Part 4

The men, ambushed at the roadside, seeing no sign of the priest, knew of course that he had eluded them, and thought they would have to go home without carrying out their purpose. But it happened that one of the men was a brother to the servant who had taken his own life on account of the priest and he was not going to let him escape so easily. He seized a long stackpole which had been left standing in the field since haying time, and set off toward the marshes; the others did likewise--running and leaping across the bogs. Just below Mårbacka-säter they touched firm ground; then, hurrying southward to intercept the priest, they came upon him in the road near the Resting-stone.

It may have been their intention merely to give him a sound thrashing; but, unluckily, there was the man who had a brother to avenge. He had a sword concealed under his cloak, and when the others had pulled the priest off the horse and thrown him to the ground, the man drew his sword and cut off the priest’s head.

The moment the deed was done they were filled with terror of discovery, and thought only of escape. They let the horse run loose and left the corpse lying at the roadside, to make it appear that the murder had been committed by wild robbers. Running for home by the way they had come, over the bogs, they hoped no one had seen them. They had not been on any passable road, and their venturing across the marshes would not have aroused suspicion.

Things went better than they expected. Inasmuch as the priest had been at odds with his parishioners, there was no eager search for him. When at last his body was found the crime was attributed to robbers and outlaws. Even in death he was regarded as unclean. No one would touch the body. Since the people deemed him unfit to rest in consecrated ground, they let him lie where he was, merely covering him with sod, over which they built a cairn of large stones to prevent wild beasts digging him out.

But the priest could not find rest in the grave thus prepared for him. On moonlight nights he would appear in the road near the Resting-stone in his long cassock, holding his head between his hands. Horses saw him plainer than humans did, and would shy and rear so that riders were frequently obliged to make a long detour through the wild forest.

So long as there were only cowherds and shepherds at Mårbacka, these ghostly appearances meant very little. It was quite another matter when Mårbacka became a regular farmstead. How to lay the ghost none knew, and year after year folk had to take care not to be out on the road near the Resting-stone along about midnight.

The old mistress, however, had assured the housekeeper that nowadays none need fear the headless priest. A housewife at Mårbacka--a strong-minded, determined woman, who knew a little more than the common run of folk--had laid the ghost.

That farm mistress happened to be out riding late one evening along Vilarstensbacken when--just as she expected--the ghost appeared in the road near the cairn, and made as if to bar her way.

The woman was neither awed nor frightened and her horse was as calm and fearless as herself. She rode right up to the “spook,” and began to admonish it.

“Why can’t you stay where you belong!” she said. “You know well enough that no better grave awaits you. So don’t imagine you will be allowed to lie in churchyard mould--you who were so corrupt when you died.”

This was spoken with firm conviction, for she knew, of course, that he had been a hard man, and really considered him unworthy a decent burial.

“You have no cause to rise out of your grave and demand vengeance,” she went on, “for you only got what you deserved.”

When she said this, the ghost seemed to grow darker and more distinct; it looked as if ready to fall upon her. Quite undaunted, she addressed it again, determined to put an end to that nuisance.

“If you will lie still in your grave I promise you that my eldest son shall take up your calling, and become a priest. He is a good lad and I know that he will be one of those servants of our Lord who turn people’s hearts toward God, and not away from Him.”

She had barely uttered the first words, when the ghost began to fade in the moonlight till there was nothing left of it but a faint outline; and before she had finished speaking, even that had vanished.

The Ghost of Vilarstensbacken never appeared again.

That torment luckily ended, there was increasing peace and comfort at Mårbacka. The place became as fine a farm as any in the parish, and the owners thrived and prospered.

All this, the old mistress had said, was undoubtedly true, for some years later, in the beginning of the eighteenth century, a youth from Mårbacka was sent to a theological seminary, where he studied for the ministry and was finally ordained.

He called himself Morell, after his ancestral home, and in due time was made curate at Ämtervik. He settled on his family estate (Mårbacka), and was the first clergyman to reside within the parish--his predecessors having all lived at Sunne and come down to Ämtervik only on specified Sundays.

