Margit Sandemo - The Ice People 15 - The East Wind

But which was it of the three? He hadn’t seen them since, because the Scanian branch of the Ice People was probably the most isolated. No scandal or any other kind of horror story had been mentioned in connection with this child, at least not yet. He was certain he would have heard about it if there had been. He hoped so, at least.

But now he had been away from home for so long. More than two years.

And how much longer would he be away? This journey kept taking him farther and farther away from his home.

He must have been on the verge of falling asleep because his body jerked when Corfitz Beck whispered, “Vendel! There’s someone in the courtyard!”

They got up without a sound and tiptoed over to the door. They opened it carefully. Luckily, to their great surprise, it opened quietly. A figure dressed in a dirty grey rubacha – the Russian shirt with embroidered bands around the collar, sleeves and waist – was kneeling by the sleeping prisoners who lay against the walls of the house. His hands were busily searching for something to steal.

As though the poor prisoners would have had anything left worth stealing!

In the starlight they quickly deduced that it was someone from the village. Their guards weren’t so poorly dressed, and they were much better equipped for the cold. They ran towards him in an attempt to stop him in his criminal actions and he turned around and spotted them. He sprang to his feet and, covering his face with his hands in order not to be recognized, ran off.

Vendel, who didn’t know whether or not he had actually managed to steal anything, ran after him. He heard the captain’s low, warning shout but then he saw that he was running behind him. No doubt to prevent Vendel from getting into a fix.

Which was exactly what Vendel did. Between the little village houses he ran right into the arms of a guard. Corfitz stopped, hesitating, a few metres away.

“Now, now,” the guard said, holding Vendel in a firm grip. “Let the poor farmer be!”

“Thief!” the boy gasped in his poor Russian.

The guard said something they didn’t understand.

He was a big Cossack and there was something dangerous about his soft voice.

“Perhaps you have something for me?” he smiled threateningly.

Vendel’s sense of humour could not be suppressed. “Da. Vosj, (Yes. Louse,)” he responded.

“What?” roared the guard with indignation. “Ja nje vosj! (I’m not a louse.)”

“No, no,” Vendel rushed to correct his mistake. “U menja tolka vsji. Pasjalusta! (I have nothing but lice. Here you go.)” He clutched his hair in an act of demonstration.

You could say what you liked about the Cossacks, but they appreciated that kind of coarse humour. Roaring with laughter, the guard clapped Vendel on the back.

“What about your shirt? Do you want to sell it?”

“Would you sell yours to me?” Vendel immediately answered as he held out a pitiful piece of his torn sleeve. He showed the tear in front of his shirt and the threadbare shoulders as well. Then the Cossack laughed a little more and let him go.

Corfitz, who had been waiting hidden in the shadows, sighed with relief. “Phew. That could have ended very badly! Well, your Russian may not be perfect, but you’ve managed to learn the most important words.”

They hurried back to the little farm, running between the houses.

The soldiers who lay outside had been woken by all the commotion and thanked them. Then the poor souls tried to get back to sleep in the biting cold night.

Corfitz gave a deep sigh when he went inside to rouse the man who was to take over his watch. The wake-up call proved unnecessary: all the men on the farm had been woken by their rescue operation.

“Thank you for your help, Vendel,” the captain said once they had found a sleeping spot.

The boy curled up in his corner. “Oh, it was nothing,” he mumbled in his drowsy voice. “I’m the one who should be thanking you.”

Captain Beck remained standing for a moment in sadness. “If we only could send word back home,” he said quietly. “So that our families knew that we’re still alive. Do you think they know that?”

“I have no idea,” Vendel murmured faintly. “But you can always hope. Someone must have told them about our surrender. About all the prisoners. Or do they only follow the fate of the king?”

“That’s probably what most people do,” Corfitz Beck answered with what for him was exceptional clear-sightedness.

There was no need to find boiled milk with vodka for Corporal Wärja the next morning. His journey ended in that small village. The men managed to collect a few coins and got some of the farm people to bury the old man. Whether it was going to be a Greek Orthodox service or the coffin was just going to be lowered in a suitable place was, at that point, completely immaterial to the old man.

Vendel, who had felt a certain responsibility for keeping the man alive, consoled himself with the thought that at least now Corporal Wärja would no longer be forced to endure the rough treatment they were constantly being subjected to by their guards.

The hardest part of the whole march for the Swedes was their arrival in Moscow. Tsar Peter had seven triumphal arches built to commemorate his victory. Karl XII’s soldiers, who were known for their skill and bravery, were forced to march through them and past the hordes of spectators who, naturally, took the opportunity to taunt them grossly. Every archway was decorated with humiliating caricatures of King Karl and his soldiers. Cannon shots boomed across the city, all the church bells chimed and never had the soldiers of Karl XII felt such a heavy sense of melancholy, shame and anger in their hearts.

This took place on 22 December 1709. That day Captain Beck was so sick that he had to lean on Vendel for support. The captain had recently contracted the plague but had just managed to recover when his lungs became infected. Vendel Grip was extremely concerned for his master. They had been through so much together and had become good friends, despite the fact that they maintained an officer–servant relationship with one another. Vendel was no longer referred to as a servant by anyone. Everyone called him Beck’s aide-de-camp, though that wasn’t what he actually was. Or “the resilient little Grip”.

After the humiliating triumphal procession the prisoners were led to the various parts of Moscow to which they had been assigned. The winter cold was very harsh now and they were all worried about finding a place to stay. Corfitz Beck was billeted in a small house with approximately forty other officers. No one chased Vendel out to the hall this time. That was partly because their opinion of him had changed, and partly because his captain was sick and who was better able to care for him than Vendel?

But their living conditions did not improve in the capital. People prowled around the neighbourhoods with the sole intention of giving those Swedish devils a good thrashing, either with their words or their fists, sometimes even with weapons. The Swedes were again forced to mount a watch at night and so had to take turns sleeping for short periods. During the long, treacherous nights they talked together of their sorrow and longings and also of their aches and pains. The latter became the most popular topic of discussion. Just like patients in a hospital ward, they discussed their stomach troubles, blisters and muscular pains; every discomfort would be described at length and in great detail. But they never mentioned anything about their hopes of returning home. Those were the kind of thoughts every man kept to himself, deep within his heart, behind his tremulous fear for the future.

Vendel nursed his master with great empathy. Though he had not inherited the healing abilities of the Ice People he still had a certain amount of knowledge about what should be done. In time, Corfitz Beck was back on his feet again, and though he was weak and worn out, he was now healthy. The tie between them had grown even stronger. Then one day one of the officers entered with an expression on his face so despondent that just looking at it struck deeper than desperation itself. He collapsed at the only table in the room, his hands covering his face.