The Settlers (40 page)

As they walked on, Arvid pulled out his watch; before it got too dark he wanted to know what time it was. His father had instructed him to keep the cylinder watch well cleaned at all times. Now he was afraid that sand might have got into the vest pocket when he fell; if a grain of sand got into the works it might stop the watch.

Arvid held the nickel watch against his swollen, cracked lips and blew on it as it dangled from its chain, blew away the sand. Then he turned the lining of his pocket inside out and brushed it well with his fingers before he put the watch back in again.

Around them cliffs and sandhills donned the black cape of night and assumed nocturnal shapes. Once again they became monstrous creatures: a buffalo ox’s horn-crowned royal head was placed on a mule’s narrow, spindly body, and a desert wolf with a thirty-foot tail opened its deep cliff-jaws in front of them. And the wall of distant hills underwent its metamorphosis and produced camels and dromedaries with humped backs and swaying necks. After the caravan day the desert’s beasts of burden had lain down to rest in a circle under the stars.

They had gone out to search for a pair of stray mules, but a little while ago they had come across another animal:

“The horse had just been shod!” said Arvid.

Robert too had noticed this. The horse lay dead, and half eaten away, but his shoes had glittered brilliantly in the sun. It was doubly evil to meet death with new shoes on one’s feet. They gleamed like silver above the rotten flesh. And the separated, lone hind leg had stiffened in the sand in a final vain resistance. It rose in an accusing kick against the Lord in heaven. Poor lone hind leg in the wide plain!

But Arvid had seen something still more lonely than the hind leg; he had almost stepped on it.

“It was a forefinger! It pointed right at us!”

The evening coolness had cleared Robert’s head and he could again think clearly; his thoughts were circling around one single object, one only—the one they were now looking for.

He had thrown away his shoes and the sand felt cooler when he walked barefoot. But inside he was filled with dry, hot, burning embers which had plagued him for more than a day now. In the blisters on his lips this fire burned and stung; his tongue grew into a swollen, smarting lump, tasting of hard, gray earth from the dried-out water holes. It had to be somewhere, somewhere they must find it. It couldn’t have dried up everywhere, somewhere it must still well forth. They must go on searching, they would find it at last.

Before they got lost they had seen water in many places, and the holes had not been dry. It couldn’t have dried up all at once. If they only could find some grass again, then surely they would be close—that short, thick grass, the buffalo grass . . . Only yesterday they had seen it on their journey—or was it the day before yesterday? Which morning was it he had awakened and found the two mules gone? Was it yesterday, the day before yesterday, or the day before the day before yesterday?

Somewhere they would find it.

They had traveled many hundred miles to join the gold caravan, the train of the hundred thousand. Now they were looking for something very common:
water.

—2—

Over the biggest dromedary’s dark hump the moon rose. From the moon disc—three quarters filled—a pale, clear light was diffused over the sandy plain. Now they could continue their search, they would be lighted by the night sun.

They had walked only a short distance when they found themselves in a hollow. Arvid was the first one to discover it: something gleamed in the moonlight at the bottom of the hollow. He saw it only for a second—then he let out a hoarse howl.

Violently he pulled his hand from Robert’s, rushed forward a few paces, and threw himself headlong on the ground. Robert had seen nothing as yet, as he came stumbling behind, half asleep. What was the matter with Arvid? Did he see water again? Twice before he had seen it, but only in his imagination; as soon as they had reached the place they found only dry sand.

But now Arvid was lying on his stomach, drinking from a small pool in the bottom of the deep hollow. It had been a big water hole, but had now narrowed to a small pool. And Arvid was guzzling and drinking. It was not imagination this time; at last they had found water.

Robert not only saw the water, he could hear it from the noise his friend made. But when he came closer he could see in the clear moonlight that it was no fresh, gushing spring they had found. It was a mud hole with stagnant, thick, dirty, opaque water. It did not look like good drinking water. In the ash-gray mud around the pool were deep, hardened tracks from animals.

He threw himself on his knees beside his comrade to drink. But such a nauseating odor filled his nostrils that he pulled back. The pool stank from something rotten, cadaverous. His desire to quench his thirst was checked by a feeling of nausea.

