Nataniel couldn’t go to the valley yet. After all, he was only six years old: it would be suicide, and all hope would be shattered for the clan and the whole world.
But the world knew nothing about this. The struggle of the Ice People was taking place quietly. After all, no third party could do anything; it would just have meant pulling others with them into the disaster if they sought assistance from elsewhere.
The situation was desperate for those with responsibility – the ancestors of the Ice People. Far too often during the past century, flutes had almost managed to wake Tengel the Evil from his slumber, and although Shira and the Wanderer had managed to drive him back each time, he had gathered strength from the half-played signals. He gained a little more strength each time, most noticeably the last time he had woken up. He had slowly revived by himself, even though his awakening could never be complete that way.
Something decisive must have occurred. Some person somewhere in the world must have played his tune, the cursed melody or signal that was to awaken him.
Now he had vanished. The Wanderer and his friends set about tracking him down.
From 1938 to 1939, the governments of Europe were strangely lax and idle with regard to Germany and Hitler and his party. He had been allowed to annexe Austria under the pretext that the many Germans who lived there wanted to be united with the Fatherland. The same happened with the Sudeten Germans in the part of Bohemia that belonged to Czechoslovakia.
It was true that there was some grumbling in places, and England, France and other countries were puzzled, but that was all. Perhaps knives were sharpened here and there, and a more watchful eye kept on dozing regiments. This was precisely what contributed to the wakening of Tengel the Evil in a quite unexpected and even slightly amusing way.
The signal that was to call him back to life from his slumber had to be played on a flute tuned by trolls, and it was a special and extremely peculiar tune.
However, the original flute – his own – had been lost. Shira had destroyed it after it very nearly ruined Heike. Tula had also nearly woken him up when she came across a flute, but it had not been correctly tuned. Shira had destroyed that flute too. With the help of Tengel the Evil, Ulvar had come across a flute that could have been used, but he had accidentally let it be burnt.
Then an eccentric Spaniard happened to play some bars of Tengel’s atonal melody on a concert flute, and that had been disastrous. The Ice People’s evil ancestor had woken up – somewhat sluggishly and incompletely because most of the melody was missing, but he had slipped away – and had managed to start World War I before the Wanderer forced him back into hibernation with the notes of his small flute.
That was the last the world had heard of Tengel the Evil, twenty-five years ago.
Actually, what woke him this time was slightly ridiculous.
It was supposed to be a flute, but ... well, it was a kind of flute ...
A Scottish regiment had a colonel at that time who was very fond of battles. In Hitler’s transactions he saw the chance of going to war. Taking part in high-level military discussions in Great Britain, he was eager to speed up proceedings. Obviously, this moustachioed colonel, who was such a big noise in Germany, ought to be stopped. But the rest of the council called for careful handling. A war would be disastrous for all parties.
The colonel returned to Scotland, bitter and disappointed. There he began to arm his regiment for a possible war. They would certainly turn up with sharp bayonets when required!
In his regiment there was a bagpipe player. This man, whom the others in the regiment simply called Mac, practised diligently because he was new to military music and wanted to make a good impression.
He wasn’t allowed to practise at home because his wife had forbidden it. She wasn’t quite as fond of bagpipes as he was. So he would walk out on the moor every evening and play for the grouse, the rabbits and the sunset.
He played beautifully. The music lent a special atmosphere to the open space.
On 8 March 1939, he was out as usual. The moor looked soft and endless in the dusk, and his lamenting tones sounded over the landscape.
Mac was so carried away that he began to improvise. For quite some time, he tried to produce new sounds – perhaps not as beautiful any longer – until ...
What was that?
He shuddered. He repeated the last theme. There was no meaning nor melody in it, it merely glided through the notes of an atonal scale, but ...
He heard something! Something in the wind that swept through the heather.
Was it an echo? Like an echo in the wind?
It was as if it said: “Play! Go on! Begin again, and then continue!”
Mac was filled with an incredible anxiety. It was as if a cruelty beyond any reckoning welled up from the earth around him and enveloped him.
His lips trembled as he put them to the mouthpiece of the bagpipes again. Mac was so terrified that he felt dizzy, he lost control and urine trickled wet and hot down his leg as he tried to find the same melody once more. It wasn’t so easy because it hadn’t been any particular melody, and thoughts whirled around in his head. He couldn’t concentrate. Whoever or whatever this evil entity was, it was becoming impatient and really angry. Mac must continue to play the melody. But how? Nobody could answer his question.
Something deep inside him commanded him to run away as fast as possible, but he couldn’t. He stood rooted to the spot. He was somewhat unsteady on his feet, and the wind was on his back ... or was it just cold shivers down his spine?
Mac moaned in despair as he tried to fumble his way. The evil force was furious; Mac was clearly doing the wrong thing. Then he tried to work his way back to the original theme once more, but it was gone. It had been too complicated, too vague, and he was unable to remember because he was in a panic.
The echo roared in the wind: “Play, you clumsy fool, play!”
Mac was sweating, he was terrified, tears were rolling down his cheeks. Only pathetic, chaotically confusing sounds came from the bagpipes.
An immense, inhuman power threw him to the ground. The blow was so hard that Mac lost consciousness.
When he awoke, he remembered nothing of what had happened.
But Tengel the Evil was awake. He was gathering strength in his den deep in the Postojna Cave in Yugoslavia.
That so-and-so, who had played snatches of his wake-up signal! And on quite the wrong instrument at that! Why couldn’t he have used a flute, when that was the correct procedure? Idiot! All humans were idiots!
Why, oh, why, could nobody do it properly? Now he was half awake, better than the last time, but not enough. He still couldn’t seize control of the world.
Or could he?
Surely he could do something?
His well-developed senses felt their way.
The Ice People?
His thoughts drifted to Linden Avenue.
Everything was calm there. He could feel Benedikte’s presence, but she was old and stupidly good. He didn’t need to trouble himself with her. But ...
He tried to sniff the air. There was something new. A new stricken member? Or ... several?