Unto a Good Land (40 page)

“You fainted,” Karl Oskar said.

She still felt dizzy, she put her hand to her forehead and began to remember: Karl Oskar had returned—at last!

“What were you doing? Why did you stay away so long?”

“So long? I was only gone a short while.”

He looked at his watch: he had examined the snares and moved them a bit, but he hadn’t been gone a half hour.

“A half hour?” Kristina was surprised. In that time she had suffered death, spent time in eternity. “I called you.” Her dulled senses were clearing: “The Indians came. Two awful ones! They took your gun.”

Karl Oskar looked at the wall—the gun was still there where he had hung it. As Kristina noticed this, she said: “I was so confused—I thought they stole the gun. But they cocked it.”

Karl Oskar took down his muzzle-loader and examined it; he couldn’t see that anyone had touched it.

“Did they handle it?”

“They aimed it.”

“At you? Oh Lord in Heaven!”

“I thought they would shoot me and the children.”

“God, they must have frightened you! No wonder you fainted!”

She related what had taken place in the cabin the few minutes he was gone. And as Karl Oskar listened, a cold perspiration broke out on his forehead. While he had been gone less than half an hour, the greatest disaster he could imagine had nearly befallen him: he might have returned to find wife and children dead on the cabin floor.

“Oh Lord my God! What an escape!”

Kristina said: First she had called him. Then she had prayed God to help her, and He had listened to her prayer and sent the savages away from their house without harming her or the children. Never before in her life had she realized so fully as today how all of them were under the protection of their Creator.

“They left the gun. I don’t understand it. What did they want in here?”

Karl Oskar suggested that the Indians were curious: they hadn’t come to murder anyone, they only wanted to see how the new settlers lived. But they handled shooting irons like children—the gun might easily have gone off and killed her!

“This must never happen again,” he said.

They had had a serious warning today. She must bolt the door carefully whenever he was out, even if only for a short time. And they must rig up a loud bell so she could call him when there was danger.

“I hope you didn’t hurt yourself?”

“No. I feel perfectly well again.”

She had looked very pale when he saw her lying on the floor, but now her color had come back. She busied herself with her chores, they must have their evening meal at last. She stirred up the fire under the pot and Karl Oskar went outside for more wood.

She sat down to clean the fish. But as she stuck the knife into the first pike belly, she felt a jerking convulsion grip her: an intense pain began in the small of her back and spread through her whole lower body. It felt as if she had stuck the knife into her own belly instead of into the fish.

When Karl Oskar came back with the wood, he saw she had grown pale again, her very lips were bluish. And her hand with the knife trembled as she cut the entrails from the pike.

“Is something wrong?”

“Nothing much. It’ll soon be over.”

“But you’ve pain?”

“It will soon pass.”

She went on cleaning the fish, she cleaned all the pike, and the pain abated. She had told Karl Oskar the truth—the pain had passed.

But what she hadn’t said was that it would soon be upon her again; she had recognized the pain.

And it did come back—an hour later, when they sat around the chest lid eating their supper. The same pain returned, radiating from the small of her back, shooting and cutting through her lower body. This time it lasted longer than before. Her appetite was gone, but she forced herself to swallow a few bites of the boiled fish.

Karl Oskar looked uneasily at his wife: “How do you feel, Kristina?”

“I don’t feel so well, after the fainting spell.”

“Eat! That will bring back your strength.”

She tried for a moment to persuade herself that it was only the aftereffect of fainting. And the pain eased, but in a little while it came again for a third time, and now it seized her so violently that she had to let a few moans escape her lips. She panted and drew in her breath with difficulty.

“Take some drops!” Karl Oskar urged.

He found the bottle of Hoffman’s Heart-Aiding Drops, which Kristina had hidden with great care; he poured a tablespoonful and gave it to her. She swallowed the drops without a word. But by now she knew: no drops would help her, this would not pass, this would come back many times, and more intense each time it came—until it was over. She remembered it well; after all, she had experienced it four times before. And she regretted immediately having taken the heart-aiding drops, they couldn’t help her in any way; those drops had been wasted on her; they might better have been used for the children, when they ailed. Foolish of her. . . . Why had she believed something would help? The first time might have been a mistake—but now. . . . Why didn’t she tell Karl Oskar the truth?

“It’s my time, Karl Oskar.”

“Do you think so?”

“Yes. It couldn’t be anything else.”

He looked at her in foolish surprise. “But—isn’t it too soon?”

“Fourteen days too soon.”

“Yes, that’s what I thought. . . . Then we must get someone right away!”

He had just finished pulling off his boots, now he pulled them on again quickly. Where could he find a woman to help? Who out here could act as midwife? At home she had had both her mother and mother-in-law at her childbeds. But here—a married woman, a settler woman who spoke their language—there was hardly a one. An unmarried woman who had never borne children would not be good for much. He had had it in mind to suggest to Kristina—as long as she herself hadn’t mentioned it—that they ought to bespeak a woman to help her in childbed, before it was too late. Fina-Kajsa was too old, her hands trembled, and her head wasn’t always clear. He had thought of Swedish Anna, who was a widow and had reached ripe age—she should be able to help a life into the world.

But it was a long way to fetch her from Taylors Falls—a three-hour walk by daylight. And would she come with him through the wilderness tonight? This had happened so suddenly, night was falling, and this too was bad luck.

“I had better get Swedish Anna. But it will take a few hours.”

“You needn’t go so far,” Kristina said. “Get Ulrika.”

“What? Ulrika of Västergöhl?”

“Yes. I asked her at the housewarming.”

“You want the Glad One to be with you?”

“She promised me.”

