WISE MAREN
The heavy waves crashed on the shore. Large wet flakes of snow
hurled themselves on bushes and grass; what was not caught by the
high cliffs was frozen to ice in the air and chased before the
storm.
The sea was foaming. The skies were all one great dark gray whirl,
with the roaring breakers beneath. It was as if the abyss itself
threw out its inexhaustible flood of cold and wickedness. Endlessly
it mounted from the great deep; dense to battle against, and as fire
of hell to breathe.
Two clumsy figures worked their way forward over the sandhills, an
old grandmother holding a little girl by the hand. They were so
muffled up, that they could hardly be distinguished in the thick
haze.
Their movements were followed by watchful eyes, in the huts on the
hills women stood with faces pressed flat against the window-panes!
"'Tis wise Maren battling against the storm," they told the old and
the sick within. And all who could, crawled to the window. They must
see for themselves.
"'Tis proper weather for witches to be out," said youth, and
laughed. "But where is her broomstick?"
The old ones shook their heads. Maren ought not to be made fun of;
she had the _Gift_ and did much good. Maybe that once or twice she
had misused her talents--but who would not have done the same in her
place? On a day like this she would be full of power; it would have
been wise to consult her.
The two outside kept to the path that ran along the edge of the
steep cliff, hollowed out in many places by the sea. Beneath them
thundered the surf, water and air and sand in one yellow ferment,
and over it seagulls and other sea birds, shrieking and whipping the
air with their wings. When a wave broke they would swoop down and
come up again with food in their beaks--some fish left stunned by
the waves to roll about in the foam.
It seemed foolish of the two keeping just inside the edge of the
cliff, against which the storm was throwing itself with all its
might, to fall down well inland. The old woman and the child clung
to each other, gasping for breath.
At one place the path went through a thicket of thorns, bent inland
by the strong sea wind, and here they took shelter from the storm to
regain their breath. Ditte whimpered, she was tired and hungry.
"Be a big girl," said the old one, "we'll soon be home now." She
drew the child towards her under the shawl, with shaking hands
brushing the snow from her hair, and blowing her frozen fingers.
"Ay, just big," she said encouragingly, "and you'll get cakes and
nice hot coffee when we get home. I've the coffee beans in the
bag--ah, just smell!"
Granny opened the bag, which she had fastened round her waist
underneath her shawl. Into it went all that she was given, food and
other odds and ends.
The little one poked her nose down into the bag, but was not
comforted at once.
"We've nothing to warm it with," said she sulkily.
"And haven't we then? Granny was on the beach last night, and saw
the old boat, she did. But Ditte was in the land of Nod, and never
knew."
"Is there more firewood?"
"Hush, child, the coastguard might hear us. He's long ears--and the
Magistrate pays him for keeping poor folks from getting warm. That's
why he himself takes all that's washed ashore."
"But you're not frightened of him, Granny, you're a witch and can
send him away."
"Ay, ay, of course Granny can--and more too, if he doesn't behave.
She'll strike him down with rheumatism, so that he can't move, and
have to send for wise Maren to rub his back. Ah me, old Granny's
legs are full of water, and aches and pains in every limb; a horrid
witch they call her, ay--and a thieving woman too! But there must be
some of both when an old worn woman has to feed two mouths; and you
may be glad that Granny's the witch she is. None but she cares for
you--and lazy, no folks shall ever call her that. She's
two-and-seventy years now, and 'tis for others her hands have toiled
all along. But never a hand that's lifted to help old Maren."
They sat well sheltered, and soon Ditte became sleepy, and they
started out again. "We'll fall asleep if we don't, and then the
black man'll come and take us," said Granny as she tied her shawl
round the little one.
"Who's the black man?" Ditte stopped, clinging to her grandmother
from very excitement.
"The black man lives in the churchyard under the ground. 'Tis he who
lets out the graves to the dead folks, and he likes to have a full
house."
Ditte had no wish to go down and live with a black man, and tripped
briskly along hand in hand with the old one. The path now ran
straight inland, and the wind was at their back--the storm had
abated somewhat.
When they came to the Sand farm, she refused to go further. "Let's
go in there and ask for something," said she, dragging her
grandmother. "I'm so hungry."
"Lord--are you mad, child! We daren't set foot inside there."
"Then I'll go alone," declared Ditte firmly. She let go her granny's
hand and ran towards the entrance. When there, however, she
hesitated. "And why daren't we go in there?" she shouted back.
Maren came and took her hand again: "Because your own father might
come and drive us away with a whip," said she slowly. "Come now and
be a good girl."
"Are you afraid of him?" asked the little one persistently. She was
not accustomed to seeing her granny turned aside for anything.
