III
Ingolf rode on. The sun went down. A wind blew from the north, bringing thick clouds of ice-cold snow as fine as sand. He could not see the wood any more. And Leif had long disappeared in the sea of snow.
Night began to come on. A faint glow high above him on the left betrayed the whereabouts of the full moon. With the help of that and the wind he tried to guide himself. He was so alone, so completely forsaken, as he had hitherto never guessed that anyone could be. And he felt his loneliness and desolation as accusation and guilt. He had, as it were, grown smaller since Leif had left him.
The uneasiness of dissatisfaction gnawed his mind like hunger. He was displeased with himself and also with Leif, but more with himself. He was, after all, the elder, and was responsible for them both. Also he felt seriously anxious for Leif. Leif did not know any path through the wood. He had once ventured into it, and lost himself. And if he lost himself in the wood in this cold he would be frozen to death, unless, indeed, the wolves attacked him.
Ingolf was in despair. He asked himself whether it were yet any use to ride after Leif? But now it was too late. He felt a lump rise in his throat. Remorse came over him like an avalanche. He had to defend himself in order not to be utterly overwhelmed. As far as Leif was concerned, it was his own fault. It was he who actually would ride over the heath. It was he who, in spite of reason, made for the wood. If he were frozen to death, or eaten by wolves, he only had himself to thank. But Ingolf soon discovered that these thoughts did not yield him any comfort. In the first place, he was not sure that the fault was really Leif’s. He ought not to have allowed himself to be persuaded to ride across the heath, and, by doing so, break his word. Neither ought he to have become angry with Leif because he had allowed himself to be persuaded. Least of all should he have let Leif observe his anger. For that was what had driven him to the wood. He knew Leif, and how susceptible he was. Treated in the right way, he was not unreasonable. By means of good-humour and friendly talk one could turn Leif’s mind from or in any desired direction. But if he saw that any one was angry or embittered against him, immediately he became twice as angry himself. And all sound sense forsook him as soon as he became irritated.
And another thing: even if the fault was Leif’s, that did not make the matter really better. There was, in fact, no satisfaction in being in the right as against Leif. Leif’s whole character was so made up of hastiness and want of sense that nothing was easier than to be in the right against him. But that was not the least relief to his mind. Leif was not one of those to be settled with in that way. Even if there was not the least doubt that one was in the right, there always remained something unsettled when Leif was in question. Ingolf rode on. He forgot to pay any attention to the direction of the wind or the light of the moon. An absorbing consciousness of having done wrong, and of remorse, which continually increased, gnawed his mind and destroyed his peace. He could not shake off the thought of Leif. How was he now? How would he fare? He tried to persuade himself that Leif must really know a path through the wood, and might be home before him. Ah, how he wished that he might find Leif’s horse in the stable when he himself at last reached home!
But he knew well that this was only something he wished to believe. Leif’s voice was so sincere that it betrayed him when he lied. Leif was a stupid boy. Ah, Leif! Leif!
Ingolf struggled hard to keep his tears back. He had not the least idea what to do. What should he do? He was riding here, and had lost his best friend. And it was his own fault. Even if he found Leif at home they would not be friends any more. And Leif, like himself, as far back as he could remember, could not do without him. He did not understand it all. He did not comprehend how it could happen. Yesterday, nay, only a little while since, they had been friends. Now he was riding alone in the night and the snowstorm, and Leif was lost in the wood. Leif had left him because he could not overcome himself sufficiently to keep with him longer—Leif, who this morning would have sacrificed everything for him, and given his life for him, yes, ten lives if he had possessed so many. He did not know any one else of whom he could safely say the same. Half his strength had lain in the consciousness that Leif was his friend for life and death; that he had, so to speak, two lives. He was himself also prepared to die for his friend. All the same, a sudden misunderstanding and a few words had parted them. For the first time Ingolf realized the dangerous power of anger and evil words. And he made a vow never again to be angry, and never again to speak evil words to a friend. It had a certain soothing effect upon him, thus to take himself to task, to acknowledge his failing, and resolve to overcome it.
