Some seventy uniformed men rode out of the spruce forest into open meadow. Rode stoically but not glumly, their formation casual. For three days a cold and ceaseless rain had fallen, streaming from their horses’ flanks. The men’s sky blue cloaks were dulled by water and slate-colored sky.

These troops were legend, hand-picked by their commander, Peter Longström. The originals had begun as reckless youths raiding into Russia, and were still young in body, if old in experience; those accepted later, as replacements, were basically the same sort of men. They were not an organic part of any regiment. Their unorthodox king, long delighted by their exploits, had named them a “free company,” attached to army command as a prototype commando force. And being Finns, he’d assigned them to the Finnish army of Lieutenant General Karl Gustaf Armfelt, an army now being bolstered by Swedish units for the invasion of Norwegian Trøndelag, and the capture of Trondheim, capital of the old Viking Norway.

Among the bundles their pack horses carried were farmer clothes.

The land through which they rode was new to them—the upper valley of Sweden’s Indal River, which flowed cold as ice from the great mountain bogs and late-lying snows along the Norwegian border. A flow swollen now by rain which was almost as cold as the snow-melt.

For miles the forested valley bottom had been interrupted here and there by openings, mostly small, each with its farm or farms, each steading a cluster of log buildings—a dwelling or dwellings, barn, stable, sheds—a landscape much like Finland, except for the mountains, hidden now by clouds.

Captain Longström’s gaze took in the meadow they’d entered, and the cattle grazing it. The herd, he judged, numbered more than a hundred, more than a dozen back-country farmers would own; more than the long slender meadow could sustain for more than a few weeks. The last several meadows they’d come to had been similarly stocked. Army cattle, beyond a doubt.

The meadow stretched most of a mile, to where he could see the lower fort, on a point jutting into the river, embattled by the swollen current. The upper fort was still screened by the woods, but it was, he knew, on a knoll close by. Nearer he could make out a tent camp, no doubt belonging to the Swedish he'd been told were already there. Their officers were battle-hardened, but most of the soldiers had never heard a shot fired in anger.

They'll season quickly, he told himself. Some gunpowder, ball and canister, blood... He turned and spoke to his first sergeant, using his baptismal instead of his army name. "Erkki, you and I will find General Horn." Then to his deputy, "Paavo, find whoever's in charge of billeting, and arrange for quarters."

As few and scattered as the farms were, most or all would be full. But Paavo would take care of it. With a touch of their spurs, Longström and his first sergeant speeded their horses to a brisk trot, headed for the fort.

The rampart of Duved's upper fort was a stockade, with blockhouses providing bastioned corners. Enclosed by the palisade were low buildings of square-hewn logs—a headquarters building, barracks, hospital, supply storage, commissary, guard house...And dug in and heavily banked with earth, the powder magazine for the battery of six-pounders that commanded the valley and the deeply rutted road.

For years this small fort and its nearby partner had had no garrison at all. True Denmark, and thus Norway, was at war with Sweden—half of Europe was, it seemed—but both Denmark and Sweden had been too involved elsewhere to contend for this wild and remote border region. Ordinarily, when manned, Duved's two small forts would have been commanded by a major, but now a major general, Reinhold Henrik Horn, commanded there, and his responsibility was far greater than the two forts. This was the assembly area of Lieutenant General Karl Gustaf Armfelt's invasion army, and until Armfelt arrived, Horn was in charge of preparing the area as the army's base.

His aide stepped into Horn's office. "Herr general," he said, "Captain Peter Longström is here to see you." He made the announcement in a subdued, almost unbelieving voice. Horn heard it with a frown not of disbelief but of "what?" Both knew of Longström by reputation, but General Armfelt's almost daily messages, couriered from Gävle, hadn't mentioned Longström at all.

It occurred to Horn that if he was Armfelt, planning to use Longström's company, he'd keep it quiet too. And Longström's arrival might explain Armfelt's order to have several dependable, able-bodied guides available. If possible, men who spoke the Trøndelag dialect like a native. "Bring him in, Månsson," Horn said.

A minute later the aide ushered in two Finns. The man who wore a captain's collar was of ordinary height and casual bearing. The other, wearing a 1st sergeant's collar, was tall and rawboned, his demeanor hardbitten but otherwise not notably military. Both Finns saluted. "General Horn," Longström said, "General Armfelt sent me. Here are my orders." He handed Horn a sealed envelope.

Longström's Swedish was not the "singing" dialect of the age-old Swedish settlements in Finland's Österbotten. Rather, it was the palatal, atonal dialect typical of Swedish-speaking families of Finnish origin. It sounded Finnish, though the words and grammar were Swedish. Horn knew it well; as a young officer he'd served in the Finnish army, in the Karelian and Ingrian campaigns.

Opening his pen knife, he slit the envelope, then drew out and read the contents. Swedish was Armfelt's third language, and he wrote it idiosyncratically; Baltic German and Finnish were what he grew up with. (French, learned as a mercenary, was Armfelt's fourth.) But the orders were clear. The Norwegians knew an invasion was imminent, even if they didn't know the details. His Majesty was painting it as the liberation of Norway from three and a quarter centuries of Danish rule and "oppression." Meanwhile, across the border in Trøndelag, two Norwegian opinion leaders were portraying the Swedes and Finns as monsters, and playing up the horrors of a foreign army marching through the Norwegian countryside.

Longström was to abduct the two and bring them to Sweden, where they'd be locked up till the conquest was complete. He was also to provide reconnaissance services. Horn, in turn, was to support and assist the captain as necessary.

Horn laid the document on his desk and looked at the captain. The scheme was audacious, and success seemed questionable, but perhaps not for Longström. "I have four guides for you," Horn said. "One of them is not a soldier, but I have had him brought here. When would you like to take command of them?"

"Tomorrow. Today I must learn what sort of men they are. Where can I find them?"

"It would be easier to send them to you."

"I will talk to them singly, in a place they know. I'll learn more about them where they feel at ease."

Horn frowned, then nodded, and ordered his aide to have someone show the captain where to go. When his two visitors had left, the major general felt relieved. He was a firm, self-confident, battle-seasoned man, but Longström...was strange. Famously strange. And as for his first sergeant, that ugly scar on his face had come from neither saber nor bullet, he felt sure. A broken bottle was more like it.

Longström approved all four of Horn's candidate guides. Afterward he found his men. With the reluctant authorization of Colonel Glansberg, Paavo—whose army name was Poul Björnsjö— had arranged billeting for the company on a farm some distance east. "From there," Paavo said, "we can come and go without anyone noticing." The officers would stay in the farmhouse, the sergeants in the farm's combination drying-house and brewery, and the ranks in hayshed and stable, all greatly preferable to the tents the rest of the army's troops made do with.

