Unto a Good Land (44 page)

And now Karl Oskar remembered what he had heard about the Indians, how they preserved the bodies of their dead in wintertime, when the digging of a grave in the frozen ground was too hard work. They strung up the corpses in trees, high enough above ground to be safe from beasts. The dead one had been placed there by his own tribe!

He left the Indian in the tree and walked home; he had no desire to disturb the body, he did not wish to interfere with the doings of the Indians. But now he knew the truth about his brother’s adventure: Robert had been attacked by an Indian who was strung up in a tree, he had run for his life from a dead Indian.

Walking home, Karl Oskar recalled Robert’s story on the
Charlotta
about the captain’s slave trade. That time he had greatly doubted his brother’s veracity; this time he knew that Robert had invented the story, he had proof that his brother was a liar.

As soon as he reached home he called Robert aside: “Did you say the Indian in the tree shot an arrow at you?”

“Yes! He shot several arrows, right into the bush where I hid!” Robert assured him.

“Did any of the arrows hit you?”

“No. Luckily enough, the bush protected me.”

“Yes, I understand. I guess the Indian had poor aim. And I don’t wonder—you see, he was dead. He’s still hanging dead in the tree. The top is stuck right through his neck!”

Karl Oskar took Robert with him to the tree with the Indian. This was his proof, and he turned to Robert, sterner than ever: “You’re a damned liar! The Indian never shot a single arrow at you!”

“But I could hear them rustle in the bush!”

“I think it was the wind.”

“It was arrows! I’m sure! I could hear them!”

“You don’t hear very well. And you invent lies! You spin yarns! Now I want you to tell me the truth.”

“But it is the truth! I swear it, Karl Oskar.”

To Robert, his story of the Indian in the treetop was irrevocably the truth. The brownskin had shot at least three arrows at him, with his own ears he had heard them whizz through the thicket. And how could Karl Oskar know that the Indian wasn’t alive when he shot at Robert? Moreover, he couldn’t remember if the Indian had been sitting in exactly that tree; perhaps it was another Indian, in another tree. He, Robert, had seen a living Indian, with a bow, he could not alter his story in the least, for he had told the truth.

Robert’s behavior angered and worried Karl Oskar; not only did the boy lie, he was so thoroughly dishonest that he stubbornly insisted his lies were true. He insisted he had been attacked by the Indian and that he had run for his life.

Now Karl Oskar spoke sternly, with fatherly concern: Was Robert so hardened that he believed his own fabrications? Didn’t he know the difference between truth and lies? If he continued to invent and tell tales like this, people would soon believe not a single word he said, no one would have confidence in him. And if no one could rely on him, he would have a hard time getting along in America. He must be careful about what he said, or disaster might follow.

He must realize that Karl Oskar felt responsible for him as an older brother, now that he was in a foreign country without his parents to look after him. Didn’t he think his own brother was concerned for his welfare? Why couldn’t he admit that he had lied, and promise never to do it again? He ought to do it for his own sake, for his own good!

But Robert admitted nothing. His ear had heard the Indian’s whizzing arrows in the bush; at least three times his ear had heard them, and this remained the truth to him.

Karl Oskar could get nowhere. Robert had a weak character, and no persistence in work or effort. He hadn’t a farmer’s feeling for the earth, he did what he was told, but unwillingly, without joy or pleasure. At work he often acted as if he neither saw nor heard, as if walking in his sleep in full daylight. Karl Oskar had long been aware of these shortcomings in his brother, but he had hoped they would disappear as he grew older and his common sense increased. A settler in this new land needed a sturdy character, persistence, clear vision; he couldn’t walk about in his sleep. . . . To these faults, Robert had lately added this infernal habit of lying, more dangerous than all the rest—it might bring him to utter ruin.

After this happening, Karl Oskar’s concern about Robert increased; he thought it might have been better if his brother had remained in Sweden.

XXI

THE SWEDISH SETTLERS’ ALMANAC

—1—

November passed with changing weather—cold days followed milder ones. Little snow fell. But in early December the first blizzard broke, beating the cabin walls for four days.

All living creatures sought their lairs for shelter against the fierce north wind. The snow did not fall on the ground, it was driven down violently, flung by the forceful sling of the storm. Man and beast trying to move against this wind must crouch, almost creep along. And the north wind brought in its wake a cold that penetrated bone and marrow, that made the blood stop in its course.

During this blizzard no one ventured outside unless forced by necessity. It was an undertaking even to open the door. Karl Oskar had to go to the shanty morning, noon, and evening, to give Lady water and fodder. It was hardly more than a hundred steps between the cabin and the small stable, yet the first day of the blizzard he almost lost his way. The snow beat into his eyes so that he could not see, everything around him was snow, hurled, whirling snow; he walked in a thick, gyrating snow cloud, fumbling about like a blind person. He could not see one step ahead of him, he lost his sense of direction, and wandered about a long time before he found the cabin.

In the raging blizzards of this country he could lose his way a few steps from his house. And should he get lost on his way between cabin and stable there was the danger of freezing to death in the snow.