But this was of no help with regard to Leif. There could not be the least doubt now that Leif was roaming about lost in the wood. It was hopeless to expect that he should have given up his purpose. It could never occur to him to be so reasonable as to follow the edge of the wood. For Leif knew nothing of fear or even caution, bold to the point of madness, daring to folly as he was. Yes, Leif was by no means merely a mocker of the gods or a practical joker. He was as fearless and brave as any one whom Ingolf knew. That was what forced one to love him, and feel that he was indispensable in spite of all his failings and the difficulties he caused. That was also the reason why Helga liked him so much, and became restless and lost her balance as soon as she did not see him, but immediately became quiet and peaceful when she knew he was near. How should Ingolf look his sister, Helga, in the eyes when he came home without Leif?
Ingolf rode on. He no longer knew where he was going, and felt indifferent. Without Leif he could, at any rate, not go home. He could not get Leif out of his mind.
Leif was in every way difficult and unaccountable. There was no use denying it. As far back as Ingolf could remember at all, he had had incredible difficulties with Leif. All the troubles he remembered to have had, had been caused by him. Numberless times, Helga had been obliged to appease greater or smaller quarrels between them. For Leif was really impossible as a comrade. One never knew what to expect of him, or what he might devise. There was no feeling secure in Leif’s society; he always brought, as it were, changes and adventures with him. But such as he was, one could not do without him. In spite of his difficult character he was such that one missed him as soon as he was out of sight.
Ingolf noticed that his horse suddenly changed the direction in which he was going. He did not take the trouble to check him. It was all the same to him where he went, now that he no longer had Leif.
He had wound his cape twice round him, yet the cold penetrated it. He felt frozen and shivered, but did not mind. It even had a certain soothing effect on him to be so cold that his teeth chattered. Immediately afterwards he had forgotten himself, and began thinking again of Leif.
Hitherto he had always felt vexed that Leif was not like others. Now he realized suddenly that, in spite of all, he did not want to have Leif otherwise. Such as he was, he was just Leif, and his friend. On his side the friendship was certainly not past. If he met Leif again, they would become friends afresh. He knew that Leif was always ready for reconciliation so soon as he had worked off his rage.
No, Leif was not like others. There was no doubt that he was a good and skilful ski-runner. He was always inventing new tricks and difficult feats. Wherever he found a rock or a hill he must attempt it. Not even the steepest descents made him pause. The fact that he had one fall after another, each worse than the preceding one, had no effect upon him at all. Leif did not like learning by experience. And, strangely enough, he had never had any serious accident. When Ingolf had once reproached him for his mad foolhardiness, he had merely replied that he trusted his luck blindly for so long as Fate had allotted it to him, and not a step further! He was obviously not in the least interested as to where the limit was set. One might be vexed at it, but it was not of the slightest use. He had an incredible faculty for getting into desperate situations, and after all saving his skin.
The cause probably was that he was not merely a little unreasonable. In that case he would hardly have completed his twelve winters. He was, on the contrary, so boundlessly unreasonable that it seemed as though the reasonable penalties which always pursued Ingolf and all others never exactly knew where to find Leif, and therefore could not strike him.
