Friendship

by Margit Sandemo

  “Close your mouth, Cecilie dear,” he said with a grin. “It makes you look so unintelligent. Anyway, it’s only my imagination that’s making me aware of this. You must see that? The result is the same as before – nothing.”

  “Are both the same legs?” she demanded so quickly that the words tripped over each other. “I mean: do you sense the same thing in both legs?”

  “Only the right leg.”

  “Yes, but don’t you see what that means? Had it been the same in both legs, it would have been your imagination playing tricks on you. But only one leg! That must mean something.”

  “Yes,” he replied matter-of-factly. “It means that we’ve concentrated too much on the right foot because that was where I felt the tingling.”

  “And you haven’t felt that again, have you?”

  Alexander took a gulp of his wine. “Yes!” he answered abruptly.

  Cecilie drew a breath. “And you never thought of saying anything. When was it?”

  “Once or twice, a couple of weeks ago – and last week.”

  She forced herself to stay in her seat. “Don’t you understand?”

  “Cecilie, please! Don’t raise any hopes! Neither of us can bear to be disappointed.”

  “We’ll see,” she said firmly. “As soon as you’ve finished eating, you’re to return to bed at once and we’ll begin another session of treatment.”

  But when they did she could see no difference and in her eagerness and frustration, she became heavy-handed. With too hard a grasp on his leg, she bent it back against his body. Alexander wheezed.

  “Oh!” she said, frightened. “What did I do? Where did it hurt?”

  “All over my body, you fool!” he panted. “Now leave me in peace!”

  “Right! I’m sorry, Alexander, I didn’t mean to cause you pain,” she said carefully, arranging his legs in a more comfortable position. “Is that better?”

  He nodded, saying nothing, and after making sure his call bell and other items were within reach, she left him on his own.

  But even as she got ready for bed in her own room, she couldn’t hide a sense of certainty that progress of some kind was at last being made. She slept fitfully as a result and sure enough on the very next day something truly wonderful did happen. Cecilie eagerly began another treatment in the morning, working with even greater caution and consideration. It was while she was manipulating Alexander’s toes, in exactly the same way as she’d done all year, that he let out a sudden tiny squeal of surprise.

  “What was that?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. It was as if I felt something!”

  “Where? Here?” She pressed her fingers all over his foot.

  “No, there’s nothing there.”

  She was excited but still felt mystified that she couldn’t identify anything tangible.

  “Try moving your toes again,” she said a little wearily. “Just try, please.”

  Alexander did as he was told for several minutes but without success. “Cecilie,” he panted at last, “the will is there, stronger than ever! It’s as if the leg is listening. Is it working?”

  She stared hard at his feet. “No,” she replied flatly.

  “But I think I can feel it, Cecilie!”

  Once again she examined his feet. But once again nothing moved and Alexander sighed unhappily.

  “No more today, my friend,” he said. “Let’s give it a rest.”

  She drew the bedcovers carefully back over him and left the room, feeling more puzzled than ever before. The rest of the day passed without event and that evening when she settled him for the night, she lifted the corner of the covers at the end of the bed.

  “Move your toes, Alexander,” she said, thinking how these seemed to have been the only words in her vocabulary for the past twelve months. “Don’t argue, please. Just move your toes.”

  “Alright,” he sighed.

  Cecilie stared as he said this – and drew a long, deep breath in wonder.

  “Alexander!” she squealed.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “You ... mo ... moved something!”

  “What? Are you sure?”

  “I can’t say what it was. It was just the sense of a tiny movement – like a leaf trembling on an aspen tree. It was so weak that I can’t even truly say where it was.”

  “Good God,” he prayed silently, closing his eyes. “Dear God, please don’t let her be mistaken this time!”

  But when he opened his eyes again he saw that Cecilie was already out of the room.

  “Wilhelmsen!” Her falsetto yell could be heard all through the house. “Wilhelmsen! Wilhelmsen! Come quickly!”

