The Snake Pit (8 page)

“But it was of your great-grandfather Olav Ribbung and his kin that I was to tell you. Ingolf, you know, was married to Ragna Hallkelsdatter from Kaaretorp—’twas Tora who had busied herself to secure this good marriage for her grandson, as soon as he was grown; Audun, your father, was already some two years old when we kinsmen set out to follow King Skule and the Vaarbelgs. When Torgils turned mad, Ingolf and Ragna had an uneasy life at Hestviken, and afterwards they lived mostly at Kaaretorp. But one Yule, when they were here, Ingolf wished to accompany Halldis, his sister, and her husband across the fiord to Aas and to stay with them awhile. They ran upon a rock, and all who were in the boat were drowned.

“Olav Ribbung bore this disaster so well that my father used to say he had never seen a man bear adversity so nobly—he always named his brother as a pattern of firmness and strength—those twin brothers loved each other so dearly.—Ay, ’twas his son and daughter and son-in-law who were lost. Olav merely said that he thanked God his mother and Astrid, his wife, had died before these disasters had fallen upon his children. He dwelt on there with the madman, and there were no others of his offspring left but Borgny, the nun, and Audun, a little lad. Ingolf’s widow married again in Elvesyssel, and Olav gave his consent that Audun should be brought up by his mother and stepfather. Olav Ribbung then adopted the son that Torgils had gotten by a serving wench here at Hestviken, but the boy lived no long time.

“’Twas the third year I was lame from my broken leg, when Ingolf and the others were lost. And I bore it ill—I thought it unbearably hard to be a cripple, young as I was, and that I could never be a priest. Then father always held up Olav Ribbung to me as an example.—But I know that Olav took it sorely to heart that Audun would not marry again after your mother’s death and would not bide at home in Hestviken—and the race bade fair to die out.

“But now there is good hope, I ween, that it will thrive again, with such young and sound and goodly folk as you and your wife. And you may be well assured that I yearn to take a son of yours in my arms. Four generations have I known—five, if I may
reckon our ancestress among them—gladly would I see the first man of the sixth ere I die. ’Tis not given to many men to know their own kindred through six generations. And I would deem it a reasonable thing, my Ingunn, if your husband too should conceive a great longing for the same—his departed kinsmen have possessed this manor of Hestviken since there were men in Norway. Do you hear that, young woman?” he said, laughing to himself.

Olav saw how red she turned.—But it was not the modest blush of happy longing; it was the hot glow of shame that mantled her face. Her eyes grew dark and troubled. In charity he took his glance from her.

I
NGUNN
came out into the balcony and stood gazing at the falling snow. High up against the pale clouds the great wet flakes looked grey as they whirled in the air, but when they settled they seemed pure white, a gleaming white mass against the obliterated white heights toward Kverndalen.

When she looked up for a while into the driving flurry, she felt as though she herself were being sucked up, to hover in the air for an instant; then she sank down and all grew dark. She tried this again and again. The unbearable giddiness that came over her all at once was somehow turned to gentle rapture as she felt herself borne upward; but when the drop came she could not see that she was falling—nothing but grey and black streaks that whirled around.

There was such a strange hush that the very sea-mews were silent—she had seen how they settled in such weather, in cracks of the rock and on the great stones of the beach. Now and again they moved a little, but without uttering a note. When first she came here she had thought these great white birds with their wide stretch of wing were fairer than anything she had seen—even their curious screams made her strangely happy at heart. She had been brought to a new land, far from the region where she had suffered intolerably. In summer, when she came out in the morning and heard the regular pounding of the sea at the foot of the rock on which she stood, saw the wide and bright expanse of the fiord and
the bare shore on the other side, and the circling white sea-mews screamed hoarsely, unreal as wraiths—it had made her so light at heart: the world was so great and so wide; what had befallen her somewhere in a spot far, far away could not possibly be so great a matter—it must surely be forgotten in time.

But as autumn drew on out here by the fiord she was alarmed by its being never still. The unceasing murmur and booming of the waves, the cries of the sea-birds, the sweep of the storm over the wooded ridge—all this made her dizzy. If she had but to cross the yard, the wind seemed to rush in at her ears and fill her whole head with noise. And rain and fog drifted in from the sea and took away her courage. She thought of the autumn at home—the ground hard with black frost, the air bright and clear, so that the blows of an axe or the baying of a dog could be heard from farm to farm; there the sun made its way through the morning mist and thawed the rime to dew in the course of the day. And she longed to listen to a stillness around her.

It was as though she had sunk lower and lower as the days and the year grew shorter and darker. Now she was at the bottom-midwinter was past, the year was climbing again. And she felt utterly powerless at the thought that now she was to take the uphill road. Soon the sun would rise higher and higher—the time was near at hand when day by day it would be manifest that brighter and longer days were drawing on—the springtime. But to her it was as though she faced a lofty mountain up which she was to climb—with the burden she now knew full surely that she bore—and it made her sick and giddy to think of it.

Still, still was the air, though the snow whirled so madly—the flakes drifted hither and thither, but at last they fell straight down. The sea was dark as iron, when she had a glimpse of it, and the surf-beat on the beach sounded faint and monotonous in the mild, snowy air.

All was covered now—the road down to the wharf was blotted out. The footprints of the maids who had gone to the byre, her own tracks across the yard, were snowed under. And all the white was turning grey and slowly fading as the first shades of dusk came on.

The door of the bath-house burst open, and in the cloud of white steam that poured out she caught a glimpse of the men’s bodies, dark against the snow. They ran up toward the barn,
where they had left their clothes, rolling in the drifts as they went, with shouts and laughter. She recognized Olav and Björn, who came first; they closed and wrestled, ducking each other in the snow.