Ingolf could not explain it to himself in any other way. There was, for example, the adventure with the bear. It was a year ago now, but he was likely to remember it as long as he lived. They had heard from the people in the farm that there was a bear’s lair up on the heath, a place about which they only knew that it would be found in the neighbourhood of two hills which had been described to them. They were continually thinking and talking about the bear’s lair, and could not get away from the subject. Both of them had a great desire to see the place. But Ingolf’s desire was of the quiet kind which is compatible with patience. In his opinion there was no need to go and scent out a bear’s lair when one was grown big and could receive him when he presented himself. Leif’s desire, on the other hand, was measureless and insatiable. “If you don’t come, I will go alone,” he said. So Ingolf went with him. They set out from the place one morning in late summer; they trudged far, found no hill nor bear’s lair, but, on the other hand, came across a slope covered with bilberries, the like of which they had never seen. Immediately Ingolf was aware of a high-pitched voice within, which shouted, “Bilberries! Bilberries!” And that Leif must have heard a similar voice was easy to see. Crouching to the earth they went and gathered bilberries with both hands, eating the little bitter leaves along with them without hesitation, when they found opposite them a bear who was also eating bilberries. For a moment Ingolf remained standing, staring at a bear with a blue snout; then he came to his senses and fled for all he was worth. Not till he had run a long way did it occur to him that Leif was not with him, and that he was not pursued. He stood still and looked round, prepared to see the bear coming after him with Leif in his stomach and hungering for more provender of a similar kind. What he did see was almost more terrible. There on the bilberry-slope stood Leif and the bear confronting each other. Ingolf stood thunderstruck. Why did not the bear eat Leif? He did not understand it, did not see that there could be anything else to wait for. As though rooted to the spot, he remained standing and staring, and could not stir. It seemed to him as if several days had passed when at last something happened—the bear sneaked off. He could not trust his own eyes! Yes, the bear trudged away from the bilberry-slope and left Leif alone with the berries. And Leif quite quietly resumed his gathering of bilberries. Ingolf did not understand it. He found the occurrence so unintelligible that he believed the whole must be a dream. He was soon made aware of his mistake. In dreams one is accustomed to glide comfortably through the air, but he had just to climb back on his weary legs to Leif. When Ingolf got near him, he stood and looked at him, and was astonished to see nothing remarkable about him. And so he remained standing for a time. There was something which needed explaining before he could go on with the bilberry-picking. At last he asked: “Why didn’t you run?”
“Do you think one can run from a bear?” Leif answered quite quietly and as a matter of course. “What would be the use of that? No, I made him think that I was not afraid of him. And at last I really was not any more. So he got tired of standing and staring, and went his way.” Such was Leif, and such was his method with bears. Was it easy to understand him? How could one get the mind with which to understand him? Ingolf answered himself with a meditative, negative shake of the head. And the adventure with the bear was by no means unique. He remembered another incident of the same summer. He lived through it again in his need to occupy himself with Leif, and yet at the same time forget that Leif at that very moment might be hunted by wolves.
They had agreed together that it was time they learnt to swim. Naturally it was just when no one had time to teach them. But that kind of trifle had no decisive weight for Leif when he had got a fixed idea in his head. One of Orn’s servants, so he informed Ingolf, who was a good swimmer, had shown him that he had only to move his arms and legs in such and such a way and keep afloat. Leif straightway laid himself across a piece of timber in the courtyard and showed Ingolf how to move his arms and legs. Thus; and thus!—that was all! It did not seem very difficult to Ingolf. But suppose one sank in spite of all? But Leif was unwearied in his persuasions—oh, it was ever so easy. You simply scooped up the water with your arms and kicked with your legs—that was all. At last Leif made him lie on the piece of timber and taught him the strokes. So! and so! Kick out strongly! Stretch your arms properly! Now, I bet we swim like a pair of seals as soon as we get in the water. Now let us go!
They went down to the Fjord. On the way he made Leif promise that first they should not go farther than where they could touch the bottom. Otherwise he said he would not go. Leif promised, and swore in addition. As soon as they got near the shore, Leif had his clothes off and stood naked and careless and stretched himself in the sun. Ingolf stood and looked at the water, and was a good while unclasping his belt. Leif jumped about and hurried him on, but at last would not wait any more. As a matter of course, he had either forgotten his promise or did not choose to keep it. Instead of wading out where he could reach the bottom he ran out on a rock, flung his arms over his head, launched away, and was off.