  Within fifteen minutes the news had spread all over the estate – and everybody was overjoyed. But in their hearts they all knew that the battle wasn’t yet won. A slight movement in his right foot, so tiny that it might almost have been imagined, was all there was to celebrate so far. The retinue of staff and farm workers had all heard of Cecilie’s strange notion that she could make Alexander’s lifeless legs work again – but most had shaken their heads in disbelief at such foolish ideas.

  But now all doubts were being brushed aside. Soon the words on everybody’s lips were: “What did I tell you?”

  Chapter 11

  In the days that followed, Alexander’s ability to feel and to make any further movement showed only the slightest signs of improvement. On several occasions, Cecilie was joined by his manservant, Wilhelmsen, and as they both worked diligently together they agreed that they did see a slight quivering now and again. Although it required a lot of concentration and persistence, neither of them had any doubts.

  They continued to work very diligently, refusing to be discouraged by the slowness of his progress. They took it in turns to exercise his legs and give him massage and sometimes worked together on these and other tasks. As a result, when the setback came, it was a huge shock to them both.

  It was Wilhelmsen who brought the first hint of it to Cecilie about ten days after Alexander’s first breakthrough. She was resting in a drawing room after her earlier exertions while Wilhelmsen worked alone with her husband after supper, and she could see immediately the signs of alarm in the manservant’s expression.

  “I’m not happy with the way your husband’s back looks this evening,” he said in a tense voice. “I think you should come and look.”

  Cecilie rose from her chair at once and went with him to the bedroom where Alexander was lying on his stomach with his head resting on his arms. A small, red blotch was clearly visible in the small of his back and although he reassured them that it wasn’t causing him any pain, Cecilie immediately began to share Wilhelmsen’s anxiety.

  “We must have have exercised you too much,” she said in a worried tone. “We won’t do anything tomorrow. You can rest.”

  “Must I?” he muttered into his entwined hands. “Is that the wisest course?”

  “Why? Are you beginning to enjoy it at last?” asked Cecilie with surprise.

  Before Alexander could say anything, Wilhelmsen said gravely: “I believe it would be wise to rest.”

  “But what if we lose what has already been won?” Alexander wondered.

  Cecilie said nothing. ‘What exactly have we won?’ she wondered dejectedly. ‘Whatever it is, it’s so small and fleeting.’

  The next day the red blotch was more noticeable, and the day after that it had become swollen. Soon Alexander was complaining that it was painful – he had an ache above his waist, he said, and the whole area was tender to the touch.

  “Dear Lord,” thought Cecilie, “what are we to do? Tarjei! If only Tarjei were here!”

  Later that day she went to her rooms, shut the door behind her and lay down on her bed. Wasn’t she a kinswoman of the Ice People, she asked herself? Hadn’t she inherited some of Sol’s skil
ls, just as Tarjei had been born with Tengel’s gift for medicine and love of his fellow man? Tengel and Sol had both been chosen ones, so would it be unthinkable if she and Tarjei had been granted even just a small crumb of their talents? Especially now when they were needed so badly. She didn’t really know what she could do to encourage any latent energies to surface in her but come what may, it seemed stupid not to try. She kept this in mind and closed her eyes, emptying her head of all other thoughts.

  Tarjei! Tarjei! Tarjei! She found her cousin’s name was going round and round inside her head. The words seemed to be forming a spiral that went down, deeper and deeper inside her as if they were falling into a dark well. After a while her consciousness seemed to leave the world about her and reach unfathomable depths within her soul where nothing existed but the desire for Tarjei to come to her. The intensity of her effort was so great that she couldn’t stop herself drifting into a dream-filled slumber. In her dreams she saw a pair of gleaming, wicked, demonic eyes and a mouth that laughed silently at her. She was certain she knew that face. Yes, she’d seen it somewhere before! Where had it been? Ah yes, it was all coming back to her now. It had been in the hallway at Linden Avenue – it was Silje’s portrait of Sol, the witch whose looks Cecilie shared. In her dream, Cecilie gazed steadily into the compelling face, and although she remained deeply asleep, a grateful smile spread slowly across her own features.

