In the Wilderness

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

PART ONE:
The Parting of the Wags

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2

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PART TWO:
The Wilderness

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About the Author

Other Books by This Author

Books by Sigrid Undset

O
N
a day in spring Olav was out with one of his housecarls spreading dung on the frozen soil of the “good acre.”

The fields that faced north still gleamed and glittered with ice, but from above on the Horse Crag water trickled and ran. And on the sunny side, across the creek, the cliff was baking—the Bull rose out of the sea with a flickering reflection of the ripples on its rusty-grey rocks. Brown soil showed under the pines over there, and the thicket on the hillside toward Kverndal was hung with yellow catkins.

Out in the creek Eirik was rowing—the lad’s red kirtle shone sharply against the blue water. Olav stood for a while leaning on his spade and looked down at the little boat. ’Twas ever the same with Eirik—he took such a time! He had only had a few sheep to ferry across; sheep and goats were now turned out in the wood on that side. Today there was good use for the boy at home.

There came a tripping of feet on the rocks behind Olav’s back—the great bare rocks that rounded off the “good acre” toward the fiord. There stood Cecilia with the sun behind her so that its rays shone through her fair, curly hair, lighting it up. She sat on the rock and slid down, crying out to her father and holding up a bunch of coltsfoot.

Olav turned and waved her off.

“Come not too close, Cecilia—you will be all besmeared.” He lifted her onto a stone. The little maid dabbed her posy into his face and looked to see how yellow she had made her father with the pollen. ’Twas not much, for Cecilia had already pulled the flowers to pieces, but she laughed none the less and tried again.

Olav caught the faint scent, fresh and acrid—the first of the
year’s new growth. The winter that lay behind him had been as long as the Fimbul winter.
¹
But now he felt with a zest all through him that his boots were wet and heavy with earth. Even here in the shadow of the rock the ice shield covering the ground had shrunk away and exposed a strip of raw mould along its edge. The manure that lay spread over the field steamed with a rich smell, and from the waterside came a powerful springtime breath of sea and tar and fish and salt-drenched timber.

The little sailboat that he had sighted just now off the Bull was making this way. The craft was unfamiliar—no doubt some folk who were going upcountry.

He wiped the worst of the dirt from his fingers and led Cecilia back over the rocks.

“Go away to Liv now. You must not let the child run so far from you, Liv—she might fall over.”

The serving-maid turned toward him—“such fine weather”— with a great smile on her face. She sat sunning herself; the garment she should have been mending was flung aside into the heather.

Olav turned from her with distaste and went back to his work. The boat now lay alongside the quay; the strangers were walking up in company with Eirik. Olav made as though he had not seen them until they stopped by the fence and greeted him.

They were two men of middle age, tall, thin, with keen, hooknosed faces and merry, twinkling eyes. Olav knew them now, he had often seen them in Oslo, but never spoken with them; they were sons of that English armourer, Richard Platemaster, who had married a yeoman’s daughter from the country west of the fiord and had settled in the town. What business these men might have with him Olav could not guess. But he went with them up to the houses.

When the Richardsons had been given a meal and they were sitting over their ale, Torodd, the elder, set forth their errand: he had heard it hinted that Olav was minded to make an end of his trading partnership with Claus Wiephart. Olav answered that he knew nothing of it. But, said Torodd, he had heard in the town that this year Olav Audunsson had withheld his goods and not allowed Claus Wiephart to sell for him.

’Twas not so either, replied Olav. But he had made a funeral feast for his wife here during the winter, so that much had been consumed in the house, and with the death of his wife he had also been hindered in his work in many ways.—Olav thought he could now see whither they were tending. And perhaps it might be worth considering, to find another trader for his wares.

Then said the other brother, Galfrid: “The matter is thus, Olav, that my brother and I have business in England this summer. And we know you to be a skilful shipmaster, and you are acquainted with that country from your youth. We have never been there, though it is the home of our father’s kinsfolk. Now we have been surely told that you purpose to make a voyage this summer—”

While he was speaking Eirik had come in at the door, with a chaplet of blue anemones in his hand. Olav knew that the hazel thicket on the other side of the creek was now blue with these flowers. With such childishness as plucking flowers this long lad idled away his time on a bright and busy day of spring.

Eirik stayed by the door, listening intently and only waiting for his father to send him out of the room.

“Who told you that, Galfrid?” asked Olav.

