The next pain came and she let out piercing screams, filling the small cabin with her cries. Johan began to sob; the father took him on his knee and tried to comfort him. Karl Oskar had never before been present at childbirth; at home the women had taken care of everything and never let him inside until all was over. He didn’t feel too much for other people — sometimes his insensibility made him feel guilty — but his wife’s cries of agony cut right through him, he could scarcely stand it.
“You look pale as a curd, Karl Oskar,” said Ulrika. “Go outside for a while. You’re of no use here. I’ll put the boy to bed.”
He obeyed her and went out. It was now about midnight. He went down to the shanty near the lake and gave Lady her night fodder. Then he remained in the shanty with the cow, who stood there so calm and undisturbed, enjoying her own pleasant cow-warmth. The closeness of the animal in some way comforted him. And he didn’t feel cold here — Lady warmed him too. The cow chewed her good hay peacefully and rhythmically, and he scratched her head and spoke to her as if she were a human. He confided his thoughts to Lady, it eased him somehow to talk: Yes, little cow, things are strange in this world. The Glad One is inside helping Kristina. . and I stand here. . I can’t help her. How many times I’ve wished to be rid of Ulrika! And Kristina herself thought she would bring disaster. Instead, she is our great comfort. Yes, little cow, we never know our blessings. It happens, this way or that, strange things, one never could have dreamed of at home. One can’t explain it.
Karl Oskar Nilsson spent most of the night in the byre, lost and baffled, talking to his borrowed cow; he felt he had been sent to “stand in the corner,” he didn’t know what to do with himself. He had been told to go out — he was driven out of his own house and home. The Ljuder Parish whore was master in his house tonight.
— 4—
After a few hours he went to inquire how the birth was progressing. Kristina lay silent, her eyes closed. Ulrika sat by the bed, she whispered to him: He must walk quietly, she had just gone through another killing pain. Things went slowly, the brat did not seem to move at all. The real birth-water hadn’t come yet, and the pushing pains had not yet set in. This birth didn’t go according to rule, not as it should; something was wrong. Perhaps she had been frightened too much by the Indians, perhaps the fright had dislodged something inside her. The birth had come on too suddenly — the body was not yet ready for delivery, it did not help itself the way it should when all was in order. This appeared to be a “fright-birth,” and in that case it would take a long time. But there was no use explaining to him; he wouldn’t understand anyway.
“I wonder how long. .”
No one could say how long it would take; maybe very long; Kristina might not be delivered tonight. And Ulrika told him to go to bed. There was no need for his roaming about outside, like a spook.
Johan had at last fallen asleep. Karl Oskar stretched out in Robert’s bed; he didn’t lie down to sleep, he lay down because he had nothing else to do. He had been sitting up late for several evenings, writing a letter to Sweden, but he couldn’t work on that tonight.
Kristina had dozed off between the pains; she moaned at intervals: “Ulrika. . Are you here?”
“Yes. I’m here. You want something to drink?”
Ulrika gave her a mug of warm milk into which she had mixed a spoonful of sugar.
Kristina dozed again when the pains abated. She had always had easy births — what she went through this night surpassed all the pain she had ever experienced in her young life. But she felt succor and comfort close by now: a little while ago she had been lying here alone in the dark, alone in the whole world, alone with her pains, no one to talk to — no one except her whimpering children. Now she had Ulrika, a compassionate woman, a sister, a blessed helper.
There was so much she wanted to tell Ulrika, but she didn’t have the strength now, not tonight. She had lived with Ulrika in bitter enmity — she remembered that time when Ulrika had called her a “proud piece.” Ulrika had been right. She had been proud. Many times, at home, she’d met unmarried Ulrika of Västergöhl on the roads without greeting her. She was the younger of the two, she should have greeted her first with a curtsy. Instead she had stared straight ahead as if not seeing a soul. She had behaved like all the other women, she had learned from them to detest and avoid the Glad One. She had acted the way all honorable, decent women acted toward Ulrika. But when she had met the King of Alarum, she had greeted him and curtsied deeply, for so did all honorable women. One must discriminate between good and evil people.
Yes, all this she must tell Ulrika — some other time — when she was able to, when this agony was over. Oh, why didn’t it pass? Wouldn’t she soon be delivered? Wouldn’t God spare her? It went on so long. . so long. . “Oh, help! Ulrika, help!”
The pains were upon her; she felt as if she were bursting into pieces, splitting in halves lengthwise. A wild beast was tearing her with its claws, tearing her insides, digging into her, digging and twisting. .
Ulrika was near, bending over her. The young wife threw herself from side to side in the bed, her hands fumbling for holds. “Oh! Dear God! Dear God!”
“The pushing pains are beginning,” Ulrika said encouragingly. “Then it’ll soon be over.”
“Dear sweet, hold me! Give me something to hold on to!”
Kristina let out piercing cries, without being aware of it. The billowing pains rose within her — and would rise still higher, before they began to subside. In immeasurable pain she grasped the older woman. She held Ulrika around the waist with both arms and pressed her head into the full bosom. And she was received with kind, gentle arms.
Kristina and Ulrika embraced like two devoted sisters. They were back at humanity’s beginning here tonight, at the childbed in the North American forest. They were only two women, one to give life and one to help her; one to suffer and one to comfort; one seeking help in her pain, one in compassion sharing the pain which, ever since the beginning of time, has been woman’s fate.
— 5—
“It will be over soon now. Come and hold her.”
Ulrika was shaking Karl Oskar by the shoulder; he had dozed off for a while. The night was far gone, daylight was creeping in through the windows.
The midwife was calling the father — now she would see what use he could make of his hands.
Kristina’s body was now helping in the labor, Ulrika said. Her pushing muscles were working, she was about to be delivered. But this last part was no play-work for her; Karl Oskar might imagine how it would hurt her when the child kicked itself out of her, tearing her flesh to pieces, breaking her in two. While this took place it would lessen her struggle if she could hold on to him, as she, Ulrika, had to receive the baby and couldn’t very well be in two places at the same time.
Karl Oskar went up to the head of the bed and took a firm hold around his wife’s shoulders.
“Karl Oskar—” Kristina’s mouth was wide open, her eyes glazed. She tossed her head back and forth on the pillow. She stretched her arms toward her husband and got hold of his body, pressing herself ever closer to him, seeking a solid stronghold.
“Hold on to me. . ” The words died in a long, moaning sigh.
“The head is coming! Hold her firmly. Ill take the brat.” Ulrika’s hands were busy. “A great big devil! If it isn’t two!”
Karl Oskar noticed something moving, something furry, with black, shining, drenched hair. And he saw a streak of dark-red blood.
The birth-giving wife clung convulsively to her husband, seeking his embrace in her deepest agony. Severe, slow tremblings shook her body, not unlike those moments when her body was joined with his — and from moments of lust had grown moments of agony.