Swords & Steam Short Stories

by S. T. Joshi

  The house of Eystein Hansen was built of pine logs, neatly white-washed. The roof was covered with grass, and bore a crop of large bushes. A vine, tangled among these, fell in heavy festoons that waved at every touch of the wind. The door was painted with flowers in gay colours, and surmounted with fantastic carving. The interior of the dwelling was ornamented with many little grotesque images, boxes, bowls, ladles, etc., curiously carved in the close-grained and beautifully white wood of the Norwegian fir. This was a common amusement with the peasantry, and Eystein being a great favourite among them, received many such presents during his frequent visits in the surrounding parishes.

  But nothing so much attracted Hilda’s attention as a kind of long trumpet, made of two hollow half cylinders of wood, bound tightly together with birch bark. The only instrument of the kind she had ever seen was in the possession of Virika Gjetter, who called it a luhr, and said it was used to call the cows home in her native village, in Upper Tellemarken. She showed how it was used, and Hilda, having a quick ear, soon learned to play upon it with considerable facility.

  And here in her new home, this rude instrument reappeared; forming the only visible link between her present life and that dreamy past! With strange feelings, she took up the pipe, and began to play one of the old tunes. At first, the tones flitted like phantoms in and out of her brain; but at last, they all came back, and took their places rank and file. Old Brenda said it was a pleasant tune, and asked her to play it again; but to Hilda it seemed awfully solemn, like a voice warbling from the grave. She would learn other tunes to please the good mother, she said; but this she would play no more; it made her too sad, for she had heard it in her youth.

  “Thy youth!” said Brenda, smiling.” One sees well that must have been a long time ago. To hear thee talk, one might suppose thou wert an old autumn leaf, just ready to drop from the bough, like myself.”

  Hilda blushed, and said she felt old, because she had had much trouble.

  “Poor child,” responded the good Brenda: “I hope thou hast had thy share.”

  “I feel as if nothing could trouble me here,” replied Hilda, with a grateful smile; “all seems so kind and peaceful.” She breathed a few notes through the luhr, as she laid it away on the shelf where she had found it. “But, my good mother,” said she, “how clear and soft are these tones! The pipe I used to hear was far more harsh.”

  “The wood is very old,” rejoined Brenda: “They say it is more than a hundred years. Alerik Thorild gave it to me, to call my good man when he is out in the boat. Ah, he was such a Berserker (footnote 1) of a boy! And in truth he was not much more sober when he was here three years ago. But no matter what he did; none could never help loving him.”

  “And who is Alerik?” asked the maiden.

  Brenda pointed to an old house, seen in the distance, on the declivity of one of the opposite hills. It overlooked the broad bright bay, with its picturesque little islands, and was sheltered in the rear by a noble pine forest. A waterfall came down from the hillside, glancing in and out among the trees; and when the sun kissed it as he went away, it lighted up with a smile of rainbows.

  “That house,” said Brenda, “was built by Alerik’s grandfather. He was the richest man in the village. But his only son was away among the wars for a long time, and the old place has been going to decay. But they say Alerik is coming back to live among us; and he will soon give it a different look. He has been away to Germany and Paris, and other outlandish parts, for a long time. Ah! The rogue! There was no mischief he didn’t think of. He was always tying cats together under the windows, and barking in the middle of the night, till he set all the dogs in the neighbourhood a howling. But as long as it was Alerik that did it, it was all well enough: for everybody loved him, and he always made one believe just what he liked. If he wanted to make thee think thy hair was as black as Noeck’s (footnote 2) mane, he would make thee think so.”

  Hilda smiled as she glanced at her flaxen hair, with here and there a gleam of paly gold, where the sun touched it. “I think it would be hard to prove this was black,” said she.

  “Nevertheless,” rejoined Brenda, “If Alerik undertook it, he would do it. He always has his say, and does what he will. One may as well give in to him first as last.”

