Wild-reindeer stalking is hardly so exciting a sport as the evening’s
verandah talk in Norroway hotels would lead the trustful traveller to
suppose. Under the charge of your guide, a very young man with the
dreamy, wistful eyes of those who live in valleys, you leave the
farmstead early in the forenoon, arriving towards twilight at the
desolate hut which, for so long as you remain upon the uplands, will be
your somewhat cheerless headquarters.
Next morning, in the chill, mist-laden dawn, you rise; and, after a
breakfast of coffee and dried fish, shoulder your Remington, and step
forth silently into the raw, damp air; the guide locking the door
behind you, the key grating harshly in the rusty lock.
For hour after hour you toil over the steep, stony ground, or wind
through the pines, speaking in whispers, lest your voice reach the
quick ears of your prey, that keeps its head ever pressed against the
wind. Here and there, in the hollows of the hills lie wide fields of
snow, over which you pick your steps thoughtfully, listening to the
smothered thunder of the torrent, tunnelling its way beneath your feet,
and wondering whether the frozen arch above it be at all points as firm
as is desirable. Now and again, as in single file you walk cautiously
along some jagged ridge, you catch glimpses of the green world, three
thousand feet below you; though you gaze not long upon the view, for
your attention is chiefly directed to watching the footprints of the
guide, lest by deviating to the right or left you find yourself at one
stride back in the valley—or, to be more correct, are found there.
These things you do, and as exercise they are healthful and
invigorating. But a reindeer you never see, and unless, overcoming the
prejudices of your British-bred conscience, you care to take an
occasional pop at a fox, you had better have left your rifle at the
hut, and, instead, have brought a stick which would have been helpful.
Notwithstanding which the guide continues sanguine, and in broken
English, helped out by stirring gesture, tells of the terrible
slaughter generally done by sportsmen under his superintendence, and of
the vast herds that generally infest these fields; and when you grow
sceptical upon the subject of Reins he whispers alluringly of Bears.
Once in a way you will come across a track, and will follow it
breathlessly for hours, and it will lead to a sheer precipice. Whether
the explanation is suicide, or a reprehensible tendency on the part of
the animal towards practical joking, you are left to decide for
yourself. Then, with many rough miles between you and your rest, you
abandon the chase.
But I speak from personal experience merely.
All day long we had tramped through the pitiless rain, stopping only
for an hour at noon to eat some dried venison and smoke a pipe beneath
the shelter of an overhanging cliff. Soon afterwards Michael knocked
over a ryper (a bird that will hardly take the trouble to hop out of
your way) with his gun-barrel, which incident cheered us a little; and,
later on, our flagging spirits were still further revived by the
discovery of apparently very recent deer-tracks. These we followed,
forgetful, in our eagerness, of the lengthening distance back to the
hut, of the fading daylight, of the gathering mist. The track led us
higher and higher, farther and farther into the mountains, until on the
shores of a desolate rock-bound vand it abruptly ended, and we stood
staring at one another, and the snow began to fall.
Unless in the next half-hour we could chance upon a sæter, this meant
passing the night upon the mountain. Michael and I looked at the guide;
but though, with characteristic Norwegian sturdiness, he put a bold
face upon it, we could see that in that deepening darkness he knew no
more than we did. Wasting no time on words, we made straight for the
nearest point of descent, knowing that any human habitation must be far
below us.
Down we scrambled, heedless of torn clothes and bleeding hands, the
darkness pressing closer round us. Then suddenly it became black—black
as pitch—and we could only hear each other. Another step might mean
death. We stretched out our hands, and felt each other. Why we spoke in
whispers, I do not know, but we seemed afraid of our own voices. We
agreed there was nothing for it but to stop where we were till morning,
clinging to the short grass; so we lay there side by side, for what may
have been five minutes or may have been an hour. Then, attempting to
turn, I lost my grip and rolled. I made convulsive efforts to clutch
the ground, but the incline was too steep. How far I fell I could not
say, but at last something stopped me. I felt it cautiously with my
foot: it did not yield, so I twisted myself round and touched it with
my hand. It seemed planted firmly in the earth. I passed my arm along
to the right, then to the left. I shouted with joy. It was a fence.
Rising and groping about me, I found an opening, and passed through,
and crept forward with palms outstretched until I touched the logs of a
hut; then, feeling my way round, discovered the door, and knocked.
There came no response, so I knocked louder; then pushed, and the heavy
woodwork yielded, groaning. But the darkness within was even darker
than the darkness without. The others had contrived to crawl down and
join me. Michael struck a wax vesta and held it up, and slowly the room
came out of the darkness and stood round us.
Then something rather startling happened. Giving one swift glance about
him, our guide uttered a cry, and rushed out into the night. We
followed to the door, and called after him, but only a voice came to us
out of the blackness, and the only words that we could catch, shrieked
back in terror, were: “_Sætervronen_! _Sætervronen_!” (“The woman of
the sæter”).
“Some foolish superstition about the place, I suppose,” said Michael.
“In these mountain solitudes men breed ghosts for company. Let us make
a fire. Perhaps, when he sees the light, his desire for food and
shelter may get the better of his fears.”
We felt about in the small enclosure round the house, and gathered
juniper and birch-twigs, and kindled a fire upon the open stove built
in the corner of the room. Fortunately, we had some dried reindeer and
bread in our bag, and on that and the ryper and the contents of our
flasks we supped. Afterwards, to while away the time, we made an
inspection of the strange eyrie we had lighted on.
It was an old log-built sæter. Some of these mountain farmsteads are as
old as the stone ruins of other countries. Carvings of strange beasts
and demons were upon its blackened rafters, and on the lintel, in runic
letters, ran this legend: “Hund builded me in the days of Haarfager.”
The house consisted of two large apartments. Originally, no doubt,
these had been separate dwellings standing beside one another, but they
were now connected by a long, low gallery. Most of the scanty furniture
was almost as ancient as the walls themselves, but many articles of a
comparatively recent date had been added. All was now, however, rotting
and falling into decay.
The place appeared to have been deserted suddenly by its last
occupants. Household utensils lay as they were left, rust and dirt
encrusted on them. An open book, limp and mildewed, lay face downwards
on the table, while many others were scattered about both rooms,
together with much paper, scored with faded ink. The curtains hung in
shreds about the windows; a woman’s cloak, of an antiquated fashion,
drooped from a nail behind the door. In an oak chest we found a tumbled
heap of yellow letters. They were of various dates, extending over a
period of four months; and with them, apparently intended to receive
them, lay a large envelope, inscribed with an address in London that
has since disappeared.
Strong curiosity overcoming faint scruples, we read them by the dull
glow of the burning juniper twigs, and, as we laid aside the last of
them, there rose from the depths below us a wailing cry, and all night
long it rose and died away, and rose again, and died away again;
whether born of our brain or of some human thing, God knows.