While the farmer, his wife and children bedded down in the loft overhead, Longström ate a late supper, then talked with his junior officers and ranking sergeants. They'd already been briefed on their missions; now he would tell them about their guides. Two would guide parties reconnoitering the high country— locating enemy positions, possible ambuscades, shortcuts.... The other two, the two who'd most impressed him, would guide the abduction parties.

"All four of them will report to the supply sergeant at the upper fort right after morning prayers. Each will have his personal gear with him, dressed like a farmer, and we will be there when they arrive. See that your guide draws the supplies he needs, and a good horse. You will leave with your patrol and guide no later than midday. That will give you time to ask whatever questions you find necessary."

He looked the six men over, making brief eye contact with each. "Our success depends on our guides, so it is well to know something about them in advance." He looked at the lieutenant. "Paavo, your guide is a soldier in Jämtland's Regiment, a farmer's son from Ånn, west of here near the border. His name is Lars Olofsson Skoogh. At fifteen he left home—an eldest son—crossed the mountains to Trondheim, and went to sea on a dutchman. Among his shipmates were two Norwegians, one from Trondheim, one from near there.

"Three years later he found himself back at Trondheim, and more than ready to live ashore again. So he went with one of the Norwegians to a place called Selbu, near Trondheim. There he worked for two years for his shipmate's father, cutting and skidding timber for the English timber trade, and helping on the farm. He claims to speak the local dialect there well enough that no one will know he's not Norwegian. And—he paused, grinning—"he knows something of the troublemaker you're to capture: a freeholder named Hendrik Kittelsøn Øks, who has a large farm near a place called Stuefoss. Your guide has a serious grudge against him."

Leave it to the captain, Erkki thought. The 1st sergeant considered himself a taciturn man, but the first time they'd ever talked, Longström had learned more about him in an hour than most would in twenty years.

Longström handed the lieutenant a map, brought from Armfelt's headquarters at Gävle. "It is on this."

He turned to the two sergeants who would lead reconnaissance patrols. Their guides were local farmers whose knowledge of the country grew out of herding and hunting, and from shortcuts to Norwegian locales where jobs could sometimes be found in the mines and cutting timber. And from visiting relatives, for Jämtlanders had long intermarried across the border. "Even if they don't always get along," the captain added laughing. "Olofsson said that. You could say the same about Swedes getting along with Swedes, of course, or Finns with Finns, but it's truer across borders. These people have histories; the general told me something of that."

When Longström said "the general," he meant one man, Karl Gustaf Gustafsson Armfelt, and the others knew it. Only the king himself ranked higher in their esteem.

After the others had retired, Longström and Erkki sat by the fire to enjoy a final pipe. After a minute, Erkki spoke for the first time that evening. "And what of our guide? You may know him, but I don't."

"Our guide" because the 1st sergeant would go with his captain on the other abduction. Ensign Roström, with two squads, would remain at Duved in case need arose for their particular talents.

"Ah. Ifwar Matzon i Jerpe is a local farmer, not a soldier. Like Olofsson, he has a history. As all men do, but for this war and this mission, his is especially interesting. He doesn't look like much; my height but skinny. His mother was Norwegian, his father a Jämtlander who was killed felling a tree. So his mother took Ifwar, a small boy then, and returned to Norway, to her family's farm in Snåsa parish. He says he speaks the dialect there better than he does Jämtish. But his mother's family had it in for Swedes, including the boy. They felt their sister could have married much better, and apparently she thought so too.

"When Ifwar's grandfather died, an uncle inherited the farm, and Ifwar was treated worse than ever—like a slave, he says. He was sixteen then, so one night he put on his skis and came back to Jämtland, a long hungry trek through wild country, sleeping under the sky.

"He told me he hates the pastor in Snåsa, because the man spoke ill of Swedes even then, making Matzon's life harder than it might have been. And..." Longström paused, grinning. "That pastor is Nils Muus, the priest we are to take prisoner and bring back with us!" He chuckled. "Olofsson and Matzon, each with his personal interest in our success. It is surprising how God sometimes provides for us better than we might hope."

Erkki didn't believe in God, and wasn't at all sure his captain did. In cases like this, he preferred coincidence as an explanation. "About Olofsson—" he said, "if he has never met Kittelsøn, what is his grudge?"

Longström exhaled a perfect smoke ring and watched it rise toward the timbered ceiling. "A woman, Erkki, his shipmate's sister. He wanted to marry her, and she wanted to marry him, but a prosperous farmer and miller named Kittelsøn wanted her too, so her father ran the Swede off.

Olofsson is a hardhead in his way. You'd like him, Erkki. It's uncommon for an eldest son to run off when he stands to inherit the farm." Longström paused to dig the dottle from his soapstone pipe, then put the pipe in his pouch. He too was ready for a night's sleep. "Some of this," he went on, "I learned from his regimental sergeant major, who is also from Ånn and knew Olofsson as a child. Olofsson is frowned upon by some of his neighbors as a heathen. After he returned from Norway, he no longer attended church, and when his pastor finally bit the stob and upbraided him for it, he left again. He'd already earned a reputation as someone who preferred fur hunting to 'honest labor.' This time he strapped on his skis and went into the mountains to live with the heathen Lapps; that's what the neighbors said. They claim he took one of them to wife." The captain eyed Erkki, chuckled, and repeated himself. "You'd like him, Erkki." He grinned shrewdly. "He's another one who doesn't care for priests."

The 1st sergeant simply grunted.

It was raining, not hard but steadily, and Lars Olofsson Skoogh wore the oilskin raincoat he'd brought home with him from Norway. From Trondheim, actually. He was walking, feigning weariness and a limp, as if he'd hiked all day uphill with a blistered left heel. His horse, gun, saber, and a squad of Finns waited in the forest a furlong back. He was not, however, entirely unarmed. One hand held a five-foot birch staff, which in the hands of a well-drilled bayonetist was a serious weapon. And concealed in a pocket was a small pistol, loaded and primed. A burly farm dog hurtled raging down the road toward him, and Lars brandished his stick. The dog knew his duty, the drill, clubs, perhaps even the possibility of a gun. Turning, he trotted parallel to Lars and a little ahead, pausing every few seconds to loose a loud burst of barking: "Stranger! Stranger! Stranger!" It intensified when Lars left the road to approach the farmhouse.

The house was typical—a ground floor and loft, of squared and fitted logs. The doorposts were stout and the door thick, absorbing the sound of his stick, dulling it to a muffled knocking. The dog stood not far behind him now, growling, warning him to behave himself. A tall rawboned man opened the door, red cheeks high-lighting a sunbrowned face. Glowering, suspicious, he examined the big-shouldered stranger for a long moment. "What do you want?" he gruffed at last.