The peasants of Ämtervik were very glad to have their own pastor, especially one who had a home of his own so that they did not have to provide him with a living. To be sure, Mårbacka was a good distance away from the church, but that disadvantage was more than made up for by the priest’s being a man of independent means.

The parson’s pay was small, and of that little the lion’s share went to the Dean of Sunne, so that the priest would have been as poor as the proverbial church mouse but for Mårbacka.

In order that this arrangement, which was for the good of both pastor and parishioners, might be perpetuated, the first clergyman at Mårbacka gave one of his daughters in marriage to a priest by the name of Lyselius, whom he made his heir to the estate and the office.

Lyselius, in his turn, did likewise: he married one of his daughters to Pastor Eric Wennervik, who later came into the property and the office.

The old mistress had said that everyone seemed to think this an excellent custom which should be kept up; even the clergymen’s daughters, she thought, had been content to have it so.

III

PASTOR WENNERVIK

THE old mistress had also said it was the three clergymen, Morell, Lyselius, and Wennervik, who built up Mårbacka.

Before their time the place was just a peasant farm, which, though large and flourishing, looked like any other farmstead. If there were a barn for ten cows and a stable for two horses, it was about all that could be expected. The main house had perhaps but one large room, where the entire household lived day and night, and a little pitch-dark kitchen called the _kåve._ There were many other buildings, of course--a larder, a bath house, a rye-loft and other sheds, a kiln, and a smithy; but they must have been rather small, as the farm at that time was not nearly so extensive as it is now. Only the nearest fields were then under cultivation.

The old mistress used to wonder how the three clergymen had managed to build a stable for ten horses and a cow-house for thirty cows, besides all the big granaries, storehouses, and sheds which they seemed to have required. The brew house with an adjoining room, which was used for a farm-office, were also from their time, likewise the milk-room, loom-room, and bailiff’s lodge.

Finally, along in the seventeen-nineties the old mistress’s father, Pastor Wennervik, built a new dwelling which was planned on a more modest scale than the other buildings. He was satisfied with a one-story house of four rooms and kitchen, and an attic with two gable chambers. But all the rooms, including the kitchen, were large and light, and so admirably adapted to living purposes that hominess, so to speak, met one with open arms at the threshold.

Pastor Wennervik had also laid out the kitchen garden with its aromatic herb-beds and fruit trees, and the little rose garden. He was the son of a master gardener, and was himself quite clever at gardening. Many little rose bushes and grafted apple trees still growing on the farms round Ämtervik he had helped set out.

In his youth he had been tutor at a great manor, where he conceived a fancy for fences and gates. Round the kitchen garden at Mårbacka he put a pretty white paling, with ornamental gates, and another round the rose garden. If one wished to drive in from the road, one had first to open a great gate, then pass range on range of out-buildings, with fences and gates at several points. It was the same with the front yard.

The children loved to hear about their great-grandfather, Pastor Wennervik. They had found in a corner cupboard of the farm-office some old books in Greek and Latin which bore his signature, also a number of poems by Bellman and Leopold copied in his hand. They knew that the harpsichord and guitar had come to Mårbacka in his time, and they created in fancy a beautiful image of him. It was not only from the old housekeeper they had heard anecdotes of him, but also from their father and their father’s sisters. He was a charming gentleman of fine taste, who always liked to wear good clothes and who loved flowers and apples. He must have been a bird-lover, too, for it was he who put up the octangular dove-cote that stood on the green outside the kitchen window. He had planned and worked to make Mårbacka a beautiful home. The clergymen who dwelt there before him must have lived mostly in the peasant manner, while he had softened the old severe simplicity by introducing some of the manners and customs of gentlefolk, thus rendering life there richer and easier.

There was an old oil painting at Mårbacka from the time of Pastor Wennervik. It was a portrait of his early love--a rich and high-born young lady of the Province of Västergötland. He had been tutor to her brother, and being no doubt the best looking and most charming young man she had met up to then, she fell in love with him, and he with her. The lovers had their trysting places in the bowers of the manor park, where they spoke of their love and pledged eternal fidelity. But one day they were discovered, and the young tutor was promptly dismissed.

