Authors: Sigrid Undset
In the afternoon of the next day Olav took the lightest skiff and rowed across the fiord.
It was a longer walk over the hills than he remembered. Now and then he halted, uncertain whether he was on the right path, but he would not ask his way.
The day was calm, with a heavy, leaden sky, but now the eye of the sun pierced the clouds, lighting up the dark-green firs and giving a strange richness to the colours of the birch groves against the thick grey air. The yellow leaves of the aspens rustled gently; their foliage was already much thinned up here on the high ground, and the path was brightened by fallen leaves. A raw breath rose from the ground under the trees, as always in autumn, even when it was dry.
At last Olav recognized where he was. Beyond a great bog, with tufts of red heather and white bog-cotton around its pools, lay the farm to which Auken had belonged. Through an opening in the forest he came to a gate and saw the yellow timbers of the
newly built houses standing on a rocky piece of ground, with small fields below, in which the corn stood in stooks.
The path ran by the edge of the cornfield, past some great heaps of stones. It turned a corner, and straight before him Olav saw a child, a boy of two with pale-yellow hair that curled over the neck. He was crawling among the stones and plucking wild raspberries; on hearing someone approach he turned round. The boy had been thrust into a pair of leather hose that were far too big for him, so that the thongs were crossed over and under his shoulders, and his homespun shirt hung out before and behind, looking ridiculous; But in spite of that he was a singularly handsome child.
Olav stood still, and the boy looked up at him, till his little berry-stained face puckered with coming tears. Olav looked about him, and now he caught sight of Torhild—she raised her head among the yellow corn in the field. She looked this way, then put down her sickle, took
off
the coif that had slipped down about her neck, and bound it tightly over her hair. She was dressed as Olav had always been used to seeing her when she was at work, in a grey homespun shift reaching to the ankles and held in at the waist with a woven belt. Her bare feet were thrust into rough shoes. She looked neither younger nor older than she had seemed in all the years Olav had known her, but as she came toward him with sickle in hand he thought her handsome, so strong and stalwart and upright was her gait.
They greeted one another in silence.
Torhild said: “This was unlooked-for—are you abroad in these parts today?”
“Ay, I had business on this side.”
Torhild laid the sickle on a stone, bent over the boy, and lifted him up in her arms.
“He looks so queer,” she said, as though excusing herself; “but we are so thick with snakes up here—I dare not let him go barefoot.”
Together they walked up toward the houses.
On entering the living-room Torhild bade him sit down. “Maybe you are thirsty?” She fetched a bowl of ale, with a head of froth on it, and drank to him. “I am brewing now for Michaelmas.”
As he sat there, Olav recognized the faint and delicate scent of
withered garlands that Torhild had always been used to hang up indoors in summer to keep away vermin. Meanwhile Torhild had passed behind the foot of the bed: she slipped a green kirtle over her working-dress and put on the belt with copper mounts which she wore on the minor holidays. Then she sat down to dress the boy, asking the while after the folk at Hestviken, how Eirik and Cecilia were thriving, and what was the state of the crops.
Olav replied that he had been out of the country this summer.
“Ay, so I have heard. You have been on a long voyage too. And it was to be expected—that you should wish to see something of the world, now you are a free man.”
Torhild set food before her guest, and while he ate she stood aside with the boy on her arm.
Once Olav could not help saying, as he looked around: “He is big for his age, the boy—two winters old?”
“Folk say he is big.” The mother bent her head and stroked her cheek against the child’s. But now the boy began to kick and struggle, he wanted to get down, and she put him on the floor. He went up to the strange man and stood for a moment looking at him. But then he remembered something more important, stumped away to a corner, and sat down to play with a toy.
Olav bade Torhild be seated: “ ’Tis with you I have come to speak.” She took the dish of food and set it aside. Then she sat down on the edge of the hearth facing him, looking down with her hands in her lap as she listened to Olav’s proposal.