  This account of the unknown youth carried with it that species of fascination, which the idea of uncommon power always has over the human heart. The secluded maiden seldom touched the luhr without thinking of the giver; and not unfrequently she found herself conjecturing when this wonderful Alerik would come home.

  Meanwhile, constant but not excessive labour, the mountain air, the quiet life, and the kindly hearts around her, restored to Hilda more than her original loveliness. In her large blue eyes, the inward-looking sadness of experience now mingled in strange beauty with the out-looking clearness of youth. Her fair complexion was tinged with the glow of health, and her motions had the airy buoyancy of the mountain breeze. When she went to the mainland, to attend church, or rustic festival, the hearts of young and old greeted her like a May blossom. Thus with calm cheerfulness her hours went by, making no noise in their flight, and leaving no impress. But here was an unsatisfied want! She sighed for hours that did leave a mark behind them. She thought of the Danish youth, who had first spoken to her of love; and plaintively came the tones from her luhr, as she gazed on the opposite hills, and wondered whether the Alerik they talked of so much, was indeed so very superior to other young men.

  Father Hansen often came home at twilight with a boat full of juniper boughs, to be strewed over the floors, that they might diffuse a balmy odour, inviting to sleep. One evening, when Hilda saw him coming with his verdant load, she hastened down to the water’s edge to take an armful of the fragrant boughs. She had scarcely appeared in sight, before he called out, “I do believe Alerik has come! I heard the organ up in the old house. Somebody was playing on it like a Northeast storm; and surely, said I, that must be Alerik.”

  “Is there an organ there?” asked the damsel, in surprise.

  “Yes, he built it himself, when he was here three years ago. He can make anything he chooses.

  An organ, or a basket cut from a cherry stone, is all one to him.”

  When Hilda returned to the cottage, she of course repeated the news to Brenda, who exclaimed joyfully, “Ah, then we shall see him soon! If he does not come before, we shall certainly see him at the weddings in the church tomorrow.”

  “An plenty of tricks we shall have now,” said Father Hansen, shaking his head with a good-natured smile.” There will be no telling which end of the world is uppermost, while he is here.”

  “Oh yes, there will, my friend,” answered Brenda, laughing; “for it will certainly be whichever end Alerik stands on. The handsome little Berserker! How I should like to see him!”

  The next day there was a sound of lively music on the waters; for two young couples from neighbouring islands were coming up the fiord, to be married at the church in the opposite village. Their boats were ornamented with gay little banners, friends and neighbours accompanied them, playing on musical instruments, and the rowers had their hats decorated with garlands. As the rustic band floated thus gayly over the bright waters, they were joined by Father Hansen, with Brenda and Hilda in his boat. Friendly villagers had already decked the simple little church with ever-greens and flowers, in honour of the bridal train. As they entered, Father Hansen observed that two young men stood at the door with clarinets in their hands. But he thought no more of it, till, according to immemorial custom, he, as clergy man’s assistant, began to sing the first lines of the hymn that was given out. The very first note he sounded, up struck the clarinets at the door. The louder they played, the louder the old man bawled; but the instruments gained the victory. When he essayed to give out the lines of the next verse, the merciless clarinets brayed louder than before. His stentorian voice had become vociferous and rough, from thirty years o
f halloing across the water, and singing of psalms in four village churches. He exerted it to the utmost, till the perspiration poured down his rubicund visage; but it was of no use. His rivals had strong lungs, and they played on clarinets in F. If the whole village had screamed fire, to the shrill accompaniment of rail-road whistles, they would have over-topped them all.

  Father Hansen was vexed at heart, and it was plain enough that he was so. The congregation held down their heads with suppressed laughter all except one tall vigorous young man, who sat up very serious and dignified, as if he were reverently listening to some new manifestation of musical genius. When the people left church, Hilda saw this young stranger approaching toward them, as fast as numerous hand-shakings by the way would permit. She had time to observe him closely. His noble figure, his vigorous agile motions, his expressive countenance, hazel eyes with strongly marked brows, and abundant brown hair, tossed aside with a careless grace, left no doubt in her mind that this was the famous Alerik Thorild; but what made her heart beat more wildly was his strong resemblance to Magnus the Dane. He went up to Brenda and kissed her, and threw his arms about Father Hansen’s neck, with expressions of joyful recognition. The kind old man, vexed as he was, received these affectionate demonstrations with great friendliness. “Ah, Alerik,” said he, after the first salutations were over, “that was not kind of thee.”