All that was left to him of love’s young dream was this counterfeit presentment of his sweetheart. The young lady’s portrait had not been done by a skilled artist; the face on the canvas under the powdered hair was set and expressionless; it looked more like a pretty doll than the likeness of a human countenance. However, the features were of delicate mould, and to him who had seen her eyes sparkle and her lips curve in a smile, the portrait was beautiful enough. Pastor Wennervik perhaps felt some of the old glow of youth in his heart when his gaze rested on the picture.

Mayhap ’twas the portrait which inspired the obscure country parson to surround himself with flowers and birds, to enhance the beauty of life with music and poetry.

IV

THE GANDER

THERE was only one thing the children had against Pastor Wennervik--that in his late years he had married Jungfru Raklitz, the dreadful old housekeeper-person who had gone from manor to manor and been harassed and tormented by hard mistresses, until she, in her turn, became a plague and a torment.

If Pastor Wennervik must needs have married again he should at least have thought to protect his dear daughter against the stepmother. That she was allowed to treat the girl as she saw fit, to scold and chastise her and put upon her an unreasonable amount of work--that, the children could never forgive him.

How they loved the billy-goat that got drunk on dregs and butted into old Raklitz, upsetting both her and her brandy cruse. They also sided with the market folk at the Ombergshed Fair who stole her apples and shouted back to her that the Mårbacka parson was too good a man to take money from poor folk for his apples. And they gloried in the bold thief who broke into her larder after she’d had a new lock put on the door which was so big and strong it might have done for a prison gate. And they were ready to burst into tears at the thought of the poor goosey-gander!

One fine April day, in the time of Fru Raklitz, all the Mårbacka geese had been let out in the farmyard. Suddenly some wild geese came flying high above them, honking and shrieking as usual. The tame geese flapped their wings and squawked back--the way they do every spring.

As flock after flock of wild geese flew over, the tame geese grew more and more restless, and before any one knew what was up, a big gander darted into the air and joined the wild geese in their flight.

Everyone expected that he would soon turn back; but indeed he did nothing of the sort. When he was not there by the next morning, they thought they’d never lay eyes on him again. He must have fallen prey to the fox or the eagle, they said, if he had not actually become winded and dropped dead from exhaustion. It was inconceivable that a tame goose could fly with wild geese to the far north.

Nothing was seen or heard of the gander the whole summer. But when autumn came, and the wild geese flew southward, shrieking and calling as always, the tame geese again lifted their wings and answered them.

Fru Raklitz, seeing how excited the geese were, and being more wary this time than the last, told her stepdaughter, Lisa Maja, to run out and drive the geese into the barn.

Lisa Maja had no sooner stepped into the barnyard than she heard a loud rustling noise just over her head, and almost before she had time to blink, a flock of wild geese alighted on the ground right in front of her. A big fine white gander was the leader; behind him walked a gray mother goose, trailed by nine speckled goslings. The girl hardly dared move lest she frighten them away. Very cautiously she opened the barn door and concealed herself behind it.

The goosey-gander made straight for the barn, his family following him. When they were all inside, Lisa Maja stole softly after to see where they had gone. Well, the big goosey-gander had walked right into the goose pen, and was calling and coaxing till those with him went in, too. Then he led them up to the trough, which was full of oats and water, and fell to feeding.

“See, this is what I’m used to,” he seemed to be saying to his family. “This is how I have always lived ... No food worries, only to step up to a full trough.”

Lisa Maja quietly slipped out, shutting the door after her, and hurried back to Fru Raklitz.

“Mother dear, do come see!” she said. “The gander who flew away in the spring has come back with a wild goose and nine little goslings.”

All her life she regretted having shut in the goosey-gander and told of his return. Fru Raklitz, without saying a word, hunted up the little knife which was used for killing geese, and before sundown the fine white goosey-gander, the nice gray mother goose, and all the pretty goslings were dead and plucked.