Afraid, indeed no--the times were too bad for that! Poor people must
be prepared to face all evils and accept them too. And why should
they go out of their way to avoid the Sand farm as if it were holy
ground. If he did not care to take the chance of seeing his own
offspring occasionally, he could move his farm elsewhere. They two
had done nothing to be shamed into running away, that was true
enough. Perhaps there was some ulterior motive behind the child's
obstinacy? Maren was not the one to oppose Providence--still less if
it lent her a helping hand.
"Well, come then!" said she, pushing the gate open. "They can but
eat us."
They went through the deep porch which served as wood and tool house
as well. At one side turf was piled neatly up right to the beams.
Apparently they had no thought of being cold throughout the winter.
Maren looked at the familiar surroundings as they crossed the yard
towards the scullery. Once in her young days she had been in service
here--for the sake of being nearer the home of her childhood and
Soeren. It was some years ago, that! The grandfather of the present
young farmer reigned then--a real Tartar who begrudged his servant
both food and sleep. But he made money! The old farmer, who died
about the same time as Soeren, was young then, and went with stocking
feet under the servants' windows! He and Soeren cared nought for each
other! Maren had not been here since--Soeren would not allow it. And
he himself never set foot inside, since that dreary visit about
Soerine. A promise was a promise.
But now it was _so_ long ago, and two hundred crowns could not last
forever. Soeren was dead, and Maren saw things differently in her old
days. Cold and hardship raised her passion, as never before, against
those sitting sheltered inside, who had no need to go hunting about
like a dog in all weathers, and against those who for a short-lived
joy threw years of heavy burden on poor old shoulders. Why had she
waited so long in presenting his offspring to the farmer? Perhaps
they were longing for it. And why should not the little one have her
own way? Perhaps it was the will of Providence, speaking through
her, in her obstinate desire to enter her father's house.
All the same, Maren's conscience was not quite clear while standing
with Ditte beside her, waiting for some one to come. The farmer
apparently was out, and for that she was thankful. She could hear
the servant milking in the shed, they would hardly have a man at
this time of the year.
The cracked millstone still lay in front of the door, and in the
middle of the floor was a large flat tombstone with ornaments in the
corners, the inscription quite worn away.
A young woman came from the inner rooms. Maren had not seen her
before. She was better dressed than the young wives of the
neighborhood, and had a kind face and gentle manners. She asked them
into the living room, took off their shawls, which she hung by the
fire to dry. She then made them sit down and gave them food and
drink, speaking kindly to them all the while; to Ditte in
particular, which softened Maren's heart.
"And where do you come from?" asked she, seating herself beside
them.
"Ay, where do folk come from?" answered Maren mumblingly. "Where's
there room for poor people like us? Some have plenty--and for all
that go where they have no right to be; others the Lord's given
naught but a corner in the churchyard. But you don't belong to these
parts, since you ask."
No, the young woman came from Falster; her voice grew tender as she
spoke of her birthplace.
"Is't far from here?" said Maren, glancing at her.
"Yes, it takes a whole day by train and by coach, and from the town
too!"
"Has it come to that, that the men of the Sand farm must travel by
train to find wives for themselves? But the hamlet is good enough
for sweethearts."
The young woman looked uncertainly at her. "We met each other at the
Continuation School," said she.
"Well, well, has he been to Continuation School too? Ay, 'tis fine
all must be nowadays. Anyway, 'twas time he got settled."
The young woman flushed. "You speak so strangely," said she.
"Belike you'll tell me how an old wife should speak? 'Tis strange
indeed that a father sits sheltered at home while his little one
runs barefoot and begs."
"What do you mean?" whispered the young woman anxiously!
"What the Lord and every one knows, but no-one's told you. Look you
at the child _there_--faces don't tell lies, she's the image of her
father. If all was fair, 'twould be my daughter sitting here in your
stead--ay, and no hunger and cold for me."
As she spoke, Maren sucked a ham bone. She had no teeth, and the fat
ran down over her chin and hands.
The young woman took out her handkerchief. "Let me help you,
mother," said she, gently drying her face. She was white to the
lips, and her hands shook.
Maren allowed herself to be cared for. Her sunken mouth was set and
hard. Suddenly she grasped the young woman by the hips with her
earth-stained hands. "'Tis light and pure!" she mumbled, making
signs over her. "In childbirth 'twill go badly with you." The woman
swayed in her hands and fell to the ground without a sound; little
Ditte began to scream.
Maren was so terrified by the consequence of her act, that she never
thought of offering help. She tore down the shawls from the fire and
ran out, dragging the child after her. It was not until they reached
the last house in the hamlet, the lifeboat shed, that she stopped to
wrap themselves up.
Ditte still shook. "Did you kill her?" asked she.
The old woman started, alarmed at the word. "Nay, but of course not.
