The rapidity of the descent soon brought them to the bottom of a deep hollow valley, far above the level of the sea, indeed, but low compared with the abrupt heights that surrounded it. It was one of those singular features in Norwegian scenery, a valley without an outlet; its bottom occupied by a deep, black, still lake, whose only drain—if it had any drain at all except the porous nature of the soil—was under the surface. As the ground rose rapidly on every side, it did not answer to cut timber which could never be carried, and the forest here was left in the wildest state of desolation. Solid, substantial firs, of ancient growth, were the predominant tree; but the soil was rich and the valley sheltered, and there was a plentiful sprinkling of birch and wych-elm, interspersed with a much rarer tree, the stubborn old oak himself.
Beneath this mingled canopy was a plentiful undergrowth of juniper, and enormous ferns. There was a still, calm desolateness about the whole scene, for many of the trees were dead, not by accident or disease, but from pure old age, and stood where they had withered, or reclined against the younger brethren of the forest, exhibiting their torn and ragged bark, and stretching forth their bare and leafless arms: the very rill—their lively and noisy companion hitherto—seemed to be sobered down, and to partake here of the general sadness, as it soaked its still way among the rushes and weeds that encumbered its course.
Where it ran, or rather crept, into the lake, a small marshy delta was formed of the sand carried down in its course; and here was moored an old crazy boat, half full of water, with a couple of old primitive oars; the whole had a bleached and weather-stained appearance, well in keeping with the general character of the scene. The boat belonged to a sœter some three or four miles off, on the western slope of the mountains, and was used occasionally by the inhabitants, when, at rare intervals, they amused themselves by setting lay lines for the char, for which the lake had a local celebrity. The sœter belonged to Piersen’s brother, and it was he who had induced Birger to visit the spot.
Having baled out the boat with their mess tins, they pulled out into the lake, which turned out to be very much larger than they expected to find it. The spot where the boat was moored, and which indeed looked like a small, deep, still tarn, was in fact only a bay, or inlet, and the whole lake was a body with numerous arms, none of them very large in themselves, but making a very large piece of water when taken together.
Of course it had a name; every rock, and stream, and splash of water in Norway, has a name of one sort or other; but whatever it might have been, it was unknown to the fishermen, and this dark pool was entered into their diaries by the appropriate appellation of the “Lake of the Woods.” Mountains surrounded it on every side, steep, abrupt, plunging into the deep dark water, and wooded from base to summit with a dense black mass of wood wherever tree could stand on rock. There was not beach or shore of any kind; the mountain rose from the water itself, so steep as to be scarcely accessible, and, in many places, not accessible at all. As for a bird, Avernus itself could not be more destitute of them. Not a sound was heard, except the splash of the cumbersome oar, and the creaking of the rowlock, and that sounded so loud, and so out of place in the universal stillness, that the rowers tried to dip them quietly, as if they feared to awaken the desolate echoes.
“Ah,” said Birger, in a whisper, “this is just the place for the ‘Lady of the Lake;’ I hope she will do us no harm for trespassing on her territories.”
The men looked uneasy, and a little whispering went on between Tom and Piersen, who were pulling, they resting on their oars the while, from which the drops trickled off and dripped into the silent water. Tom brightened up. “I do not think she will hurt us,” he said; “she had a very fine cake from Piersen’s family last Christmas, and she will not hurt any one while he is with us.”
“What a confounded set of gluttonous sprites you have in your country,” said the Captain; “mercenary devils they are too.”
“Hush, hush, don’t abuse them, at all events while you are on their territories. The fact is, the ‘Lady of the Lake’ is the easiest propitiated of all the sprites: she is an epicure, too, and not a glutton; she likes her cake good, but she does not care how small it is. On Christmas Eve you pick a very small hole in the ice, and put a cake by the side of it, only just big enough to go through it; and if you watch, which is not a safe thing to do if you have any sins unconfessed,[27] you may see, not the lady herself, for she is never seen, but her small white hand and arm, as she takes the offering and draws it down through the hole in the ice. Those see her best who are born on the eves of the holiest festivals.”
“That is all nonsense,” said Jacob, “I never could see her at all, often as I have looked, and I was born on Easter Eve.”