Hånger
OH, BUT Lotta Hedman was glad to tell her story. It was a delight to be able to speak of Sigrun.
And she tried so hard to speak properly, and not in her country dialect; tried to speak as seriously as a book of devotion. And she was grateful to her listener, who sat there still, following all she said, with a patience that seemed as if it would never end.
“And now there is only one thing more I have to tell you before you can give me the advice I want,” she said.
“Do not put yourself out in any way at all,” he said. “Talk as you please; we have time enough before us.”
Lotta Hedman dropped back immediately into the tone of the story-teller.
“Well, then, it was in the autumn of that same year,” she began again, “and it had just come on to rain so heavily that we were obliged to hurry back into the house, father and mother and myself, or we should have been drenched to the skin.
“And we had hardly got indoors when the door opened and a couple of big, burly men came rushing in. They asked quite nicely if they might stay till the rain was over. And father bade them welcome, and mother and I set out each our chair for them by the door.
“And one of them was talkative, and asked father if he thought they could get work at the new sawmills they were building at Stenbroträsk. But the other man was very quiet, and said nothing, only sat staring out of the east window all the time.
“And the rain was pouring against that window with full force. There was such a stream of water down the panes you could hardly see out.
“I wondered what it could be he was staring at. For I was quite sure he must be looking at something else besides raindrops and hailstones.
“And I went up and sat down in my old place by the window and looked out.
“But there was nothing to be seen except the little grey outhouses and the water streaming from all the roofs. And it was so thick and dark outside you could hardly see as far as the river bank. And the rainclouds hung over beyond as close as a curtain.
“I thought how I had sat at that window on dark evenings, when the darkness had not hindered me from seeing; had sat there in dense snowstorms, but the snowflakes had not hindered me; I had seen ships sailing and railway trains rushing by, and kings making entry into beautiful cities, and wedding processions and angels dancing and at play before my eyes.
“But what could it help me now, though I sat at the east window? My seeing eye was closed; I could make out nothing now but the yard and the sheds and the pouring rain. There came no warnings to me now, no message, no revelations any more.
“I fancied I could see something that looked like red houses and tall woods against the grey wall of cloud, but it was all dark and indistinct.
“And I tried to feel glad that I was like others now, but my life seemed poor now, and weighed me down, now that I no longer saw or heard anything beyond what was real. I felt no joy in living. I was like one that has sat for a long time at a feast with all things plentiful, and now had not so much as a crumb to ease my hunger.
“And there was no one now that could comfort me, for Sigrun was just about to be married, and going to move down to the husband’s place at Applum, in Bohuslän. She had asked me if I would go with her to her new home, and help her there, for that was what we had agreed long before. But I told her I would rather stay with mother and father in Stenbroträsk. For I would not go with Sigrun now. She had never been the same since she heard me speak ill of her lover, and I could no longer look at her now as a strange bird that had lost the way; she seemed well enough at home now among earthly things.
“Then just when my thoughts were darkest, I heard footsteps, and the silent stranger stood beside me, leaning toward the wet panes.
“‘A very strange window, this,’ he said, and touched my arm to make me look. ‘I wonder now if you can see the same as I do?’
“‘I can’t see anything,’ I said. ‘But why do you say it is a strange window?’
“‘It must be strange,’ he said, ‘since I am looking at Hånger farm in Dalsand through the window of a house in Stenbroträsk, ever so far away.’
“‘Is that a farm standing high on a hill, with apple trees on a slope in front?’ I asked. ‘Is there a store-cellar with a little room on top, and a gate with one old rotten gatepost, and an old woman sitting at the window?’
“‘Yes,’ he said, leaning down to see better; ‘that is right. There is an old woman sitting at the window of the cellar room; it is all as you say.’
“‘And she is staring at the gatepost; isn’t that right? Staring as if she could not take her eyes from it?’
“‘Yes,’ he said, and drew a deep breath. ‘Yes, sitting there watching lest the gatepost should fall. She must hold by that till the end of the world.’
“And I could see how anxious he was about what he saw. There were big drops of sweat on his forehead, and he was deadly pale, and could hardly speak.
“But then he turned away from the window, and looked quickly at me. ‘But you say you can see nothing?’
“‘I can see nothing now,’ I said. ‘But one day last spring I saw the farmhouse as you say it is.’
“And now I noticed that father and mother and the other stranger had come closer and were listening.
“‘There are many in our family who have that gift,’ said the other stranger to father, in a low voice, ‘but I have never heard until to-day that my brother had it too.’
“But the one who had spoken to me before turned his eyes to the window again, and next moment he started back, afraid.
