Then she announced that her husband had died from a stroke; as people knew, he had been somewhat ailing lately. A grand funeral was held. The widow wanted to show that she mourned her husband deeply, and she cried profusely and bitterly at the graveside. No one suspected her of a crime.
As soon as her widow year was up she married the soldier. He in his turn died, after ten years of wedded life, from somewhat more natural causes than the first husband: people said from overwork in bed. The housewife of Galtakullen remained the same craving woman; she was about to take a third husband, but he became frightened of her, and changed his mind before it was too late. He is supposed to have said that the widow of Galtakullen was almost as much man as woman, that she had the organs of both sexes — though no one could be sure of this.
After two marriages she sat, a widow, on her farm for the rest of her life.
Then thirty years after her first husband’s sudden death the grave-digger was one day opening a new grave in the churchyard. While digging he got hold of a skull on his spade. He usually paid no attention to a skull, big or small, any more than a potato picker looks at his potatoes; for human skulls grow in a churchyard as profusely as tubers in a field. But this skull was different: a long rusty-red spike hung rattling inside it. The gravedigger carried his find to the dean, and pointed out to him where he had found the skull. The dean looked up his records and made sure of who had once been buried in that place. Then he tied the skull up in a piece of black cloth, took it under his arm, and went directly to Galtakullen. The widow was at home and he handed her the parcel, saying: Here comes your first husband to visit you; he wishes to speak about the nail in his head. Later you can come to me and speak about your wretched soul.
With this the dean went home. The following day the widow Lotta Andersdotter went to the parsonage and confessed her crime, and in the evening that same day she hanged herself in the milk cellar of her farm.
“Right in there, in that gray house up there,” concluded Jonas Petter.
Everyone looked toward the farm. Jonas Petter knew of all the crimes and evil deeds perpetrated by wives against their husbands in Konga County during the last hundred years, but Robert thought he shouldn’t tell them in the presence of a girl. Elin had looked straight ahead and acted as if she had heard nothing. Perhaps Jonas Petter had thought that the daughter of the Glad One was hardened.
Robert could see her eyes under the kerchief she had drawn forward over her brow, but she always looked away if he tried to meet her gaze. She did not appear sociable. So he turned his back to her and began speaking to Arvid behind him. He intended to buy a book in Karlshamn to learn the American language, he said; he would no doubt have time for study while crossing the ocean.
This was said for Elin’s benefit, and for the first time the eyes under the kerchief turned to the youth beside her.
He met her gaze. “You can borrow the book — if you wish.”
“I don’t need it,” she answered.
“You mean you speak English?”
“Not yet. Not before we land in America.”
“Do you think you can speak fluently as soon as we land?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Really?”
“I don’t need to learn the language because I’ll know it when we arrive,” repeated the girl with assurance.
“Who has told you that?”
“Uncle Danjel.”
And her eyes now looked into his, clear and trusting: Danjel had told them that all who were reborn in Christ would be able to speak the English tongue fluently as soon as they stepped on shore in America.
Robert was stupefied; he could hear and see that she believed this promise to the very letter.
Elin continued: Danjel had told them not to worry about the foreign language, for at their landing all believers would be filled with the Holy Ghost as once had happened to the apostles on the first Whitsuntide. Thus they would be able to understand and speak freely the language used in that land.
“You must learn the language, you yourself, of course,” she added, “because you don’t live in the spirit. But we who are reborn need not learn it.”
“Can that be true?”
“Do you think Uncle Danjel would tell a lie?” She sounded hurt. “Or do you think I lie?”
“No, no! Indeed not — but. .”
He didn’t like to contradict Elin now that she had begun to talk; he wanted to agree with everything she said. But faced with Danjel’s promise, he was unable to hide his doubts completely.
“I’ve never heard that story about the Holy Ghost,” he excused himself. “That’s why I was a little surprised.”
“Have you never read the Acts?” she asked, a little puzzled.
“Yes. Yes, of course I have.”
“You can read about Whitsuntide in the second chapter, if you don’t believe Danjel. But he has never lied to us.”
“I understand now. You won’t need a book to learn English.”
“That’s so.”
“Well — I didn’t know. That’s why I was confused a moment ago.”
Arvid too had listened in amazement. He had not been received among Danjel’s followers, but the master had high hopes that his servant would “awaken” one day. What Arvid now heard about the great advantage of the Åkians, with the American language, made him thoughtful.
They were driving up a steep hill and the men stepped down to spare the horse. Arvid asked Robert: What were they to think of the girl’s statement? Was the new language to come running from the mouths of the Åkians as soon as they landed?
“I won’t believe it until I hear it myself,” said Robert flatly.
“The girl seems cocksure.”
What she said might be true, admitted Robert. It was written in the Bible that the Holy Ghost once filled the apostles so they could speak new languages. But it said nothing about their speaking English on that first Whitsuntide — the language was not yet invented in the days of the apostles, that much he was sure of. So no one knew if the Holy Ghost could teach people to speak English.
The air was colder; the north wind had begun to blow. It felt like a steel brush on their faces. The old frostbites on Arvid’s nose, developed when he was hauling timber during severe winters, took on a red color, cracking a little and bleeding. On the horses the sweat foamed, remaining as white crust on their necks. Sparse, hard snowflakes fell and lay on the road like scattered rice. The emigrants sat silently on the wagons, hour after hour, mile after mile, a chill creeping into their bodies.
They had passed the border of a new province, Blekinge, once part of another kingdom — Denmark. There was still hatred between the inhabitants dwelling along the border, said Jonas Petter. When the Smålanders came driving their loads they were often attacked by Blekinge men, who were evil-tempered and used knives; they were another type of people. And their women, it was said, were hotter under their shifts than women farther north.
The emigrants now drove through wild, uninhabited regions. They rode through a forest of high pines where everything seemed deserted and dead. This was known as the snake forest, said Jonas Petter, for the stone-covered ground was filled with poisonous snakes — more poisonous here than the vipers in the north. Here it was that the Blekinge men used to lie hidden when the Smålanders came with their wagonloads, and here the two peoples often had fought bitterly. If one looked carefully on the stones along the roadside one might still see spots of blood from the old fights; the ground here was in a way sanctified.