The Emigrants (17 page)

“It will smart at first, but not for long.”

The brännvin-soaked wool wad did smart so intensely that Robert almost pulled it out; he held his hands closed, cramplike, so as not to shriek. And after a moment the throbbing pain abated, as Arvid had said it would. No enjoyment can be greater than diminishing pain. He understood now that God had sent Arvid to help him; luckily there had been some brännvin left in the keg. Soon he glided into sleep, but some pain remained, mingling with his dreams: his left ear was filled with stinging wasps, a whole swarm of them, and they crowded each other inside and stung, only stung. And his ear swelled up and became one big sensitive boil where all the wasps’ stingers remained and hurt.

The pain in the ear was almost gone when Robert awakened the following morning, and within the next few days it disappeared altogether, but a thick, yellowish, malodorous fluid ran from his ear: it was the pain coming out. Something did remain inside, however: the strange sound which no one else could hear.

Yes, the buzzing and humming was still there; sometimes he heard it more loudly, sometimes lower, but he was always aware of it, inside the ear. It did not pain him, but he became tired and disheartened at hearing it follow him night and day. He put a bandage over his ear, he held his hand against it, he stuck a piece of wool into it, but the sound remained; nothing could silence it.

One night as he lay there and listened to his own ear he realized what this strange sound meant which existed for him only: he was listening to the rumbling of a great water, it was the roar and din of the sea itself; it was the voice of the sea in his ear, calling him, and him alone: he was chosen. The ocean called him, urged him, and the hum in his ear became a word, a word which always followed him, through night and day, calling: Come!

Not yet could he come; all gates on the road still remained closed.

—2—

One Sunday morning Robert appeared unexpected at his parents’ home in Korpamoen. He had not been to see them since he began his service, and Nils and Märta were pleased. Last spring when he threw his clothes into the brook and rode to the mill instead of going to Nybacken the boy had become the laughingstock of the neighborhood, but since they had not seen him the whole summer they would not mention that now. Märta thought he was thin and his cheekbones sharp, but when she asked him how he fared with Aron he gave no reply.

Robert stayed home the whole Sunday, and when, after supper, he still remained in his chair, Nils wondered if he shouldn’t go back to his place of service before bedtime. The boy answered he had come home without his master’s permission; he would never again go back to Nybacken.

Nils and Märta exchanged perplexed glances. Nils said: “When one has received earnest money, one must stay to the end of the year.”

Robert said that if they wished to send him back to Nybacken they must first bind him hand and foot and tie him onto a wagon like a beast on its way to slaughter.

The parents did not know what to do; the son remained on his chair and said nothing more.

The mother called Karl Oskar: his brother refused to return to service of his own will.

“Did you leave Aron without permission?” asked Karl Oskar.

Robert removed his jacket and showed his bare back. Broad red streaks extended from one side to the other; the skin was broken and it had been bleeding.

Märta let out a cry: “You’ve been flogged, poor child!”

“Who has beaten you?” asked his brother.

Robert told the story. Yesterday he was bringing home a wagonload of rutabagas and had to pass a narrow gate; there was a curve in the road just before he reached the gate, the mare was hard to hold and didn’t obey the rein quickly enough, the wagon hit the gatepost and broke its shaft; he couldn’t help it, he had held the reins as firmly as he could. But Aron had grabbed a fence stake and hit him many times across his back. The stake had protruding knots which tore into his flesh. His back had ached the whole night, and in the morning he had left for home without letting anyone know. Not long ago, too, Aron had given him so hard a box on his ear that it still rang and buzzed. He would never again return to Nybacken.

Karl Oskar inspected the red streaks on his brother’s back. “You needn’t return. No one in our family need accept flogging. We are as good as Aron.”

“Do you think Aron will release him without trouble?” wondered the mother.

“He can do as he pleases. The boy does not go back.”

But Nils was worried. If Robert left service without permission, Aron would have the right to send the sheriff after him, and according to the servant law Robert would then lose half his pay and must defray Aron’s expenses. Wouldn’t it be better to settle amicably?