“It was a poor reward you gave our goosey-gander, Mother, for coming back to us with so many nice geese,” was all she dared say.

“’Twas enough at least to make all the geese on this place understand what happens to those who defy me and try to run away,” Fru Raklitz retorted, a malicious smile playing round her hard mouth.

V

THE LEMMINGS

FRU RAKLITZ had been hard enough on Lisa Maja while the father was alive; but when he died, in the year 1801, and she was in full control, she became even more harsh and exacting. The stepdaughter was now wholly at her mercy, without support or protection from any quarter. The girl was but seventeen--too young and inexperienced to hold her own with a canny old woman. She had a brother, to be sure, but he was at Upsala University studying, so that she could not look to him for any help.

The stepmother and she were soon at daggers’ points. Fru Raklitz wanted her to marry the clergyman who had succeeded her father, but Lisa Maja would not agree to that. She opposed all the arguments of the stepmother and the parish folk, who thought the old order such an excellent thing. The clergyman’s daughter had her own ideas about marriage. She would not marry a man merely because he happened to be the priest at Ämtervik; he must also be the sort she could love.

The new pastor was anxious to put the matter through. He had got into the good graces of the stepmother, who tried to help him by any and every means. As the girl continued to say No, Fru Raklitz one day drove down to Öjervik to see Judge Sandelin, who was Lisa Maja’s guardian, and have a talk with him.

It was clear that she would have the support of both the Judge and his wife. They knew Fru Raklitz well; she had been housekeeper at Öjervik for many years and they had always known her to be a wise and prudent woman. Without doubt she was right, they said; the Mårbacka clergyman’s daughter should marry the curate. Anything else was out of the question.

Fru Raklitz was invited to stay for supper, and after the meal she and the Judge’s wife sat talking till late in the evening. It was eleven o’clock before she finally set off for home. But the sky was clear and there was a moon, so that it looked as if she would have no difficulty.

And now as the chaise moved rapidly along the shore road toward Sunne, Fru Raklitz sat thinking how she would worry and torment the poor stepdaughter in order to break her will. Of course it was only for the girl’s own good, she flattered herself so that she need have no conscience in the matter.

Then, all at once, Svarten, the horse, shied with a jerk that nearly upset the chaise. He acted as if he had the staggers; he dashed off the road, across the ditch, and was down in a field before Long-Bengt, the driver, could check him. When the horse was finally under control he was all a-tremble. Without moving from the spot where he stood he lifted his feet, one at a time, then suddenly gave a shriek such as is seldom heard from a horse--and leaped into the air. Back on to the road he would not go. When Long-Bengt tried to urge him on, he reared and came near kicking the chaise to pieces.

“What is it, Bengt, what is it?” gasped Fru Raklitz, clutching the man’s arm in her fright. “Has the horse gone mad?”

“That horse has more sense than Frua and me both,” answered Long-Bengt. “He’s not mad, he sees something we ain’t got eyes for to see.”

Svarten nosed the ground, snorted, and backed, regardless of the chaise and those in it. Luckily, they were in a field where the summer’s rye had been cut, so that the ground was quite smooth and even. They noticed that they were backing toward a broad, deep ditch; but when the vehicle was at the very edge, the horse stopped; he probably thought he had got past the worst danger. Though still nosing the ground and snorting, he made no more leaps.

“You’d better get out, Frua,” said Long-Bengt, “while I try to urge him past whatever ’tis he sees.”

Fru Raklitz unbuttoned the carriage apron and was about to set foot to the ground, when she drew back with a cry.

“I can’t step down, Bengt,” she said.... “It’s moving!”

“I believe Frua’s as daft as the horse,” laughed Long-Bengt. “What’s moving?”

“The ground under us is moving, the whole field is moving.” Her voice shook and she felt a lump in her throat.

“_Asch!_” said Long-Bengt, and jumped out. He thought it was a ghost that had frightened the horse. But ghosts were supposed to come out of the air; he had never heard of their creeping along the ground.