  ***

  Tarjei, meanwhile, had done all he could in the field hospital for the wounded of the battle of Lutter am Barenberge. All he wanted was to go home to Norway again and rest as much as possible. It had been two years since he’d set eyes on Linden Avenue, and he decided that Tübingen would have to wait.

  He knew without a shadow of a doubt that he didn’t have the willpower or the energy to begin studying again immediately. Besides, he’d gained so much practical experience in the field hospital that it had more than made up for the time he’d missed sitting in university lecture halls.

  Even so, he’d found it hard to set off on his journey. First of all, he needed to rest and after some consideration he began walking to the castle of Lowenstein. The temptation to recuperate in the company of friends, in luxury and abundance, proved overpowering.

  It took him two days to reach the castle. When he arrived, he beat his fist loudly against the enormous door and it was opened by a friendly watchman, who recognised him immediately, not least because Tarjei had removed the man’s painful corn last time he was there. As soon as she saw him, Cornelia began squealing with delight. He went to great pains to tell her how exhausted he felt but couldn’t free himself from her joyful, unbreakable embrace. Finally, her aunt and uncle took pity on him and hurried the girl away so that he could lie down and rest. He barely had time to admire the lively and pretty little one-year-old Marca Christiana, before he fell asleep. Later the following day he was awakened by somebody who kept whispering his name softly over and over again.

  “Tarjei! Tarjei! Are you sleeping, Tarjei?”

  “Yes,” he mumbled.

  “What a pity,” said Cornelia, giggling at her prank.

  He opened his eyes. “Good morning, my young friend!”

  “Good morning?” she chirped. “The sun’s already setting!”

  “What,” he exclaimed, sitting up. “Have I slept all through the morning and afternoon?”

  “Yes, I was thinking of pouring water into your mouth but I didn’t! That was considerate of me, wasn’t it?”

  He laughed and ruffled her hair. “My goodness, it’s lovely to see you again, Cornelia! A lovely little girl instead of big, burly men in a sea of blood and death. Dear Cornelia!”

  “I’ve said my prayers for you every evening and begged that you’d come back,” she said, taking the opportunity to give him a real hug.

  “And there I was, so absolutely certain that we’d never see each other again,” he muttered, his face crushed into her pleated dress.

  “You’re my best friend ever,” she declared emotionally.

  He pulled himself free from the pleats of her dress. “You know I can’t stay for long.”

  “But why not?” she protested. “The war’s over, isn’t it?”

  “For the time being maybe – but my mum and dad have no idea where I am. They don’t even know whether I’m dead or alive. I haven’t seen them in over two years.”

  Cornelia tried hard to produce a few tears. “I don’t want you to go, but I feel sorry for your parents.”

  “Well, that’s some progress! Cornelia, born Countess of Erbach am Breuberg, is able to think of others!”

  “Now you’re being nasty,” she said, pouting.

  “Dear Cornelia, we’re both much older now. I’m nineteen and you must be, let me see – how old are you?”

  “Nearly eleven.”

  “Exactly. And that’s why we must be wiser. I have to leave; you know I must. Can you read and write yet?”

  “Of course I can! Surely you don’t think me uneducated like those peasants and servants in our village?”

  “Listen to me, you conceited and arrogant little pup!” Tarjei warned, shaking her. “Part of me belongs to those that you speak of with such contempt. I’ll hear no more of that from you, or else our friendship will end. Is that clear?”

  This time she had no difficulty making tears run down her cheeks. “Don’t be angry with your Cornelia,” she sniffed. “Not you, Tarjei. I’ll be kind now, I promise.”

  “Good. So you can write letters?”

  “Yes,” she said, cheerful once more. “Aunt Juliana has taught me.”