“I’ll go and speak to him,” Karl Oskar said firmly. But it didn’t sound as if he were thinking of reconciliation.

Robert regretted he had not returned home earlier and confided in his elder brother. Märta brought out some pork bile and covered her son’s wounds with it.

His brother’s bloody back was an insult to Karl Oskar and to the whole Nilsa family. Since the father was lame and broken-down, and not able to defend his younger son, it thus became his duty.

Karl Oskar picked up his cap and went straight to Nybacken. At a distance he caught sight of Aron, who stood at the cattle well and hauled up water. Karl Oskar approached the farm cautiously, looking around as he crossed the barnyard. No one was in sight. It seemed he might have luck on this visit.

Aron did not notice Karl Oskar until the visitor stood next to him; he was so surprised that he almost dropped the well bucket which he was just removing from the hook. As he looked the unexpected caller in the face he began to retreat around the well curb, at the same time looking about as if in search of help.

“Are you coming to take your brother’s place? Then I’ll have a real hand!” He attempted a weak smile, timidly.

Karl Oskar went up close to the farmer of Nybacken. Aron could not move, his back was already against the wall around the well; he acted as if he intended to call for help.

“You’ve beaten my brother. You bastard! Do you realize he’s only fifteen?”

“He got a little chastisement, he was lazy and careless.”

“Drawing blood is not a little chastisement. You’d better get yourself another hand to flog. You’ll get none from my family.”

“Your brother had better be here tomorrow morning! Otherwise the sheriff will get him.”

“Come and get him yourself! You’ll get a welcome in Korpamoen!”

Aron’s face grew whiter.

Karl Oskar took another half step, forcing his antagonist still closer to the well curb. He looked quickly about: no one was in sight. Aron became panicky, dropped the pail, and was just going to call for help when Karl Oskar grabbed him by the neck, choking the words in his throat.

Karl Oskar pushed him slowly backward until he was extended across the well opening; Aron was a living lid over the well, he lay there kicking and struggling, terror-stricken. With Karl Oskar’s vise-like grip at his throat he was unable to produce any sound but puffs and grunts. He did not know if Karl Oskar intended to choke him to death, or drown him, or both, but he was convinced he was going to die.

And Karl Oskar let him think so for a few minutes.

He pressed the farmer’s throat a suitably long time before relaxing his grip. Aron collapsed like an empty sack against the well wall. Karl Oskar warned him that it would be enough for this time. They would undoubtedly meet soon again; it happened sometimes while they hauled timber during the winter. They had met more than once in out-of-the-way places—they might meet again, far from people. They would then continue their conversation. For he was most anxious to meet alone anyone who laid hands on a member of his family. And any bastard who attacked a fifteen-year-old was easy to handle.

Then Karl Oskar turned about and went home to Korpamoen. Robert met him at the gate.

“You’ll have no more trouble from Aron, that much I can promise.” Robert had never been intimate with Karl Oskar, who was ten years older. If anything, he had been a little afraid of his big brother. For the first time today they felt really close. Shyness prevented Robert from telling his brother what he wished to, but someday he would show Karl Oskar that he thought more of him than of any other person in the world.

—3—

Robert remained in Korpamoen; but as he was a deserter, no one knew whether he would be left in peace at home. Karl Oskar advised him to be prepared to hide in the woods when visitors came.

A few days went by and nothing happened. Karl Oskar had suggested that Aron come to Korpamoen and get Robert, but he didn’t show up and Karl Oskar did not expect him; as he scanned the road now and then he feared other callers. And one evening before dusk as he was standing near the gate the bitch began barking. Karl Oskar looked down the village road: an open carriage was approaching the farm. Two men were sitting in the wagon, and one of them wore a cap with broad yellow bands which glittered at a distance.

Robert was at the sawhorse next to the woodpile and Karl Oskar ran to warn him. But as soon as the dog started barking his brother had thrown away the saw; he now saw Robert disappear into the wood lot near the byre.

The carriage stopped at the gate, and Karl Oskar went to meet his callers.

“Good day, Karl Oskar Nilsson.”

