Unto a Good Land (39 page)

She could forget everything around her to such an extent that she wasn’t aware she had reached her son three months ago. The long journey seemed to have been too much for her head. But at other times she pulled herself together and worked all day long like a young woman, running her son’s house and cooking for him the delicious Öland dumplings which he had been without so long in America. Since he now could get the dumplings here, Anders Månsson said, there was nothing left in Sweden to go back to.

After their feast, the settlers grouped themselves around the hearth where a great fire of dry pine boughs was burning. And sitting there, to let the “food die in the stomach,” they began to talk of Sweden and of people in their home community: It was now the servants’ “Free Week” at home, all crops were in, the potatoes picked, the fields plowed. The bread for the winter was in the bins, the cattle in the byre. Those at home lived in an old and settled land, they had their food for the winter. And they could not help but compare their own situation: they were farmers without crops, without grain bins, without pork barrels, without livestock. And ahead of them lay the earth’s long resting season, when the ground gave nothing.

But Sweden had already begun to fade into the vague distance; it seemed far away in time and space. Heaven seemed closer than Sweden. Their old homes had taken on an aspect of unreality, as does everything at a great distance.

They began speaking of the loneliness of the great wilderness, and Jonas Petter said: “Is there one among us who regrets the emigration?”

The question caught them unaware, and a spell of silence fell over the group. A puzzling question had been asked—a poser—which required a great deal of thought before they could answer it; it was like a riddle to be solved. Do I regret my emigration? It was an intrusive question, forcing itself upon them, knocking at each one’s closed door: a demand to open and show what was hidden inside.

Ulrika was the first to answer. She stared at Jonas Petter, almost in fury: “Regret it! Are you making fun of me? Should I regret having moved to a country where I’m accepted as a human being? I’d rather be chopped to sausage filling than go back to Sweden!”

“It was to be,” Danjel Andreasson said. “We were chosen to move here. We shall harbor neither regret nor fear.”

“I regret one thing!” spoke up Karl Oskar. “I regret I didn’t emigrate six years ago, when I first came of age.”

“You are not yet of age—your Guardian still lives in Heaven,” Danjel said. “His will has been done.”

“But the Lord’s servant—the dean—advised against my emigration.”

“Then it was an evil spirit that spake through him,” Danjel retorted calmly.

“Well—I’m here! And no one can get me away from here! As surely as I sit on this chopping block!” Karl Oskar spoke with great emphasis.

He was settled now, he and his family had moved into their house, furnished with sturdy beds and seats he had made. Beginning this very day, he felt settled and at home in North America.

Jonas Petter said: Life in the wilderness had its drawbacks, but things would improve by and by, as they improved themselves. It had been well for them to travel about and see how great the earth was, how vast its seas and countries. At home, people thought Sweden made up the whole world; that was why folk there were so conceited.

“They should read geography books,” interrupted Robert.

“That they should, instead of poking their noses into everyone else’s business,” agreed Jonas Petter. If anyone hiccoughed in Sweden, folk picked it up and ran with it until it was heard throughout the whole county. His father knew an old morning hymn which all should follow:

Peaceful walk and do thy bit,

Obey thy Lord, on others spit!

This psalm Jonas Petter’s father used to sing every morning before he began his day, and if they obeyed it, they would be happy through all their days, and at last pass to the beyond in contentment.

Judging from the replies to Jonas Petter’s question, no one regretted his emigration. And the settlers began to talk of work to be finished before winter set in. Karl Oskar intended to dig a well before the frost got into the earth; he had not been able to find a spring in the vicinity, they had been using brook water, which didn’t seem to hurt them; it was running water, but it wasn’t quite clear in color or taste.

The talk around the fire was suddenly interrupted by Kristina, who was seized by a fit of weeping. This happened unexpectedly and without forewarning. No one had said a word to hurt or upset her. She herself had been silent a long time. She had not joined in their talk about Sweden, but she had listened. Karl Oskar now asked in consternation if she was in pain. But she only shook her head—he mustn’t pay any attention to her. And she continued to cry and sob, she put both her hands to her face and wept without saying why. No one could comfort her, as no one knew what ailed her. They asked many times if she were ill: No, she was not ill. . . .