'Tis nothing to prate about: come along home," said she harshly,
pushing the child. Ditte was unaccustomed to be spoken to in this
manner, and she hurried along.
The house was cold as they entered it, and Maren put the little one
straight to bed. Then having gathered sticks for the fire, she put
on water for the coffee, talking to herself all the while. "Ugh,
just so; but who's to blame? The innocent must suffer, to make the
guilty speak."
"What did you say, Granny?" asked Ditte from the alcove.
"'Twas only I'm thinking your father'll soon find his way down here
after this."
A trap came hurrying through the dark and stopped outside. In burst
the owner of the Sand farm. There was no good in store for them; his
face was red with anger and he started abusing them almost before he
got inside the door. Maren had her head well wrapped up against the
cold, and pretended to hear nothing. "Well, well, you're a sight for
sore eyes," said she, smilingly inviting him in.
"Don't suppose that I've come to make a fuss of you, you crafty old
hag!" stormed Anders Olsen in his thin cracked voice. "No, I've come
to fetch you, I have, and that at once. So you'd better come!"
seizing her by the arm.
Maren wrenched herself out of his grasp. "What's wrong with you?"
asked she, staring at him in amazement.
"Wrong with me?--you dare to ask that, you old witch, you. Haven't
you been up to the farm this afternoon--dragging the brat with you?
though you were bought and paid to keep off the premises. Made
trouble you have, you old hag, and bewitched my wife, so she's dazed
with pain. But I'll drag you to justice and have you burned at the
stake, you old devil!" He foamed at the mouth and shook his clenched
fist in her face.
"So you order folks to be burnt, do you?" said Maren scornfully.
"Then you'd best light up and stoke up for yourself as well.
Seemingly you've taken more on your back than you can carry."
"What do you mean by that?" hissed the farmer, gesticulating, as if
prepared at any moment to pounce upon Maren and drag her to the
trap. "Maybe it's a lie, that you've been to the farm and scared my
wife?" He went threateningly round her, but without touching her.
"What have you to do with my back?" shouted he loudly, with fear in
his eyes. "D'you want to bewitch me too, what?"
"'Tis nothing with your back I've to do, or yourself either. But all
can see that the miser's cake'll be eaten, ay, even by crow and
raven if need be. Keep your strength for your young wife--you might
overstrain yourself on an old witch like me. And where'd she be
then, eh?"
Anders Olsen had come with the intention of throwing the old witch
into the trap and taking her home with him--by fair means or
foul--so that she could undo her magic on the spot. And there he sat
on the woodbox, his cap between his hands, a pitiful sight. Maren
had judged him aright, there was nothing manly about him, he fought
with words instead of fists. The men of the Sand farm were a poor
breed, petty and grasping. This one was already bald, the muscles of
his neck stood sharply out, and his mouth was like a tightly shut
purse. It was no enviable position to be his wife; the miser was
already uppermost in him! Already he was shivering with cold down
his back--having forgotten his fear for his wife in his thought for
himself.
Maren put a cup of coffee on the kitchen table, then sat down
herself on the steps leading to the attic with a cracked cup
between her fingers. "Just you drink it up," said she, as he
hesitated--"there's no-one here that'll harm you and yours."
"But you've been home and made mischief," he mumbled, stretching
out his hand for the cup; he seemed equally afraid of drinking or
leaving the coffee.
"We've been at the farm we two, 'tis true enough. The bad storm
drove us in, 'twas sore against our will." Maren spoke placidly and
with forbearance. "And as to your wife, belike it made her ill, and
couldn't bear to hear what a man she's got. A kind and good woman
she is--miles too good for you. She gave us nought but the best,
while you're just longing to burn us. Ay, ay, 'twould be plenty warm
enough then! For here 'tis cold, and there's no-one to bring a load
of peat to the house."
"Maybe you'd like _me_ to bring you a load?" snapped the farmer,
closing his mouth like a trap.
"The child's yours for all that; she's cold and hungry, work as I
may."
"Well, she was paid for once and for all."
"Ay, 'twas easy enough for you! Let your own offspring want; 'tis
the only child, we'll hope, the Lord'll trust you with."
The farmer started, as if awakened to his senses. "Cast off your
spell from my wife!" he shouted, striking the table with his hands.
"I've nought against your wife. But just you see, if the Lord'll put
a child in your care. 'Tis not likely to me."
"You leave the Lord alone--and cast off the spell," he whispered
hoarsely, making for the old woman, "or I'll throttle you, old witch
that you are." He was gray in the face, and his thin, crooked
fingers clutched the air.
"Have a care, your own child lies abed and can hear you." Maren
pushed open the door to the inner room. "D'you hear that, Ditte,
your father's going to throttle me."