"My name is Olav Fredericksøn. I have come from Klæbu, looking for Hendrick Kittelsøn Øks."

The reply and local dialect relaxed the farmer's distrust a little. "He does not live here."

"I heard he might be hiring."

"He has been called up with his militia company. He is its captain. They are at Trondheim now."

"Damn! And I walked all the way from Klæbu! Who could I ask about work?"

"His uncle, Sveirre Eriksøn, is taking care of things for him."

The farmer began to close the door, but Lars had gotten a foot and knee in the way. The dog growled again. Lars tried meekness. "How can I find his farm?"

The initial response was a scowl, but the farmer answered, gesturing with his head. "Up the road six furlongs. There is a mill."

"Ah. Thank you." Lars removed his foot, and the door closed in his face. Turning, he left the stoop. The dog, feeling properly magisterial, escorted him away, barking again, warning him never to come back. At the road, Lars turned east up the narrow valley, in case the farmer was watching, which seemed likely. The lieutenant would be watching from the forest to the west; would bring the squad around to meet him in the forest on the other side.

Rightly, Lars knew, they should leave now—either down the valley to Trondheim or more probably back over the high fjeld to Duved. To abduct an officer from a fortified enemy town, from the midst of its garrison, seemed impossible. And the lieutenant's orders, which came from the general, had been explicit: they were not to kill Kittelsøn.

But he'd come this far, gotten this close, he'd go six furlongs farther. The lieutenant didn't need to know his true motive—to see Signe.

Kittelsøn's grist mill stood with its back against a scarp on the south side of the bankful Nea River, accessed by a sturdy timbered bridge on stone buttresses. Above the mill, a brook, a waterfall, issued from a cleft, to be captured by a sluice that disappeared into the mill. A wagon was parked there, hitched to a team of bullocks, and Lars could hear the millstone turning, rumbling like distant thunder. Sveirre Eriksøn had a customer.

Unlike the mill, the farmstead was on the north side of the river and road. Lars was still afoot, not waiting for the squad to work its way around the first farm and catch up. He preferred not to answer questions yet. Now he started toward Eriksøn's house, his feigned limp more pronounced than before. Another officious dog, less alert than the first, trotted out barking. He was larger, but older and less aggressive. Lars called to him cheerfully, but the dog barked on, its voice deep and hoarse.

This was a larger farmstead—larger house, more and larger outbuildings. Stepping onto the front stoop, Lars knocked. After a minute the latch rattled and the door opened. Even knowing who lived there, seeing Signe Andersdatter took him somehow by surprise. She paled, her fingers clutching the door's edge. For a moment he thought she might faint.

"Good day," he said. "I am Olav Fredericksøn, from Klæbu. I have come to see Hendrick Kittelsøn Øks, on business."

"I...he has been called into military service in Trondheim. You need to talk to his Uncle Sveirre, at the mill."

"Do you expect Herr Kittelsøn back soon?"

"Not so long as war hangs over us." She looked back over her shoulder. A woman in her forties had come into the entryway; now she crowded Signe aside.

"What do you want?" the woman demanded.

"I am looking for work. I was told in Klæbu that Herr Øks might be hiring timber cutters."

She frowned. "How is it you weren't called up with the militia?"

"They didn't want me. A few years ago I broke my leg, and it didn't heal right, so I can't run or ski. But I am strong, also very good with the ax."

She looked him over appraisingly. "Come back next year. Herr Øks may need you then."

He thanked her and left, walking toward the road, remembering to limp. Signe was as pretty as ever! And she cared for him, otherwise she wouldn't have paled at seeing him. He hoped she hadn't believed what he'd said about being lame now. He should have thought of that sooner; should have come up with some other excuse. Had there been a note of resentment in her voice, about the war? Toward Swedes? It seemed to him there hadn't. If they could talk again the way they had before... Did she have children now? What if one of them was his? But Kittelsøn would hardly have married her if she'd been pregnant by someone else. Or would he? She was very pretty, also tall and strong, and capable in the house and about the farm.

He'd thought before about returning and finding her, asking her to run away with him. He'd had it in mind when he'd left home again, after the trouble with Pastor Ljungblom, but been afflicted with second thoughts. What if she'd discovered she liked being Fru Øks?

Then he'd met Anta and his sons, had holed up with them through a three-day storm. When it was over, he'd helped them find and round up their reindeer, had stayed with them till April, then gone home again while the ice was still safe to travel on. They'd invited him to marry Aimi—she'd been more than willing—but...

"Olofsson! What the devil's wrong with you?"

The challenge jerked his attention. The house and mill were out of sight now, cut off by forest. Back among the trees the Finns sat their horses; he'd almost walked past them. Embarrassed, he went to them. Lieutenant Björnsjö himself had led Lars's horse, and handed him its reins. Lars swung up into the saddle.

"You looked like you were walking in your sleep! What did you learn back there? You should have waited for us. We didn't know whether you'd turned in or gone on."

"Kittelsøn is in Trondheim. He's been called up with his company."

"Who did you talk to?"

"His aunt. His uncle is looking after the place while he's gone."

"Not Kittelsøn's wife then?" The lieutenant's gaze was shrewd.

"Her too. I just had time to give her my cover name, then the older woman was there and took charge."

"Ah." The lieutenant rode easily, walking his horse. When he spoke again, it was without looking at Lars. "We left wives and sweethearts behind too. Some in Gävle, others in Finland, Heaven help them." After a long moment he continued. "At least the whore's son is in Trondheim, not out inflaming the countryside. Now take us back to Duved."

They bypassed the first farm Lars had stopped at, and backtracked up the trail they'd ridden down on from the fjeld. They camped just below timberline that evening, on a bit of shelf. It was sheltered from the worst of the wind by scrub woodland of birch and spruce. The ground was boggy, and there was no dry wood. They ate hardtack and dried beef, then slept fitfully on the ground, wrapped in blanket and cloak. At least the cold kept the mosquitoes down.

The next morning they started early. Sleeping hadn't gone well, for Lars at least, but the rain had stopped. There were breaks in the clouds, and the wind had picked up. It seemed to Lars that before the day was over it would rain again, but just now the sun shone through a gap. They were glad to see it.

When they topped a ridge, the lieutenant called a halt and surveyed the view. He already had a sense of the landscape. The fjeld was a vast tundra plateau, with mountains shouldering out of it here and there. Major, well-separated valleys like the Nea segmented it. Between the valleys, ravines carved the fjeld's humpy surface. The officer took a linen map from its well-oiled leather case, called his men around him, and unfolded it.. They knelt, sheltering it from the wind..

"All right, Olofsson," the lieutenant said, "show us where we are. I know the landmarks going west. Show me some for going east."