  “Me! What!” exclaimed the young man, with well-feigned astonishment.

  “To put up those confounded clarinets to drown my voice,” rejoined he bluntly. “When a man has led the singing thirty years in four parishes, I can assure thee it is not a pleasant joke to be treated in that style. I know the young men are tired of my voice, and think they could do things in better fashion, as young fools always do; but I may thank thee for putting it into their heads to bring those cursed clarinets.”

  “Oh, dear Father Hansen,” replied the young man, in the most coaxing tones, and with the most caressing manner, “you couldn’t think I would do such a thing!”

  “On the contrary, it is just the thing I think thou couldst do,” answered the old man: “Thou need not think to cheat me out of my eye-teeth, this time. Thou has often enough made me believe the moon was made of green cheese. But I know thy tricks. I shall be on my guard now; and mind thee, I am not going to be bamboozled by thee again.”

  Alerik smiled mischievously; for he, in common with all the villagers, knew it was the easiest thing in the world to gull the simple-hearted old man. “Well, come, Father Hansen,” said he, “shake hands and be friends. When you come over to the village, tomorrow, we will drink a mug of ale together, at the Wolf’s Head.”

  “Oh yes, and be played some trick for his pains,” said Brenda.

  “No, no,” answered Alerik, with great gravity; “he is on his guard now, and I cannot bamboozle him again.” With a friendly nod and smile, he bounded off, to greet some one whom he recognised. Hilda had stepped back to hide herself from observation. She was a little afraid of the handsome Berserker; and his resemblance to the Magnus of her youthful recollections made her sad.

  The next afternoon, Alerik met his old friend, and reminded him of the agreement to drink ale at the Wolf’s Head. On the way, he invited several young companions. The ale was excellent, and Alerik told stories and sag songs, which filled the little tavern with roars of laughter. In one of the intervals of merriment, he turned suddenly to the honest old man, and said, “Father Hansen, among the many things I have learned and done in foreign countries, did I ever tell you I had made a league with the devil, and am shot-proof?”

  “One might easily believe thou hadst made a league with the devil, before thou wert born,” replied Eystein, with a grin at his own wit; “but as for being shot-proof, that is another affair.”

  “Try and see,” rejoined Alerik. “These friends are witnesses that I tell you it is perfectly safe to try. Come, I will stand here; fire your pistols, and you will soon see that the Evil One will keep the bargain he made with me.”

  “Be done with thy nonsense, Alerik,” rejoined his old friend.

  “Ah, I see how it is,” replied Alerik, turning towards the young men. “Father Hansen used to be a famous shot. Nobody was more expert in the bear or the wolf-hunt than he; but old eyes grow dim, and old hands will tremble. No wonder he does not like to have us see how much he fails.”

  This was attacking honest Eystein Hansen on his weak side. He was proud of his strength and skill in shooting, and he did not like to admit that he was growing old. “I not hit a mark!” exclaimed he, with indignation: “When did I ever miss a thing I aimed at?”

  “Never, when you were young,” answered one of the company; “but it is no wonder you are afraid to try now.”

  “Afraid!” exclaimed the old hunter, impatiently. “Who the devil said I was afraid?”

  Alerik shrugged his shoulders, and replied carelessly, “It is natural enough that these young men should think so, when they see you refuse to aim at me, though I assure you that I am shot proof, and that I will stand perfectly still.”

  “But art thou really shot-proof?” inquired the guileless old man. “The devil has helped thee to do so many strange things, that one never know what he will help thee to do next.”