Karl Oskar was stamping on his right boot, and he stopped, perplexed: The Glad One was considered as good as anyone here, no one spoke ill of her now. Both he and Kristina had made friends with her, had accepted her in their company. But he had not imagined that his wife would call for Ulrika of Västergöhl to be with her at childbed, he had not thought she would want her so close. Yet she had already bespoken her—the woman she had wanted to exclude as a companion on their journey. She would never have done this at home; there a decent wife would never have allowed the public whore to attend her at childbirth.

Kristina rose and began preparing the bed: “Don’t you think Ulrika can manage?”

“Yes! Yes, of course! I only thought . . .”

But he never said what his thought was. It was this: he had accepted Ulrika, but hardly more. He could not forget that, after all, she had been the parish whore in Ljuder, and he was surprised that Kristina seemed to have forgotten. Perhaps it was as well, perhaps it was fortunate that she was within call when a midwife was needed. She should know the requirements at such a function, she had borne four children of her own, she should know what took place at childbirth. Ulrika had health and strength, she was cleanly. She would probably make a good midwife. She could help a wedded woman, even though all her own children had been born out of wedlock. What wouldn’t do at home would have to do here; here each one did as best he could, and they must rely on someone capable, regardless of her previous life.

Karl Oskar now was surprised at himself for not having thought of Ulrika. “I shall fetch her as fast as I can run.”

“It’s already dark. It won’t be easy for you.”

He said he could find the road to their neighbors’ settlement, he had walked it often enough. But it was too bad that Robert was staying with Danjel, or he could have sent him instead. Now he must leave Kristina and the children alone—and just after they had been frightened by the Indians. She must bolt herself in, to be safe. Would she be able to push in the bolts after he left? It would be almost two hours before he could get back.

“Can you hold out till I get back?”

“I think I can. But be sure to bring Ulrika with you.”

Karl Oskar cut a large slice of bread for each of the children, to give them something to gnaw on while he was gone. He stopped a moment outside the door while Kristina bolted it, and then he took off.

Outside it was pitch-dark. Karl Oskar had made himself a small hand lantern out of pieces of glass he had found in Taylors Falls: he had fitted these into a framework of wood. But the tiny tallow candle inside burned with so weak a flame that the lantern helped him but little. Later there might be a moon, but at the moment the heavens were cloaked in dark clouds, not letting through a ray. He must hurry, he hadn’t time to look for obstacles, he strode along fast, stumbled on roots, slipped into hollows; thorns stung him and branches hit him in the face; he was drenched with perspiration before he was halfway to Danjel’s. A few times he had to stop to get his breath. It was difficult to hurry in his heavy boots.

Karl Oskar was panting and puffing like a dog in midsummer when at last he espied the light from Danjel’s cabin; he had never before covered the distance between the two settlements in so short a time.

He arrived as the Lake Gennesaret people were preparing for bed. Dan-jel, shirt-clad only, opened the door for him. Looking at Karl Oskar’s face he guessed the caller’s errand: “It’s Kristina? She must be ready.”

“Yes.”

Ulrika of Västergöhl was sitting on the hearth corner darning socks in the light from the fire. She stood up: “How far has it gone?”

“I don’t know. The pains came right after dusk.”

“Had the birth-water come?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s probably just begun.”

“It came on somewhat suddenly. Two Indians came in and frightened her. That might have brought it on.”

“It’s always sudden,” Ulrika told him.

She gathered up the worn socks and put them away; then she threw a woolen shawl over her shoulders and was ready. Danjel handed her a bottle of camphor drops and a large linen towel.

Robert asked if he should go with them, but Ulrika said: “There’s no need for any more menfolk.” She glanced at Karl Oskar, who stood there anxious and pale: “No—no more chickenhearted males!”

And out into the darkness went Karl Oskar in Ulrika’s company; he went ahead through the forest and tried to light their way with his lantern. Now he couldn’t walk fast, partly because he was tired, partly because of Ulrika.

Soon the moon broke through the clouds, and the moonlight was of more help than the lantern.

Ulrika talked almost incessantly: Yes, menfolk were soft at a woman’s childbirth; they used as excuse that they couldn’t bear to see a poor woman suffer. . . . Hmm. . . . The truth was, probably, they suffered from bad conscience—those who had a conscience; they themselves had put the woman in childbirth pain.

Karl Oskar answered her in monosyllables, mostly he listened. Whatever was said of Ulrika in Västergöhl she was a fearless and plucky woman. This was well—such a one was needed at a childbed.

Ulrika continued: She herself had been delivered four times, but at her childbeds no man had needed to see her suffer; least of all the fathers of the children, for they had kept themselves far, far away. They had kept away at the birth and after; indeed, she had never heard from them again. It was best for them, of course; they were wise; they wanted to partake of the sweet tickling, but not of the sour suffering. Men were always quick to be on their way; and she had been too proud to ask their whereabouts. No one could ever accuse her of having run after men. It was the menfolk who had never left her in peace, they had tempted and promised and lured her in every way; and that poor excuse for a man who didn’t do the right thing of his own will was not worth running after.

Yes, Ulrika knew the menfolk; the only one who might know them better was God the Father Himself, Who had made them. She had been with many; she knew what cowards they were toward women, how they tried to shirk their responsibility for what they had done, how they lied and accused others, how they wriggled and squirmed—those men. She knew how they shammed concern and acted the hypocrite, their tongues sweet and soft until they got a woman on her back, and how afterward—having been let in to enjoy the feast—they grew cheap and penurious and unkind: turned back into the useless cowards they actually were.

There might be a few real men; the best that could happen to a woman in this world was to be married to a real man, one she could rely on when she needed him.