"We are here," Lars said, putting a finger on the place, then stood and gestured toward a high mountain. "That peak is Fongen. It's the big one we skirted coming in, the highest around here. When we pass it, I'll show you others. We'll go back the same way we came, drop down to the River En, and follow it to where it joins the Handöl."

The lieutenant nodded, refolded the map and put it away. The Handöl. There was a settlement just above where the two rivers joined. Olofsson had called it Handöl too—three or four small farms clustered on the edge of nowhere. "The mountains are better in winter," Lars was saying, "when the bogs and rivers are frozen. You can travel everywhere on skis, and there are no gnats and mosquitoes. Give it a warm sunny day, this time of year, and they can get very bad. The gnats are the worst; they get in the horses' nostrils and ears and drive them crazy. That's when you pray for wind."

"What about snowstorms and wind?"

"In stormy weather you go down in the forest, or find a dairy camp, and hole up till it blows over."

We'll be in Trondheim by winter, thought the lieutenant, billeted on some Norwegian family. Then the king will get Finland back from the Russians, and we can go home again. He looked at the thought and shook his head. Dreams like that help keep you going, but it's best not to think much about them. They can make you crazy.

He wondered if Liisa was still alive.

As a child and youth, Nils Muus had been small, and to make up for it had developed belligerence, quick fists, and a never-quit attitude. Larger boys, which meant most of them, could readily whip him, but that never cowed Nils, and made the bullies look bad. Beating him wasn't worth the trouble. In fact, Nils had become respected, and in conflicts intimidating.

As an adult, he hadn't needed belligerence to avoid being bullied, for he'd become a priest, and to attack a priest was unthinkable. It would bring the constable, and possibly a sentence to dårekisten, the madhouse. But by that time his belligerence had become as much a part of him as his skin—his bones. Normally it was on "idle," manifesting as a sort of affable overbearingness best left untested. You could sense the fire beneath.

It reached its zenith when he was a young assistant pastor in Stjørdal, walking with his senior pastor on the street by the docks. An arrogant ship's mate—from Bergen by his speech—had failed to doff his hat to them, and Assistant Pastor Muus had loosed his scathing tongue; an astonishing performance. The mate, a large powerful man, had broken beneath it, apologizing, belatedly twisting the offending cap in his large hands and begging forgiveness.

Afterward Muus had glowed, transcendent, full of himself. Until, back at the rectory, the pastor had led him into his study, and gently, privately, had recited scripture to him, about love, kindness, forgivness—and temptation. And especially the sin of pride.

"Nils," the pastor had finished, "you have been gifted by God with a great fire of the spirit, a beautiful gift you can use for good or evil. With it you can glorify God —or glorify Nils Muus. If you choose the latter, it will destroy your soul. And the way you used it today with that benighted fellow on the dock—did not glorify God."

That moment in the pastor's study was the second transcendent experience in Nils Muus's life—both in that day. Chills had coursed over him, and he'd wept in gratitude.

He'd already loved that pastor—had considered him as nearly Christ-like as a man could hope to be, though a bit soft. But this experience had given him a new perspective on softness, and he would cherish the pastor's gentle admonition as a lesson sent by God. Without having fully grasped that lesson, it had changed him. Not transformed him, but modified him, manifesting as reduced belligerence, a new fervor in the pulpit, and when it seemed appropriate, kindness.

There was more to Pastor Muus, of course, than "a great fire of the spirit." He was intelligent, an intelligence not deep but agile, and well stocked with holy writ. And over the years, the combination—fire, mental agility and holy writ—served him rather well. The mental agility had shown itself in seminary and grown with experience, moderating his never-quit attitude. He learned to compromise with authority—when he deemed it useful to God. To accept, though not embrace, what he could not change—if it didn't seem extreme. And rarely to actually change his mind.

He even gained the ability to feel a—selective compassion for sinners who felt remorse, and who at least tried to live as the Church would have them live. Or as Nils Muus put it, "as God would have them live."

He was not, however, an altogether gentle shepherd; on occasion the fire still manifested as belligerence. Thus his parishioners feared his tongue, though they seldom felt its lash, for culturally they feared not only God, but his ordained representatives on Earth. And in times of serious difficulty. they knew Pastor Muus would help, if help was possible. Thus he'd earned a large degree of, if not love, then gratitude and respect.

His peers, of course, were in a position to challenge him on issues, and thus were likelier to see and feel his fire than his parishioners were. But they never experienced it the way that ship's mate from Bergen had.

Even bishops preferred not to contend with him, and this had made "God's fire" less than an unmitigated blessing. Because neither the bishops, nor in far-off Christiania the archbishop, wanted him elevated to a bishopric. Thus despite his long service, respect and charisma, he'd risen only to dean—the senior pastor over a set of rural churches. By then his small-boned frame had grown portly, adding dignity to his bearing and softening his edge. He'd come to see his fate as God's will, and was content to be a mostly benign but occasionally loud bullfrog in a small ecclesiastical pond.

After so many years and so very many Sundays, Nils Muus could deliver a resounding sermon with little preparation. After deciding the effect wanted, and a strategy plus key points and supporting scripture, he could stand in his pulpit and let the words flow on their own, the fire at work in him. At its best it was a glowing, molten flow.

On this cold wet evening in late July, he was visiting an estate called Hyllen, with his wife and orphaned granddaughter, both of whom had gone to bed. His host at Hyllen was Herr Steinaas, a friend of many years who'd been widowed a few years earlier. Herr Steinaas enjoyed having the priest and his little family as house guests. The two old men had stayed up late over mulled wine, discussing the Swedish menace. Now, feeling the heat of inspiration, Muus sat at the small table in the guest room, in a warm robe and fur-lined slippers, with a fire in the fireplace, a bedcap on his bald head, and a mug by his hand. He didn't notice the wind-driven rain beating on his window; on Norway's coast, rain often beats on the windows. And after seventy-six years, he heard nothing as well as when he was young.

But as much as anything else, he didn't notice because he was concentrating on his next sermon. The liturgical calendar required that the theme of the service would be Faith in God, but after more than fifty years as a priest, he could fit almost any message into almost any theme. He'd already decided on the first two readings: First Kings, Chapter 20, in which King Hadad of Aram invaded Israel, where his army was destroyed by a much smaller army of Israelites under Ahab. And Mark, Chapter 9, verses 14-27, on the power of belief in God.

For Nils Muus remembered, he and others remembered, the deliberate destruction carried out in Trøndelag by the Swedes forty years earlier. But those too young to remember, which was most of them, needed reminding. Thus several times, in recent months, he'd waved word pictures in their faces, ending with his exhortation that when next the Swedes invaded, the people should cast them back "with blade and ball." It was not acceptable to say the Swedes would be no worse than the Danes. General Sparre had long since been burning in hell, but in Sweden would always be new Sparres, and new armies they could use to destroy and oppress in Trøndelag. That would not change while Sweden existed. They were lunatics there.