But Arvid was stretched out full length on his stomach, his whole chin in the pool, like an animal that drinks by putting its snout into the water. He was lapping and drinking in long swallows—puffing, panting, snorting, drinking. He got water in his windpipe, he coughed, it bubbled in the pool.

“It stinks like hell,” mumbled Robert.

Arvid did not worry about the odor; he was not using his nose; only his mouth and throat were open. He continued to drink, sucking in the water like a cow, gorging himself drinking. For each swallow he let out a deep, muffled, satisfied groan.

“Is it all right? It smells like stale piss.”

Robert again bent down over the pool, driven by his insufferable thirst. His mouth touched the water—he must overcome his nausea, he must drink. Anyone as thirsty as he must drink anything fluid, however nasty it smelled. But in the moonlight it seemed as if the water was cleaner and clearer on the opposite side of the pool. He crawled on his knees away from Arvid to the other side. Here it did seem less nauseating.

Beside him a post had been driven into the ground, with a piece of board nailed to it. There were letters on the board, clumsily written in chalk. After one look at the board Robert was on his feet again:

LOOK AT THIS

Don’t Drink—The Water Is Poison—The Death

The post with the narrow board across it rose beside the water hole like a cross on a grave. Robert looked at the wooden cross for one long, frightened second, then he yelled, “Stop, Arvid! Its death!”

In his fright he was using English words which his friend did not understand.

“Come, Arvid, and look at this post! It says the water is poisoned!”

And at once he could hear what the Mexican had said: the water holes along the trail were not to be trusted. Someone had drunk of this water before and discovered it was poisonous and put up the sign to warn others.

“For Christ’s sake, stop drinking!” He grabbed his comrade by the shoulder to pull him from the water. But Arvid had already raised himself up on his knees. He had drunk a lot, he had satisfied his thirst. Water trickled in big drops from the corners of his mouth; his chin with its scraggy beard looked like a dripping muzzle. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and belched.

“Helluva dirty water. Don’t quench the thirst much.”

“It’s poisoned!”

Robert pointed to the sign where the warning could be read in large letters. But it was in English and meant nothing to Arvid.

“For God’s sake, don’t drink any more!”

“Well, it wasn’t very good water. It’s stinky!”

“Arvid—you must puke it up!”

“The hell I must . . . ?”

“Don’t you hear—the pool is poisoned! You’ve drunk your death!”

“Well, it couldn’t be that bad . . . ?”

Robert pulled Arvid away from the water, into a thicket of low bushes at the edge of the muddy pool. His friend must not be tempted to drink any more.

“Puke, Arvid! Put your fingers in your throat! Get rid of the water!”

But Arvid refused to think that he had drunk death into his body. His belly was full of water, brimful, but he felt no discomfort. He refused to put his fingers in his throat, he didn’t want to vomit. All he wanted was to lie down and go to sleep. His stomach felt a little heavy after all the water, a rest would be good. And with a tired sigh of contentment he stretched out on his back under the bushes.

“Please, Arvid—listen to me! You must get rid of the water!” Robert tried to put his own fingers into Arvid’s throat and make him vomit.

“Let me alone! I’m all right! Let me sleep now . . .”

There was nothing more to be done with Arvid. He just wanted to sleep, right in this spot. He refused to move an inch. Why should he put his fingers in his throat? He wasn’t sick. All he wanted was sleep; it was the middle of the night and he was more tired than any person on earth had ever been before.

Arvid pushed his head under some low branches as if he wished to hide it. He went to sleep at once, snoring noisily.

Suddenly it became very dark; a great cloud had crossed the moon and cut off its light. The contours of the landscape with its cliffs and boulders and sharp grass and bushes were enveloped in darkness. Somewhere under that black mantle lay the chewed-off horse shank with a new shoe, and near it a white finger pointing from the sand.

Robert sat beside his sleeping comrade, staring out into the desolate night. His vision could not penetrate far in this darkness. He could not see the pool, even though it must be less than thirty feet away. He could not see the wooden cross that was raised beside it. But it was there all right, the words remained where they once had been chalked on the wood:
Look at This—The Death.
Death remained, it was near. It had only hidden itself. Perhaps it did so at times, to fool one. But it was there, and kept close to them.