“As to this I must consult with my brothers,” she answered when Olav had finished. “ ’Tis so that you may rightly look to me to meet your wishes in this matter; you may look for that with all of us. But I wonder, Olav, if it be wise of you to lodge such folk as Anki and Liv in a cabin so near to your house.”
“I have thought of that myself. You mean, they are somewhat uncertain. But from year’s end to year’s end ’twill not be more but that I can bear the loss without being brought to beggary. And I can see no other way to deal with them.”
Torhild then promised that she would advise her brothers to consent.
Afterwards they went out to look over the place. Torhild took her milking-pail—she had two cows and a fine heifer grazing just outside the fence in the wood. While she was milking, Olav stood leaning on the fence and looking at her; they exchanged a few
words about the cattle and the weather and such things. The boy Björn came up and tried to climb on the fence so that he could see his mother; Olav took hold of him and helped him up; he kept hold of him while he and Torhild talked as before.
From out of the wood came three half-grown children with a sledge-load of dry leaves; the two boys pulled and the girl pushed behind. They were Kaare and Rannveig, Torhild’s youngest half-brother and sister. Olav gave the children good-evening; they had been reared at Hestviken.
The third was a tall, thin, fair-skinned boy with lank hair and a long, low chin; he had a foolish look, but Torhild said he was very useful to her. “He is my foreman, is Ketil.” He had been found by the cross on the highway north of here fourteen years before, as a new-born child, and the old people, who took him in for the love of God, were now dead; thus he came to be at Auken.
They walked back toward the houses, and Olav declared that such fine corn as this of Auken he had not seen anywhere that year.
“Then I must send you a box of seed-corn, Olav,” said Torhild with a little smile. “If you will accept such a gift from me.”
“Thanks, but that is too much.”
The children sat at their meal when they entered the house. Torhild told them they must sleep in the byre tonight: “—for we have a guest from far away.”
They went out at once, and Torhild took out of her chest a pillow and two coverlets woven with stars, with which to deck the bed.
“You must not trouble yourself for my sake,” said Olav in a low tone. “I must needs return to Hestviken tonight.”
Torhild stood with her back to him. She was silent for a moment; then she said:
“The path down to the shore is none too easy. And it will soon be dark.”
“Ay. Maybe it were better not to stay much longer—”
“No. If it is so, that you must cross the fiord tonight—then surely you must go now.”
Olav stood up, took his cloak and his spear. He came forward and gave Torhild his hand, bidding her farewell.
“There is a shorter road here—I can go with you.”
Torhild lifted the child from the floor, where he was rattling
some stones in a wooden cup, and laid him in the bed. Then she went out with Olav.
The curious dark-blue colour of the day had faded to grey twilight and a few drops of rain were falling; but when Olav bade her go in again, Torhild answered that the wet would come to nothing. She walked before him southward across the fields to the beck that divided Auken from the main farm. On coming to the manor lands she waited for him and they walked side by side along the edge of a field that had been cut and lay pale with stubble under the grey sky.
“Whom have you taken, then, instead of Liv,” asked Torhild, “to keep house for you at Hestviken this winter?”
“Nay, I have had no time to look about for anyone yet,” said Olav. “But I dare say I shall find somebody.”
Torhild was silent for a few paces. Then she said—and seemed a little short of breath: “Olav—what woman—of those you know—think you best fitted for this post?”
He said nothing.
Then she repeated more plainly: “Who, think you, would be most zealous for your welfare and serve you to the best of her powers, more faithfully than all other women?”
Olav replied hoarsely: “I know that, as you know.”
They walked on in silence; then he said: “But you see it well enough too. It would scarce be long before—I will not ask you to return to such a—dishonourable lot.”
Torhild said in a low voice: “I would gladly accept such a lot—with you, Olav.”
Again they walked a little way in silence.
Then Olav said with warmth: “No. I will not have you suffer more ills for my sake than I have already put upon you. And you are best off here at Auken, you and the boy. I have seen enough today to know that you will hold your own here, Torhild.”