Ingolf, still with most of his clothes on, ran out on the rock with his heart in his mouth. Down there lay Leif; the water had swallowed him. He lay and worked his arms and legs. Now he approached the surface; now his head bobbed up. But only for a moment. His arms and legs moved very much as when he rode. But either he could not manage the swimming-strokes or they were no use. In any case, the water would not support him. He went to the bottom again.
Never had Ingolf been so frightened as when he stood there and saw Leif in the water—never so helplessly anxious and despairing. He stood, and could neither move hand nor foot. He felt paralysing terror like a dead weight in his whole body. Then he suddenly began to shiver. At the same moment all power of cool reflection deserted him and he forgot that he was no better a swimmer than Leif. He must get out and help him. And he was on the point of plunging from the rock with his clothes on when he saw Leif come crawling up through the water.
Leif crawled up and got his head above the surface. He spat and snorted and made grimaces. It did Ingolf good to see him. And he did not go to the bottom again. Leif, the incredible, swam! Not with arms and legs working on both sides as he had practised the motions. No, he simply crawled through the water with a long stroke and did not sink. It looked so ridiculous that Ingolf had to laugh aloud. No, Leif of course could not be so easily drowned as others die naturally. Now he felt the ground under his feet. He stood still, coughed, and spat up water and shook himself so that the red locks flew about his head. He laughed suddenly when he set eyes on Ingolf. “What, not yet out of your clothes?” Quite calmly he waded to shore. And when he stood opposite Ingolf, he said simply and unaffectedly, although he shivered over his whole body: “I was nearly drowned that time! Who could guess that it was so difficult? If I hadn’t just happened to think, while I was down there, how dogs swim, I should be lying there still!”
When at last he had finished spitting and shaking the water out of his ears, he took the same header again as a matter of course.
Such was Leif. He could not break his neck, he could not drown, and bears sneaked off when they met him. Could he, then, be lost in a wood and frozen to death? Or would he extricate himself again as he alone could? Ingolf thought it not quite impossible, and that was his only hope and comfort.
It would be just like Leif to crash his way through a wood in which anyone else would be lost, and to be first home. If only he were already there, in bed and asleep!
Ingolf was aroused from his reveries by his horse suddenly coming to a dead stop. He looked round him, and was not long in discovering that he had reached home. The horse had stopped exactly opposite the door of the stable. Stiff in all his limbs from the cold, he crawled down and opened the door. His only thought was whether Leif’s horse might already be inside. He went from horse to horse, felt them, and noted their distinguishing marks. He knocked against his own horse, which had followed after him into the warmth with its saddle and bridle on. He freed it from the bridle, but forgot the saddle, and went on. No, Leif’s horse was not in the stable.
That was only what he had expected. Nevertheless, he felt suddenly paralysed with disappointment. Leif, then, had not reached home. Leif was still somewhere without. At that very moment he was roaming about lost either on the heath or in the wood. Leif’s horse was not one of those which could find its way home by itself.
Ah, Leif! Leif! He hoped that it was not already all over with him. Ingolf seemed to see him in front of him lying on his back in a snowdrift with arms and legs stretched out. The snow was drifting over him and already nearly covering him. By the side of him stood his horse, with its head hanging down. Ah, Leif! Leif!
Ingolf collected himself. He did not feel the cold any more, nor did he notice how hunger was gnawing him. He shut the stable and went to the courtyard. There was something feverish and yet resolute about all his proceedings. He entered the outhouse where the ski were kept, and found his own and Leif’s. He opened the house-door a little and whistled softly to his dog. The dog was wild with delight at seeing him again, jumped about him, and licked his cold hands with his warm tongue, while Ingolf, his fingers stiff with the frost, was buckling on his ski. He had no time to take notice of it. As soon as he had buckled his snow-shoes firmly on, he sped away from the house, the same way he had come. Now he again paid attention to the direction of the wind and the light of the moon.
Leif must be found—there was no question about that. He could not return home alive without him.