He had two names for death, each sounding very different to his ear: the Swedish word sounded hard and frightening and threatening:
Döden!
It would be the clarion call over earth on doomsday morning: Döööden! That word cut like an ax through bone and marrow. Its echo was fear, a sound without mercy, a wailing without comfort. But the English
death
sounded soft and peaceful, quiet and restful. It didn’t call for an end to life in threatening and condemning sounds. Death was soft-voiced, merciful, it approached silently, kindly. It brought comfort and compassion to a person at the end of his life. Death—it was a whisper in the ear, it didn’t frighten or terrify. It said in the kindest of words how things stood; it said in all friendliness:
Now you will die.

But it was only due to the softer word that the English death sounded kinder than the Swedish, and words were nothing but foolery and cheating. The English, lurking back there in the dark only a few paces from them, it too had no mercy.

Arvid had drunk of death’s water and now he slept and was satisfied. Robert had not drunk, he still had the thirst that consumed life in him. If he drank from the pool he would die. If he didn’t drink, he would die.

He moved his dry, swollen tongue; he said something to God. He wanted to tell the Lord over life and death that he did not wish to die. He wanted to explain that life was dear in the moment it was to be taken away. Never was it dearer. Never had it been dearer to him than during this night in the wilderness. How could his creator demand of him that he, only in his twentieth year, be consumed by an unbearable thirst, his body to disintegrate until only whitening, clean-gnawed bones would remain? Like the rotting hind leg of the horse, helplessly kicking toward the heaven? No, he wanted to keep his body intact, walk on his feet over ground that was covered with soft, fresh, green grass—and he wanted
to drink of the clear, fresh, running water on earth!

Water, water! He must find it!

Exhausted, Robert sank down against the body of his sleeping comrade. Confusion entered his thoughts, his head grew dizzy, and he sank into a hot, febrile slumber. As he slept he wandered about on green paths, and found running brooks that streamed over his face, filled his nose and mouth, and watered freely a verdant earth.

He dreamed deep, wonderful, purling water-dreams.

—3—

He was awakened by a groan; first from a great distance, then closer, until at last it was close to his ear:

“Ooohhjj—ooojjhojj! My guts! They kill me!”

Arvid was rolling over in the sand, pulling his knees against his chin, twisting himself into a bundle, stretching out again, throwing himself to and fro, rolling over. He fumbled for Robert, got a cramp-like hold on his arm. Robert’s hands found his and their fingers twisted together in a knot. Their tied-together hands held them together:

“Its killing me! Its tearing the guts out of me! Help me, Robert! Please, help me! Help . . . me . . .”

Two great swollen eyes stared in the dark from Arvid’s face. He held his hands against his stomach and rolled over again. Then, violently, he pulled away his hands and dug them into the sand, scratching wildly, kicked the sand with his feet until it whirled in a cloud around them. He was digging a hole where he lay, poking himself down into the earth, as his cries became a howl.

“Oooooh! Oooooohh! God . . . help . . . me . . .”

Death had arrived—Arvid had death in him. He had unsuspectingly opened his mouth and in deep swallows let it enter his body. Now it tore at his guts, and he screamed out his pain as loudly as his voice could manage.

Robert felt in the dark for Arvid’s flailing hands. If he only had had some medicine, a few drops to give him, some salve to put on, any help. But he had nothing to offer.

“OOOOHHJJJ! Help me! Please! Help! OOOJJJ!”

Arvid dug, beat wildly about him, yelled until his voice and strength failed. As he weakened, his wail sank to a pitiful whine, a quiet whimper, a feeble sound like a bird’s peep.

The intense pain continued for a few hours. At last Arvid emitted only a weak, slow complaint. In his pain-ridden impotence he groped again for his comrades hands and crept close to him on trembling limbs. They lay twined together. Robert could feel Arvid’s burning breath panting in his face; against his chest Arvid’s chest pumped like a smiths bellows.