Now, among all the foods in the world, Arvid liked rice porridge best. Rice porridge he could enjoy only once a year — at Yuletide. One Sunday Robert was reading about rice in the History of Nature. As he finished, Arvid said: “Read it again!”
Robert read:
“About Rice:
“Rice is a grain which is grown in unbelievable quantities in warm countries. The shelled seeds are shipped to us and are then called rice grains. From them is cooked with milk the white and delicious sweet porridge. The best rice comes from Carolina in North America. . ”
Arvid listened with open mouth, dreaming his thoughts of sweet porridge. It was almost half a year to Christmas; between now and the plate of rice porridge were many hundred salt herrings which he must eat; Aron had lately been to Karlshamn and had brought home a barrel of herring, and they were expected to reach the bottom of it before the sweet white porridge would be cooked.
Robert went on with a new chapter:
“About Sugar Cane:
“Nearly all sugar consumed in our country is made from sugar cane; this is a tall grass, eight to ten feet high, which grows in warm countries like the East Indies and America. . ”
The elder farm boy scratched the back of his neck where there were a few fresh bites from last night’s bedbugs. Then he looked out through the window, thoughtfully. A land existed where both rice and sugar grew, both the grain and the sweetening for the porridge. But he knew this was far away in the world, separated from his country by a great water. Neither he nor Robert had seen any greater bodies of water than the tarns here in the parish, and these were so small that a man could row around the shores in an hour. Arvid began to wonder about the sea which separated this country from America.
Suddenly, as if he had spoken to himself, he asked: “I wonder how broad the ocean might be?”
Robert looked up, startled. He could have answered the question, he could have told Arvid many things pertaining to the ocean. But he carried a secret which he guarded well; he must act wisely and carefully, he must not confide in anyone, not even his comrade in service.
Thus, on Sundays, Arvid and Robert sat there, looking out through the single window of their stable room. The small panes were spotted and unwashed, in the corners were cobwebs filled with dead flies, the whitewash on the sash had long ago disintegrated. A dirty, small, poor window let in the light to the hired men in Nybacken. But through this window they could see out into the world, they could look across the stable yard and see the farmland beyond, they could see the village road that passed by. And beyond their eyes’ reach their thoughts struggled further, their thoughts ventured on roads never traveled, down to a sea never seen, and across the waters of the ocean.
One of them had made his decision, and he was the first in the parish to do so.
— 3—
Arvid drew part of his pay in brännvin from the farm’s still. One Saturday evening as the boys were sitting in their stable room after the day’s toil Arvid brought out his keg, which had just been filled by Aron, and offered a drink to his friend. Robert had not yet learned to drink brännvin alone; he still dunked bread in it. In order to please Arvid he accepted a mug and drank it, and afterward he felt as if a juniper twig was stuck in his throat.
Aron had today mentioned that the yearly catechism examination would be held at Nybacken, and Arvid, who last year had been strongly reprimanded by the dean because he was unable to recite the Fourth Commandment, anticipated this day with apprehension.
“The dean asked who our masters were and I couldn’t answer,” he said.
“Our masters are all those who by God’s ordinance are placed over us in the home, in the state, at school, and at the place where we work,” Robert recited glibly.
“Oh, Jesus!” Arvid stared with admiration at his young friend, who gloated in his display of superior knowledge.
“God has given our parents and masters power over us so that they as God’s servants may take fatherly care of us, and each in his station watch over our true welfare. Let every soul be subject unto the higher powers. For there is no power but of God: the powers that be are ordained by God. Wilt thou then not be afraid of the power? Do that which is good, and thou shalt have praise of the same.”
“God Almighty!” exclaimed Arvid, and in his amazement he drank so much from his brännvin mug that he choked.
Robert could rattle off the old lessons indefinitely. He could also teach a little to his friend. “Do you know how many superiors and masters we have, Arvid? In the whole world, I mean.”
“No-o.”
Robert held up his right hand and counted on his fingers. For every lord and master he bent one finger. First was the King, then the Governor, below the King; the third was the Crown Sheriff, who came under the Governor. The fourth was Sheriff Lönnegren, and the fifth was the sheriff’s hired man. The sixth was the dean, their spiritual authority, and the seventh their own master, Aron of Nybacken. The sheriff watched over them to see that they remained in their place of service, the dean watched over them at the yearly examinations, Aron watched over them to see that they worked and earned their pay. There were seven superiors and masters in all.
“Jesus Christ! What a lot of masters!”
“Now you can name them to the dean at the examination,” said Robert.
“I’ll try to remember.” And Arvid began to count on his own fingers: “The King, the first master. . What is his name?”
Robert explained: The King who by God’s ordinance sat on the thrones of Sweden and Norway was named Oskar I, and through him all other authority derived.
He went through the list of masters with his comrade many times, and at last Arvid could name all those seven who according to God’s ordinance had fatherly power over them.
After a time Robert tired of this holding school; he had drunk several mugs of brännvin and he felt drowsy; he undressed and crawled under the horse blanket. Arvid sat alone with the keg in front of him; he continued to drink; he had drunk more often of late. The stable lantern, swinging from a nail on the wall, spread a dim light over the room. From the other side of the wall could be heard the puffing of the horses and the sound of horseshoes against the stable floor. The hunters of the night — the bedbugs — emerged from their cracks and holes and hurried on their way to suck blood.
Robert went to sleep with the odor of brännvin in his nose.
Suddenly he was awakened by a noise. He had been asleep only a short time. The lantern on the wall was still lit, the door was open and banged in the gusty wind; the sound of it had awakened him. But Arvid was not in his bed, he had vanished.
Robert shook the keg on the table: it was empty. He was seized with anxiety for his friend.
Quickly he pulled on his trousers and hurried into the stable yard. Outside, in the clear moonlight, he could make out someone moving near the door of the woodshed. He went closer: it was Arvid, leaving the shed, staggering. He had an ax in his hand.
“What are you up to?”
Arvid weaved back and forth, his breath came quickly, his head was bare, his tousled hair blowing in all directions, and his mouth wide open. His upper lip was thick and swollen, his cheek bloody; he had fallen and hurt himself. In the moonlight his eyes were bloodshot and staring. From the woodshed he had fetched the heavy wedge ax.
“Are you going to split wood? In the middle of the night?”
“No. . not wood. . Something else.”
“Are you walking in your sleep?”