  “Wonderful! Then as soon as I have somewhere to stay, I’ll write to you and then you’ll write back, right?”

  “Oh, yes! Now I’ll have a friend to write to! And you’ll have to leave soon so that you can write to me!”

  “Ah, how we’re betrayed by women,” he muttered half to himself in Norwegian. “It was always like this.”

  When he was ready to leave, the Count presented him with a horse as a gift in gratitude for all he’d done for them, and especially for saving the life of their precious Marca Christiana. Once he got started, his journey was uneventful and much easier on horseback. Before long he reached Denmark and found himself waiting in Copenhagen for a boat that would sail to Norway.

  The journey couldn’t go quickly enough for Tarjei. He began to convince himself that all his family were at home, maybe at death’s door, waiting for their lost son and heir to return. Maybe there were only hours to spare, maybe all were anxiously watching the driveway that lead up to the house for him to appear. Then he smiled at how melodramatic and self-centred he was being.

  “Utter foolishness,” he said to himself and put the fanciful ideas out of his head. But no sooner had he done so than he was overcome by a sudden and much more powerful urge to visit his cousin, Cecilie. He knew that this wasn’t an irrational idea that he’d dreamed up in his vivid imagination. It was expressing itself as a relentless and heartfelt longing.

  But the question was: Where did she live? He’d written letters to Gabrielshus but where was that situated? After making a few enquiries, he had the information he needed about the home of the well-known Marquis Alexander Paladin, whom Cecilie had married – and it wasn’t very far from Copenhagen. He wondered whether he’d have the time because he didn’t want to miss a ship that could take him to Norway. But the urge to see Cecilie grew stronger. Of course, he should visit his cousin, he thought, especially since he was so close. He’d always enjoyed Cecilie’s company, but more than that: What had become of Alexander Paladin? How was he these days? Was he still alive? Recovered a little maybe? Or still crippled and miserable?

  Tarjei had planned to spend the night at an inn near the harbour but driven by a growing sense of unease, he changed his mind and set off at once for Gabrielshus.

  ***

  Cecilie was sitting b
eside Alexander’s bed at Gabrielshus, her hands clasped tightly in prayer. She’d never been one to pester the Lord for anything, but this time she felt she had good reason to ask him to look down with compassion and mercy on Gabrielshus and Alexander, who was lying on his stomach to ease the pain in his back. His face, bright with fever, was turned towards her. His eyes were closed and his breathing was rapid and painful.

  “Cecilie,” he whispered.

  “Yes, dearest.”

  “It hurts to lie like this. Please turn me onto my back!”

  “But ...”

  “I’ve got stomach cramps. I’ve been lying like this for two days. Please do as I ask!”

  She obeyed him reluctantly. When the swollen part of his back touched the bed linen, his face twisted with a grimace of pain and he cried out softly. Then he fell silent and lay still.

  “Cecilie,” he gasped a few minutes later. “There was something I wanted to say.”

  “I’m here, my friend. Wilhelmsen went to fetch the healer. But they say that the healer is sick.”

  “Cecilie, I forgot to give you the Paladin family heirlooms. The jewels – they’re yours now. You should have had them long ago.”

  “No, they’re Ursula’s, surely?”

  He shook his head, with pain etched on his face. “She has her own. These are yours. Wilhelmsen will show you where they’re kept.”

  “Oh, Alexander, stop talking about such needless things! Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “No, thank you, Cecilie. What happens will be for the best. Both for you and me.”

  “Don’t say that!” she implored.

  “It’s true – my dearest ... it’s true.” The act of speaking was becoming more difficult for him and he was beginning to struggle to get his words out. “My life has been a misfortune from ... beginning to end.”

  “No, it hasn’t!”

  “My dear Cecilie! My mother only loved me because it served her purpose. It was for her own sake. My friend and comrade ... young Germund – do you remember? He never guessed my affection for him. And Hans Barth – well! He only stayed as long as he profited from it.”