Friendship

by Margit Sandemo

  Brand was stocky and well built just like his Dad, Are. He had broad cheeks and deep-set eyes, and nobody was really able to tell what colour they were. He was only sixteen and too young to have discovered the pleasures and purpose of women. He was also much too young to have been taken off to war.

  Klaus’ son, Jesper, had a lot in common with Brand and they enjoyed each other’s company. His flaxen hair was cut the same length all round. This was because his mum was in the habit of putting the milk basin over his head and cutting off anything that showed below the rim. He was the same age as Brand’s eldest brother, Tarjei, but they had no shared interests – although each had a friendly admiration for the other.

  Jesper was known for the simple directness of his thoughts, and his friends would often quote his favourite example of reliable, homemade wisdom: “If all the haystacks in the world were one great stack, and all the farmhands in the world were one great farmhand, and all the pitchforks in the world were really one great pitchfork – phew! What an awful lot of dust there would be!”

  There was no malice whatsoever in Jesper. He was totally unable to grasp all the evil in the world he saw around him. But of the three, Jesper was the one who spent most time watching women and girls. He looked at them whenever he got the chance, and very often as he lay awake at night surrounded by snoring soldiers reeking of sweat, he would yearn for female company. Not that he ever had the courage to talk to any of them in the way the mercenaries did. The very thought made him blush and look down at the ground. Nevertheless, he would grin shyly at the thought that one day he might catch the eye of a young girl somewhere along the way.

  Trond was an entirely different character from the other two. He’d always been impatient and quick-witted. Unlike Tarjei, he lacked the ability to put his ideas into practice. Besides, he was often ill at ease – a restless person who always found it difficult to finish what he’d started. He knew that he would inherit Linden Avenue in due course because, although Tarjei was the eldest son, he had no wish to be a farmer. He also knew that the one who was best suited for the task was his little brother, Brand.

  Trond was now seventeen and longed to be a professional soldier – and officer – because he was sure that he was cut out for such a job.

  He’d always felt that he stood in the shadow of his older brother, Tarjei, whom he’d never been able to match no matter how hard he’d tried. He didn’t like the feeling either that he was standing in the way of his younger brother. Was that why he wanted to be in command – to assert his authority? But Trond never wondered about such complicated matters. In appearance, he resembled Tarjei more than Brand but both his build and his face were smaller. His grey eyes were lively, always darting to and fro, searching for new things to try. That evening the brothers lay awake wrapped in their greatcoats, talking softly while Jesper slept soundly between them.

  “Why don’t we ever meet the enemy?” whispered Trond. “I want to fight – show what I’m capable of!”

  “I don’t,” said Brand. “I don’t want to die.”

  “Who’s talking about dying?” replied Trond, lifting himself up on one elbow. “It’s the enemy who dies, obviously.”

  “There’s nothing ‘obvious’ about that subject at all,” said Brand.

  “Aren’t we kin of the Ice People?” asked Trond. “We’re almost immortal, you know that!”

  “That’s a very sweeping statement. A few of our family have been special, that’s true. But on the whole we’re just normal.”

  Trond lay back down again. “Do you know what I think?” he asked.

  “No, what?”

  “Well, you know how the Ice People had a treasure trove of magical herbs and such – even mandrake, they say. Now that’s something worth having! And I think that if you had it all together, everything, then you could use magic on yourself to be really strong and immortal – maybe even invisible!”

  “Eer ...” Brand was skeptical “I don’t think so. But a mandrake root? Just imagine!”

  “Yes, but it doesn’t really matter – the treasure’s lost forever.”

  Brand lay silent for a long time. Then he said: “No, it isn’t. I believe I know who owns it now.”

  “What do you mean?” Trond sat suddenly up in his bed. “You think that Grandpa gave it to someone?”

  “Yes, I believe he told us all at some stage - but we were very young at the time so we didn’t really understand the deeper meaning of it all.”

  “Who was it given to?” demanded Trond.

