the full note of the ocean as it raised its waves and drove one before another—the three big waves that came again and again after a certain interval. Clouds covered the whole vault of heaven, pale grey, drifting unhurriedly across the sky, now and again a pale gleam of sunshine falling on the sloping wet deck. Toward evening the weather often cleared a little; over on the horizon there was a glitter of sunlight on the sea. Then the bank of clouds closed in, reddened by the sunset behind them.

  His sleep in the daytime refreshed him through and through, lying in a barrel, with the fur lining of his cloak wrapped warmly about his cheeks. The rushing of the waves, the sighing and creaking of the ship’s timbers, the cries of the crew, rattling and heavy steps on deck—all these sounds reached him as he lay feeling the vessel lifting under him, gliding and sinking. Under the wide vault of daylight, where wind and wave flowed freely, filling his head with a loud, monotonous roar, he could fall asleep as easily as a child.

  He felt young; it was as though the wind and the sea had washed and scoured him to this sensitiveness of body and soul—that afternoon when at last he stood on the vessel’s poop as she was borne by wind and tide up the London river. The land on both banks was low and green—marshy meadows, cornfields on the rising ground, thick forest farther off on low hills undulating one behind another, till the farthest were lost in the pale blue haze of distance. Feeble gleams of sunlight broke through bright rifts in the clouds; somewhere in the west a cluster of pale rays fell upon the ground, saturated with moisture: the sun was drinking up rain.

  It was not unlike Denmark. But Olav had never scanned those coasts, from which his mother had once come, with the same joyful expectation as he now felt. And England was much more populous. Innumerable towers and spires of great churches showed up inland above the woods. And they had sailed past many strong houses, built of white stone, enclosed by walls and watchtowers.

  And when one of the men in the bows called out that now they could see the town, Olav leaped down and ran forward under the sail.

  Through the light mist ahead he could make out towers and pinnacles, an innumerable multitude close together. And the darker grey streak that lay low down over the river, that must be the famous London Bridge. Olav forgot all else and gazed ahead.

  Torodd Richardson came up to him. He had been talking to the pilot whom they had taken aboard at the mouth of the river. That was London’s castle, the mighty fortress with four towers and a surrounding wall rising straight out of the water—that was the White Tower itself. And the long ridge of a leaden roof they saw on this side of it was St. Katherine’s Church. The highest of all the spires on the rising ground was St. Paul’s.

  It was nevertheless the sight of the bridge that impressed Olav most deeply, for it was like nothing else that he had seen. It was the greatest marvel—built on huge arches that stood in the bed of the stream; what was more, it was of stone, and there were houses upon the bridge all the way. South of the river stood St. Olav’s Church, said Torodd, and thither they must go to mass tomorrow; perchance they would meet fellow countrymen there. In former days, when the Norwegians sailed their own merchandise to London town, this had been their church. Nowadays they seldom came so far south. The Reindeer was the only vessel that had sailed hither from Oslo this year, but there might be men from Trondheim or Björgvin in town.

  Olav listened in a way to the other’s talk while gazing and waiting—he knew not for what.

  • • •

  They were late in going ashore next morning. The sun was already up when the six men from the Reindeer crossed London Bridge.

  It gave Olav a queer feeling to think that this narrow street between the clothiers’ shops lay over a broad river. The tide rushed upstream in a wave that was sucked out to sea again: he had noticed it in the little haven where they had put in the night before; there was more difference between ebb and flood here than at home in Hestviken. But men had been able to build up these heavy pillars of stone in the midst of the rapid current and throw a bridge over it. The thought made him strangely happy.

  In many places the street was so narrow that only a little strip of sky could be seen between the houses. But farther along the bridge there was a break in the row of houses, so that wagons might pass each other. The Norwegians went out to the parapet to look down into the river.

  The sun was above the woods in the east, and the air was filled with a bright haze; the sunlight glimmered in snow-white patches on the stream. The water ran through the arches with a rapid, steady roar; it was strange to see this strong stone wall rising straight out of the river. Unconsciously Olav raised his head and looked back at the town. Behind the thin mist, towers and spires shone in the morning sun. And all at once an immense flock of pigeons flew up from some place within there, circled about in a great ring, and turned, with the sun shining on their white and sea-blue wings.

  A rowboat worked its way up against the stream, the sun glistening on the blades of the oars, twelve or fourteen pairs. It was not quite like any craft Olav had seen before, but it reminded him of a longship. Olav would have liked to stay and watch it go under the bridge, but Galfrid reminded him that the morning was far spent and mass would soon be over in all the churches.

  There was not much traffic on the bridge so late in the day. But now they had to step into a shop door to make way for a company that came toward them: in front went a tall, large-limbed old man with an iron-shod staff in his hand and an armorial device embroidered on the bosom of his cloak. After him came two young maidens in trailing gowns, bearing their trains over their arms and holding books and rosaries; they wore wreaths of flowers in their fair, flowing hair and were beautiful as the morning, both of them. They were followed by an old serving-woman and two young pages, who carried the damsels’ cloaks, and one of them had in his arms a lap-dog that yelped and jingled the bells on its collar.

  Mean
while a young man had appeared in the shop behind them; he chattered and tried to show his wares—took hold of Olav’s coat and held before him a particoloured surcoat, half yellow and half blue. But when he found that the strangers were in no mind to bargain—or did not understand his speech—he pulled a face and laughed scornfully.

  On the battlements over the southern gate of the bridge were some human heads stuck on stakes. On arriving in the open space beyond, Olav and his companions stopped to look at this. Immediately a little humpbacked old woman hobbled forward on crutches; after her came a young boy who crept on boards under his hands and knees—he had no feet. They pointed and chattered. Torodd Richardson was the only one of the party who knew a little of the language of the country; he interpreted for the others: the four nearest heads were those of great lords from the north country, rebels.

  Olav Audunsson nodded in serious approval. There was nothing gruesome in this sight. He looked up, thoughtfully. The sun shone upon bare, greyish-yellow skulls, the morning breeze faintly stirred some tufts of hair. The flesh had rotted away, or the crows had pecked off what they could—there was not food for a bird left on any of the heads. A strange peace was upon these noseless faces that stared straight into the sun with unblinking eye-sockets. They looked iridescent, striped with black and greenish mould, but calm.

  Olav had never before seen the heads of executed men close at hand. Often enough he had sailed past the Wheel Rock at Sigvalda, but had never landed on it. And the gallows hill outside Oslo lay in a quarter he had never had occasion to visit; nor had there ever been anything to take him thither, for it had never chanced that any was to be hanged when he was in the town.