The Settlers (41 page)

“Don’t leave me . . . please . . .”

The two comrades lay close together. They had come together from Sweden to North America, they had started out together on the California Trail, they had traveled together thousands of miles, and now they were still together. They had sealed with a handshake their intention never to part.

“Don’t . . . leave . . . me . . .”

Arvid had once wanted to turn back from the California Trail, but had kept his promise and stayed with his friend. Now he could trust Robert to stay with him. The two of them would never part—how many times hadn’t they repeated that. And Robert said it here again:

“. . . never leave you . . .”

Arvid could trust him—they would never part. But as his cries gradually died down there was nothing to keep Robert entirely awake. He slid into a sort of doze, between waking and sleeping. He felt Arvids fingers fumbling for his, and he held on to them even harder. A cool wind swept under their clothing—he moved closer to his comrade, who now lay almost silent, his breathing sounding choked. Something inside him was closing his windpipe.

It was still dark and Robert did not notice when Arvid unhooked his watch chain from the buttonhole and pulled the watch from its vest pocket. But his ear registered something he had grasped in his slumber: Take good care of it . . . good care . . . good . . .

But just now Robert wasn’t listening, he was where he wished to be, tossed high over mountains and deserts, up to the stars and the sky. Up there he met an immense river that flooded out of heaven. In that river he sank down, sank down to the bottom, to the bottom—and the bottom at last turned into the sand where he was lying. He lay there thrown down from heaven.

And then it was morning.

The sun stung his eyes with its ray-spears and awakened him. His eyelids smarted from sand. He rubbed them, looked about, and got himself together: everything came back.

“Arvid . . . !”

Arvid lay close to him, stretched out on his stomach. He lay on his face in the hole he had dug with his own hands. His hands lay beyond his head, the palms turned up, full of sand. He did not move, he lay still, like the ground under him. His face was turned down, his nostrils in the sand. Robert stretched out his hand, felt his comrade’s cheek lightly, and turned the face toward him. Arvid’s eyes were glassy, their vision broken, yellow sand grains clinging to the eyeballs.

Robert called Arvid’s name several times, but he did not reply.

As he turned Arvid’s face something stuck to his fingers; his fingers were red, bloody. Arvid’s chin was furrowed with wide, red streaks. He had vomited blood in great quantities. In the corners of his mouth it had coagulated into thick, blackened lumps, it had spread across his cheeks like blossoming flowers.

Robert could not grasp or understand it. He had blood on his hand; he must have pricked it on a thorny bush until it bled. All the bushes tore like claws, the grass was sharp, the very ground tore wounds in one’s feet. He called Arvid—he called louder but received no answer. He noticed that Arvid’s fingers were bent like scoops; he lay there unmoving but it looked as if he were trying to dig his own grave. Or what was he digging for?

And over the golden brown hills the sun’s flame flared again. A new morning had dawned in the land of dust and stone, heat and thirst.

—4—

Robert’s dizziness returned and he lost consciousness. He again heard the sound of approaching water; new rivers streamed over him and he lay down to drink. But into his mouth ran a hard, crunching water which hurt his swollen tongue. He spit out the sand he had been chewing.

Arvid had found a water hole and had hurried to drink. The hole stank of old urine but he drank and felt no discomfort from it and then he lay down to sleep. He awakened and called and called, but he was still lying there. They were not separated.

They had set out together to look for gold, for they wanted to be rich and free. And there lay Arvid on his stomach, digging with his hands. Help me! he had cried, and dug as if this would relieve him. He was digging for gold but the only thing he dug up was potato peelings, whole piles of them, a whole heaving boat full of them. And their boss had been angry and called Arvid a son of a bitch. What luck he didn’t understand English—it might have hurt his feelings. Arvid had once been accused of going after a heifer and had been given the name “The Bull of Nybacken.” He had emigrated to get away from that name, he had traveled all the way here, to dig this hole where he now lay so quietly.