  “Tarjei.”

  “Tarjei? What’s he supposed to do with it? He’s got enough brains not to need it.”

  Brand just shrugged his shoulders. “Didn’t Grandpa say that Tarjei was the only one who could take care of it?”

  Trond hadn’t listened to his grandfather, so he found it difficult to remember any of this. “But Tarjei is in Tübingen in the south of Germany,” he said quickly. “He can’t have carried everything with him down there! He must have hidden the things at home – and hidden them well because I’ve never caught sight of them.”

  “Yes,” said Brand thoughtfully, “he’s probably hidden them – so that little terror, Kolgrim, doesn’t get hold of them.”

  Trond turned to look at his brother’s shadowy outline in the darkness. “Sometimes, Brand, you can be quite clever! Of course, that’s what he did. Because Grandpa always insisted on staying on the side of the good, right? But I think he was wrong. It’s those that are cursed that should inherit the means to do witchcraft – like Kolgrim.”

  “Yes,” agreed Brand. “I think they were unfair to him.”

  Brand chuckled. “Wouldn’t it be fun to be invisible – and own a mandrake root! They say that they have fantastic magical power. But the best thing of all would be to be invisible. Just imagine what havoc one man could wreak in the enemy camp!”

  “You can say that again!” laughed Trond.

  They continued discussing their wild ideas about what they’d do if they were invisible.

  ***

  Long after all the other soldiers had fallen asleep, one of the two Ice People brothers remained wide awake, his mind still racing. He was thinking to himself how unfair it was that the rightful successor, Kolgrim, hadn’t been given the treasure. More bizarre thoughts and fantasies began to play around in his excited mind and he found that he couldn’t drop off to sleep at all.

  Eventually he sat up and stared at the flames of the campfire that were flickering against the night sky. His fantasies began to lead him in strange directions, to places he’d never known or visited before. They quickly grew more terrifying but also more wonderful and more alluring. They found their way down into a place of spinning blackness deep inside himself that he never could have believed existed before that night. There he heard echoing words and saw vivid images to match them: “Mandrake root! Become invisible! Find the secret supply of potions!”

  Jesper turned in his sleep, gasping for breath, his arms and legs entangled in his greatcoat. Eventually he opened his eyes sleepily, still panting for breath.

  “Are you okay, Jesper?”

  “Be careful!” Jesper hissed at him. “I saw a big cat! A very big lynx! Right where you are now.”

  “Oh, come on!”

  “I did! I swear!”

  “Did you honestly see a cat right here?”

  “Honestly...no, not a whole cat – but a pair of glowing eyes shining in the firelight. Honestly, like cats’ eyes do. And they were there, honestly, just where your eyes are. It must have been standing behind you!”

  “You repeat yourself Jesper. You were never good with words. You’ve just used the word ‘honestly’ three times in as many seconds.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake! Don’t you understand it’s dangerous! A great big animal!”

  They got up and walked around quietly together, taking ca
re not to wake the other sleeping soldiers. But they couldn’t find anything. Jesper was still worried when he lay back down and pulled his coat around him.

  “It must have been a nightmare, then,” he said in a mystified voice. “But I honestly thought ...” he stopped himself, remembering he had used that word too many times already.

  Trond spread out his coat on the ground and lay down. A slight smile played across his lips. “I knew it! I knew that I was one of the chosen ones of the Ice People,” he murmured to himself, “and Grandpa knew it, too! He looked so strangely at me that day. I’m like them! After all this time it’s wonderful to be able to acknowledge it. But this will be my secret. Nobody must know!”

  ***

  Much to his comrades’ surprise, the very next evening Trond went to see the commanding officer of his regiment, Lieutenant Colonel Kruse, and raised the subject which he’d spoken of the previous night.

  “What?” the high-ranking officer exclaimed with a mocking laugh: “Are you serious?” He was in a good mood as he’d just finished an excellent meal in the company of his fellow officers. “Who does this cheeky Norwegian lad think he is? So he wants to be an officer, eh? Well, I never! What practice have you had if I may ask?”

