He had told Kristina he would return well before bedtime. She would be sure to sit up and wait for him, darning stockings or patching clothes. She was waiting, not only for him but also for the flour — she would surely wish to set the dough this very evening, so she could bake tomorrow.
And here he sat on their flour and didn’t know in which direction he should carry it.
He had wandered about in a black forest like a child playing blind-man’s buff. Perhaps he had strayed too much to the left, or to the right; when he thought he had been walking northward, he might have walked southward; hoping to get nearer to his home, he had perhaps gone farther and farther away from it.
There was only one thing to do: He must walk on! He couldn’t camp in the forest, the cold was too intense. He couldn’t make a fire, he had brought no matches. If he lay down to sleep it would surely be his eternal sleep.
Walk on! He must warm himself by moving. Sitting on the sack, his whole body shivered and shook with cold. He rose, stamped his feet, rubbed his nose, ears, and cheeks; he was not going to endure the cold that came with immobility any longer — he must move on.
Karl Oskar resumed his walk at random; he must walk in some direction, and one way was as good as another. Damned bad luck! If only he had been able to reach the lake before dark. He had walked as fast as he could, but that damned sack — it had sagged and delayed him. But now what was he doing? Cursing the sack with their bread flour — the bread that was missing from their table, the bread that would satisfy the hunger of their children! He must be out of his mind, he must be crazy from fatigue and hunger.
“Father is buying flour — Mother will bake bread!”
Put the sack under a tree and walk unhindered? But it would not be easier to find his way without his burden. And he might never again find his flour. Better carry it as far as he was able. . But his back felt broken, and his legs wobbled. He had carried it for many hours, an eternal road. He staggered; again and again the burden on his back sagged down, down to his thighs, to his legs, again and again his hold on the sack loosened, his fingers straightened out; his back wanted to throw off the burden, his fingers wanted to let it go.
Karl Oskar no longer walked; he reeled, tottering among the tree trunks. But he dared not sit down to rest in this cold; he dared not remain still because of the frost — yet he could not walk because of exhaustion. Which must he do — sit down, or go on? One he dared not, the other he was barely able to do.
He struggled along at random, stumbling, fumbling, stooping with his burden. He bumped against the trees, he could not see where he was going. He found no landmarks, no lake, no brook; perhaps he had crossed the brook without knowing it? A few times the forest opened up and he walked across a glade — then he was instantly in deep forest again.
Suddenly he hit his head against something hard. He lost hold of the sack and tumbled backward.
Very slowly he struggled to his feet in the snow; above him he vaguely saw an animal, a head appeared a few yards away. A bear, a wolf, or could it be a lynx? The beast was snapping at him with enormous jaws, below fiery red eyes. It was quite close — Karl Oskar crouched backward and pulled out his knife.
He crept a few more steps backward; the beast did not come after him, it did not move. He could discern the upright ears, the sharp nose, the neck — it must be a wolf — the eyes glittered in the dark. He expected a leap, he crouched and held his breath. But the wolf too remained immobile.
He yelled, hoping to frighten the beast: “Go to hell, you devil!”
But the beast did not make the slightest move, it seemed petrified in one position, its ears upright, its eyes peering. And a suspicion rose within Karl Oskar; he approached the animal cautiously. Now he was close enough to touch it — and it wasn’t furry or soft, it was cold and hard: it was a wolf image on a pole.
His body sagged after the tension: an Indian pole, an image with glittering eyes and toothy jaws; it could startle anyone in the dark. Or — was he so far gone from struggling that he could be frightened by wooden poles?
His head ached; he felt a bump on his forehead from the encounter with the post; blood was oozing from his face and hands, torn by branches and thorns. He took off his mittens and licked the blood from his fingers; it felt warm in his mouth. He needed something warm this bitterly cold night.
With great effort he managed to get the sack onto his back again and continued his walk, lurching, stumbling. It had lightened a little in the forest, more stars had come out. High above the snowy forest and the lost settler with his burden glittered a magnificent, starry heaven. The firmament this night seemed like a dark canopy of soft felt spread by God above the frozen earth, and sprinkled with silvery sparks.
The wanderer below walked with bent head, stooped under his sack; he did not look up toward the heavenly lights. He carried the heavy fruit of the earth on his back. His steps were stumbling and tottering, he did not know where they would lead him. Home — in which direction lay the house where wife and children waited for him? Was he carrying their bread home — or away from home?
Suddenly he came upon large boot prints in the snow. They were his own! He felt his heart beat in his throat: then he had walked here in the early morning. He inspected the tracks more closely — and discovered they were quite fresh. He had been here only a short while ago. .
He was walking in a circle, in his own tracks. He wasn’t carrying the bread away from his family, neither was he carrying it home.
But he must keep going, no matter where, to escape freezing. He staggered on. His foot caught in something — a root, a windfall, a stump — and he fell again, forward this time, with the hundred-pound sack on top of him. He lay heavily in the snow, sunk down, slumped, like a bundle of rags. After a few minutes he tried to remove the sack. Slowly, with endless effort, he managed to roll it off his back. In a sweet sensation of deliverance he stretched out full length in the snow, with the flour sack for a pillow.
— 4—
The fruit of the earth is good and sustaining, the fruit of the earth is indispensable, but heavy to carry on one’s back.
How comfortable to lie on it, instead. Better to lie upon flour than kill oneself by carrying it. . when one doesn’t know where to carry it. And it has grown overpoweringly heavy, five hundred pounds. There is lead in the sack, five hundred pounds of lead — too much for one’s back — better lie here and rest on the sack. . better than to carry it. . when one doesn’t even know the way home. .
The cold is dangerous and evil, the cold has sharp teeth, digging like wolf’s fangs into flesh and bone, the cold has tongs that pinch and tear and pierce. The skin burns like fire. But it is good to rest. . better to be cold a little than struggle with the burden. . Don’t be afraid of a little cold! Nothing is worse than to be afraid, Father used to say. Nothing is dangerous to him who is fearless. No, he isn’t afraid. A settler needs courage, good health, good mind. . Father didn’t say that — he has learned that himself — he has learned it now. .
Father has grown a great deal since he last saw him — that time on the stoop, with Mother. He is six feet tall, entirely straight; the way he stands here, he isn’t a cripple any longer, he must have thrown away his crutches — no, he still has one crutch, but he doesn’t lean on it, he shakes it at his oldest son: “. . and you take your children with you! You not only take your children, you take my grandchildren, and my grandchildren’s children! You drag the whole family out of the country! You are as stubborn as your nose is long, it will lead you to destruction!”