“No doubt of that.” He could hear she was smiling. “I am not ungrateful, Olav. But I know not—had it not been for her lying there sick and palsied, whom we had wronged—I know not whether I should have reckoned myself badly off that last winter I was at Hestviken.”
Olav shook his head. A moment later they came to a gate at the brow of the wood.
“Now you cannot go wrong,” said Torhild. “By this path it is
much easier to find your way to the hard than by the path you came.”
She held out her hand and bade him farewell.
Olav looked at the woman—in the last rays of daylight he dimly saw the fair oval of her face and the upright carriage of her high-bosomed figure; for aught one saw, she might have been quite young. Far below under the woods the fiord lay dark and lifeless under the heavy, autumnal sky; the farther shore was merged in the blackness of the raincloud.
With a thrill of desire he thought of taking her. Within the forest the fallen leaves showed up against the dark, rounded cushions of the heather; up at the house the hearth would be glowing cosily—the boy lying asleep. The thought of his homeward journey filled him with repugnance.
He knew that she was waiting as she stood there.
Then he quietly bade her farewell, turned, and went rapidly down the hill.
From time to time he stopped and was lost in thought on his way through the woods. It was quite dark when he came to the shore. He found the place where his boat was drawn up on the beach, was about to push it into the water, but paused, leaning against the boat, gazing into the night and listening.
Olav could not tell what had prompted him to leave Torhild—but he had had no choice. It was raining, he noticed all at once; he had not known when it began, but now there was a hiss of raindrops in the water of the fiord, a dripping and rustling in the foliage behind him.
As he stood there in the darkness, letting himself be soaked by the autumn rain, he felt to the roots of his being that he was bound to live alone, just as firmly as if he had bound himself by a monastic vow—only that it seemed as though his own will had had nothing to do with it. It w
as
to be so, whether he would or would not. His life had now become like a journey in a trackless wilderness; he saw neither path nor trail, and he had to find his way alone.
He got the boat out; the scraping of the keel over the sand and the little hollow sounds as he put out the oars roused him. The rain still poured down. Now and again he looked over his shoulder at the other black coast, to see that he was not drifting too far down.
Torhild—he felt his heart contract at the thought of her. But it was a shame—the station to which her father had brought his daughter. Had not Björn Egilsson played away all his possessions, then married that Gudrid, begotten all those children to grow up as servants and vagabonds— As he rowed Olav worked himself up into indignation against Björn, who had left his daughter in such a case. From her birth and ancestry Torhild had had a right to look for a good and honourable marriage.
Olav was half-aware of a reversal of his own standpoint. When faced by a misfortune, he had never before tried to shuffle out of his share of the blame; he had never before been afraid to bear his own part and more, if a weaker sought to lay his burden on his shoulders. Now he was himself seeking someone to whom he could transfer the blame for wrongs of his own doing.
E
ARLY
in the spring, the year after Olav Audunsson’s foreign voyage, a Thing was held at Haugsvik one morning, and Eirik was allowed to attend it with his father. But as they were going home, it fell out that the Rynjul folk went in Olav’s boat, and Eirik was to follow in another craft.
Not till late in the afternoon did he come—in a little sailboat that was laden to the water’s edge with half-grown lads. Ragna came in to her master and said that as many of the boys came from far up the parish, they might well want food and drink before setting out inland. Yes, said Olav.
The lads made their way indoors and Olav replied to their greetings with a nod. Then he went out, for he felt disturbed by all these strange children who hung about the benches looking ill at ease.
He was standing by the stable door when the band of youth came out again. But they did not seem to think there was any hurry about leaving; they stayed about the yard, nosing here and there among the houses, two or three together, prying and looking about them; others kept together in a bunch, chattering and laughing and bickering in a mild way; but it was all play and good humour.
Olav stayed where he was, for he had no desire to mix with this throng. It was cold, now the sun was down, and the sharp young voices carried far in the still spring evening.