Behind the facade, p.1
Behind the Facade, page 1
Behind The Facade
The Legend of the Ice People 18 - Behind The Facade
© Margit Sandemo 1984
© eBook in English: Jentas A/S, 2017
Series: The Legend of The Ice People
Title: Behind The Facade
Title number: 18
Original title: Bakom fasaden
Translator: Anna Halager
© Translation: Jentas A/S
ISBN: 978-87-7107-536-6
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchase.
All contracts and agreements regarding the work, translation, editing, and layout are owned by Jentas A/S.
Acknowledgement
The legend of the Ice People is dedicated with love and gratitude to the memory of my dear late husband Asbjorn Sandemo, who made my life a fairy tale.
Margit Sandemo
The Ice People - Reviews
‘Margit Sandemo is, simply, quite wonderful.’
- The Guardian
‘Full of convincing characters, well estabished in time and place, and enlightening ... will get your eyes popping, and quite possibly groins twitching ... these are graphic novels without pictures ... I want to know what happens next.’
- The Times
‘A mixure of myth and legend interwoven with historical events, this is imaginative creation that involves the reader from the first page to the last.’
- Historical Novels Review
‘Loved by the masses, the prolific Margit Sandemo has written over 172 novels to date and is Scandinavia s most widely read author...’
- Scanorama magazine
The Legend of the Ice People
The legend of the Ice People begins many centuries ago with Tengel the Evil. He was ruthless and greedy, and there was only one way to get everything that he wanted: he had to make a pact with the devil. He travelled far into the wilderness and summoned the devil with a magic potion that he had brewed in a pot. Tengel the Evil gained unlimited wealth and power but in exchange, he cursed his own family. One of his descendants in every generation would serve the Devil with evil deeds. When it was done, Tengel buried the pot. If anyone found it, the curse would be broken.
So the curse was passed down through Tengel’s descendants, the Ice People. One person in every generation was born with yellow cat’s eyes, a sign of the curse, and magical powers which they used to serve the Devil. One day the most powerful of all the cursed Ice People would be born.
This is what the legend says. Nobody knows whether it is true, but in the 16th century, a cursed child of the Ice People was born. He tried to turn evil into good, which is why they called him Tengel the Good. This legend is about his family. Actually, it is mostly about the women in his family – the women who held the fate of the Ice People in their hands.
Chapter 1
“Good heavens,” sighed Elisabet’s mother, holding a white-powdered wig in front of her. “It may be all right for you to wear your hair like that when you’re at home. Your father is much too compliant, constantly giving in to your whims. But now we’re going to Christiania, the capital of Norway, and we’ll be in a world of rank and fashion where you just can’t look the way you do! With your own hair! Without any powder in it! You look like a tart!”
Elisabet Paladin of the Ice People shook her head so that her brown curls shone like chestnuts in the sunlight glow. “What’s the matter with my hair? I can’t stand those horrible wigs: they stifle me! Besides, haven’t you seen those adorable little chicks in their wigs scratching their necks so that the wigs slip down? And such pent-up horrors foster lice!”
Tora, her mother, gave in to her headstrong nineteen-year-old daughter. “Well, keep your hair the way it is then. It has enough volume to be put in a chignon. We can ask Mrs Sørensen to come and dress it: she can give it height with hair pads and maybe fasten it with some flowers and birds’ feathers, and we’ll powder it so that it looks quite white. I’m sure it will look very nice in the end.”
“No,” Elisabet yelled. “I’ve told you that I’m allergic to powder!”
“Nonsense!” Elisabet’s mother slapped the powder puff onto her daughter’s hair so that she almost disappeared in an enormous white cloud.
Elisabet coughed and gasped for breath.
“Don’t put on airs,” her mother said. Nevertheless, she was shocked when she saw her daughter’s eyes turning red and brimming with tears. She hurriedly waved away the powder and brought some water. She was almost cracking up with nerves. Elisabet’s nose was so congested that it took quite a while for her to utter a word. Her mother seized this opportunity to give her daughter a curtain lecture on how hopeless father and daughter were.
“Your father hasn’t come home yet and we’re leaving at four! How am I to put up with you two? He’s down by the river keeping an eye on the rafting with that obnoxious Vemund Tark. Does it never occur to either of you that you belong to the great nobility? The Paladin Family were margraves, but you walk around with your natural hair and your father’s keeping an eye on a raft! He doesn’t have to do that! Now and then, I can’t help being so ashamed of the two of you that it almost drives me crazy!”
Mrs Tora came from a good, respectable family, and she was of the opinion that she had made a good match when she married a Paladin. She was the only one who went on about the margrave title. She wanted Ulf to keep it, but he did not want to because Norway had abolished its nobility. Tora was an extremely efficient mistress at Elistrand: kind and warm-hearted in her own way and very much respected in the village. Nevertheless, at times Ulf and Elisabet thought that she could be quite a handful.
It was 1770 and Elisabet would soon be twenty. Everybody knew that Mrs Tora was scheming to get her daughter married soon, and it would have to be a good match. That was why her mother was focusing so much on their journey to Christiania, where they would get to meet the city’s notables. At any rate, they would get to see them at close range.
