The Last Letter Home (34 page)

He spoke with a father’s authority over his children and the four sons obeyed him. None of them uttered a word of complaint.

They went to work eagerly, stimulated by the thought that they were to fell the last oak. They dug the ditch around the trunk, two boys climbed up and fastened the chain to the top, the chain was linked to the team. The horses too were eager, as if feeling this must be the last load of growing trees.

The father picked up the reins and laid them around his neck. He urged the team, the horses caught a foothold in the ground and pulled until the harnesses creaked. But he did not keep his eyes on the team, rather, his eyes followed the movements of the oak crown that swayed behind him. He was always watchful, never forgetting to call out: Timber!

But tonight it was the sons who called out to the father:

“She’s coming! Get away!”

The giant oak was not so well rooted as they had thought. As soon as the horses pulled it began to rock and lean.

The thud of its fall could be heard almost in the same second as the warning:

“She’s coming! Get away!”

In a wink the father saw the tree coming. He always jumped aside in good time—when he heard the sound in the air he always had time to get away. Now he tried to throw himself aside at the same moment he heard it.

It happened within seconds: The oak was supposed to fall to the right of him, he attempted to run to the left—he who couldn’t run! He couldn’t get his left leg to move fast enough, he stumbled and fell to his knees. He rose again but never reached an upright position; he took no more steps in his flight from the tree. He had the reins around his neck, the horses were restless and pulled him over.

The farmer fell as if his legs had been cut out from under him; over him fell the oak.

It crashed and thundered as its branches broke and splintered. The team came to a stop, the reins coiling behind as they fell from the master’s neck. They had pulled their load, the last one in the grove, their labor was completed, and now they rested.

The roar from the fall died down and silence fell over team and tree, until the sons rushed up and called out: Father!

The last oak of the grove had been felled but under it lay the farmer himself. This mighty tree, waiting here for him while the years had run by—it had been waiting for this November evening when they would fall together.

None of the sons had seen their father stumble and be pulled over by the reins. Now he had vanished; he must be under the fallen tree, the lush branches must be hiding him. They grabbed their axes and started to cut through the branch-work—boughs as big as trunks were separated and rolled away in horrible urgency. The sons were hewing their way to their father. Four axes were swinging and with each cut they were nearing him. Soon they could see his clothing; they saw his boots, heels up; they found his hat, brushed from his head. They worked in silence as they cut their way through the enormous oak. The last branch was like a tree in itself, and it lay across their father’s back; he was pressed under it. In its fall the giant had seized the farmer with one of its strongest arms and pressed him against the ground. He was a prisoner of the oak.

The four sons cut their father free, liberated him from the mighty tree’s grip. They rolled away the heavy limb that pressed his back and stood around him, axes in hand.

He lay on his stomach, his face against the earth. They bent over him. His legs moved a little, his shoulders rose perceptibly. His boot toes scraped against the ground, but his head lay still. But he moved. He was alive.

The sons had been silent as they worked their way toward the father; now they spoke:

“Father! Are you hurt? Can you talk?”

They received not a word in reply, only a deep breath. But when they took him by the shoulders he stirred again. He tried to turn over; slowly, with its own strength, his body turned on its back. Even his head began to move, and the sons saw a face distorted, barely recognizable. It was not cut, no injury was visible, but great puffs of froth showed in the corners of his mouth; his teeth were bared, in a cramp-like bite; his eyebrows were pulled together at the root of his nose, which was poking up at them, enormous, protuberant, like a knot.

“How did it happen? Are you terribly hurt?”

A hissing sound escaped the mouth of the fallen one. He groaned, his teeth clenched so hard it showed in his cheekbones. It was pain that had changed his face.

He felt his back with his hands and groaned again. Then he began slowly to pull up his knees. He could move both arms and legs.