Karl Oskar felt the need of something to guide him between his two houses, and from the linden bark he had saved he now twisted a rope, fastening one end to the cabin and the other to the shanty. While walking the short distance he never let go of the rope; each time he opened the door and faced the blizzard he felt like a diver descending to the bottom of the sea and holding to a guide rope—without it he might have been lost.

During the blizzard Karl Oskar milked Lady every day. The cow still gave little at each milking—only one quart—but this was sufficient for the children; the grownups had to do without. He had never before sat on a milking stool, and now he learned a chore which in this country was usually performed by the menfolk. Strong hands were needed to squeeze the milk from the teats, and he wondered why milking had always been considered woman’s work.

Now that the feared winter had come Kristina spent most of her time within the house; she had regained her strength and resumed her household tasks but she dared not go outside. She said the snow, like everything else, was different here: at home the snowflakes fell soft as wool on one’s face, here they were hard and sharp and pricked like awl points.

Karl Oskar had made sure they need not freeze in the house this winter; outside the door he had stacked firewood in high piles, logs from dry pines long dead on root, excellent wood that gave much heat. As long as the fire was kept burning it was warm in the house. He had also split pitch wood in great quantity to be used for lighting the cabin; these splinters were stuck in the wall between the logs and used as candles, but they had to be watched carefully to avoid setting fire to the house.

Their home was now taking on the appearance of a carpenter shop. Karl Oskar spent much time making furniture and tools—chairs, food vessels, snow shovels, hay forks, rakes. He busied himself long after the others had gone to bed. Being handy with wood, he could use it for many purposes; a settler beginning from the very beginning had to use it for almost everything.

He had already worked as lumberman, carpenter, mason, roofer, rope maker—now he attempted a new handicraft: that of shoemaker. Their leather shoes were wearing out and they couldn’t buy new ones; he must make wooden shoes for his family. No alder trees grew in this forest so he decided to use elm; the American elm was softer than the Swedish and easy to work with. But wooden shoes could not be made comfortable and light without years of experience. He had neither experience nor the proper tools; the shoes that came from his hands were clumsy and ill fitting though they could be worn. He made one pair of wooden shoes for each member of his family except the baby, who would not need shoes until he could walk. For his newborn son he made a cradle—a dug-out log which he fastened to rockers.

Then he began to make a table. He had made up his mind to have a fine table, solid and well made, a durable piece of furniture, a table he could ask visitors to sit down to without feeling ashamed. And he worked long and carefully on this piece of furniture. He cut a block from the thickest oak he could find and made a table top; to this he fastened a smaller log for footing. He planed the top until it shone; now they would not get splinters in their fingers when eating. The leg log also caused him great labor, the table must stand evenly on the floor without leaning or limping.

And he took his time with the table, time hung heavily upon him during these winter days and long evenings. And when he rested he got into the habit of fingering the three books they had brought from Sweden: the Bible, the psalmbook, and the almanac. Two thick books and one thin; the thick ones contained spiritual fare, they were the soul’s guide to eternity; the thin book was their guide in this transitory world. Karl Oskar had used the almanac most often, and now in the last month of the year it was badly worn and soiled. Each Sunday he or Kristina read the text in the psalmbook, and each Sunday Karl Oskar also looked in the almanac to determine where they were in the calendar year. He had marked the days of this year which they must remember: April 6, when they left their home; April 14, when they said farewell to their homeland in Karlshamn; June 23, when they arrived in North America; and July 31, when they reached Minnesota Territory. After their arrival here he had put a cross in the almanac on the day they moved into their house, the day when his third son was born, and the day Lady had been taken to the bull at Fischer’s, the German’s.

The year 1850 was nearing its end, and when the old year ended, the almanac too would come to an end. They could not obtain a new Swedish almanac, and they could not read an American one. Karl Oskar wondered how they would manage to keep track of days and weeks and months in the year to come. He must invent some means. To make an almanac that would last a single year was harder than to make a table that would last for generations. But without the almanac he would feel lost in time.

—2—

Yuletide was near—a strange Yule for Kristina, a Christmas in another world, a Christmas without Yule chores. No pig to butcher, no ale to brew, no great-bake to bake. But they must nevertheless celebrate the holiday and honor the Saviour’s birth like Christian people. She said to Karl Oskar, this year they must not think of the outside—food, drink, and material things. They must celebrate Christmas in their hearts; this year must be a Christmas for their souls.

She scoured the cabin floor until it was shining white, she washed their underclothes in ash lye, so that all could change for the holiday, she hung fresh pine boughs on the walls and decked the cabin inside as best she could. Of a pine top with upright branches Karl Oskar made a five-armed candlestick, an ingenuity which his wife praised greatly. He had promised they would celebrate Christmas at a table, and he kept his promise: on Christmas Eve itself he gave the table the last finishing touches with his plane. He was proud of his handicraft, the first piece of real furniture he had ever made, particularly when, at the final inspection, Kristina said: This sturdy oak table would undoubtedly last so long that not only they themselves but their children and grandchildren as well could eat their meals at it throughout their whole lives.

