And now Karl Oskar remembered what he had heard about the Indians, how they preserved the bodies of their dead in wintertime, when the digging of a grave in the frozen ground was too hard work. They strung up the corpses in trees, high enough above ground to be safe from beasts. The dead one had been placed there by his own tribe!
He left the Indian in the tree and walked home; he had no desire to disturb the body, he did not wish to interfere with the doings of the Indians. But now he knew the truth about his brother’s adventure: Robert had been attacked by an Indian who was strung up in a tree, he had run for his life from a dead Indian.
Walking home, Karl Oskar recalled Robert’s story on the Charlotta about the captain’s slave trade. That time he had greatly doubted his brother’s veracity; this time he knew that Robert had invented the story, he had proof that his brother was a liar.
As soon as he reached home he called Robert aside: “Did you say the Indian in the tree shot an arrow at you?”
“Yes! He shot several arrows, right into the bush where I hid!” Robert assured him.
“Did any of the arrows hit you?”
“No. Luckily enough, the bush protected me.”
“Yes, I understand. I guess the Indian had poor aim. And I don’t wonder — you see, he was dead. He’s still hanging dead in the tree. The top is stuck right through his neck!”
Karl Oskar took Robert with him to the tree with the Indian. This was his proof, and he turned to Robert, sterner than ever: “You’re a damned liar! The Indian never shot a single arrow at you!”
“But I could hear them rustle in the bush!”
“I think it was the wind.”
“It was arrows! I’m sure! I could hear them!”
“You don’t hear very well. And you invent lies! You spin yarns! Now I want you to tell me the truth.”
“But it is the truth! I swear it, Karl Oskar.”
To Robert, his story of the Indian in the treetop was irrevocably the truth. The brownskin had shot at least three arrows at him, with his own ears he had heard them whizz through the thicket. And how could Karl Oskar know that the Indian wasn’t alive when he shot at Robert? Moreover, he couldn’t remember if the Indian had been sitting in exactly that tree; perhaps it was another Indian, in another tree. He, Robert, had seen a living Indian, with a bow, he could not alter his story in the least, for he had told the truth.
Robert’s behavior angered and worried Karl Oskar; not only did the boy lie, he was so thoroughly dishonest that he stubbornly insisted his lies were true. He insisted he had been attacked by the Indian and that he had run for his life.
Now Karl Oskar spoke sternly, with fatherly concern: Was Robert so hardened that he believed his own fabrications? Didn’t he know the difference between truth and lies? If he continued to invent and tell tales like this, people would soon believe not a single word he said, no one would have confidence in him. And if no one could rely on him, he would have a hard time getting along in America. He must be careful about what he said, or disaster might follow.
He must realize that Karl Oskar felt responsible for him as an older brother, now that he was in a foreign country without his parents to look after him. Didn’t he think his own brother was concerned for his welfare? Why couldn’t he admit that he had lied, and promise never to do it again? He ought to do it for his own sake, for his own good!
But Robert admitted nothing. His ear had heard the Indian’s whizzing arrows in the bush; at least three times his ear had heard them, and this remained the truth to him.
Karl Oskar could get nowhere. Robert had a weak character, and no persistence in work or effort. He hadn’t a farmer’s feeling for the earth, he did what he was told, but unwillingly, without joy or pleasure. At work he often acted as if he neither saw nor heard, as if walking in his sleep in full daylight. Karl Oskar had long been aware of these shortcomings in his brother, but he had hoped they would disappear as he grew older and his common sense increased. A settler in this new land needed a sturdy character, persistence, clear vision; he couldn’t walk about in his sleep. . To these faults, Robert had lately added this infernal habit of lying, more dangerous than all the rest — it might bring him to utter ruin.
After this happening, Karl Oskar’s concern about Robert increased; he thought it might have been better if his brother had remained in Sweden.
XXI. THE SWEDISH SETTLERS’ ALMANAC
— 1—
November passed with changing weather — cold days followed milder ones. Little snow fell. But in early December the first blizzard broke, beating the cabin walls for four days.
All living creatures sought their lairs for shelter against the fierce north wind. The snow did not fall on the ground, it was driven down violently, flung by the forceful sling of the storm. Man and beast trying to move against this wind must crouch, almost creep along. And the north wind brought in its wake a cold that penetrated bone and marrow, that made the blood stop in its course.
During this blizzard no one ventured outside unless forced by necessity. It was an undertaking even to open the door. Karl Oskar had to go to the shanty morning, noon, and evening, to give Lady water and fodder. It was hardly more than a hundred steps between the cabin and the small stable, yet the first day of the blizzard he almost lost his way. The snow beat into his eyes so that he could not see, everything around him was snow, hurled, whirling snow; he walked in a thick, gyrating snow cloud, fumbling about like a blind person. He could not see one step ahead of him, he lost his sense of direction, and wandered about a long time before he found the cabin.
In the raging blizzards of this country he could lose his way a few steps from his house. And should he get lost on his way between cabin and stable there was the danger of freezing to death in the snow.
Karl Oskar felt the need of something to guide him between his two houses, and from the linden bark he had saved he now twisted a rope, fastening one end to the cabin and the other to the shanty. While walking the short distance he never let go of the rope; each time he opened the door and faced the blizzard he felt like a diver descending to the bottom of the sea and holding to a guide rope — without it he might have been lost.
During the blizzard Karl Oskar milked Lady every day. The cow still gave little at each milking — only one quart — but this was sufficient for the children; the grownups had to do without. He had never before sat on a milking stool, and now he learned a chore which in this country was usually performed by the menfolk. Strong hands were needed to squeeze the milk from the teats, and he wondered why milking had always been considered woman’s work.
Now that the feared winter had come Kristina spent most of her time within the house; she had regained her strength and resumed her household tasks but she dared not go outside. She said the snow, like everything else, was different here: at home the snowflakes fell soft as wool on one’s face, here they were hard and sharp and pricked like awl points.
Karl Oskar had made sure they need not freeze in the house this winter; outside the door he had stacked firewood in high piles, logs from dry pines long dead on root, excellent wood that gave much heat. As long as the fire was kept burning it was warm in the house. He had also split pitch wood in great quantity to be used for lighting the cabin; these splinters were stuck in the wall between the logs and used as candles, but they had to be watched carefully to avoid setting fire to the house.