Karl Oskar reflected, as he returned to bed, that he was now no longer alone in his strongly criticized venture. There were now two homeowners. And Danjel was giving up a farm many times larger and better than Korpamoen. That thought was comforting.
Of course, he must admit, he must sadly admit, that he considered his companion a little unbalanced.
— 4—
And so it happened in those days that another old chest, in another attic, on another farm, was dragged forth, inspected, dusted, scrubbed, and put in order — another America chest, the second.
Only a month before their scheduled departure Jonas Petter of Hästebäck came to Korpamoen one evening to warn Robert: his neighbor had met Sheriff Lönnegren, who asked whether the hired hand had come home. Aron of Nybacken insisted that his servant be returned; the boy might try escaping to America when his brother left.
This message did not surprise Karl Oskar, who knew that Aron harbored an intense hatred toward him. For a few minutes once he had inflicted the greatest fear possible on Aron; now his hatred sought revenge on Robert: the farmer of Nybacken would try to prevent the boy’s emigration.
Karl Oskar said it would be safest for Robert to keep out of the sheriff’s reach during the remaining weeks.
Tears came into Robert’s eyes. He had been afraid to appear in public since he returned home; together with other deserters in the parish recently he had been rebuked from the pulpit. The dean had preached a sermon about “unfaithful servants” who deserted their masters and set themselves up against God’s ordinances; he had said that disobedient farmhands were spots of shame on a Christian community. Robert had felt so much disgraced that he never went out in public, and spoke to no one except Arvid, who also was disgraced although in another way.
Now he said that rather than return to Nybacken he would go to the mill brook, and this time it wouldn’t be his jacket and shoes only. Perhaps that really was the fate awaiting him: a farmhand drowned in the mill brook.
Jonas Petter spoke comfortingly: Lönnegren didn’t wish to harm any poor devil; he was sure to look for Robert in his home only. The sheriff never bothered more than was necessary about deserters. Robert should come with him to Hästebäck. There he would be safe till it was time to leave. “And I promise to hide you if the sheriff comes,” the neighbor assured Robert.
Karl Oskar advised his brother to accept the offer: “Dry your tears and go with Jonas Petter!”
Robert felt ashamed of having cried, grown-up as he was, but his heart ached at this thought: “Suppose. . suppose I couldn’t get away.”
He obeyed his brother and departed with the obliging neighbor.
Jonas Petter sat down to supper in the kitchen at Hästebäck, and asked Robert to join him. He took out the brännvin jug and poured two equally tall drinks for them: the boy was a man now. And Robert was eager to take a drink, perhaps two or three, for brännvin seemed to silence the humming sound in his left ear, which still bothered him. He had lost his hearing almost entirely in that ear, yet he heard a sound which no one else could hear. Perhaps it would never leave him, perhaps this echo from Aron’s box would hum as long as he lived.
Brita-Stafva, the farm wife, came in from the byre carrying her wooden milk pails. She was a knotty woman, with hard, manly features. Dark shadows of an unmistakable beard covered her lips, and there was also a tuft of hair on the tip of her chin. A woman with a beard aroused fear in some way. Jonas Petter had a bushy, black beard, yet Robert did not fear him. But those thin hairs on the wife’s chin made him uncomfortable; they were outside the norm. All children were afraid of Brita-Stafva.
She put down her pails and eyed the boy sullenly. But the look she then turned on her husband was hardly sullen: it was more — evil, full of hatred. Jonas Petter never tried to hide the fact that he and his wife lived on bad terms.
The men at the table drank their brännvin. Brita-Stafva said sharply, looking at Robert: “The sheriff’s carriage just passed.”
“Oh yes, my boy, he went to Korpamoen. Now you see, lad, we were lucky not to meet him!”
Robert lost interest in the food but he drank the brännvin. The roar in his ear was violent tonight, almost frightening him.
“Eat, lad. Don’t be afraid,” Jonas Petter encouraged him. “I’ve a safe hiding place if the sheriff comes here and asks for you.”
Brita-Stafva was busy straining the evening milk; when she heard that the sheriff’s passing might concern Robert, she became curious and looked questioningly at him. He felt ill at ease under her gaze, he could not help looking at the beard-tuft on her chin.
Jonas Petter poured himself more drinks; his eyes were taking on a blank look.
“Lönnegren is a decent sheriff,” he said. “Sharp in his words but he’s a hell of a nice fellow. I’ve known him since he was a boy — he’s the son of the ‘Stump of Orranäs.’”
“I’ve heard about that farmer,” said Robert, mostly to say something. “Why was he called the Stump?”
“How did he get the nickname? I’ll tell you, my boy!”
Jonas Petter glanced in the direction of his wife, busy with the milk pans; he was by now quite lively from all the brännvin.
“It’s an amazing story. It’s a story of a woman who sharpened a knife.”
At these last words a rattle from the milk strainer was heard. The farm wife had made a quick movement. It was almost dark where she stood in the hearth corner, but Robert noticed that her head jerked at her husband’s words.
He also had noticed that the couple had exchanged no words.
Jonas Petter knew of all unusual happenings which had taken place in Konga County within the last hundred years; he was now about to tell Robert how it came to be that Sheriff Lönnegren’s father was called the Stump.
A Story About a Wife Who Sharpened a Knife
The farmer of Orranäs was christened Isak, Jonas Petter began. He was known far and wide because he was crazy about women, and often led astray by them. He couldn’t keep his hands off a woman who was shaped well enough to be used by a man. It didn’t matter what her face was like, whether she was spotted and marred by smallpox, harelipped, warp-mouthed, or with any other defect; Isak would try to seduce her. He was married and in his own conjugal bed he had a plump, good-looking wife to play with. But this didn’t diminish his desire to visit other marital beds; neither married nor unmarried women were safe from him. He had a strange power over women, perhaps from the devil, perhaps from somewhere else. His visits to married women often had got him into trouble with offended husbands; once his arm was broken and another time his nose smashed in. But still he persisted, he still had the same power even after his nose was flattened.
His wife was exceedingly jealous of other women, and many times she threatened to leave him; but each time he promised and swore he would mend his ways and stick to his own bed. She tried to find a cure for his sinful lust through many concoctions which she mixed and gave to him — juices from roots, bitter herb porridges to cool his blood. But no matter what he ate or drank, strong as ever the whoring desire still possessed him.
There was, however, one successful cure for him, a cruel and horrible cure, and his wife finally administered it.
One day she told their hired man that she wanted a cutting knife sharpened: she needed it to cut old rags. He believed her, of course, and sharpened the knife as she herself pulled the grindstone.