In the guest room in a back corner of the house, Muus could not hear the knocking at the front door, much less the shocked gasp of the servant who answered it. Frozen by the pistol pointed at his face, a gasp was the most he could muster. Standing by the gunman—a farmer by his clothes—was another farmer, who in the local dialect warned the servant to be quiet or die. But it was neither the threat nor the pistol nor being in his nightgown that paralyzed the servant's will. It was the gunman's eyes, hard, deadly, absolutely sure.

"Where is the pastor?" asked Matzon, while other men, half a dozen or more, flowed past them into the house. "It is important that we speak with him, a matter of life and death."

Again it was the gunman who inspired the servant, gesturing silently with the pistol's fifteen-inch barrel. The servant moved like a man in a spell, out of the entryway into a parlor, then down a hall, accompanied now by three intruders. They stopped outside the guest room, the servant still unable to speak.

Ifwar Matzon had no problem speaking, in an undertone now, gesturing. "Is he in there?"

A nod.

With the pistol, Longström gestured them both out of the way, turned the knob, flung the door back and strode inside. This did get the pastor's attention, and he half turned.

"Are you Pastor Muus?" Longström demanded, pointing the pistol. His cold voice was foreign but the words understandable. Wide-eyed, Muus nodded, for once in his life struck dumb. He'd never seen an unholstered pistol before, let alone one pointed in his face, and for the first time he could remember, he was deeply afraid.

"Captain." The 1st sergeant's voice was quiet, but Longström awoke instantly, his eyes opening to dull gray twilight. At 64°15' north latitude there still was no true night, even in late July. The rain had passed, and the drip from the sparse tree cover had stopped, but clouds still ruled the sky.

Stiff and cold, the captain crawled from his bed roll, thinking of the featherbed he'd enjoyed at Gävle. Here he'd cut a bed of spruce boughs to keep him off the cold and soggy ground, but boughs were not goose down. And his blankets were damp of course; worse than damp. Perhaps today the sun would come out.

Don't have expectations, Longström, he told himself; they'll bring more rain. He holstered his heavy cavalry pistol, which with his carbine and saber had spent the night with him in his blankets. Then he rolled the bedroll, assembled the rest of his gear, and laid them on and around his saddle, which sat on a nearby rock outcrop. He topped them off with the carbine before covering them with his cloak. Around him his troopers moved about in the gray dawn, preparing to leave. He could have assigned one of them to prepare and assemble his gear, but seldom did; he would not make slavies of men like these. It was enough that he did not himself gather firewood, carry water, or cook.

This morning—the morning after the abduction—there'd be no cooking, or even a fire. He'd decided that before leaving Duved. They'd eat in the saddle—dried beef and hardtack. Because this morning at Hyllen the bond boys would rise from their strawsacks in the cowshed and discover the house empty. Then they'd run and fetch the constable.

Who hopefully would not suspect raiders from Sweden. But someone on the fjeld might have seen them—twenty men on horseback, with remounts, more than you'd expect, and packhorses. And feeling concern, might have ridden or sent someone down to Snåsa to report. And when the bond boys added that the pastor was also missing, the constable or militia might put two and two together and take action. The question was how quickly and in what direction. Men could cross the border in many places, but some places, for practical reasons, were much more likely. Meanwhile he had a head start; he would not squander it.

It took only a minute to look in on his prisoners. Pastors and their wives were seldom physically active, and this pair was elderly. The trek would be hard on them, especially if the rainy weather persisted. As for the rest of the captives—none looked well suited to riding all day. Even last night's ride would have left them sore.

He found the pastor hobbling in a small circle, swinging his arms in an effort to waken and warm his old body. "Good day pastor," Longström said. "Were you able to sleep last night?"

Nils Muus stopped to peer at the man, who showed no indication of mocking him with his courteous greeting. He'd heard the others call the man captain. "I slept when my exhaustion exceeded my discomfort," he answered, then paused. "You speak Swedish, but not like a Swede. Are you a soldier of fortune?"

"No, I'm a Finn, and my country is at war. This is my life; how I live. Must live, since the Russians occupied Finland. The Russians and Cossacks and Tartars. Are you used to riding?"

A Finn. Muus had suspected as much. He'd heard them talk among themselves in some unintelligible language. Muus usually understood Swedish—it was much like Norwegian—had learned to read German and speak it haltingly, and had heard French, a graceful tongue. But the language of these soldiers was barbaric. Probably some of them did not even know Swedish.

"My hindside and legs are a little sore from last night's ride," he answered, "but with a mild and gentle horse I will survive it." Again Muus paused. "Why have you committed such an abomination on a man of God?"

A man of God? thought Longström. It is easy to claim. "Because my general ordered it," he said, "to end your rousing the Norwegian people against us.

"Ah! And why do you suppose I rouse them against you?"

Longström eyed him calmly. It might be interesting to spar with this man, but priests were slippery, and there'd be no profit in it. Still he found himself answering: "I suppose your Danish king ordered it through your bishop."

The statement stung Muus. "I do not do the bidding of any earthly king, only of God and his son." He did not pause for a reply. "Why did you take my wife? My granddaughter? My hosts and their house servants? They'd done no harm."

The captain let it pass. The priest was stalling, killing time. "We will leave in a few minutes, and eat in the saddle," he said. "If things go well, we will rest at midday." Abruptly he left to get his horse. It seemed to him the old man was doing pretty well, everything considered.

As he watched the captain leave, Nils Muus wondered at his initial fear of these soldiers. This morning they did not seem nearly so frightening. It was, he told himself, because I'd never had the muzzle of a pistol poked in my face before. He also wondered at his lack of outrage, then realized: they were not Swedes. Only ruled by Swedes. Perhaps he could make use of that.

Meanwhile I am somewhat used to them now. They do not like me, but neither is this a matter of hatred. They are soldiers following orders. Finns, at that. They know no better. As a Trønder—a man of Trøndelag—he'd grown up supposing that Finns were magicians, sorcerors, at odds with God's Law. But that belief, it occurred to him, had come down from centuries long past, when even Norwegians had been pagan. Meanwhile he must ride all day on the fjeld. And if this was God's will, as it seemed, he'd simply have to stand it.

The very tall man who'd wakened him approached him again. "We will leave soon," he said, in the same accented Swedish the captain spoke. He carried a canteen on one shoulder, and took it off now, unstoppering it. "This is yours," he said. "The captain himself filled it. Drink!"

Muus looked uncertainly at it, then took it and drank cautiously; it had been dosed with Whiskey. "It will lessen your discomfort while you ride," the man added. "I will take you to relieve yourself now. We won't stop again soon."