Karl Oskar felt embarrassed and didn’t know what to say to the guests; but they would understand she was sensitive now. . . .

“You’re worn out, I guess?” he said kindly.

Danjel patted his niece on the shoulder: “Lie down and rest, Kristina. We too must seek the comfort of our homes.”

“I am acting like a fool. Forgive me, all of you. . . .”

Fearing that the guests were departing because of her behavior, Kristina pleaded with them to remain, trying to swallow her sobs: “To blubber like this . . . I don’t understand it. Pay no heed to it; it will soon be over.”

But their guests must start on their homeward road to be back before dark. Anders Månsson did not wish to drive the new road after nightfall; he went out and yoked the team to the wagon, while Ulrika washed the dishes and picked up her empty earthen bowl; Jonas Petter left his keg with at least half a quart still splashing in it.

Karl Oskar accompanied his guests a bit of the way, walking up the slope. The housewarming had ended on an unhappy note, too suddenly. And he was worried over Kristina’s peculiar behavior; if she wasn’t sick, she must be crying for some other reason, and this reason she had kept secret from him. He must know what it was, she must tell him what ailed her.

When he returned to the house, Kristina had dried her tears. She began to speak of her own will: “I couldn’t help it, Karl Oskar.”

“I guess not.”

“I assure you, it was nothing. . . .”

“One can be sad and weep. But why did you have to weep just this day?”

“It irks me terribly—with all the guests . . .”

Karl Oskar wondered if after all she wasn’t a little disappointed with the log house. Had she expected their new home to be different—better and roomier? He tried to comfort her by telling her about the house he intended to build next time: “You wait and see our next house, Kristina! Next housewarming you won’t cry!”

“Karl Oskar—I didn’t cry because of . . .”

No, he mustn’t think she shed tears because their house wasn’t fine enough! He mustn’t think she was so ungrateful! That would have been sinful of her. No, the house was good, she had told him she was pleased with their new home. And she hadn’t complained before, when there might have been reason—she hadn’t said a word when they shivered and froze in the shed. Why should she be dissatisfied now when they had moved into a warm, timbered house? No, she had everything she could want, this last year she had learned to be without; before they managed to get under this roof, she had learned to value a home; she had thanked God Who had let them move in here, well and healthy and all of them alive, after the dangers they had gone through.

But she couldn’t help it—something had come over her today, making her cry. Before she knew it the tears had come to her eyes, as if forced out. She didn’t know what it was—she only felt it was overpowering. And she couldn’t tell him how much it disturbed her that this had happened at their housewarming, on that longed-for day when they moved in. . . .

Karl Oskar was satisfied with her explanation: no wonder she was a little sensitive, unable to keep her tears, the condition she was in. She needed comforting words and he went on talking of their next housewarming: “Just wait and see our next house! Then we’ll be really at home here on Lake Ki-Chi-Saga!”

—5—

When Kristina went to bed the first evening in the log house, the first time in the new, comfortable bed, with her husband beside her, she remained awake a long while: Had she lied to him today? Didn’t she know what had come over her and made her cry? It had come over her many times before, although never so overpoweringly as today. It used to come when she had nothing to busy herself with, nothing to occupy her mind. Usually it soon passed, but it came back, it always came back. And of course it would come back today, with all the others sitting there talking about it! Indeed, they forced it to come. They sat and reminisced about the old country and the people at home, they made everything come to life so vividly, everything she had given up with a bleeding heart to follow her husband.

Now they were at last settled, now they would stay here forever,
at home
on Lake Ki-Chi-Saga, as Karl Oskar put it. So strange it sounded, to have her home linked to that name. She was to be at home here for the rest of her life—but she wasn’t at home. This house was her home, but it was so far away. . . .