She lifted up the platter of pickled fish and threw her cloak over it. It was so heavy that she had to carry it in both arms; she could not steady herself or see beyond her feet and was afraid of slipping on the snow-covered rocks. The dusk had deepened and the flickering snow made her yet more giddy.

Olav came into the house and took his place in the high seat at the end of the room. He was hungry and tired—settled down in ease at the thought that it was Saturday and the eve of a holy-day, and that three women were busied about him, bringing in food.

The fire on the hearth glowed red, with little low flames playing over the burned-out logs, but through the dim light of the room the man in the master’s seat was conscious of the new comfort that had been brought in. The table was always set up now on the raised floor along the end wall; there were cushions in the high seat, and a piece of tapestry had been hung over the logs of the wall behind it. By the side of this the axe Kin-fetch hung in its old place, together with Olav’s two-handed sword and his shield with the wolf’s head and the three blue lilies. A blue woven curtain had been hung about the southern bed, where the master and mistress slept.

A faint light showed within the closet—the old man was reciting his evening prayers in a half-singing voice. Sira Benedikt might say what he would, thought Olav—his kinsman was a man of no little learning: he said his hours as well as any priest. When the old man had finished, Olav Audunsson called to him: would he not come in and sup?

The old man answered that he would rather have a little ale and groats brought to him in bed. Ingunn hastily filled a bowl with the food and carried it in to him. At the same moment the house-carls appeared at the door—Björn with a bundle of wood, which he flung on the floor. He made up the fire, threw open the outer door and raised the smoke-vent, so that snowflakes drifted down to the hearth with a hiss. Ingunn stayed with the old man till the wood had caught and the worst of the smoke had cleared away. Then Björn closed the door and the smoke-vent.

Ingunn came in and stood at her table. She made a cross with her knife on the loaf before cutting it up. The five men on the bench ate in silence, long and heartily. Ingunn sat on the edge of the bed and picked at a little fish and bread, enjoying it, for the salmon was good and well pickled. The ale was of the Yule brewing and might have been better, but she had had such dirty grain for the malt, mixed with all manner of weeds.

She glanced over at her husband. His hair was dark with wet; the eyebrows and stubbly beard stood out with a golden gleam against his face, which was red and weatherbeaten this evening. He seemed to have a good appetite.

The three serving-maids sat on the bench below the bed, facing the hearth, and ate their supper. Herdis, the youngest of them, whispered and giggled as she ate; that child was always full of laughter and games. She was showing the other maids a new horn spoon that she had been given; the laughter spurted out of her as she did so—then she gave a terrified look at the mistress and struggled to keep quiet, but the girl was all squeaks and gurgles.

The house-folk went out soon after the meal was ended. The men had been on the water from early morning, and the road from Hestviken to the church was so long that they could not lie late abed on the morrow, when the going was as heavy as it was now.

Olav went in to his kinsman—the old man always needed a hand with one thing or another before he lay down to rest. Olav Ingolfsson was specially inclined to talk toward bedtime and wished to hear all about the fishing and the day’s work on the farm. And every answer he received of the younger Olav put him in mind of something that had to be told.

Igunn was sitting on a low stool before the hearth, combing her hair, when Olav came back into the room. She was half undressed—sitting in a white, short-sleeved linen shift and a narrow, sleeveless under-kirtle of russet homespun. Her thick dark-yellow hair hung like a mantle about her slender, slightly stooping form, and through it gleamed her delicate white arms.

Olav came up behind her, filled his hands with her loosened hair, and buried his face in it—it smelt so good.

“You have the fairest hair of all women, Ingunn!” He forced her head back and looked down into her upturned face. “But you have fallen away since Yule, my sweet one! You must not
work beyond your powers, I will not have it! And then you must eat more, else you will grow so thin, ere Lent comes and we must fast, that there will be nothing left of you!”

He struggled out of his jerkin and shirt and sat down on the edge of the hearth to warm his back. The sight of the man’s naked chest, the play of the muscles under the milk-white skin, as he bent down to pull off his boots, affected the young wife painfully. His sound health made her feel her own weakness all the more.

Olav scratched himself on the shoulder-blades—a few little drops of blood trickled, red as wine, down his smooth skin. “He is such a rough fellow, Björn, when he bathes one,” laughed Olav.

Then he bent over the bitch that lay with her litter on a sack by the hearth, and picked up one of the puppies. It squealed as he held it to the light—its eyes were only just opened. The mother gave a low growl. Olav had bought the dog but a little while before and had paid so much that his neighbours had again shaken their heads at his grand ways. But it was a special breed of dog, with hanging ears, soft as silk, and a short coat—keen-scented, excellent sporting dogs. Olav handled the puppies with satisfaction: it looked as if they would take after their mother, all five of them. He laughingly laid one in his wife’s lap, amused at the dog, which now growled more threateningly, but dared not fly at him.

The tiny, round-bellied creature, still soft of bone, crawled and scrambled, trying to lick Ingunn’s hands. It was so weak and jointless—all at once she felt unwell, a lump came into her throat.

“Let its mother have it back,” she begged feebly.

Olav looked at her, stopped laughing, and laid the puppy back beside the bitch.

Torre was past and the month of Gjö came and froze the fiord—the ice stretched far to the south of Jölund.
²
The days began to lengthen and grow lighter. The frost fog crept up the fiord from farther out where there was open sea, and when clear days succeeded, with blue sky and sunshine, the whole world glistened with rime. Olav and Björn went out hunting together.

Ingunn’s only thought was how long yet would she be able to conceal it. Her tears burst forth—an impotent despair she knew
that now indeed she had no need of concealment: was she not Olav’s wife in Hestviken, where she was to bear him a child in the old manor that had been the seat of his kin from time out of mind? And yet she would fain have crept underground and hidden herself.