Anders Olsen turned away from her and went towards the door. He
stood a moment fumbling with the door handle, as if not knowing what
he did; then came back, and sank down on the woodbox, gazing at the
clay floor. He looked uncommonly old and had always done so ever
since his childhood, it was said people of the Sand farm were always
born toothless.
Maren came and placed herself in front of him. "Maybe you're
thinking of the son your wife should bear? And maybe seeing him
already running by your side in the fields, just like a little foal,
and learning to hold the plow. Ay! many a one's no son to save for,
but enjoys putting by for all that. And often 'tis a close-fisted
father has a spendthrift son; belike 'tis the Lord punishing them
for their greedy ways. You may fight on till you break up--like many
another one. Or sell the farm to strangers, when there's no more
work in you--and shift in to the town to a fine little house! For
folks with money there's many a way!"
The farmer lifted his head. "Cast off your spell from my wife," he
said beseechingly, "and I'll make it worth your while."
"On the Sand farm we'll never set foot again, neither me nor the
child. But you can send your wife down here--'tis no harm she'll
come to, but don't forget if good's to come of it, on a load of peat
she must ride!"
Early next morning the pretty young wife from the Sand farm, could
be seen driving through the hamlet seated on top of a swinging
cartload of peat. Apparently the farmer did not care to be seen with
his wife like this, for he himself was not there; a lad drove the
cart. Many wondered where they were going, and with their faces
against the window-panes watched them pass. From one or another hut,
with no outlook, a woman would come throwing a shawl over her head
as she hurried towards the Naze. As the lad carried the peat into
Maren's woodshed, and the farmer's wife unpacked eggs, ham, cakes,
butter and many other good things on the table in the little sitting
room, they came streaming past, staring through the window--visiting
the people in the other part of the house with one or other foolish
excuse. Maren knew quite well why they came, but it did not worry
her any longer. She was accustomed to people keeping an eye on her
and using her neighbors as a spying ground.
A few days afterwards the news ran round the neighborhood that the
farmer had begun to take notice of his illegitimate child--not
altogether with a good will perhaps. Maren was supposed to have had
a hand in the arrangement. No-one understood her long patience with
him; especially as she had right on her side. But now it would seem
she had tired of it and had begun casting spells over the farmer's
young wife--first charmed a child into her, and then away again,
according to her will. Some declared Ditte was used for this
purpose--by conjuring her backwards, right back to her unborn days,
so that the child was obliged to seek a mother, and it was because
of this she never grew properly. Ditte was extraordinarily small for
her age, for all she was never really ill. Probably she was not
allowed to grow as she should do, or she would be too big to will
away to nothing.
There was much to be said both for and against having such as wise
Maren in the district. That she was a witch was well known; but as
they went she was in the main a good woman. She never used her
talents in the service of the Devil, that is as far as any one
knew--and she was kind to the poor; curing many a one without taking
payment for it. And as to the farmer of the Sand farm, he only got
what he deserved.
Maren's fame was established after this. People have short memories,
when it is to their own advantage, and Anders Olsen was seldom
generous to them. There would be long intervals in between his
visits, then suddenly he would take to coming often. The men of the
Sand farm had always been plagued by witchcraft. They might be
working in the fields, and bending down to pick up a stone or a
weed, when all of a sudden some unseen deviltry would strike them
with such excruciating pains in the back, that they could not
straighten themselves, and had to crawl home on all fours. There
they would lie groaning for weeks, suffering greatly from doing
nothing, and treated by cupping, leeches and good advice, till one
day the pain would disappear as quickly as it had come. They
themselves put it down to the evil eye of women, who perhaps felt
themselves ignored and took their revenge in this mean fashion;
others thought it was a punishment from Heaven for having too fat a
back. At all events this was their weak spot, and whenever the
farmer felt a twinge of pain in his back he would hurry to
propitiate wise Maren.
This was not sufficient to live on, but her fame increased, and with
it her circle of patients.
Maren herself never understood why she had become so famous; but she
accepted the fact as it was, and turned it to the best account she
could. She took up one thing or another of what she remembered from
her childhood of her mother's good advice--and left the rest to look
after itself; generally she was guided by circumstances as to what
to say and do.
Maren had heard so often that she was a witch, and occasionally
believed it herself. Other times she would marvel at people's
stupidity. But she always thought with a sigh of the days when Soeren
still lived and she was nothing more than his "blockhead"--those
were happy days.
Now she was lonely. Soeren lay under the ground, and every one else
avoided her like the plague, when they did not require her services.
Others met and enjoyed a gossip, but no one thought of running in to
Maren for a cup of coffee. Even her neighbors kept themselves
carefully away, though they often required a helping hand and got it
too. She had but one living friend, who looked to her with
confidence and who was not afraid of her--Ditte.
It was a sad and sorry task to be a wise woman--only more so as it
was not her own choice; but it gave her a livelihood.