They walked thirty yards to a place somewhat screened by a thicket of small spruces; seemingly Finns knew modesty. The latrine was a long groove dug through the moss, and a few inches into the peaty soil. It had been visited enough, that night, to look and smell bad. At the moment two soldiers squatted astraddle of it. Grimacing, the pastor joined them, feeling seriously put upon. They didn't even glance at him. The tall man bent, pulled up two large handfuls of sphagnum moss, and dropped them by Muus's right foot before leaving.

The pastor was unable to produce anything till the two soldiers had also left. Then, after a few minutes, he too was done. He raised himself painfully and with effort, his thighs burning with exhaustion from squatting. Then he used the moss as intended, and pulled up his trousers. He was fastening them when the tall man returned.

"Is there soap for washing here?" Muus asked.

The soldier's face showed no response beyond the movement of his mouth. "At Fort Duved," he said. "Come with me.

They slogged through sodden sedges and moss, each step finding water. Muus had a rough idea of where Duved was: not close at all. "What is your name?" he asked.

"Erkki. I am the 1st sergeant."

Muus knew what a 1st sergeant was. But this was no dragoon company or cavalry troop. A detachment then, but led by the company commander and 1st sergeant. Ahead, another soldier waited for them, holding the reins of three horses. Muus thought he recognized the mare he'd ridden the night before. "1st sergeant," he said, "I wish to ride with my wife, my granddaughter, and servant. That we may keep company with one another."

"They cannot talk. They are gagged."

"Gagged? Up here?"

"We will pass near a dairy camp."

"Then why am I not gagged?"

"You will be, after you've had a chance to eat. They have eaten already. The captain may let you talk with them later, when we rest the horses." The tall Finn gestured. "Into the saddle now," he said, and made a step with his hands, a sort of low stirrup. After a moment's hesitation, Muus put his left foot in it, and with sure strength, Erkki hoisted him into the saddle. "Toivo will lead your horse," he added, then swung easily into his own saddle and rode away.

Toivo; a heathen name. The soldier too had mounted, and bending, took the pastor's hanging reins again. "Toivo," Muus asked him, "does your name have a meaning?"

"Hope," the man answered wryly. "In Finnish, Toivo means hope."

Loading the pack horses took only a few minutes. The men worked swiftly, from much repetition, and some of the loads had not been disassembled during the night. A corporal the others called Onni had brought the pastor a small packsack with his saddle rations: hardtack and salt meat. Muus ate little and quickly. The salt meat made him thirsty, and he took another swig of the whiskeyed water, swishing it around in his mouth before swallowing.

Longström spoke an order in Finnish, and it was passed down the file, then the horses set off at a walk. The trail was peaty, spongy with water. Soon they passed above the forest line, but for a while there still were scattered scrubby birches. The dusk had gradually lightened. Now Muus could see his wife and granddaughter well behind him in the somewhat strung-out file, with Herr Steinaas and his wife. The Finns had brought their side-saddles! Now there was a blessing! Clearly God was watching out for them.

The 1st sergeant dropped back and fell in close beside him. From a pocket he brought out a kerchief. "Lean toward me," he said.

Muus looked distastefully at the square of dingy linen. At home it wouldn't have been used to clean with. "Is it necessary?"

Erkki said simply, "I will take it out later. Open!"

Muus grimaced, then opened, and the Finn gagged him, not tightly enough to cause pain. Muus knew without trying that any shout he could manage would not be heard a hundred feet, and as for articulating words...

"Do not cause problems," the 1st sergeant added, "or I will tie your hands." He paused. "Do you understand that you cannot get away from us?

Muus nodded, beginning to feel angry.

"Do not try to take the cloth out yourself, or I will silence you with this." Erkki raised a knobby fist. The pastor wondered if the Finn would actually strike a priest. Perhaps, he thought grimly, he'd test the man's forebearance before the day was over.

A few miles farther, where the trail paralleled a creek, they spied a dairy camp some distance off on the other side, but saw no activity. Some two miles farther they passed one only about a hundred yards from the trail. There Longström could see two women leaving their cabin, carrying what appeared to be buckets, heading toward the cowshed. They stopped to watch the mounted men, and he lifted his wide-brimmed farmer hat, waving at them. Some of his men saw him, and waved theirs too, all without slowing. The women waved back, tentatively, perhaps uncertain at so large a band, then went on to the cowshed.

Soon afterward the party came to a narrower, less used trail that forked off southeastward. They stayed on the main trail, and before long passed into open tundra meadow. According to Longström's map, and the details Matzon had added from memory, they wouldn't pass another dairy camp till afternoon. Now Erkki rode down the line removing gags, after warning the prisoners that a shout or cry from anyone would result in all of them being gagged again, and military justice.

For Nils Muus it was a grueling day despite the thinly whiskeyed water. To the south, rugged mountains flanked the undulating plateau. The cloud cover had broken, providing intervals of sunshine that sparkled on wind-riffled tundra ponds, and high-lighted the pink of sphagnum amongst the heads of cottongrass (myrulla) bobbing in the breeze. Longström had left Corporal Pekka Roshage where the trail crossed a rise; left him with a swift horse and his captain's spyglass. From there the small wiry corporal could see their backtrail for several miles. If he saw pursuers, he was to fire his carbine as a signal, then catch up with the rest. If no pursuit appeared (and if clouds permitted), when the sun aligned itself with a certain mountain, he was to follow the others anyway.

A mile and a half southeast of Pekka's outlook, the party stopped. The chill breeze had suppressed the gnats and mosquitoes. The soldiers picketed the horses, removed the bits from their mouths, then spread blankets and cloaks to dry on banks of low shrubs. While the soldiers were doing that, the prisoners gathered together, asking each other how they felt. The 1st sergeant started over,and Muus wondered if he was going to disperse them, but all he said was,

"How are you doing, Pastor?"

"I will survive, Sergeant," Muus answered, then changed the subject. "I find Finnish names interesting. One of your men told me his name is Onni. What does Onni mean in your language?"

Erkki turned unexpressive eyes to him. "Onni—means good fortune," he said.

Everyone lay in the sun for a long break, their saddles serving as pillows. They'd been there less than an hour when Pekka's carbine sounded in the distance. Pastor Muus didn't hear it, but he saw the Finns jump to their feet, and his heart leaped! Rescue was coming! The 1st sergeant rousted the captives from their rest. Still damp bedrolls were hastily packed, mounts saddled, pack horses loaded, all more quickly than seemed possible. Troopers swung into their saddles, checked carbines and pistols. Pekka arrived at a trot. He estimated the pursuers' number at forty or fifty; they were about four miles behind, and it was doubtful they'd seen him. Other troopers rode up, leading the captives' mounts.