  “Not much, sir,” admitted Trond. “But I know that I have the necessary qualities to become a leader.”

  Good wine was flowing freely, and the officers and gentlemen all laughed heartily on hearing Trond’s calm words. They exchanged mocking remarks and laughed some more before Colonel Kruse held up one hand to quieten the jolly atmosphere.

  The amused colonel said: “You’ll be given an assignment. If it’s carried out successfully, we’ll consider your request. No, let’s make it two assignments! Will you accept the offer?”

  “Yes, Colonel,” said Trond. He was thrilled. “I accept.”

  “Excellent! We have a small band of foreign mercenaries that nobody can keep under control. Your first assignment will be to tame these characters. You’ll lead them to reconnoiter the small village south of Hamlin where scouts from the Catholic armies are said to be hiding. Get all the information you can without giving away your position to the enemy – and without letting the mercenaries rampage through the village. Do all this and you’ll be promoted to the rank of officer.”

  Trond was elated as he saluted and returned to his quarters, but Kruse’s men were observing him carefully.

  “Wasn’t that move a bit too risky and swift?” one asked as soon as Trond was out of earshot. “That young lad is still a bit wet behind the ears. He might cause a disaster, you know.”

  “Not at all!” barked Kruse. “First of all, he’ll never be able to control those unruly troops – they’ll flatten him!” Secondly, there are no Catholic scouts within many miles of us! Tilly hasn’t received marching orders!”

  The enemy of King Christian’s force was the Catholic League, supported by the Holy Roman Emperor. Their Commander-in-Chief was Duke Maximilian of Bavaria, and their most successful military leader was the austere and fanatical Catholic general, Johann Tserclaes, Count of Tilly. By 1622, Tilly had conquered the entire Pfalz region and brought it under Catholic control. In 1623, he’d defeated the Duke of Brunswick-Wolfenbuttel, and in 1624 he’d marched into Hesse. At this point, the Protestants in the north were becoming very frightened.

  Tilly boasted of three things: he’d never tasted wine, never enjoyed the favours of women and never been defeated on the battlefield. Now he was being held back, awaiting developments while he watched the progress of the Protestants and planned his strategy.

  The other great Catholic general was von Wallenstein, Duke of Friedland. He was the opposite of Tilly in every way. It had been Wallenstein’s militias, made up of mercenaries from at least ten countries, which had brutally ravaged the German states – with their leader’s blessing. Wallenstein enjoyed luxury and savagery. To satisfy his marauding hordes, he allowed them to plunder everything that lay in their path. This also made it possible for him to live extravagantly. The mercenaries adored him. Many of them, his commanders included, were Protestants but that was of no consequence to him or them. Their main interest was profit – and the opportunity to steal from the population.

  Wallenstein was a gloomy man with a piercing gaze and a mercurial temper that terrified many. Catholicism meant nothing to him. It was just a word. He trusted the stars and astrology, not God. He had no religious beliefs at all. But Wallenstein and his hordes were still too far away to pose any threat to King Christian’s Protestants. There was also a third, a younger Catholic general by the name of von Pappenheim – but it would be several years before his name would become widely known.

  The mercenaries in King Christian’s service were hardly better than Wallenstein’s militias, and among the worst were the scum that young Trond had been sent to lick into shape. They hadn’t a clue about battlefield ethics, were accompanied by a large band of camp followers, including many women and children, and only obeyed orders when it suited them. That evening when Trond entered their encampment, he was met by a few quiet jeers and insolent grins from a group of ten or twelve men.

  He’d prepared himself well for the task before him. Since he suspected that these men wouldn’t take kindly to a young outsider, he’d designed a number of emblems and badges of distinction that he’d sewn onto his colourful uniform. They meant absolutely nothing, but they certainly looked very impressive. But nothing had prepared him for the panic that welled up inside him when he saw what he’d taken on.