Here was
away
for Kristina—Sweden was
home.
It ought to be just the opposite: the two places should change position. She had moved, but she could not make the two countries move, the countries lay where they had lain before—one had always to her been
away,
the other would always remain
home.

And she knew for sure now, she had to admit it to herself: in her heart she felt she was still on a journey; she had gone away but hoped one day to return.

Home
—to Kristina, this encompassed all that she was never to see again.

XVII

GUESTS IN THE LOG HOUSE

—1—

The settlers at Lake Gennesaret had moved into their log house a few weeks before their countrymen on Lake Ki-Chi-Saga. Jonas Petter would build his house next summer, and in the meantime he lived with Danjel. He had begun to fell timbers to let them season for his building, and Robert helped him with the felling; he was doing exchange work for his brother. To avoid the hour-long walk from Ki-Chi-Saga and back, he stayed in Danjel’s house during the week and went home only Saturdays.

One Saturday afternoon Robert arrived at his brother’s settlement leading a cow behind him with one of Karl Oskar’s linden-fiber ropes. He tied the cow to the sugar maple at the door and called Kristina.

She came out, looked at the cow, and rubbed her eyes. “What kind of creature is that? Did you run across a stray cow in the forest?”

“No. I’ve led her from Taylors Falls.”

Kristina inspected the animal more closely: It was one of Anders Månsson’s cows, the one that wouldn’t get with calf, which he intended to butcher.

Karl Oskar also came out and stood there by Kristina laughing to himself: Was she surprised? She could thank Fina-Kajsa for this, the old woman had suggested lending her son’s cow for the winter; the cow had once more been taken to German Fischer’s bull in Taylors Falls, and as it now appeared she was with calf, it would be a shame to butcher her. Anders Månsson and his mother had enough milk from the other cow, and as Karl Oskar had gathered plenty of hay to feed her, he could keep her through the winter; he was to bring her back to the owner at calving time next spring. The cow still gave a couple of quarts of milk a day and would not go dry for several months.

“The animal is old, of course,” he concluded.

The cow was badly saddle-backed and had an enormous stomach; she must have borne fifteen calves at least in her day. But Kristina threw her arms around the neck of the animal: she had a milch cow, even though it was only borrowed, and they would have milk for the children during most of the winter. And she patted the cow, caressed her, felt above the udder for the milk arteries, and said they were good, for an old cow: she could easily increase her milk if she were fed and cared for.

Karl Oskar was as pleased as Kristina with the cow. He thought that this time his wife had enforced her will in spite of him.

Here in Minnesota people had miserable shelters for their cattle; the Swedish settlers thought it a wonder they didn’t freeze to death during the winters. Karl Oskar led his borrowed cow to the lately vacated shanty. The cow moved into the house they themselves had occupied until a few days before. Their old home was turned into a byre! They would let the cow graze in the meadow until the snow began to fly, but they would be careful to put her in the shanty every night.

Anders Månsson was the owner of one young and one old cow. Both had American names—the young one was called Girl and this one was called Lady, which was supposed to be a title like Mrs. in America. Large-bellied Lady was a calm, easygoing, friendly animal, grazing peacefully and contentedly, never trying to run off to the woods. She became a pleasant companion to Kristina and the children in their isolation; it seemed almost that they had acquired a new member of the family, and this member contributed to the family sustenance. Lady was always called by name, like a human being, a respected woman of noble lineage. And Robert pointed out that women were scarce out here and a noble name for a cow showed how highly men valued women in North America.

—2—

The night frosts had begun. The grass stood silvery in the mornings; winter was lurking outside their timbered house.

One late afternoon, at twilight, Kristina was alone inside their log house with Lill-Märta and Harald. Karl Oskar had gone to the lake to examine some willow snares he had placed in the shore reeds near a point where the pike often played, and Johan had run after him; the boy was always at the heels of his father. Kristina poured water into a pot and hung it over the fire, as Karl Oskar would soon be back with the fish for their evening meal. She hoped he would find pike in the snares, pike tasted better than any other fish in the lake; whitefish and perch were good too, but the catfish with its round head and long beard was so ugly that the sight of it did not whet the appetite.