Toivo gripped the old priest hard by an arm, then made a stirrup of his hands. "Into the saddle! Now!" Muus could no more resist than fly. He mounted nearly weeping, frustrated at his weakness. And it was Toivo, not himself, who held his reins, as the whole party, troopers and captives, trotted southeastward down the trail again.

Now the moisture that threatened to spill from Muus's eyes was from pain; trotting was much worse than the horse's rolling walk had been. He began silently to pray, not for delivery from his pain, but that his wife and granddaughter might come through this alive, and that none might fall from their horses and be trampled.

Soon Longström slowed again. Their horses hadn't tasted grain for weeks, had begun the day worn out. For days he'd known the country only by map and his guide; only the road from Duved to Åre had been familiar. From Åre they'd ridden two long rain-drenched days northward and westward on forest trails to the upper end of Karl's Lake, then crossed the rugged massif called Skäckerfjällen in a single terrible day on slippery slopes. Even today's trail, east from Snåsa, was different than the one they'd ridden west on. But now—now he came to something he knew; a stack of three rocks; a cairn he'd raised with his own hands to mark the trail they'd ridden north on from Skäckerfjällen.

From here his plan had been to take the same route back, circumstances permitting. But burdened as he was with captives, it was time for guile instead of stamina. He'd intended all along to abandon most of his captives. Even the pastor's wife and granddaughter could be left behind if necessary, but it seemed to Longström the old man would be more manageable with them along.

For a little while now the trail was familiar. It took them angling gradually downward along a slope sparsely wooded with birch and scattered spruce. Downhill to the south, near a brawling creek, he could see another dairy camp. Thin smoke rose from its chimney to disperse on the breeze.

He ordered a halt. "Erkki!" he barked—in Swedish so the Norwegians would hear and know—"send the captives down to the dairy camp! All but the priest and his womenfolk!"

"Send my wife and granddaughter, too!" Muus called out, almost desperately. The 1st sergeant ignored the old man. Pointing, he barked orders in Swedish, and the farm folk dismounted. "God save you, Pastor Muus," Steinaas called. Muus looked back at him, but too emotional to trust his voice, only raised a hand in blessing. Then the captain ordered the party on, at the trot again, while the released Norwegians watched them ride away.

Longström, with Matzon by his side, soon slowed to a walk again. Here the trail curved northward, and would soon swing northwest, looping back to Snåsa. Ifwar soon abandoned it for a lesser trail that led briefly eastward along a wooded sideslope. They heard cowbells clanking to the south, but saw neither cows nor herd girl. They were, Longström knew, out of Norway now, or very nearly, but the boundary would mean little to their pursuers, and he was still far closer to Snåsa than to Duved. After a bit they slanted down through soggy spruce forest, then along the side of a draw in whose bottom a creek picked its noisy way. Occasionally a horse slipped in the mud, and someone cursed in Finnish.At length they came out at the westernmost tip of a large lake, Torrön, an odd name for a lake. Longström knew it from his map. And where the creek flowed into the lake, the map also showed a fishing camp, but Matzon didn't know whether it was still used. The two buildings seemed in decent repair. Longström called in Finnish: "Dismount the captives. Tie their wrists, including the granddaughter's but not the older woman's. Then sit them down. I don't want any of them running into the forest. We have no time for such nonsense. Meanwhile listen.

"Sulo, you and Timo examine the boathouse and cabin. See if the boats are fit to use. Quickly!" Then he began to brief the rest of his troopers on what he wanted them to do.

Fifteen minutes later, most of the Finns had ridden their horses into the icy lake, and were picking their way along the south shore in belly deep water. Erkki was in the lead, with Ifwar Matzon at his side, and with them went all the horses. Where trees had fallen into the water, they'd have to bypass them, and if that meant swimming... Hopefully not, though, for swimming would require cutting loose the pack saddles. That was all they had time for. Somewhere far enough down the shore that Norwegian pursuers wouldn't see their tracks, the 1st sergeant was to lead them out of the water and into the dense forest. From there they'd find their way up the north slope of Skäckerfjällen, down the far side to Anjala Lake, and thence by known trails to Duved.

This left eight Finns at the fishing camp, plus the pastor, his wife, and the granddaughter, who might be fourteen years old. And two fishing boats. Sulo and Timo had grown up in families who made much of their living fishing for salmon. They'd lived with boats, and agreed these were sound. They'd dried out enough, in the boat shed, that put in the water, they'd leak a bit, but the boards would quickly swell, and soon be tight again.

Now they boarded. With everyone in place, both boats rode low in the water, the pastor in one, his wife and granddaughter in the other, and four Finns in each. Longström pushed off from the crude dock, and one of the others shoved with an oar before seating it between thole pins. The other boat followed suit, Sulo in charge, and they pulled away from the shore, each rowed by two Finns.

By then the Finns on horseback were a furlong up the shore, and Erkki was just riding out of the water into the forest, the others following.

As Sulo and Timo had predicted, the two boats leaked, but not seriously. The oarsmen pulled strongly, continuing for some two furlongs—a quarter mile. By then the last of Erkki's packstring had emerged from the icy water and disappeared into dense forest. Good, Longström thought. They should be all right.

"Far enough for now," he called in Finnish, and both sets of oarsmen stopped. When their pursuers reached the camp, they'd be able to see the boats but not examine their occupants. Muus, not understanding what was said, or Longström's intentions, wondered if he and his family would die there that night, but didn't ask. Meanwhile the fair northwest breeze tended to push them slowly on, while Longström peered toward the dock. The aft oarsmen dipped their oars repeatedly, to more or less hold position. After five or ten more minutes, Longström spoke, pointing. "Row now. I see the first of them. They must see us, too."

Pastor Muus peered in that direcction, but his astigmatic eyes couldn't find his would-be rescuers. The oarsmen bent their backs to the job, and deeply though the boats rode, the boathouse was soon out of sight.

Out of sight of their pursuers, the oarsmen eased off. Their palms, arms and backs were long unused to rowing, and Torrön was fifteen miles long. The Finns had donned their cavalry gloves, to protect their palms from blistering, and from time to time they changed off at the oars, the captain taking his turns like the others.

The boats stayed close enough together that Pastor Muus could easily call to his wife and granddaughter, but he did so only once, early on: "Take heart, jente mi!" he called. "You too, søte lille! We are in God's loving care."

Fru Muus had looked up from her thoughts, her answer a wan smile, a weak wave. She was utterly exhausted, and grateful to be off a horse. Anne Marie's smile had been tentative but not so tired. It was she who called back to him: "We'll be all right, grandfather."

After an hour, Longström called a break, where a wave-smoothed ledge of dark rock shelved down to the lake's north edge. There they made a fire and cooked porridge: beef and peas, thickened with hardtack. But they did not make camp. Longström doubted their pursuers were following, for he'd seen no sign of a trail along either shore. But still he took no chance. It would be disastrous if they were caught on the portages shown on the map, for passage to Juvuln Lake.