Elisabet had regained her power of speech. “Who’s Vebudd Talk?”
“What are you talking about?”
Elisabet blew her nose. “Who’s Vemund Tark?”
“A barbarian, if you ask me. The Tarks own an absolutely idyllic mansion outside the city boundary of Christiania, high above the crowds and shielded by a well-kept park. Charming people! If I had such a home, I wouldn’t live anywhere else for all the world. Yet the eldest son, Vemund, insists on living primitively in a little cottage deep in the forests that belong to the mansion house.”
“Tark? Aren’t they the ones who own lots of land?”
“They own an incredible amount. Forests and sawmills and timber yards and goodness knows what. We could have done likewise; we could be making a fortune if Liv, your ancestress, hadn’t been stupid enough to sell the timber yard she inherited from her first husband. You Ice People have never been able to run a business. Just look at your father! He’s satisfied with Elistrand. We might have had both Graastensholm and Linden Avenue if he hadn’t been stupid enough to insist that they belong to distant relatives in Sweden – people who are never here!”
She looked wistfully out of the window towards the somewhat more magnificent Graastensholm.
“Aunt Ingrid still lives there,” Elisabet replied, seeing a chance to hide the horrible wig behind the log basket.
“The old witch,” Tora murmured absentmindedly. This was a truth that Elisabet could not deny.
“Her son, Uncle Daniel, is thinking of settling there when he retires from office.”
“He’ll never move here; he’s much better off in Sweden,” said her mother confidently. “Graastensholm will be empty when Ingrid passes away. If she ever does. She’ll turn out to be just as tenacious of life as Ulf’s grandfather, Ulvhedin.”
Elisabet looked sadly in the direction of Graastensholm. It seemed as if she could already hear the wind whistling in empty window openings and tumbledown towers. That would be terrible, it just must not happen; it was bad enough that people from outside the family might rent Linden Avenue. “Uncle Daniel is bound to end up here in Norway. If he doesn’t, his children will.”
Tora merely snorted. “You Ice People have never been grounded! Anyway, thank God you didn’t turn out like Ingrid or Ulvhedin.”
“One of the stricken?” Elisabet smiled. “Wouldn’t that have been fun!”
“Fortunately, that abomination seems to be a thing of the past. No one in the family has been cursed either in your father’s generation or in yours.”
“You forget – there was one in Dad’s generation. The one called Mar, whom we’ve never seen. And also young Shira was chosen, wasn’t she?”
“I don’t believe in all that,” Tora said obstinately. “Siberia and God knows what!”
“Shira came here once when Dad was a child,” Elisabet protested. “And her half-brother, Örjan, met her and Mar later when he was in Siberia.” She was pensive. “You’re right, Mum. There aren’t any stricken ones in my generation. Not me, nor Örjan’s son, nor Daniel’s two children. None! Dad and Aunt Ingrid believe that Shira can take the credit for that, and it’s probably beca use she found the clear water that the curse was lifted from the family.”
“I sincerely hope you’re right,” Tora muttered. She had already forgotten that she did not believe in the crazy story about Shira’s magical walk.
Although she would often complain about her family, because they were Ice People, Tora idolized Ulf and Elisabet. She just found it so difficult to show her love properly because she was an altogether different type of person, and had been brought up differently.
Tora’s thoughts touched upon an area of horror and shame. She accused the Ice People of not being down-to-earth, but she lived in constant fear that they would find out that she allowed herself to be addressed by the title of “Margravine” in her own parish. She would die of shame if they found out.
Elisabet started. “Look, Mum! The old farmhand is running up from the river!”
Tora opened the window at once. “What’s the matter, Nils?”
The farmhand stopped, swaying from exhaustion. It was a few seconds before he was able to answer in a weak voice. “My son fell in the river! They managed ... to pull him out of the water, but he’s badly hurt. The master said that I was to ask you to come down with needle and thread.”
“I’m on my way,” Elisabet said at once. “Hitch a horse and follow after me so that we can bring him home. I’ll saddle my horse and take the medical bag.”
“You’ll use a side saddle,” her mother said in a warning tone. “And put something over your unruly hair. There are men out there! Rough, crude rafters!”
“Nonsense,” Elisabet shouted on her way out of the door. “This is about life or death.”
The major part of the Ice People’s fabled supply of herbs and medicines was with Ingrid at Graastensholm. But Elistrand had its own collection, which Elisabet now fetched.
The farmhand had already disappeared into the stable, and she dashed after him. A moment later, Tora saw her daughter zoom out on her horse.
The mother opened the window again. “Elisabet!” she shouted, shocked. “Not astride! And without a saddle! Elisabet! Elisa ...”
Her resigned voice faded away.
“The party,” Tora murmured to herself. “At last, we had a chance to marry her off to a civil servant! Maybe even a clergyman!”
Now some miserable rafter might upset that chance!
