The House by the Fjord (22 page)

If she had been her normal exuberant self, she would have gone to him across the grass and used every one of her wiles to hold his attention, instilling a first attraction to her beauty, which her mirror normally reflected. But she had to face the bitter truth. She was not as she had been before her illness, for she was as physically weak as an old crone, and she had lost so much weight that her face was gaunt and her whole body was thin, her seductive curves no more. She could have wept in her frustration. Immediately, she returned to the shop and borrowed a carrying-can that Andreas filled with cream for her. Then she doubled up on the same measure of milk and purchased another slab of butter, some fat bacon and extra loaves. She was going to fatten herself up to her normal weight and regain her figure as quickly as possible. There was a sack of potatoes stored in her cellar and she must eat plenty of those too.

‘How long is the artist going to be here in the valley, Andreas?' she asked casually as she paid for her additional purchases.

‘About four or five weeks, I think,' was his reply, filling her with relief. ‘He's staying with us as we have a spare room.'

‘What's his name?'

‘Magnus Harvik.'

‘That's a good old Norsk name,' she remarked. ‘Does he have his wife with him?'

‘He is not married. He told me he values his freedom too highly. He is much taken with our valley, which he says inspires him, and he has had a couple of portraits commissioned.' Then Andreas gave her a conspiratorial wink. ‘All you womenfolk seem to like him. Even my wife blushes every time he speaks to her.'

As Ingrid rode Hans-Petter back up the slope, she tried to estimate how long it would take her to get back to her normal weight on a heavier diet. Until now she had had no appetite, but now she must force herself to eat well, which was something she had neglected to do in spite of Marie's constant admonishing whenever she came to the house. But it should not be difficult to gain enough weight to recapture her looks and her figure in the time that the artist would be here. There was one thing of which she was certain: no other woman should have the man that she was certain fate meant for her. She also resolved to avoid seeing him before she was her true self again.

Regaining her strength and her looks did not take as long as she had feared, although sometimes she was afraid that she would choke on the food that she forced into her mouth. She kept a constant check on the artist's whereabouts and the work he had in hand, gaining her information from either Marie or the shopkeeper. She was concerned when she heard he was painting the portraits, for both sitters were good-looking women and married to boring husbands. Then he was back on to landscapes again and Ingrid became a little less anxious, eating now for pleasure instead of just sustenance. When Marie remarked one day that if Ingrid put on any more weight she would soon be fat as a barrel, it was clearly time for a return to moderate portions.

She became less tense, satisfied that she had achieved her aim. Best of all, apart from regaining her figure, a bloom had returned to her cheeks and her hair had regained its lustre, which she encouraged by brushing it many times every night. Finally, the day came when she ready to ensnare with her charms the unsuspecting and unprepared Magnus Harvik. She planned to discuss whatever he was painting and say she would like to buy it when it was finished, for that meant he would have to deliver it to her house. There she would serve him coffee and a cognac, having already purchased a bottle in readiness from Andreas, even though he was not officially allowed to sell spirits. What happened after that had to be left to fate, but she intended to tantalize Magnus Harvik during the rest of his time in the valley until he was unable to keep from asking her to marry him.

Well pleased with her restored bosom, she chose to wear a blouse with a round neck that gave a seductive glimpse of her cleavage and the ankle-length skirt she chose to wear was bright orange. With a ribbon of the same vivid colour holding her blond tresses back from her face, she strode strongly down the track and set along up the valley, looking to one side and then the other for Magnus Harvik, or just his easel, which would show his whereabouts. Yet there was no sign of him anywhere.

She returned to the shop, hiding her rising anxiety as she pretended to examine some fruit in a tray on the counter. ‘Where is Magnus Harvik painting today, Andreas? I've a mind to buy one of his pictures.'

‘He's gone.'

For a second or two she thought she might die from shock. She felt the colour drain from her face with a force that made her cheeks sting and her heart began to hammer like a drum. ‘I had made up my mind to buy one of his paintings,' she managed to stammer, trying to hide her reaction to the information she had received so unexpectedly. Fortunately, Andreas was not very observant.

‘He has left a couple with me in case anyone should still want to purchase. I'll fetch them—'

‘No! Not now! Did he say where he was going?'

‘He was undecided whether to move on to Alesund, where he could do some sea scenes with the ships and the fishing boats there, or else he could make his way up to Geiranger.'

She clenched her fists. ‘What did he decide?' she demanded, beyond caring now whether or not Andreas thought her attitude strange.

‘He did not say. Maybe he told my wife. I'll ask her.'

He was gone no more than a few minutes, but Ingrid stood tapping her foot impatiently. ‘Well?' she asked sharply when he returned. ‘What did he decide?'

‘He did not say for certain, although my wife thinks she persuaded him to go to Geiranger, because that's a sight that would inspire any artist's brush.'

Within the next hour, Ingrid had packed all her essential needs into a bundle and had strapped it to her back. She could not take Hans-Petter, because she had studied an old map very closely and saw that her route would go over high mountains where perhaps some slopes would be too steep for a horse to gain a foothold. Leaving him in the care of Marie, whom she had taken into her confidence, she ignored her friend's persuasion not to go on what could be a pointless expedition. Then Marie, seeing that nothing would persuade Ingrid to change her mind, came with her own pony and trap to take Ingrid as far as she could on what was little more than a rutted track along the way. Then, when they came to a signpost pointing to Geiranger, Ingrid jumped down excitedly from the trap.

‘I've left a list on the table of everything needed for my wedding,' she said happily. ‘Please iron the lace wedding gown for me and make sure it does not have any creases. Invitations can go out by word of mouth when the date is settled.'

Marie looked down at her from the trap's driving seat, her expression serious and concerned. ‘I'm not doing anything until I see you return with Magnus Harvik. If that should happen, then I'll move heaven and earth to do all I can for you. But I beg you not be too disappointed if you fail to find him.'

