Mårbacka/Part 5, Chapter 3
In Grandmother Lagerlöf's time, when the paupers of the community were taken into families and cared for, there was an old wardswoman at Mårbacka who on winter nights used to sleep in the kitchen—though goodness knows the room was crowded enough anyhow, with the housekeeper and five maids all sleeping there! So at the first signs of summer she would betake herself to the barn-loft, where she had found a good comfortable bed in an old discarded sledge, which in bygone winters had been used for carting pig-iron from the smithies in Bergslagerna to the Kymsberg Iron Works.
There for several weeks she had slept in peace and quiet. Then, one night, she was awakened by the sledge moving. She sat bolt upright and looked round. Outside, the night was almost as light as day, but in the barn where the poor old woman lay it was pitch dark, so that she could not see anything. Thinking that she had only been dreaming, she sank back upon her pillow and was soon slumbering again.
But strange to say, she had no more than got to sleep when the sledge began to move again. This time it not only gave a little lurch but went gliding along the floor. Though it moved kind of slowly and cautiously, there was no mistaking that there was life in it.
The old woman sat up and gripped the side of the sledge with both hands. Her hair rose and her jaw fell.
"Merciful God!" she gasped, "it's crawling!"
But how in the world could such a thing happen? Could it be that an old sledge which had carried pig-iron winter after winter between Bergslagerna and Kymsberg grew restless at night, and must bestir itself a bit once in a while?
The sledge moved faster; now it went bumpety-bump over the uneven floor, and scudded across piles of hay and straw as if taking plunges into deep gulches and flights up steep hills.
"O merciful God! Merciful God!" cried the woman.
But invoking the name of the Lord did not stop the sledge; it ran right on the whole length of the barn-loft, till it struck the wall.
There it must surely stand still, she thought. But no indeed! As soon as it recovered its breath, so to speak, it began to back toward the corner where it first stood.
The wardswoman said later that if in that instant she had not guessed what was wrong with the sledge she surely would have lost her wits.
Oh, no, it was not the old Bergslag journeys haunting the pig-iron sledge—someone had "greased" it! Some witch-hag on the farm or in the district (she didn't care to mention any names, or even think them) had taken it into her head that she could ride to Blåkulla, the Witches'-kitchen, with more ease and comfort in the old sledge than on a broom-stick, an oven-rake, or a barn door. Perhaps the wicked witch did not know the wardswoman slept in the sledge. In the stress of the moment there was no time to figure on just how it had all come about. But this much was certain: the sledge wanted to be out and off, and it was she the wardswoman—it was taking to the Witches' hell instead of the right one.
Lord o' Mercy! But for the strong barn wall she would already be flying over the village toward the church.
Meanwhile the sledge kept backing. She knew well enough that that was only in order to make a fresh start to break through. Once outside, it would go shooting through the air over tree-tops and mountain ranges. She would be flying above shining lakes and rivers, without the least fear of tumbling into them; she would circle round the church steeple like a jackdaw, and fly on beyond Stor Kil and Grav parishes; but where she would land she hated to think on.
Lord o' Mercy! The sledge was rushing forward again. There was no doubt that sledge could fly if once it got out into the open; it was making for the wall at terrific speed. The old woman, positive now that the wall would give way, lay down again so as not to be scraped off in the middle when the sledge cut through the boards. This time it struck hard. Oh, what a bump! Again the wall resisted. Now, if only the sledge had the sense to see that it couldn't get anywhere, and stand still!
But don't for a moment imagine it! Once more it began to back. That sledge must have been greased with real witch-oil. If it made a third attempt it would surely succeed. Whatever would she do when she got in amongst witches and all the Hosts of Darkness! To be sure she had heard tell of such, but she had never wanted to believe in them. There is so much one would rather not believe until one has seen for oneself whether it is true.
"Merciful Lord, lead me not into temptation," she prayed. All her life she had endured poverty and contempt without a murmur. But were she now to be offered riches and power, would she be able to resist? Or, were she to learn the magic words that cure sickness in humans and animals, or the ones that make the ground yield good harvests, or those that awaken love in young folk, could she withstand the temptation to use them? Might she only be granted strength to rise above temptation and so preserve her soul unto salvation.
Just then the sledge took a third lunge. Now it tore ahead, creating a rush of wind that whizzed about her ears. She shut her eyes lest she turn giddy, for in the wink of an eyelid she knew she would be soaring high above the earth—high as the lark.
Crash! Now, surely, the wall had given way.…
But, thanks be to God! the good board wall still held; it was only the sledge that had broken down. With that, it must have lost all zest for travel. The sledge having come to a dead stop, the wardswoman managed to crawl out and drop down on a heap of straw, to rest after her perilous ride. When in the morning she told it all to the maids and it eventually came to the ears of Grandmother Lagerlöf, the latter thought it sounded a bit queer. Though Grandmother was herself a firm believer in the supernatural, there had to be some semblance of reason and probability behind it. That one could ride to Blåkulla on a light summer's night, and in a sleigh at that, was something unheard of. Grandmother, of course, went down to the barn and examined the sledge. Finding a couple of long ropes attached to it, she immediately summoned the stableboy and two or three of his companions. After questioning the boys thoroughly, she gave them a good dressing down.
This, too, was one of the Lieutenant's boy-prank yarns. There were many more up his sleeve; but when he had told this and the one about Mamselle Brorström, Fru Lagerlöf would say:
"Now that is enough for this evening. It's time for the children to say Good-night, and go to bed."