When the sons had first seen him on his stomach, pressed down under the oak, they had not expected him to move again. And as yet they did not know what had happened to him, as yet he said nothing. He rose slowly to his knees, his facial muscles tightening. Again he felt his back, his hands groping about. But his back seemed to be all right; it could not be broken.

The farmer looked about as if in great confusion. He looked at his sons around him, from one to the other, searching for an answer: Was it really true? Could he still move? Then he must be alive. He was alive, and no one was more surprised than he.

He looked at the fallen oak beside him. One of its heaviest limbs had pressed upon his back, and now when he looked closer he understood why he was alive; he had fallen into a small hollow. Without this slim depression his body would have been crushed.

If he hadn’t fallen into that hollow he would never have risen again. If he had happened to fall a foot to the right or a foot to the left he would have remained fallen. If he had taken one step more before he fell he would have been dead.

The farmer said to his sons who stood there apprehensively that he had had a close call. The bough had almost got him. Only a hairsbreadth and they might have had to carry home a corpse this evening.

They stood silent at the thought. Then they asked about his injuries. Did he want them to carry him home?

The father replied that the oak had given him a sound lash across the back and he did not feel well after it. But he thought he could get home on his own legs. If they took the horses and the tools he would try to walk.

Cautiously he attempted to rise from his kneeling position. He wasn’t successful; the attempt caused him such intense pain that everything turned black before his eyes and he felt dizzy. When he tried to move one foot he reeled. He sank down on his knees again.

There was nothing to do but accept the sons’ offer.

They made a litter for their father from a few branches of the oak they had felled, tying them together with the reins. It was a clumsy, primitive litter, but it would hold for the short distance home. There were four of them and each could carry a corner.

So this evening the farmer was carried home by his sons after his last full working day.

—4—

For a few months Karl Oskar stayed in bed and put plasters on his injured back. A thick blue-black swelling appeared across the small of his back where the oak had hit him. He rubbed the injured part with different kinds of salves for which he sent to the new drugstore in Center City. Some he also mixed himself and with the aid of neighbors. He tried cotton oil and camphor, sheep-fat, pork, unsalted butter. He had leeches put on the swelling—they sat so close, those nasty sucking critters, that they covered his whole back; they drank his blood and swelled up until they were so fat and thick and round they couldn’t suck any more and fell off and died. Rows of itching wounds were left from their sharp bites.

The first weeks in bed he was kept awake through the nights by the pain. It felt like a firebrand in his back. But after repeated applications of leeches the swelling went down, the soreness eased, and the pain abated. He thought the critters had sucked out the evil that caused the pain.

When on that November evening he had heard the oak come down on him so suddenly he had had only one thought: I’m dying! He had time to think of nothing else before he felt the pain and lost his breath. The pressure had been so severe that he was unable to get air into his lungs. His next clear thought had been: Has my back been able to take it? Pressed down under the tree he had felt sure his back was broken.

He had not been stricken as severely as he had expected but he suffered intense pain afterward. He had to stay in bed for a long time. Fortunately it was winter and there was no urgency on the farm. He need not worry about the daily chores; his four sons attended to those.

In time Karl Oskar was up on his legs again. But it was spring before he could go back to work. He began with easier chores, but his back was not the same as before: He had to walk with it bent. As soon as he tried to straighten up, the old pain and ache gave him orders: You aren’t able! Don’t try to lift!

The following autumn Karl Oskar Nilsson and his sons completed the clearing of the oak grove. They stacked the timber, cleared the ground of stumps and roots, and plowed the field; and the father participated all the time in the work. It was his last clearing, he must see it through. Then his farm would be completed.

His injury was healed but his back was not as strong as before the accident. He walked bent over, he couldn’t straighten it, and he was unable to lift heavy objects.

It was evident to him that from now on he would be only half a workman; he could participate in the work, but he couldn’t do what he had done before, nor would he ever be able to. The last tree he felled had marked him for the rest of his life.

The farmer and the oak had fallen side by side. He rose again, but not fully. One ability had been taken from him: He could never again walk upright on earth.