While they had eaten their meals at the chest lid Karl Oskar had felt like a pauper sitting in a corner of someone else’s house, eating handed-out food. Now, as he put his feet under his own table, his self-confidence increased: Now he had settled down, now he had become his own master in the new land.

They used their new table for the first time at the Christmas Eve dinner. And Kristina too was pleased—to gather for a feast around a table was something quite different from sitting down to a meal at the old chest lid. The five-armed candleholder was put in the center of the table; they had saved only three candles for Christmas, so two arms were left empty, but the three burning candles spread Yule light in their house. They had bought a pound of rice for the Christmas porridge, and with it they used sweet milk. It was their only Christmas dish, but they ate it with a deep sense of holiday spirit. Its smell and taste brought to their minds recollections of this Holy Eve’s celebration at home. Long-ago Christmases now entered their cabin, Christmas Eves with the whole family gathered; and their thoughts lingered on those who at other Yuletides had sat down at table with them. Relatives at home in Sweden tonight seemed more alive than ever, and they spoke of the letter from Sweden which they had been waiting for so long. How much longer before they would hear from parents and relatives? The expected mail from Sweden had not had time to arrive before the river froze and the packets stopped coming for the winter. Now it could not arrive until spring, and that was a long time to wait.

Tonight Karl Oskar remembered his parents as he had seen them that last morning—when he had looked back from the wagon seat for a final glimpse of them as he left the old home: father and mother, looking after the departing ones, standing on the stoop close together, immobile as two statues. To him they would always remain in that position; they could not move or walk away; they stood there, looking after their departing sons; they stood like two dead objects, hewn in stone. His parents could never again resume life in his mind’s eye. Perhaps this was because deep within him he knew he would never again meet them on this earth.

A thought came to him—it remained a thought only, which he would not utter: his father and mother might already be dead and buried, without his knowledge. . . .

After the meal Kristina opened the Bible and read the second chapter from St. Luke which in her home had always been read by her father on Christmas Eve in commemoration of the Saviour’s birth:

“And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered.

“And she brought forth her first-born son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn. . . .”

Kristina read the Christmas Gospel for all of them, but after a few verses she felt as though she were reading it for herself only: it concerned her above all, it concerned her more than the listeners. Mary’s delivery in the stable in Bethlehem reminded her of the childbed she had but recently gone through. It seemed that Mary’s time too had come suddenly and unprepared for, even though her days were accomplished: Mary had been on a journey, and perhaps they had been delayed, unable to reach home in time. And Mary had been poor, even more impoverished than she herself. Kristina had borne her child in a human abode, in a well-timbered house—Mary had lain on straw in an animal shelter, in a stall. Kristina had enjoyed the comfort of a kind and helpful midwife, but the Bible said not one word about any help-woman for Mary in the stable. And she wondered whence the Saviour’s mother had obtained the swaddling clothes she wrapped about her child before she placed it in the manger. Had she prepared them in advance and brought them along on the journey to Bethlehem? The Bible was so sparing with details that she often wondered and questioned while reading. She guessed Mary must have had as much concern about the clothing of her first born as she herself had had for her child. Perhaps Mary too had been forced to cut up her petticoat to prepare the swaddling clothes for Jesus.

For the first time in twenty years Kristina slept on Christmas morning; ever since early childhood she had gone with her parents on this morning to the early service, which took place hours before daylight, the church illuminated with many candles. But here also they would revere Christmas Day, and Second Christmas Day: all work in the house ceased. They had carried in enough firewood before the holiday, all they had to do was to tend the fire and prepare food.

On Third Christmas Day they had unexpected guests. Swedish Anna and Samuel Nöjd came driving a team of oxen and a dray which they had borrowed from the lumber company; holidays were the time for visits among their countrymen, and they were eager to see the first child born to Swedish settlers in the St. Croix Valley. The boy was now seven weeks old, he was in splendid health, he nursed heartily and cried for more. The mother had enough milk for him, and he was hungry—both facts made Kristina’s heart glad. What more could she ask? Suppose she had been without milk, or the child without appetite?

Swedish Anna looked at the tender child as if beholding a miracle of God; she wanted to hold the baby in her arms the whole time she was there. And for luck each of the guests gave the child a coin—a whole silver dollar each!

The parents were in great perplexity about having their last born baptized; so far as they knew, there was not a single Swedish minister in the whole Territory. Karl Oskar wished Danjel Andreasson to conduct the baptism: he was experienced in religious matters, he lived as piously as any minister. In Sweden Dean Brusander had once forbidden them to invite Danjel to be godfather to Harald, because Danjel had been excluded from the church; but the dean had no power over them here, and they ought to compensate Danjel for this insult—they ought to ask him to perform the Sacrament of Holy Baptism for their last-born son.

Kristina was much devoted to her uncle and thought as highly of him as Karl Oskar, but she worried about his earlier heresy and wondered if he weren’t still a little confused in religious matters. And she had always felt that the rites of Holy Baptism should be performed by an ordained minister in frock and collar.