  To make matters worse, they spoke several different languages. Because these men were mostly Germans and Italians, Trond had brought with him a Danish-speaking interpreter, who immediately introduced Trond as His Majesty’s Emissary. None of them thought to ask why an emissary was dressed in such a colourful uniform. In those days, it was usual for armies to go to war proudly dressed in bright, almost gaudy colours. Camouflage was unknown at the time and besides it would have been considered unprincipled.

  Trond was absolutely convinced that he was a born leader – although for the time being he was the only one of that opinion. Somehow he managed to adopt a convincing air of authority and without a second’s hesitation, he pointed at a heavily built brute of a man who was fondling the girl that was sitting on his lap.

  “You!” said Trond coldly, “you’ll speak on behalf of everyone.”

  Intuitively, he’d made the right choice. Although he wore no badge of rank, this man was their leader. He pushed the girl to one side and scowled at Trond.

  “You’re a very arrogant young man, aren’t you?” he said offensively, but a slight note of uncertainty was noticeable in his voice and he didn’t make any further comment.

  This was a good sign, thought Trond. This showed that he might be able to manipulate this man and through the interpreter he explained to the group what they’d been ordered to do. As the need for a go-between would take the edge off his authority, Trond kept looking directly at the mercenary as he spoke. He dared not even blink. But before long he was proved right – he was a born leader – though perhaps only as a soldier in war because that was the life he’d longed for. The things we’re really interested in are likely to be the things we’re best at. On the other hand, back home in Linden Avenue, Trond lacked all authority because he found farm work dreadfully boring.

  So in spite of their natural reluctance, the mercenaries listened to him – partly because he had the attention of their leader and partly because his voice had the ring of authority. They also saw a look of ruthlessness in his expression.

  “We won’t tolerate any plundering,” he warned them. “We’ll do no more than ask careful questions of the local citizens, and in order to do that we must have their trust. You won’t win their trust by preying on them.”

  “No, but you’ll win trust when you put a knife to their throat!” called one of them with a smirk.

  Trond turned
at once and fixed him with a glare. “What value is there in that? Frightened people will say anything to save their lives. I want men who can ask clever questions and who have the courage to go unarmed where their enemies may be lurking.”

  These mercenary vandals, who wouldn’t normally listen to someone so young, found themselves reluctantly nodding in agreement. They had no idea who he was, but he wore the uniform of the “Red Regiment,” which was almost wholly made up of Danes. His officer’s insignia was one they didn’t know. He’d been referred to as “Emissary” and that sounded like a title to be respected – although they were puzzled that he looked so young. But as they listened, they concluded that he spoke of something that stirred the blood: a chance for action instead of marching, marching – marching all the time. That was really dull. It paralysed the mind.

  Trond quickly dismissed a couple of the men who looked as though they were hangers on, impressed by the raw strength of their comrades. This didn’t bother Trond. The remaining mercenaries looked at him with renewed respect.

  “And I want to see no women or children in this camp,” he announced. “We’re an army, not a bunch of wives on a Sunday walk! And no other civilians either. They can all go and join Wallenstein’s disorderly, good-for-nothing militia if they wish! They must leave the camp now!”

  There were murmurs of protest and dissatisfaction from all sides and the soldiers as well as the women began to grumble.

  “Are you here to fight – or are you going to turn flabby and weak in the arms of women?” he demanded. “We don’t need such men! I’ll find others!”

  He turned smartly about as he finished speaking, as if preparing to leave.

  “Now wait a minute, my eager young fellow,” called their leader as he spoke his words slowly and in a slightly threatening tone.

  Trond stopped dead, turned and said: “Good! I’m glad you’ve understood and agree.” He looked even harder at the man who’d spoken. “You’ll make sure personally that all your men are ready after breakfast tomorrow morning. If I see any civilians then, I’ll report the matter to His Majesty personally.”