‘I shall find him wherever he is and bring him home with me forever!'

Waving cheerfully, Ingrid turned to follow the direction the signpost had indicated. With the aid of the map, she walked to Linge where she paid a boatman to row her across to the other side of a fjord that flowed there. Then she continued along her route for several days, once taking a turn in a wrong direction that proved to be hazardous. Sometimes she had to struggle to find a foothold and had her skirt tied up about her waist as she hauled herself along from one vantage point to another. Once she slipped, hitting her head, and she lay dazed for a few minutes, only moving when she felt a trickle of blood down the side of her face. Panic-stricken that she had harmed her looks, she studied her reflection in her little hand-mirror and was thankful to find it was a small graze at her hairline, which she could easily disguise with a curl.

Once, when her food had almost run out, she came to a
saeter
where the girls gave her something to eat in the timeless tradition of mountain hospitality. She left with her food supplies replenished. Drinking water was always on hand from the mountain streams, where she also washed and bathed herself. There were some dreadful days when the rain was unceasing and she would huddle under the shelter of a rock, thinking that surely there was nowhere in the world that became as cold as Norway in the rain. Yet never once did her resolve weaken, and her spirits always soared once more when the sun came out again, warming her before making her sweat as its August heat increased throughout the day.

Finally, she came to Geiranger on a glorious day, but before she was in sight of its fjord she bathed in a stream, shivering deliciously in the icy water. She also washed her hair, and then brushed it until it floated down her back, the graze on her forehead now healed. Her orange skirt had been amazingly resilient to all she had done and she had had it hitched up most of the way. She smoothed it down, glad to see that its creases were minimal. Then she put on the fresh cotton blouse that she had kept for this moment. She had trouble with a herd of goats that from higher up had sighted her eating the last waffle of the
saeter
package of food, and they came swiftly down to see what they could scrounge from her. They would not be driven off, even trying to chew her skirt hems, and so she had her first glimpse of Geiranger fjord while escorted by a cluster of goats.

She thought it a fjord beyond belief. It was as if a giant troll had brought down the side of his hand in a blow of such force that he had split the mountain range in two, allowing the sapphire sea to pour into the enormous gap and releasing great waterfalls to cascade down the walls of rock. Such beauty caught her by the throat and she stretched out her arms towards the fjord's magnificence. She could see a cluster of houses that formed the small village at the inner end of the fjord, but as yet there was no sign of her quarry.

She set off and the goats turned back, having found her unrewarding prey, although they had eaten the paper that had covered the last of her food. Then she saw him. A tiny speck in this vast arena, he was painting at the edge of the water.

Although she did not know if Magnus had seen her, he had glanced up from his easel and caught sight of what he thought was a young female goatherd. Her orange skirt was exactly what was needed in his painting, and by mixing a swirl of red and yellow paint he added her with a satisfying splodge of vivid colour. Then he took another brush and, concentrating on his painting, he did not see her start running down the long zigzag track toward him. It was not until the rattle of small stones warned him that he was about to be interrupted in his work that he looked up and saw her.

It was at that point he lowered his brush and stared in surprise, seeing that she was coming at a run towards him. Her lovely features were radiant and her hair streamed out behind her in a golden flow.

‘I've found you!' she exclaimed, casting aside the bundle she was carrying and holding out both hands to him.

He put aside his palette and brushes, rising from his stool to clasp her fingers lightly and automatically, supposing her to have come with some urgent message. ‘Yes? What is it?'

‘I'm Ingrid and I have come to claim you as my husband!'

He laughed, throwing back his head and showing his white teeth. His guess was that this must be some game the local girls were playing. ‘I'm a little too busy to husband you today,' he said wickedly, ‘pleasurable though it would be. I'm sorry to say you must look for somebody else.'

‘There isn't anybody else!' she declared triumphantly. ‘I've followed you all the way from my valley to take you home with me. I need a husband! I want babies! I already love you with my whole heart!'

To his astonishment, she flung herself against him, clasping him close, and suddenly the scent of her was in his nostrils and her lovely young body had moulded itself into his, making his desire soar. Then, for a few moments, he held her face between his hands, looking into her eyes as if into the depths of the fjord. All he could see was love. Almost as if she had cast a spell on him, he bore her down on to the soft grass beside a rock that would hide them from view. She had loosened her blouse and her lovely breasts spilled into his clasp. His lips bore down on them and tears of happiness trickled from the corners of her eyes. Then his exploring hands found their way beneath her skirt and she cried out in joy as he caressed her with his long fingers, which she had so admired.

When he entered her, her response was so ecstatic that he was totally swept away himself, amazed in some distant part of his brain that she could stir such depths of feeling in him. But this was no ordinary young woman, and although she was not a virgin, he had seen a kind of starry innocence in her lovely eyes. Maybe he had sensed her uniqueness when she had approached from a distance, which was why he had needed to record and capture her in his painting just in case she tried to fly from him like a will-o'-the-wisp.

‘I don't even know your name,' he said softly, brushing a strand of her hair away from her eyes. He was still lying across her and she did not want him to move.

‘I'm Ingrid.' She did not really want to talk, for she was full of bliss at what had taken place between them and did not want these moments of intimacy to end. ‘I was married at fifteen, and now I'm a widow. But,' she added, ‘soon I'll be a bride again with you as my bridegroom.'

He smiled, wondering why he did not shy away at her talk of matrimony. ‘Are you a hex?' he asked teasingly, referring to the mythical female creatures that took the form of beautiful young women with one aim, which was always to joyfully ensnare a mortal man into marriage with them. The only giveaway was that they always had a tail.

She replied indignantly. ‘No, I'm not! You should know that already!'