In the Wilderness Read online

  Copyright © 1929 by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.

  Copyright renewed 1957 by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Originally published in hardcover in Norwegian in two volumes as Olav Audunsson I Hestviken and Olav Audunsson og Hans Born by H. Ascheboug & Company, Oslo. Copyright © 1925, 1927 by H. Ascheboug & Company, Oslo. This translation was published in hardcover as part of The Master of Hestviken by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., New York, in 1929.

  Translated from the Norwegian by Arthur G. Chater.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Undset, Sigrid, 1882–1949.

  [Olav Audunsson og hans born. I. English]

  In the wilderness / Sigrid Undset.

  p. cm— (Master of Hestviken; v. 3)

  Originally published in Norwegian as pt. 1 of Olav Audunsson og hans born (2 v.).

  eISBN: 978-0-307-77310-4

  1. Middle Ages—History—Fiction. 2. Norway—History—1030-1397—Fiction.

  I. Title. II. Series: Undset, Sigrid, 1882-1949. Master of Hestviken; v. 3.

  PT8950.U506213 1995 839

  8’2372—dc20

  94-42543

  CIP

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  PART ONE: The Parting of the Wags

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  PART TWO: The Wilderness

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  About the Author

  Other Books by This Author

  Books by Sigrid Undset

  PART ONE

  The Parting of the Wags

  1

  ON 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 ful
ly 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.

  Within the room a little lamp was burning at the edge of the hearth.

  Olav had given the two strangers beds in the closet, and seated on the edge of Ingunn’s bed he undressed—slowly, with a pause after each garment. He rose to pinch out the wick.

  A whisper came from the northern bed: “Father!”

  After a moment Olav answered in a hushed voice: “Are you awake, Eirik?”

  “Yes. When shall we sail, Father?”

  Olav was silent. But Eirik was so used to his father’s seeming not to hear, or answering like the echo when one shouted toward the Bull—after a pause and as though across a distance.

  “Father—take me with you! I shall stand you in good stead”— Eirik spoke in a loud and eager whisper—“I shall serve you as well as a full-grown man. I can do the work of an able-bodied man, ay, and more!”

  “You can indeed.” Eirik could hear that his father was smiling, but then there was neither anger nor refusal in his voice.

  “May I go with you, Father—to England this summer?”

  “None has yet said that I go myself,” said Olav soberly.

  He blew out the little flame, pinched off the burned wick, and dropped it into the oil. Then he got into bed. Something fell down and touched his neck in the darkness. It was soft and cool, reminding him of young, living skin, among the coarse, rough wool and sheepskins of his bedclothes. It was Eirik’s chaplet. Olav groped for it and hung it in its place again. It had reminded him of her body—her shoulder so slight and soft and cold, when the coverlet had slipped off while she slept and he drew it up and spread it over her again.

  Of course he would go—he was firmly resolved on that in his inmost heart, and he would suffer nothing to come in the way and hinder him. Only for appearance’ sake he still let it seem uncertain whether he would accept; it would not do to acknowledge that he had let himself be persuaded so easily by two perfect strangers—nay, that he had seized their offer with both hands.

  But he would not stay here at Hestviken the whole summer, now that he espied a means of escape. No matter that this little old hoy that the Richardsons’ grandfather owned was a wretched craft—and that he himself was no more of a seaman than that they might easily have found many a better one. Once before he had been in England, some fifteen years ago with the Earl—so it was but little he knew of that country; a great lord’s subalterns cannot stir far abroad. But as the Richardsons had not questioned him of it— He knew nothing of these two, but he could see that they were untried men and not over-wise. And by degrees he had been forced to admit that he himself would never be a good tradesman. It made him angry when he saw he had been cheated. But he had accustomed himself to say nothing and put a good face on it; ’twas bootless for him to wrangle with folk who were sharper than himself in such matters. He had not even thought of dissolving his partnership with Claus Wiephart—he might fall into the hands of others who would shear him yet closer.

  These Richardsons looked as if they themselves might stand to be shorn. In that case there would be even less profit in throwing in his lot with them. Howbeit—

  He missed her who was gone so sorely that he could not guess what it would be like to live here without her in all the years that were to come. He went about as one benumbed with wondering.

  He could remember the thoughts he had sometimes had in her last years: that it would be a sin to wish her to lie on here and suffer torment to no purpose. But now that she was gone—ay, now he remembered that shred of saga that Brother Vegard had once repeated to them while they were children, of King Harald Luva, who sat brooding three years over the corpse of his Lapp wife. He was bewitched, the monk had said. Maybe—ah yes, but maybe ’twas not all madness either.

  As far back as he could remember, he had been used to think of her as much as of himself, whatever he were doing or thinking. When two trees have sprun
g up together from their roots, their leaves will make one crown. And if one falls, the other, left standing alone, will seem overgrown. Olav felt thus, exposed and grown aslant, now that she was gone.

  He knew full well they had been joyless years, most of them, but his memories of the happiness they had shared were far clearer and more enduring. It was as with the lime trees here on the hills about the inlet: they made no great show to the eye, but in summer when they blossomed, the whole of Hestviken seemed laden with the scent of them, so that one almost felt its sweetness clinging to the skin like honey-dew. In all the years he had been away from here, as boy and as man, fostered among strangers or an outlaw in other realms, this scent of lime blossoms had been the only thing to remind him that he owned lands that were his—all else about them he had forgotten.

  And even in the saddest days of their life together she had been his—the same as that little Ingunn who had been so sweet and fair when she was young, so slight and supple to take in his arms, with the scent of hay breathing from her golden-brown hair when he spread it over him in the darkness. He had often loved her with the same gentle goodness as one loves a favourite faithful, innocent animal—a handsome heifer or a dog. And at other times he had loved her so that his body trembled and quailed in anguish when he recalled it now and remembered that it was done, had been done for many a day before she died. And nevertheless she was the only woman of whom he cared to recall the possession. He could not think of the others without feeling a chilly aversion to the memories creep over him.

  Now he had lost Ingunn, and when he thought of the last night before she died, he knew it was his own fault that he had lost her entirely. He was well aware of what had befallen him. When he was plunged in the most helpless distress and sorrow, about to lose his only trusty companion in life, God, his Saviour Himself, had met him with outstretched hands to help. And had he but had the courage to grasp those open, pierced hands, he and his wife would not now have been parted. Had he but had the courage to stand by the resolve he had taken at that meeting with his God—whatever might have been his lot in this world, whether pilgrimage or the headsman’s sword—in a mysterious way he would have been united with the dead woman, more intimately and closely than friend can be united with friend while both are alive on earth.