Lill-Märta was playing on the floor and Harald was still taking his nap in the children’s bed. Kristina was busy at the hearth with her back to the door when the girl suddenly began to scream.

“What’s the matter with you, Lill-Märta?”

The child answered with another yell, still louder.

“Did you hurt yourself, child dear?”

The girl was sitting on the floor, staring wide-eyed toward the door.

Kristina turned quickly. The door was open and two figures stood inside the threshold. She could barely see them in the dim light, and at first she couldn’t determine whether they were men or women; she saw only two skin-covered bodies which had somehow got inside. But how had they opened the door? She hadn’t heard it open, nor had there been any other noise, or sound of steps.

The startling sight near the door made her back up so quickly that she almost stepped into the fire. Then she rushed to pick up the child on the floor—her heart stopped beating and felt cramped in her breast, and fear spread over her whole trembling body, as if it had been drenched with ice water.

The two figures at the door peered at her with black-currant eyes, set deep under low foreheads. And now she recognized who the guests were: their nearest neighbors had come to pay a call.

But what did they want here? Why had they come to her?

She called to them: “Go outside!”

The two Indians remained immobile inside the threshold. In her fear, she had forgotten they couldn’t understand a word she said.

Harald awoke and sat up in his bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. With the girl in her arms Kristina cautiously stole back to the children’s bed in the corner, she walked slowly backward, she dared not turn her back to the Indians. With one child in her arms she stood protectingly in front of the other.

“What do you want? Please go outside!”

Uncomprehending, the Indians remained, and again she remembered that she spoke to deaf ears: What use was there in talking to savages who didn’t understand her?

“Karl Oskar! Karl Oskar! Come quick!”

She kept on calling, she yelled as loud as she could, she must yell loud enough for him to hear her down at the lake. Karl Oskar wasn’t far away, perhaps he was already on his way back, he ought to hear her calls. . . .

Then she stopped calling; she might anger them by yelling, it might be better to keep quiet and pretend she wasn’t afraid of them. If she only knew their errand. What could they want of her?

The unwelcome guests did not leave, they moved from the door toward the hearth, and in the light of the fire Kristina had a good look at them.

The Indians were dressed in soft brown-red skins, and their feet were shod in the same kind of hides. Their faces were deceptively alike, except that one had a flat nose. Their cheeks were beardless. On their cheekbones were painted red, bloodlike streaks, and black hair hung in tufts from their heads, gleaming as if greased with fat. Both Indians had red animal tails dangling from the backs of their necks, they looked as if they had live squirrels sitting behind their ears. From their squirrel tails to their moccasins, they looked furry and ragged; they hardly resembled human beings. And they had sneaked into the house on soft paws like wild beasts.

The Indians looked around the cabin, they inspected the pot over the fire, the chest, the clothes hanging on the wall. Meanwhile they spoke in low voices to each other; their words sounded like short, guttural grunts.

She could not take her eyes off their red-streaked faces. Their eyes burned like black coals under their brows, they looked cruel and treacherous. Long knives hung at their sides; they might stick their knives into her and the children, any moment. The Indian with the pushed-in nose seemed to her the more dangerous of the two.

Kristina kept silent now, she no longer called for help, no use frightening her children. She stood at the corner of the bed, as far from the intruders as possible, with her two little ones pressed close to her. The children too kept silent, their round eyes staring at the strange, uncouth creatures.

They had left the door open; could she pick up Harald and the girl and escape through the door? Would she dare run past the two savages?

The flat-nosed Indian pointed to Karl Oskar’s gun which hung on the gable wall above the clothes chest; now both Indians stood looking at the gun with their backs toward Kristina. Now she must run by them out of the house! She gathered her strength, took a firm hold of her children, measured the distance with her eyes . . . it was only a few steps. . . .