—5—

A settler’s evening prayer:

Well, God, I guess you think you’ve got me now! But this is not the way to change me. It was a bad blow I got on my back—now I’m stooping. You’re the Almighty, nothing happens without your will. You wanted to hurt my back, to make me suffer from it for the rest of my life. Why? I don’t think I sinned in cutting down the oaks. I like to clear fields, and people get their daily bread from those fields. Is that why you reward me? What did you do to my father in his days? He fought the stones for twenty-five years and then a stone made a cripple of him. That too you allowed to happen, so you rewarded him. You took Kristina from me, you tricked her to die. How can a person trust a God who acts that way? How can anyone ask me to trust in the Lord after this? You gave me a mind—I’ve used it to the best of my ability. But if my sense isn’t good enough—is this my fault? Why wasn’t I given enough sense? I want to tell you, God: I’ll never praise you for what you did to Kristina, for what you’ve done to me. Never. For I do not accept the injustices you allow to happen. I won’t budge. I won’t submit. I’ll always fight against it. Me you cannot coerce. Never will I ask forgiveness. I know I’m a helpless creature before the Almighty. You can do with me what you wish. But never, never will I say it is just. The oak hit me across the back but it didn’t change my mind. If the tree had fallen a foot to the right or to the left I would have lost my life. But it would have made no difference, it would not have changed me in the moment of death. You cannot do anything to change my mind. You’ve bent my body, God, but not my soul. You can kill me, you can rob me of my breath, but you cannot make me say you’re just. You can never bend my soul. Never in eternity. Amen.

XXIII

THE LETTER TO SWEDEN

Nilsson Settlement at Chisago Lake

Minnesota

July 30 1875

Beloved Sister Lydia Karlsson,

May you be well is my daily wish, I have not Written since long ago. But if these Lines find you They are from your Brother in North America.

Changes have taken place since I Last wrote. I want to tell you that last year I left my farm to my Oldest Son, you must remember Johan. He was 4 years of age when we left Sweden. Now he has taken over, the Son picks up where the Father leaves off, the other children are still at home except Harald who has gone to St. Paul to work for the railroad and Frank who Sits in the Timber company’s offis in Stillwater.

I am not yet old in Years but worn from wear. And I have broken enough land in America. I work a little every day and do what chores I can, if I don’t work my bowels won’t move. I am in good circumstances and need not worry about Daily Bread. Everything has gone up after the closing of the War. Money situation is now orderly. Our Farm gives plenty of Crops and we sell our Wheat at high Prices.

Glad you like the Portrait of the House. I have had taken a portrait of myself which I enclose. Not much to Look at, the Years show their wrinkles. And our bodies go downhill when we near old Age. Have you started to use Glasses for the eyes? Is your hair graying?

I wonder if Brother and Sister would recognize each other after all the years gone by?

My thoughts often wander to the Place where I was born and where my kind Parents helped me grow up. Sometimes I think I would like to go back for a Visit. But I could not see Father and Mother in Life, only their Tombstones.

It would be burdensome for me to go back to Sweden. I am accustomed to Freedom in all things, you know. There is much difference between the Old and the new country. Here all are equals; here a man and citizen has a vote whether poor or Rich. It would be another order in Sweden if all knew their rights and had free speaking. The Swedes are obedient to law and good people and need not so many proud officials and useless masters to rule them. You have to pay for King and Palaces and Lords who live for entertainment and theatres. The workers feed those who won’t work and this is turned-around Order. Sweden needs a new Government which will not bow to the Royal Crown and Mantle. In North America the President is the People’s Crown and we need none other.

You write they say at home times are bad in America, that’s only talk invented by the Lords to keep people in that Country. And Ministers and Preachers like to keep their sheep together, if they all go to America there won’t be many left to shear. I am glad I left home while my blood was youthful, my emigration I have never regretted for a single moment.