Before the break, Longström had sat in the bow, when not at the forward oars. But when they set out again, he rode in the stern, with the pastor. Behind them, to the northwest, the evening sun rode low above the plateau.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

"I'm all right," Muus said. "My sitter is sore, but not as bad as it was, and it was good to have warm food." He peered at the captain's face. "You have treated us decently, under circumstances dangerous to you."

"We are not savages, pastor. Only soldiers."

"Are you out of harm's way now?"

"That depends on our pursuers. I suspect they have given up, but I will not depend on it."

"What of your men we left behind?"

"We must wait and see." Longström left it at that. If the Norwegians did indeed catch him at the portages, it wouldn't do to have his misdirection explained to them by Muus.

For a while then, neither man spoke. It was the pastor who broke the silence. "What if they haven't given up? Your pursuers. What if they catch us somewhere? Will you kill us then?"

Longström looked at the old-man face, meeting the eyes calmly. "General Armfelt would be most unhappy with me if we did. If there is shooting, my men have orders to let you be. You should then lie down behind trees or rocks, and wait till the shooting stops." His gaze became more serious. "But when men shoot at each other, bystanders may be hit unintentionally."

The way the captain phrased "unintentionally" didn't at once connect for Muus, but after a moment he realized what was meant, and nodded. These indeed were not savages. "Is your general a Finn then?"

"An Ingrian, but of Swedish lineage, I've heard. Sometimes, though, he speaks with me in Finnish. Near the end of things in Finland, he commanded the defense there. He took part in person in some of the more dangerous fighting; early as a battalion officer in Ingria and Karelia, and later in command of the army. Especially at Isokyrjö," he added, using its Finnish name. "He is known for his personal bravery, and his—concern for his men."

Muus nodded, indicating he'd heard, but for a while said nothing more. Ahead on their left, a moose came down to the lake, saw the boats and for a long moment stood watching, then abruptly turned and disappeared into the dense forest. The pastor had never seen one alive before.

"Did you see it, Grampa?" Anne Marie called. "Did you see it?"

"I saw it," he called back.

"Wasn't it beautiful?"

He wasn't sure if beautiful was the word. "Yes it was," he answered. "It is one of God's creatures."

The girl's bright voice stilled then, her eyes roaming the shores, leaving silence in charge until Longström spoke.

"Have you ever eaten moose meat, pastor?"

"Oh yes. Parishioners sometimes pay their tithes with wild meat." It seemed to Muus these Finns would know the flavor well. They didn't seem the sort of men who spent their lives in study and contemplation. "How did you become an officer in the Swedish army?"

Longström smiled wryly. "The Finnish army. When I was eighteen, Russia and Saxony and Poland and Denmark all attacked Sweden. Russian armies were at our doorstep. So with many others, I left the university and joined the army, and in due time became an officer."

Muus stared. The university! He wondered what "in due time" encompassed. "So you are of good family."

"We think so. I am a Savolainen. We had a good farm; also a flour mill and sawmill."

"What is a 'Savo...' what you said?"

"A Savolainen is someone from Savo. A province."

Muus decided he'd asked the wrong question; that one led nowhere. "But you were a student, or you'd begun to be."

Longström's smile returned, wider than before. "I have always been curious, pastor. And in winter, if the weather was too poor for hunting, I fed my curiosity with my father's books; he had more than twenty of them, some Swedish, some Finnish. Then, when I was seventeen, I got in trouble with a girl, and my father sent me to Turku, to the university. At home my father spoke Swedish to the children so we would know it, and get ahead in the world. But it was at Turku I became proficient with the language. It was required.

"Ah!" It seemed to Muus he was getting somewhere now. "So the Swedes require that Finns become Swedes to prosper."

Longström didn't answer directly. "The Church was Finnish," he said, "except where the people were Swedish, and the children taught to read their mother tongue. In Finland, to marry you must first be able to read, whichever language. The court sessions are in Finnish, if that's what you know. But to be a merchant, or an official, it is best to know both languages, and to be an army officer, Swedish is required. Was required. So some families took up the Swedish language in self-interest."

Muus thought of Sergeant Erkki then; his Swedish seemed good enough. "What about your 1st sergeant?"

"We were students together. He is a year younger than me."

"Then he is of good family too." The thought surprised Muus.

"Good family? His father was a small farmer, but one of his uncles was a gunsmith in Turku."

Muus shifted the conversation. He didn't deal well with anomalies. "One of your men is named Toivo. He said it means 'hope' in Finnish. And another is Onni: 'good fortune.' What is yours?"

"Peter."

The pastor knew where that one came from. "And Timo?"

"Like Peter, it is from the Bible."

"What of Sulo?"

Longström laughed, a surprisingly light sound. "Sulo means sweetheart," he said, "but babies are called Sulo, too."

Muus found that somehow reassuring, but it didn't fit his need. He decided to be more direct. "What do the Finns think of Swedish rule?"

It was Longström's turn to frown. "Swedish rule?"

"Yes. Wouldn't you like to be free of it?"

The captain's frown was gone. His gaze was direct now, and cold. He could have mentioned the Finnish famine of 1696-7, and the failure of Karl XI to make even a symbolic gesture to ease it, but he knew what the priest was after, and he knew the answer. "All men have kings, Pastor Muus." His voice was hard. "Yours is a Dane. Wouldn't you like to be free of him? Ours was a Swede. Now Finland is free of our Swedish king. In his place we have Russians and Cossacks and Tartars living among us, taking whatever they will, including wives and daughters. And the Czar of the Russians is the friend and ally of your Danish king, Frederick IV, may they both burn in Hell. They plotted and started this war. And our king could end it today by accepting Peter's terms, but it would mean leaving Finland in Russian hands."

Peter Longström's voice had held no fire, only ice, but it had shaken the old pastor profoundly. "I am sorry for Finland and her people," Muus said quietly. "May God have mercy on them."

And having said it, realized how weak and shallow it must sound, though he'd said it from the heart.

Longström called for an early change in oarsmen then, and leaving the pastor, took a rower's seat. Gradually the steady rythmic muscle play soothed the sour heat in his belly.

As for the pastor, his pain was in the heart. Not a cardiac malfunction, but a trauma of the spirit. He'd just undergone another experience that would change him, more profoundly than the one of fifty years earlier. Inspired not by a Christian pastor's gentle admonition, but the cold hard truth of another man's, and another people's, living experience.

That it had weakened his own zealous prejudice was partly the result of Peter Longström's strength, perceptiveness, and honesty, but equally from the pastor's spiritual potential. Combined they had wrought a minor miracle.