It was Brother Stefan—that barefoot friar who had been hereabouts so much during the winter. The Richardsons were free of the Franciscan convent, as one of their brothers was a monk there. And there they had heard that Olav of Hestviken had thoughts of faring to foreign lands this summer, though doubtless he had not yet made any bargain about a ship.

Olav kept silence. But how the friar had got hold of this he could not guess—he did not recall having spoken of it to a soul. Go away—ay, God knew he had wished he could—but still he had not thought of
doing
it. He owned neither ship nor freight, and to seek out an opportunity of sailing with other folk had seemed somehow too troublesome a matter. Moreover there was enough to be done at home now, seeing how everything had been neglected during the long years of his wife’s sickness.

But when an opportunity was offered—! He felt his heart contract in his breast as a hand is clenched to strike the table, the moment he fully realized that he
could
get away from everything. Far away—for a long while—Yes, oh yes!

“I said no such thing to Brother Stefan—” Olav shook his head. “Maybe I let fall something—I do not remember—I may have said
I might have a mind to see the world again, now that I am a man without ties—”

Then he became aware of the boy standing there, all ears, and he bade Eirik go out. Eirik came forward quickly and flung his chaplet about the little crucifix that hung on the wall within the bed where his mother had lain. But having done so, he had to go out.

How Brother Stefan’s long nose had sniffed out these thoughts that he harboured—that was nevertheless more than Olav could make out.

In the course of the afternoon the men had reached so far in their colloquy that Olav took the two strangers and showed them what wares he had for sale. It was not much—less than a score of goats’ pelts, three otters’ skins and a few other skins of game, some barrels of oak bark. He would have to take with him all his store of fish and herrings—his house-folk could be content with fresh fish this summer. He had also some oak logs and barrel-staves he had intended for his own use—but if he himself were absent, they would only lie unused.

Late in the evening Liv came in and asked her master to go with her to the byre; there was a cow that was to calve, but the dairy-woman had fallen so grievously sick, said Liv—and besides, it was not her work to see to the cattle.

The night was moonless, cold, and still as Olav came out of the byre again. Now he had to go and wake old Tore, ask him as a favour to watch in the byre tonight, for it was of no use to let Liv be there alone. Lazy she was and thoughtless. One would scarce have believed it, but not even while they were struggling to tend the poor beast that lay there lowing plaintively—not even in the dark and narrow byre could the girl leave him in peace. She was after him like a kitten seeking to be caressed—time after time he had almost to fling her from him so that he might use his hands freely. She had taken the idea, Olav guessed, that now she would be his leman and mistress of the house. And however he let her see that it was bootless to aspire to
that
dignity, it made little impression on Liv.

He was secretly ashamed before his own house-folk—they must be laughing behind his back and watching whether the girl would
coax him the way she wanted in the end. He thought he saw it—Liv playing the lady here with the keys at her belt. Oh no.—He did not care to go in even with Tore, when he had roused the old man.

There was ice on the top of the water-butt as Olav plunged his arms into it and rinsed his hands. He listened and gazed out into the darkness as he bethought himself whether anything had been forgotten.

It was still now—the merry purling of little brooks on the slope was frozen into silence and there was only the faint splash and ripple of the sea beneath the cliff—and over in Kverndal the murmur of the stream. The stars seemed so few and so far away tonight—there was a slight mist in the air.

The calf was full-cheeked and long-eared—looked promising; that was so far well; he had lost three calves this spring. And not one cow-calf had he had yet.

In the northern sky above the dark back of the Bull pale flickers of northern lights came and went—like a dewy breath over the vault of heaven. They were not often seen here in the south. At home in the Upplands the lights flashed half across the sky; and when as children they used to tease them, by whistling and waving linen cloths at them, there was a crackling sound and long tongues shot down toward the earth and back to the sky. Once when they had stolen out behind the outhouses and stood there flapping one of Ingebjörg’s longest wimples, Arnvid had come upon them, and then he had beaten them. It was a great sin to do so, for it meant storm when the northern lights were disturbed.

Here in the south the lights were usually but pale and faint.—

Olav gave his shoulders a hitch in his reeking clothes—’twas still four days to washday and Sunday.

Instinctively he went quietly as he crossed the yard: the little ice pockets made such a crackling, and he was loath to break in on the low murmuring sounds that came up from below, as from the depths of the night.