One day Johan came rushing into the shanty holding tight in his arms a small, black-furred animaclass="underline" “Look Mother! I’ve found a cat!”
The boy held out the animal toward Kristina. The long-haired creature had a white streak along its back, and it was the size of a common cat.
“Is it a wildcat?” Kristina asked.
The little furry beast fretted and sputtered, Johan had great difficulty holding it. He said he had found it in a hole outside the cottage.
“You wanted a cat, Mother! But we have no milk for it.”
His prey stared at him, its eyes glittering with fury.
“Be careful! He might scratch you!” Then Kristina sniffed the air: a horrible smell overwhelmed her.
“Have you done something in your pants, boy?”
“No!”
“Then you must have stepped in something.”
She inspected the clothing and shoes of the boy but could see nothing to explain the smell.
“Is it the cat?”
“No, he isn’t dirty either.”
And she could see that its coat was clean. Johan looked at the paws, but these too were clean.
“No, he hasn’t stepped in anything either.”
Kristina put her nose to the little animal. Such a disgusting smell overcame her that she jumped backward, almost suffocating. The cat was alive, yet it smelled as if it had been dead a long time. She held her nostrils with her thumb and forefinger, crying: “Throw the beast out!”
“But it’s a cat!” Johan wailed.
“Throw it out this minute!”
“But he will catch the rats. . ”
She grabbed the boy by the arms and pushed him and his pet out through the door. Johan loosened his hold, and the animal jumped to the ground and disappeared around the corner of the shanty.
Johan looked at his empty hands and began to cry; the beautiful cat with a white stripe on its back and tail, he had caught it for his mother and now it was gone and he couldn’t catch it again.
Kristina was rid of the nasty-smelling animal, but the evil stench remained in the hut. And little Johan smelled as bad as the cat! She told him to stay outside until the smell was gone.
When Karl Oskar came home he stopped in the door, sniffing: “What smells so bad in here?”
“Johan dragged in some creature.”
She described the animal, and guessed it must be a wildcat.
“Disgusting the way cats smell in America!” she said. “You can’t have them in the house here.”
“It must have been a baby skunk,” Karl Oskar said. “Their piss stinks, I have heard. I guess it pissed on him.”
And he pinched the boy on the ear: hadn’t he told him not to touch any animals or try to catch them? He must leave them alone, big or little, however tame they seemed.
He turned to Kristina: “Now we have to wash the child’s clothes or we’ll never get rid of the stink.”
Kristina undressed the boy to his bare skin. Then she wrapped him in one of his father’s coats, which hung all the way to the ground and made him stumble when he walked. His own clothes were boiled in ash lye. They had to boil them a long time before the smell of skunk disappeared. But in the shanty the odor remained. The baby skunk had left behind him such a strong smell that for weeks it lingered; it drove the settlers outside, and for many days they ate in the open, near the fire where the food was prepared.
All this trouble had been caused by a little cat that was no cat at all. If the animals hereabouts didn’t bite with their teeth or scratch with their claws, Kristina said, they smelled so bad that they drove people from their homes. They must all be doubly careful in the future.
Indeed, they must be on their guard about everything in North America.
— 2—
It was about one hour’s walk from Lake Ki-Chi-Saga to the settlement of Danjel and Jonas Petter. When settling down, Danjel Andreasson had said he did not wish to live in a nameless place, nor in a place with a heathenish name. He had therefore named his home New Kärragärde, after the old family farm in Sweden, and it was his belief that through the revival of this name his old family homestead would blossom to new life in the New World. The little lake near his home he called Lake Gennesaret, a reminder of the Holy Land; the shores of Lake Gennesaret in the Biblical land had once carried the imprint of Jesus’ footsteps; the Lord had wandered about there, preaching the Gospel, and His disciples had enjoyed good fishing in its water. The lake near Danjel’s house resembled the Biblical Gennesaret in that it was blessed with many fish. A brook emptying into the lake he called Chidron.
The men had many errands back and forth, and often walked the road between the two settlements, but the women seldom met after they had settled on different claims. It was dangerous for a woman to walk alone through the wilderness; besides, Kristina was unable to walk any distance at this time. Week after week passed and no one came. No callers arrived at the hut on Lake Ki-Chi-Saga. The young wife missed people, she looked for callers and awaited guests, without exactly knowing whom she looked for or might expect.
One day Swedish Anna came to visit them; she accompanied Karl Oskar, who had been in Taylors Falls, and she stayed overnight. Kristina had met her only once — the woman from Östergötland was practically unknown to her, and yet she felt she had known her for years: someone had come to whom she could talk. Swedish Anna brought a coat she had made for little Harald; she was fond of children, she had had two of her own in Sweden, but they were both dead, she said. Kristina was touched to the bottom of her heart by the gift, and she wished her guest could have remained several days, even though she could offer her only a poor sleeping place in a shed. When Anna had left, Kristina thought how kind God had been in creating some people in such a way that they could speak the same language.
She missed her countrymen who now lived at a distance — and most of all, she found, she missed Ulrika. She wondered about this: she actually felt lonesome for the Glad One! How could this be? Now she realized she had enjoyed Ulrika's company. There was something stimulating about her, she was never downhearted; many times during the journey Kristina had felt Ulrika’s presence as a help: she realized it now. And during the final weeks they had grown quite intimate, Ulrika had confided to her all she had had to go through in life, ever since that day when, as a four-year-old orphan, she had been sold at auction to the rich peasant of Alarum, called the King of Alarum. He had been known in the village as her kind, good foster father. When she was fourteen years old, he had raped her, and for years afterward, as often as he felt inclined. Each time she had received two pennies from the “King,” but when she had saved enough for a daler, her foster mother had taken the money away from her, saying she had stolen it and ought to be put in prison.
And she had been put in prison: the honored and worthy farmer had taught her how to sell her body, she had become the parish whore, banished from church and Sacrament, and at last imprisoned for unlawful communion. But the King of Alarum — who had raped a child and used her for his aging body’s lust — when he died, he had been given the grandest funeral ever seen in Ljuder Parish.
Kristina could remember how as a little girl she had been to the church when this funeral took place. The church had been filled to the last pew, people standing in the aisles, the organ had played long and feelingly, the coffin had been decked with the finest wreaths, and the dean himself had stood at the altar, lauding the dead one and extolling his good deeds in life. The memory of the “King” still was held in respect at home, and his tombstone was the tallest one in the whole churchyard.