But suddenly the Indians turned toward her again. They had managed to lift Karl Oskar’s muzzle-loader off the pegs; both held the gun, one had the butt, the other the barrel.

What did they want with the gun? It was loaded. What were they about to do, did they want to steal it? Why didn’t Karl Oskar come? What was he doing all this time?

Now the flat-nosed Indian alone held the shooting piece; he lifted the weapon to firing position, level with his shoulder; he stood with his back to the gable end of the house and aimed toward Kristina!

He intended to fire—he was going to shoot her and the children! She was looking right into the gun barrel, and there was no place to flee now; she pushed against the logs but she couldn’t creep through the wall. She stood petrified, a target.

“No! No!” she screamed.

She wanted to tell them they could have the gun, if only they wouldn’t shoot her and the children. The children! Quickly she pushed them behind her; now she protected them with her own body, now the bullet must first go through her. If she only could have called to them: Don’t shoot! Let us live! Don’t kill us here now!

But they wouldn’t understand her.

The flat-nosed Indian again held the butt, while the other one held up the barrel, helping his friend to aim the heavy weapon. It was clear they wanted to try the gun by firing a shot; the flat-nosed Indian was fingering the hammer, trying to cock it.

Pressed against the wall, Kristina crouched over her children, she couldn’t move any farther, she was trembling and weak with fright. The poor children—she couldn’t ask the savages to spare them, they wouldn’t understand. But Someone else understood and would listen to her; she stammered forth a prayer: “Dear God! If I die now, what will become of my children? My little, innocent children? Dear God, help me!”

Lill-Märta and Harald, squeezed between her body and the wall, began to whimper. But the visitors paid no attention to Kristina and the children, they were busy with the gun. Now both of them were fingering the hammer. The gun had a hard action. Kristina followed their motions with wide-open, frozen eyes. And she saw they had managed to cock the gun. Then she didn’t see anything more.

Black and red clouds covered her eyes. She closed them, her whole body numb with terror. Karl Oskar! What
are
you doing out there? Why don’t you come?

Karl Oskar! Perhaps he had encountered the Indians before they came in! Could they have done him any harm? Was that why he didn’t come? Suppose he were lying out there . . .

“Dear sweet God! Help him! Help us!”

Kristina closed her eyes and waited. She waited for the shot, she waited for the lead bullet. . . . She must die. This was the end for her on earth. And she prayed incoherently and silently that her merciful Father would receive her, wretched, sinful creature that she was, and let her children live unharmed in this world: the poor children . . . dear God, let them live, my poor children. . . .

Her trembling lips moved, but she kept her eyes closed and waited, waited through an eternity. It was silent in the house. She heard, nothing. As yet no shot had been fired from the gun. It remained silent.

Kristina kept her eyes closed and waited. . . . Until a child’s voice said: “Open your eyes, Mother! Why do you keep your eyes shut?”

Then she opened her eyes and looked about her, all around the cabin, as if awakening from a long, bad dream. Lill-Märta sat on the floor with her playthings as before, and little Harald stood in the open door and looked out. No one else was in sight. She was alone in the house with her children. The callers had gone: the two Indians had gone their way with the gun. They had come into the house soundlessly, they had left in equal silence—stolen away on their soft moccasins like animals slinking back into the forest. They had not fired a shot. . . .

But when she tried to walk, she felt the floor sway under her: the planks sank steeply under her feet, she took one step into a depth—she fell full length to the floor and knew nothing more.

—3—

Karl Oskar came in, Johan at his heels; he carried a few pike strung through the gills on a branch; he threw the fish on the floor in front of the hearth. It was cold inside the cabin and he wondered why the door had been left open. Then he discovered Kristina, stretched out on the floor at the other end of the room.

He hurriedly soaked a towel in the water pail and laid it on his wife’s forehead. In a few minutes she opened her eyes and sat up, confused and questioning: What was it? Why was she on the floor?