Beside his comrade’s arm lay something that glittered. It wasn’t gold, it was Arvid’s watch, and it was only nickel-plated, with a brass chain. It was the chain that glittered. And Arvid was so careful with his watch. Why had he thrown it away like that? It could easily get sand in the works. He must retrieve it—he stretched out his hand for the watch and held it to his ear: it had stopped. Sand must have gotten into the works then. It had stopped a little after eleven, but now it was early in the morning.

So since Arvid was still here, they weren’t separated. Arvid lay still, he had covered his face with flowers. There lay two big roses right over his mouth, dark red now in the sun. Robert stared vacantly: where had Arvid found those beautiful flowers on his face?

“Comfort me! Help me!” And he had comforted him and said: “I won’t leave you . . .”

Arvid had drunk and sated his thirst. But Robert was still thirsty; he must drink, or he wouldn’t manage to get to California. He must get up and look for a water hole. Must move on, mustn’t stay in the same place: the one who couldn’t move forward couldn’t move back either.

Oh—back there the stream is spurting forth! A spring must suddenly have opened up. But the water is running in the other direction, it’s running away from him: it’s out of his reach. He must run to catch up with it! Water—water—now at last he had found it!

He yells until he loses his breath, he cries out in wild joy:

“Arvid! Arvid! Hurry! Come here and let’s drink! Water! Come . . . Come . . . !”

He rose on wobbly legs. But Arvid remained still.

But this was a running spring, with clean, clear, healthy water. It wasn’t a pool, stinking old piss. And he ran after the water that streamed over the sand. It was a broad, gurgling stream; it ran faster, he followed, he hurried his steps, he ran as fast as he could, used all his strength. He was barefooted but didn’t feel the sharp ground grinding against his sore feet as long as he saw the stream in front of him.

But it ran faster than he could run. And all at once it was gone. He scanned the broad plain—where had it gone to? It had gushed forth from the earth—and it had run into the earth again.

He stopped and stood there like a hunter who looks disappointedly after escaping game.

Robert wandered alone in the wilderness. The world was nothing but a plain, a sun above it, and a firebrand in his throat.

In his confused mind one thought remained: he and Arvid had promised to stick together. But where was he? He was alone now. They must have lost each other. He must find his way back to Arvid. He knew where he was lying—stretched out in a ditch with two red roses on his mouth. He must walk back to that place. There was a thicket of low bushes there, with thorns on them, and next to them a water hole with deep tracks in the gray mud from animals that had come to drink.

He scouted, he fell, he rose again. The sun burned and he crept into the shade under cliffs and boulders. He sat down to rest. But the stream came running by right in front of him. He rushed up and staggered after it until it was gone.

He chased many running streams which he could not catch up with. He walked until the sand under his feet disappeared and turned into grass. It felt different—softer, nicer. He tramped through short, withered grass, buffalo grass. He recognized it easily; their mules liked that kind of grass. And wasn’t he looking for a pair of mules that had strayed? And didn’t he just hear their names called? He listened. No, he must have been mistaken.

It was good to go barefoot on grass instead of sand. Especially with sore, chafed feet. Something thundered and roared in his ears—was it water streaming? It was far away. But the sound of a call again penetrated through the din in his ears, clearer now. There it was again—the names of the mules. He remembered their names—or what was he hearing?

“Heekee . . . ! Hinni . . . ! Cheekte . . . !”

He himself had called those names only a little while ago, when he and Arvid looked for the strayed animals. It must be the names that now echoed in his ears. Heekee—Hinni—he and Arvid did not know what those words meant, for they had not named the mules. It was someone else calling now. He had heard that same voice call animals before, and the animals had been dirty gray, as big as heifers, long-eared and spindly-legged. They had coal-black eyes and braying voices. They carried heavy packs, moved slowly on their spindly legs, the sand whirled softly around their small hooves as they crossed the plain. They were tame, sluggish, trustworthy riding and pack beasts one could talk to and scratch behind the ears:
Mexican mules
—that was their name.

“Hinni! Cheekte . . . !”

Mexican
—now the call was clearer, sounded closer, and he recognized the voice. He had heard it sing round the campfire:

Oh, the good time has come at last,

We need no more complain, sir!