The long, wide uniform coat hampered Sheriff Lönnegren in his movements; he almost tripped as he stepped down from the carriage. He told his man to tie the horse to the gatepost.

Lönnegren was an unusually tall man. At fairs his head could be seen above all others. He was as strong as he was tall. When he had to stop a fight, he often grabbed one combatant and used him as a weapon against the other. When he corrected some wrongdoer he invariably said: You scoundrel! This was his word of greeting in the community when he executed his office. If he spoke to a more hardened person he would say: You big scoundrel! And when he dealt with thieves and criminals: You damned scoundrel! Lönnegren was severe in his office, but folk were agreed that he was not a bad man.

“I’m looking for your brother, the farmhand Robert Nilsson,” he said.

“He’s not in this house,” answered Karl Oskar.

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know where he is at the moment.”

Sheriff Lönnegren gave the farmer of Korpamoen a piercing look. Karl Oskar looked back equally firmly.

The sheriff ordered his man to look around the farm and see if he could find the deserter.

He continued: “Aron of Nybacken has asked the assistance of authorities in bringing your brother back to his service. I presume you know he left last Sunday morning?”

“He left because the farmer flogged him.”

Lönnegren nodded: Aron had said that he had corrected his hand with suitable chastisement, as was the right of masters, according to paragraph 5 of the servant law. But this chastisement was intended to improve the servant: the boy ought to have accepted it in mild submission. It did not give him the right to desert.

“My brother has shown me his bloody back.”

The sheriff gave Karl Oskar another searching look.

“You’ve met, then? Has he been here?”

“Yes, but he isn’t here any longer.”

“Is he close by?”

“I don’t know how close he might be.”

Karl Oskar tried to evade the truth without lying.

The sheriff stroked his chin in deep thought. From his coat pocket he pulled a large stamped paper which he now unfolded. According to paragraph 52 of the servant law, and Chapter 16, paragraph 7, of the land code, a master had the right to enforce the return of a deserted servant. In the name of the law he now asked Karl Oskar to divulge his brother’s whereabouts.

“I am not responsible for my brother.”

“The boy has once before tried to get away. It’s a second offense.”

The sheriff’s man returned: the escaped one could not be found outside the house.

The sheriff’s patience was coming to an end. “You are harboring the deserter, you scoundrel! Turn him over!”

Karl Oskar answered: According to the law he did not consider himself duty-bound to help the authorities apprehend his own brother. In any case, he would first like to see the paper concerning such duty.

The sheriff did not answer; this big-nosed peasant was not born on the porch, he knew his rights. And if it were up to him alone, the boy might well go. It was a most unpleasant task to hunt poor farmhands who evaded the servant law. But law was law and duty was duty; it was his business to see to it that the servant law was followed.

Karl Oskar watched the sheriff’s face and became bolder. If the sheriff himself had a brother who had escaped from his master because of flogging, would he then report his brother for apprehension?

The sheriff shouted in answer: “If you cannot tell the truth, you might at least shut up, you scoundrel!”

But he looked up toward the sky for a moment, and Karl Oskar thought: What people said about him was true; if he hadn’t been sheriff he might have been almost a good man.

Lönnegren turned his back on Karl Oskar and called his man to accompany him; they went into the house. The sheriff and his servant searched the main room, they went into the kitchen where Kristina stood with the frightened children hanging on to her skirts. They looked into the reserved room where Nils and Märta sat silent and immovable on their chairs, and felt the shame of the search; no sheriff had ever before been to this house. They went up the stepladder into the attic, where they felt in a pile of old clothes; the dust rose from the rags and the sheriff came down angry and coughing. They had looked through the house, and the search continued now through the barns. Lönnegren remained in the yard while his helper went through a heap of unwashed wool in the byre, ascended the hay loft and kicked here and there in the hay, went down into the cellar, through the wagon cover, the woodshed, and the outhouse.

The authorities had to leave, their errand unsuccessful. Karl Oskar escorted the sheriff to his carriage. When Lönnegren was seated he said: “I’ll get the rascal if he remains in this district. Do you hear me, Karl Oskar Nilsson? I’ll catch up with your brother if he remains
in my district!
”