And now he wasn’t long getting back into the chaise himself, nor did he venture out of it again. What the mistress had said was true--the ground certainly appeared to be moving. It did not tremble as in an earthquake, nor glide away as in a landslide; but it was as if every clod of earth in the field had taken feet and was running toward the lake.

The two in the chaise sat gazing at the ground--and at last they saw what it was that moved: the field was over-run by hordes of little animals; but they were none the less frightened, the two of them. It couldn’t be anything real or natural, they thought. Where had they come from--all those creatures? Every spot in the field was alive with them!

The animals--or whatever they were--scurried across the ditch up on to the road and then went rushing down an incline into the lake. Now what sort of creatures could they be, to behave in that way? Had they been of God’s creation there would surely have been some end to them; but these kept coming in limitless numbers.

The horse had now become fairly calm. Only when the little animals ran between his feet he would snort and draw back. Fru Raklitz, meanwhile, was far from calm. Her teeth chattered from fright, and she mumbled and talked to herself. However, she sat still as long as they were in the field. But the horse was not going to stand out there the whole night. He began to move on his own accord; he walked slowly, lifting his feet and putting them down very carefully; but at least he went forward and not backward.

The strange little animals got into the way of the horse and wagon, and there was a grinding, crunching noise as the wheels passed over the tiny bodies.

When Fru Raklitz heard that grinding she jumped to her feet, and began to shriek wildly. Long-Bengt quickly caught her round the waist, to prevent her throwing herself out of the chaise.

“They’re after me! They’re after me!” she cried. “They’re on the wheels--they’re on the step--they’re in the wagon!”

The horse increased his speed. The chaise moved joltingly as the wheels went over the little animals.

“They’re in the chaise, they’re in the chaise!” screamed Fru Raklitz, springing up on to the seat. “They’re pulling at my skirt--they mean to drag me to the lake!”

Now Long-Bengt had to stand up to hold her back. “By rights, I ought to let you tumble into the road for your meanness,” he muttered. All the same he kept his arm round her.

They were at last back on the road and had driven over great swarms of the roving animals, when Svarten suddenly stopped and neighed contentedly.

“It’s all over now,” said Long-Bengt. “Sit down, Frua.”

But Fru Raklitz went on shrieking, “They’re in the chaise; they’re pulling at my skirt; they’ll drag me to the lake.” Long-Bengt had to pull her down by main force and set her on the seat. She struggled so hard he dared not let go of her.

“Go on, Svarten!” he said. “You’ll have to find the way without me holding the reins.”

The horse set off at a trot, while Fru Raklitz, shaking and blubbering, rambled on about their climbing the wheels and trying to get into the chaise.

“You’ll have to run, Svarten,” said Long-Bengt, “or she’ll go clean off her head before we get her home.”

Svarten perhaps understood. Anyhow, he must have wanted to get home to his crib, for he took the hills up and down at top speed.

Long-Bengt sat there with beads of cold sweat standing on his forehead; he tried to assure Fru Raklitz that the trouble was over, but she would not believe him.

“You are very kind, Bengt,” she whimpered; “but don’t tell me we are safe; I hear them, I see them, they are after us, and mean to drive me into the lake.”

When they finally stopped before the front porch at Mårbacka and a maid came out to receive her mistress, she was afraid to step down.

“No, no, not you!” she cried. “You have no power, you can’t save me from them.”

The maid drew back in alarm. She had never heard her mistress speak like that before.

“Go fetch the priest’s daughter,” said Fru Raklitz--“go fetch Lisa Maja! She is the only one here who has power over the _evil ones._”

“Mamselle Lisa Maja has gone to bed,” said the girl.

“Go ask her to come down as quick as she can,” Long-Bengt put in. “Tell her Frua got a fright on the way.”

Fru Raklitz sat shaking and gibbering until her stepdaughter appeared.

“Ah, God bless you!” cried the woman, holding out her arms to the girl. “Come help me! Don’t be angry with me! I’ll never be mean to you again.”