“‘She has seen me!’ he cried. ‘It is all over with me now!’
“And it was strange to see him so afraid, that great, strong man. But not even mother, who was always ready enough to laugh, so much as smiled at him now.
“‘Let us sing a hymn,’ I whispered to mother. And we sang the first verse that came into our heads.
“And while we were singing, the rain stopped. The grey cloud hung no longer like a wall above the river bank, and a ray of sunlight stole into the room.
“The man who had seen the vision had sat down on a chair, with his hands before his face, not daring to look up or even to move.
“But now, when it cleared up and grew bright again, his brother spoke to him sensibly.
“‘Come now, Jon,’ he said. ‘The rain has stopped, and we can go on now. Look up; you can see it is all gone now.’
“But Jon sat huddled up in his chair, and only moved his elbow to say he would not be disturbed.
“‘No, Anders, no,’ he said. ‘Let me be. I dare not.’
“Then Anders came over to us, and shook his head.
“‘It is no wonder he was afraid,’ he said. ‘For the thing he saw was something that once was, and the place he spoke of is the place our grandfather’s father came from.’
“‘I think he said it was called Hånger,’ I said, seeing that none of the others spoke.
“‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘Hånger it is, and it lies in Dalsland, and we who come from there are called the trollfolk of Hånger. We are bigger in body than most men, and they say we are ill to meet, but, for my part, I know of nothing strange about us, beyond that we all die by our own hand. My father did so, and his father and his father’s father before him.’
“When he had spoken, all was silent again. We shuddered, and could not ask nor speak a word. But the stranger seemed to feel that when he had said so much, he must go on.
“‘They say it all comes of an old story,’ he said. ‘In the old days, the men of Hånger were proud and rich, and would submit to none, and often they were at feud with the priests. And once it seems that one of them killed a priest in a fit of jealousy. But it was never found out who had done it. The crime was never atoned, and for the sake of that sin, it has been so ever since, that all the men from Hånger must die a violent death, by their own hand or another’s.’
“‘But surely that can’t be,’ said mother. ‘That the innocent should suffer for the guilty, no.’
“It happens, for all that, and none so rarely to my mind,’ said the man. ‘It’s not easy to say how it’s managed about that. But there was a woman there at Hånger, mother to him that had murdered the priest. And they say she knew all about it, and helped the son to dig a grave under one of the gateposts and long after he was dead she used to sit watching the spot, that no one should pull it up or break it down or put another post in its place. She moved down into the little room above the store-cellar, that was closer to the gate, and there she would sit watching night and day, and some say she’s watching there still. And Hånger’s passed from our family now, and the trollfolk of Hånger are scattered about all parts, but it seems that all of her blood can still see her. She follows us, folk say, and sees that never one of us escapes the penalty of that crime.’
“But mother would not give in.
“‘It can’t be that this should go on,’ she said. ‘There must be something you could do to make an end of it?’
“‘True,’ said the man. ‘And there’s those that have tried. Two of us there were that thought it would be well if they themselves became priests. But I don’t know if the old lady found that to her mind. One of them died when he was still young—the other is still alive.’
“I was getting more and more frightened now, and, putting together all that had passed, I knew well enough what answer I should get when I put my question.
“‘And is his name Rhånge?’ I asked.
“‘But—heavens, child!’ cried mother.
“The man answered at once:
“‘That’s right. Rhånge he calls himself. It’s just Hånger spelt round another way. He’s the Pastor at Applum in Bohuslän, and just married, so I’ve heard, a daughter of the priest at Stenbroträsk.’”
The listener in the corner gave a sudden start.
“Well, now, I don’t mean one should always go by such old stories,” said Lotta Hedman. “But there might be something in this after all, and perhaps it was wrong of me not to have gone with Sigrun to Bohuslän after I had heard all this. And perhaps that’s why everything has gone wrong with me since. For though I’ve got back my seeing and hearing again, there’s none will ever listen to what I say, and perhaps that’s because I failed in my duty to Sigrun. And would it be right now?”
She broke off; her face, that had been alive with feeling, stiffened and hardened all at once.
“I can see something,” she said. “Ice and snow, all white. And a tent—a black tent—and a long sledge....”
The train entered a station. Lotta Hedman’s fellow traveller rose hurriedly from his seat and reached up for his luggage on the rack.
Lotta Hedman did not heed; she was full of the vision that had come to her.
The man had left the train, and was moving across the platform when he heard Lotta’s voice calling him back. But he went on without turning round.
Lotta pulled at the strap of the window with all her might, but by the time she had opened it, the man had disappeared.