It was because of this that he and Arvid now were walking about here, side by side:

We shall be rich at once now,

With California gold, sir!

The singer of this song had packed huge gourds, enclosed in woven straw, and from those vessels he had often drunk. Drunk . . . ! What did the Mexican call those containers . . . ? He searched in vain for the word, the name. And what was the name of the man who had sung at the campfire? A small man, in a red jacket and brown pants with yellowish tassels and the broadest hat any man in creation had ever worn.

Oh, the good time has come at last—he tried to repeat the words and answer the singer, but his swollen tongue produced only a hoarse croaking. His reply did not reach far enough, did not reach his master—yes, that was his boss’s voice. And he was calling his strayed mules, not him. He was Robert Nilsson, a farm hand from Sweden, on his way to the land of gold. If he only managed to croak and bray, perhaps his boss would think it was his mules replying. But he needed water—he had drunk before from his master’s gourds . . .

The voice came closer. It was next to his ear. But at that moment he himself was removed, slid away, fluttered out into the distance without being able to stop it. In the very moment when the familiar voice spoke into his ear, he was pulled away, flew into the air over the plain; he swam high above sand and grass, over the earth, above hills and cliffs, he was lifted all the way up into the heavens and all the stars gleamed and glimmered before his eyes. Now he was so high above everything that never more would he come down to earth.

But up there in heaven stood a very little man in a red jacket and broad hat; he leaned over him, and he had black eyes, kind mule eyes, and a nose that was almost as big as Karl Oskar’s. Judging by the nose it could be Karl Oskar, his brother. And he spoke like a brother.

“Poor boy! My muleteer . . . I’ve been looking for you . . .”

And he was on earth again and lay on his back in the buffalo grass. He had fallen down from the heavens and the stars and he held something in his arms, held it hard: with trembling hands he held onto the straw enclosure of the gourd—the calabash.

“Oh, poor fellow . . . Just in time . . . My muleteer . . .”

Robert drank. He drank a water that stayed with him. It couldn’t flee, it was shut up in a bottle, in a gourd which he had caught in his arms—
this water did not run away from him.

You can figure it out if you wish. Arvid had been dead now for three years. Of the cotter’s son from Kråkesjö manor there is no longer any sign in the sand. The wind has long ago covered him with sand.

He emigrated a long way to his grave. He found a quiet place, a silent and peaceful room in the earth.

REST IN PEACE SWEET BOY

FOR THY TROUBLES ARE OVER

But the cries of his death agony, his calls for help, his ailing—all these I have saved for you in here. How did you like it when I let you listen to them again a moment ago? Didn’t they sound as real as ever? Piercing, penetrating like that time? Haven’t I kept them well? Could you hear any difference in the cries from that first time?

“Help me, Robert! Please help me—I’m dying . . .”

How many ears do you think have heard this pleading before me on this earth? But not all, by far, have kept it so well as I. Each time you hear this pleading sleep comes late to you. It was during your wait for sleep that you began to ponder your lot in life.

It’s nearly morning but you are still awake, tossing your head back and forth on the pillow, trying all sides, unable to find the one which will silence me. I understand so well that you want to get my sounds out of your head. But I assure you: I’m your most faithful comrade. You and Arvid had to part at last, but you and I shall stay together. I will never leave you!

Listen! I buzz for you through the long hours of your waking! Listen, gold seeker, where you toss on your bed!

I have preserved the sound of the wind over that plain—can you hear how it roars across those empty spaces in that country of stone and dust and thirst? And the wind roars over the earth at will throughout the night! It quickly obliterates a wanderer’s tracks and covers in short time a wretched, naked, lone finger pointing accusingly from the sand.

XX

WILDCATS OF MANY BREEDS

—1—

On Thursday morning—as on every weekday morning—Karl Oskar was up and about before daylight. As soon as he was dressed, he raised the lid of the old Swedish chest against the wall and took out two bundles of money, which he held in his hands for a few thoughtful moments. He had done this each morning since Robert’s return.