“The Almighty alone rules over my life.”
“It’s dangerous — how dare you. .”
“It is simple — I don’t pay any attention to the doctor. I trust in God.”
Her mouth was near his ear; she whispered: He asked how she dare? Must she no longer believe she was under the Almighty’s protection? Must she now doubt God who had seen them unharmed through all the dangers and vicissitudes of their emigration? Must she think that God would not look after her through one more childbed?
And it was not God who had forbidden them to live together. On the contrary, it was his will that married people should have each other. And God must know they loved each other. It was a human order that kept them apart — why must they obey humans? Didn’t they dare trust in the Creator’s wisdom?
Karl Oskar had been told. Now he knew why she had come to him. But he was not at ease, he must think, he must use common sense. It was true that at their emigration he had exposed his wife and children to great dangers to life and limb. But that time, as always, it had been his responsibility. And he had thought it over thoroughly before reaching the final decision.
Kristina trusted God in his heaven more than the doctor in Stillwater. But Karl Oskar trusted more in the doctor than in God.
“You must understand.” His speech was thick, his throat felt too narrow to let air through. “Kristina! I don’t dare!”
“Don’t dare? Why?”
“I must think of you. Even if you don’t. .”
“I’m not afraid. .”
“It could be fatal!”
“We’re all well. Thanks to whom? What do you think?”
Who was Kristina’s helper? Where was her confidence? Her strength and security? Who had given her the courage to come to him tonight?
She had no fear, and therefore she was stronger than he. Her courage could not be defeated in a few groping words: It might be fatal! And he had dared assume responsibility before, many times — why didn’t he dare now?
The crickets were still screeching unceasingly outside the window; those invisible critters were noisier than anything else in the spring night. Inside the house all was silent except for a man and a wife who spoke in whispers. Even if someone had stood beside the bed he would not have heard what they said.
His hand stroked her neck. His hands knew her body.
She said: “I trust in the Creator. It is his will if I live, it’s his will if I die. .”
“But must I let you dare. . your life. .”
“Whatever you and I do — he will do with me what he wants.”
In his mind Karl Oskar was still resisting: Use your common sense! But he was dazed by the demanding force in his body — a force that had already surrendered him to his wife in the moment when she stood at his bedside and said: I’m back with you!
She remained with him, and he yielded his body.
XI. KRISTINA IS NOT AFRAID
— 1—
Along the shores of Lake Chisago runs a path that has been trod by Indians and deer; here the Indians hunted the deer as the animals sought their way to the lake to drink of its water.
The path goes in sharp twists and bends around fallen tree trunks, leaves the lakeshore at moors and bogs where the ground sinks under foot, penetrates deep brambles and bushes, turns sharply away from holes, steep cliffs, and ravines, disappears in the undergrowth with its thorny, pricking spikes. Winding, wriggling its way, it never leaves the shore; as the wanderer least expects it he is met by the glittering water before him and his path lightens.
This path is without beginning or end, for it runs around the whole Indian lake Ki-Chi-Saga with its hundreds of inlets and bays and points and promontories, islands, and islets. Of old it was tramped only by the deer and the hunter people’s light feet, shod in the skin of the deer. Now the redskins are seldom seen on the road they themselves trampled out through the wilderness. It is used by another people, who have come from far away, of another hue: The whites now wear away the bared roots with their heavy footgear, wooden shoes, iron-shod boots, crunching, crushing heels. These people also break their own roads through the forest, straight roads, cutting through the grave mounds of the Indians. These people are in a hurry and cannot waste their time on the meandering Indian paths.
On an evening in June, one of the immigrant women walks on this path. It is near sunset yet she walks slowly. Her steps are short, perhaps tired. She doesn’t tramp heavily on the Indian path and she is in no hurry.
Kristina is out in the forest, looking for a cow, Jenny, named after a Swedish singer with this name who has recently been to America, and about whom Hemlandet has had much to report. Jenny did not come home with the other cows this evening; she is ready to calve almost any day now, and that is why Kristina was concerned when she was missing this evening. Once before Jenny has had her calf out in the woods; Johan and Harald had found her then, far out in a bog, and had managed to get the cow home with the calf uninjured. Perhaps Jenny was repeating her forest calving. Or had she been caught between some boulders, unable to free herself? All this wilderness is full of crevices and holes where grazing cattle might easily break their legs.
Kristina stops now and then, calls the name of the lost cow, calls until she is hoarse, but the only replies are her own calls, echoing back from the tree trunks. The cows know their milkmaid’s voice and will answer with a soft lowing when she calls them. She stops short on the path, listens intently, but no sound from Jenny reaches her ears.
It is already growing dark among the trees. Should she turn back without having fulfilled her errand? No, she must look a little bit farther. She is not afraid of losing her way after dark, for she knows the lake path well — she has only to follow it back the same way she came.
In a clearing where grow tall, lush raspberry bushes she stops to eat of the berries. The wild raspberries are already ripe, although it is only June. She crouches near one bush and enjoys the sweet fruit. She loves to go out in the woods in summertime to pick all the wild, edible berries that grow here. To her it is a means of liberation and of being alone, a welcome change in the monotony of daily chores. And in fall she likes to pick cranberries that abound on the tussocks in low-lying places. But no lingonberries grow here, as in Sweden; instead of lingonberries she preserves the somewhat sourer cranberries; in fact, they do have a taste of sweetness if picked after the frost has set in.
Darkness falls, yet she is not aware of it. Kristina will never cease to be surprised at the urgency of the twilight in America; it rushes by. Tonight it seems to last only five short minutes.
In her childhood in Sweden she had been afraid of the dark. This feeling had remained with her through youth, and she had been terribly afraid of the dark during the first years after their arrival here. Then a change had taken place; the fear of the dark left her. She does not know when this happened. It was only thus: One evening she noticed her fear was gone. From then on it made no difference to her if it was day or night. It might be daylight, or dark, in the place she happened to be, but which ever it was — she was not afraid. However great the difference between day and night she did not feel it. And now it is this way: Be she outside or in a house, it doesn’t matter. She walks as calmly through a dark night as through the bright morning, because she feels herself within the same safe protection, the same secure home, in the dark of night as in the light of day. She knows nothing evil can happen to her. She cannot understand how darkness and night could have frightened her so before. On the contrary, it now seems to her she is best protected when veiled in darkness. It envelops her, hides her, follows her to guard her welfare, just as it must comfort the many of God’s creatures that hide in brambles and bushes from enemies and pursuers.