Elisabet’s father, Ulf Paladin – Jon’s son and Ulvhedin’s grandson – was self-confident, robust and horny-handed, with a broad, jovial face. He had been down by the river all day long, bringing some order to the timber on the river, which had got stuck like a cork. He was with Vemund Tark, who had bought the timber from him and who was more interested in this kind of outdoor work than in sitting in an office in town collecting money. All the farmhands were struggling with the logjam. The river that flowed past Graastensholm Parish was not big but it fulfilled its function, creating the basis for fishing, forestry and a sawmill. The rafters shouted to one another above the sparkling splashes of water; their language was peppered with oaths, but they knew their stuff – most of them, anyway ...
“Nils’s blighter of a son is a daredevil,” Ulf said. “If he continues like this, we’ll have an accident on our hands.”
Vemund nodded. He was a jewel of a man who moved swiftly, with a slightly restless manner. He had a noble profile and his personality seemed to reflect something pent-up, wounded and vulnerable. His mouth was strong and sensitive at the same time, his hair dark blond, thick and curly, and his complexion showed that he was an outdoor man.
They sat on a ledge, keeping an eye on the rafting while their soaked clothes and boots dried in the sun, because they had also been making an extra effort out in the river. Ulf said in his good-natured manner: “When I met your brother yesterday, I was quite surprised. He’s not at all like you.”
“No,” Vemund said thoughtfully. “My younger brother is in a difficult position. A life like this intimidates him, but he knows that he’ll inherit neither the businesses nor the estate. Everything will go to me, as the law prescribes. I’ve suggested that he take over at least parts of it, but he won’t hear of that. No charity, thank you! My younger brother is so proud and pig-headed!”
Ulf looked pensively at Vemund Tark out of the corner of his eye. “Oh, well. You also have your quirks. You don’t want to live at Lekenes.”
“That’s a different matter altogether,” Vemund said curtly. “I don’t belong in elevated circles.”
“I would have thought you would fit in beautifully,” Ulf said with a glance at the noble profile. “In different clothes from what you’re wearing now, of course, and with powdered hair. By the way, is your brother just called Lillebror?”
“No, his name’s Arnold, which also happens to be my father’s name – that’s why he has always been known as Lillebror. I believe everyone, including himself, has forgotten that he has another name.”
Ulf smiled. “He isn’t exactly small. A handsome man!”
“I think the girls will agree with you on that. He’s twenty-three now, two years younger than me, and he’s wasting his life; all he does is stay at home with our parents. I’ve often thought that an estate or a business that would allow him to marry would be his salvation. Something to be responsible for. You see, he’s quick on the uptake but right now he’s powerless. No, don’t touch those logs!” Vemund Tark shouted out across the river. “It will cause chaos!”
The rafters saw that the warning made sense and began to loosen the logjam from a different side. “We have a similar problem at home,” Ulf smiled wryly. “We have only one daughter, and she just must not marry an heir to an estate or land because it will cause havoc! She’s to inherit Elistrand, our home, and possibly another two farms in the parish.”
“You mean Graastensholm?” Vemund asked discreetly.
Ulf nodded. “The solution is for her to find a good farmer’s son who isn’t an heir.”
“I see. There are plenty of them around. Younger brothers ... Sometimes I wish I was one of them. To be allowed to choose one’s occupation, one’s course of life. To work hard to become something. Not like now, when I’m obliged to take over an established business and an estate that I don’t really want.”
Now Ulf Paladin understood why Vemund Tark preferred to be outdoors, working with his bare hands. The feeling of achieving something ...
“The farms in Lekenes are impossible to match,” he protested. “And such an inheritance ...”
“It’s not an inheritance,” Vemund interrupted. “They bought it fifteen years ago.”
“Your parents? Well, I never! I thought you had a slight touch of a foreign accent in your speech. Where are you from?”
Vemund Tark stood up. “Mind what you’re doing!” he shouted. “Oh, dear!”
“That was Nils’s son, Edvin,” Ulf said, getting rapidly to his feet. “Come on!”
They ran down to the bank. Without hesitation, Vemund jumped into the cold water. With the help of his friends, young Edvin, who had been wedged between the logs in the fall, had managed to extricate himself and was now drifting unconscious with the current, beyond the reach of the long raft hooks.
Old Nils moaned loudly.
“Not to worry, Nils. Tark has a firm grip on him,” Ulf Paladin said.
“There’s so much blood. The whole river is red!”
“Everything will be alright. Run home and fetch the medicine bag. Ask my wife for it.”
“What if he’s already ...”
“He isn’t dead. Look! He just stretched out his arm. The water probably revived him. Please hurry up; the others are coming now and they’ll help to get him ashore.”
The old man was off as quickly as he could go.
A bit farther down the bank, the drenched men were pulled ashore. Everybody rushed up to them and the logjam had to wait.
Edvin, the young boaster, who had sworn that he was just as good a rafter as the experienced men, now looked pretty pathetic. He was bleeding from a deep gash in his thigh and one arm appeared to be broken. Ulf explained: “His father has run to fetch the medical bag. In the meantime, we must try to stop the bleeding. What did you do out there, Edvin? I told you, didn’t I? That this was no game for beginners.”