  “Really, Father Hansen, I speak in earnest. Take up your pistol and try, and you will soon see with your own eyes that I am shot-proof.” Eystein looked round upon the company like one perplexed. His wits, never very bright, were somewhat muddled by the ale. “What shall I do with this wild fellow?” inquired he. “You see he will be shot.”

  “Try him try him,” was the general response. “He has assured you he is shot-proof; what more do you need?”

  The old man hesitated awhile, but after some further parley, took up his pistol and examined it. “Before we proceed to business,” said Alerik, “Let me tell you that if you do not shoot me, you shall have a gallon of the best ale you ever drank in your life. Come and taste it, Father Hansen, and satisfy yourself that it is good.”

  While they were discussing the merits of the ale, one of the young men took the ball from the pistol. “I am ready now,” said Alerik: “Here I stand. Now don’t lose your name for a good marksman.”

  The old man fired, and Alerik fell back with a deadly groan. Poor Eystein stood like a stone image of terror. His arms adhered rigidly to his sides, his jaw dropped, and his great eyes seemed starting from their sockets. “Oh, Father Hansen, how could you do it!” exclaimed the young men.

  The poor horrified dupe stared at them wildly, and gasping and stammering replied, “Why he said he was shot-proof; and you all told me to do it.”

  “Oh yes,” said they; “but we supposed you would have sense enough to know it was all in fun. But don’t take it too much to heart. You will probably forfeit your life; for the government will of course consider it a poor excuse, when you tell them that you fired at a man merely to oblige him, and because he said he was shot-proof. But don’t be too much cast down, Father Hansen. We must all meet death in some way; and if worst comes to worst, it will be a great comfort to you and your good Brenda that you did not intend to commit murder.”

  The poor old man gazed at them with an expression of such extreme suffering, that they became alarmed, and said, “Cheer up, cheer up. Come, you must drink something to make you feel better.” They took him by the shoulders, but as they led him out, he continued to look back wistfully on the body.

  The instant he left the apartment, Alerik sprang up and darted out of the opposite door; and when Father Hansen entered the other room, there he sat, as composedly as possible, reading a paper, and smoking his pipe.

  “There he is!” shrieked the old man, turning paler than ever.

  “Who is there?” inquired the young men.

  “Don’t you see Alerik Thorild?” exclaimed he, point, with an expression of intense horror.

  They turned to the landlord, and remarked
, in a compassionate tone, “Poor Father Hansen has shot Alerik Thorild, whom he loved so well; and the dreadful accident has so affected his brain, that he imagines he sees him.

  The old man pressed his broad hand hard against his forehead, and again groaned out, “Oh, don’t you see him?”

  The tones indicated such agony, that Alerik had not the heart to prolong the scene. He sprang on his feet, and exclaimed, “Now for your gallon of ale, Father Hansen! You see the devil did keep his bargain with me.”

  “And are you alive?” shouted the old man.

  The mischievous fellow soon convinced him of that, by a slap on the shoulder, that made his bones ache.

  Eystein Hansen capered like a dancing bear. He hugged Alerik, and jumped about, and clapped his hands, and was altogether beside himself. He drank unknown quantities of ale, and this time sang loud enough to drown a brace of clarinets in F.

  The night was far advanced when he went on board his boat to return to his island home. He pulled the oars vigorously, and the boat shot swiftly across the moon-lighted waters. But on arriving at the customary landing, he could discover no vestige of his white-washed cottage. Not knowing that Alerik, in the full tide of his mischief, had sent men to paint the house with a dark brown wash, he thought he must have made a mistake in the landing; so he rowed round to the other side of the island, but with no better success. Ashamed to return to the mainland, to inquire for a house that had absconded, and a little suspicious that the ale had hung some cobwebs in his brain, he continued to row hither and thither, till his strong muscular arms fairly ached with exertion. But the moon was going down, and all the landscape settling into darkness; and he at last reluctantly concluded that it was best to go back to the village inn.