His punishment was inescapable: he must die in the same manner as the cat.
Perspiration clung to his whole body, like a cold, wet cloth against the skin. He folded his hands, he had not said his evening prayers last night. When he had finished he took hold of his brother’s shoulder again. “Karl Oskar — please. I’m afraid.”
“Keep quiet! It’ll blow over.”
“But I’m afraid I’m going to die—”
“No one can do anything for you — you understand that much.”
No. No one could do anything. All the hundred people inside the hulk of the ship were forced to lie and wait, they could do nothing else. The ship might sink with them all, and no trace would be left on the water’s surface, no one in the whole world would know how they had died, no one would be able to find their grave. In the space of a few minutes they would all disappear from the world, remain lost for eternity; and soon it would be as if they had never existed. And not a soul could do a thing about it. No one could bend a finger to help them. Here they would lie, inside the sack when the sea broke in, filling their mouths with water, filling their eyes, their ears and throats, choking them as the cat was choked in the mill-brook sack.
There was no one but God to turn to.
“Karl Oskar—”
“What do you want?”
“I drowned a cat in the brook when I was little. She suffered terribly before she died. Do you think I can — can be forgiven?”
“What nonsense is that?”
“I can hear the cat mewing — in here.”
“You are out of your head!”
But Robert prayed God’s forgiveness for what he had done to the cat in the mill brook. After that he felt as if his fear had eased.
His breathing came in short gasps. But suddenly his nose and mouth felt clogged: a slimy, sticky fluid was covering his face; something from the bunk above him dripped onto him. In the dark he could not see what it was, nor need he see it — the smell told him all.
The stench of the vomit overwhelmed him. He rose, and tumbling over his brother’s body he got out of his bunk. Out. . Out! He would die, this very minute, if he didn’t get out at once. He felt his way through the darkness, between the close bunks of his fellow passengers. The floor beneath him fell away — the floor rose, and he crawled uphill. He reached the narrow passage longships as if walking on stilts. He skidded in the vomit, it splashed in his face, he spat, he dried himself with his hands, he groaned. Out — out in the open! Here he would die. The filthy stench forced itself into him, it went deeper into his throat, it filled and choked him. Up — up on deck!
He reached the ladder in the hatchway, he tried to crawl up on hands and feet. But the hatch was fastened solidly, he pulled and pushed, he could not move it, he could get no farther. The sack was well sewn together, he could not get out, he must choke to death down here. He could hear the seamen on deck shout to each other: A hell of a gale! Batten down and secure! What a bastard!
We are in a dead sea—dead sea—DEAD SEA.
Robert remained clinging to the ladder, vomiting. He clung there until he felt a pair of strong arms around his body, a pair of arms that dragged him back to his bunk.
“It’s only seasickness,” said Karl Oskar.
But during the horrors of this first stormy night Robert felt, for the first time in his life, that he was participating in death.
Kristina:
The swing here in the barn was ready. Both ends of the ox-thong were fastened high up in the roof beams. The swing was so high she felt dizzy when she looked up. They used to sit, two of them — two girls together — and hold on to each other. It felt safer that way; but they cried out each time the swing went high. If you were afraid, you jumped off. Now she would ride the swing alone, and that was dangerous.
She crawled up and sat down in the swing, grabbed hold of the ox-thong with both hands, and held on. Then she kicked against the barn floor and started.
You have always liked to ride on a swing, said Karl Oskar.
But once she fell off the swing and broke her knee, and gangrene had set in and she was sent to Berta in Idemo. Karl Oskar came into the kitchen; he was a tall man with a big nose. She remained in her chair the whole time he was there, because she limped when she walked — and for some reason she didn’t want him to see her limp. But now we shall get married, he said, and then she sewed her blue bridal quilt.
If she hadn’t fallen from the swing she wouldn’t have been sent to Berta in Idemo, where she met Karl Oskar, nor would she have been with him in the ship on their way to North America. The happenings of her whole life were decided that day when she made a swing of the old ox-thong in the barn.
Nothing must spot our bridal cover here; our quilt must be kept clean — we must use it in America, when we build anew.
She was riding her swing — at last she could ride as much as she wished, and no one said a word about it. But she must hold on with both hands, she rode higher and higher, she rode backwards up against the roof, and the ground was so far under her that she felt dizzy — she rode forward again, down to the floor. If she fell out she would surely kill herself. She held on harder to the ropes, they cut into her hands, it hurt.
It was dangerous to swing as fast as this — it hummed at her ears, she must slow down. But that was impossible. What should she do? She could not get hold with her feet; she might easily fall out. It was much safer to sit two in the swing, then they could hold on to each other. Why didn’t Karl Oskar come? She wanted to hold on to Karl Oskar.
Here she sat in the clouds — and there, deep below her, was the barn floor.
She cried out; she must stop the swing.
She was awakened by her cry. Lill-Märta lay on her arm and moaned in her sleep, like a little whelp. Her small hands and cheeks felt warm and soft. Children were always warm, they warmed their mother’s hands. Her babies were healthy, God be praised. And they were all on their way to America, where they would settle and build a new home.
She must be careful not to let anything drip on her quilt. But she had nothing more to vomit — the last time it had been green, like the cows’ cuds, pure gall. Now it was finished, some time it must come to an end — though as long as she still had something to throw up, she felt better. Now she would not feel better.
Children were crying, but they were not her children. It’s probably Eva, Inga-Lena’s little one. Poor Inga-Lena, her little one is so sick. She is not six months yet, it is difficult at sea with such a little one. Poor Inga-Lena — she has much to look after, and no help from Danjel. She is killing herself for his sake.
Now Kristina was riding the swing again. She flies up through the air, she falls down, back and forth she rides. She is thrown through space, back and forth. She holds on with both hands, in panic. She wants to jump off, she wants to get back on the floor again.
How far was it to the floor? She looked down. The floor was gone!
Horror seized her, her hands grabbed hold of the rough boards of the bunk-pen, desperately — while the ship rolled and she sank, sank. There was no longer any floor to receive her feet — she fell, and nothing stopped her.
For there was no bottom.
Oh — she must get down, she must rest, she must lie down and rest against something, something onto which she could jump, something soft and warm — arms that would embrace her. She must get to the floor.