Unto A Good Land

by Vilhelm Moberg

  However, added the guide, fine soil was obtainable much nearer. They needn’t go so far to find good places for settling.

  The immigrants made no haste in choosing a site, but inspected the land carefully as they walked along. The heat also forced them to move slowly; they breathed heavily in the muggy atmosphere. They sought to refresh themselves with the water they had brought with them, but it was already tepid in the copper containers and did not quench their thirst.

  In the depth of the forest they suddenly came upon a strange mound, and their guide told them this was an old Indian grave. They stopped and looked in wonder: earth had been thrown up in a great pile, and grass had grown over it. The mound had oval sides, narrowing at the top, and resembled a giant beast whose legs had sunk into the ground, an animal stuck in the forest and unable to move for so long that grass had grown on its back. And inside this huge body rested the dead savages, in the midst of their forest hunting grounds; they had never known Christ or the Gospel, throughout life they had been heathens, and so after death were lost souls. But peaceful seemed their camp, lying here in the thickest part of the wild forest, green and thriving was the grass covering their grave.

  The peasants from Sweden stood a long time gazing at this mound built by human hands, rising like a round, green-furred animal-body, and they sensed that they beheld something immeasurably ancient, something from the long-past time of witches, trolls, and sagas. In this barrow where the country’s native hunters returned to dust, the immigrants sensed vaguely that inexplicable something which makes women and children shudder in the dark. Before encountering these savage people in life, they had come upon them in death, they had met the dead before the living.

  The strangers from faraway Sweden knew nothing of the answer the Chippewa chief had given the whites when they had asked the price of the tribal hunting grounds: “Fill this valley with gold until it lies even with the hills! Yet we will not take your gold for the graves of our fathers. Wait still a little longer, until all my people are dead. Then you may take our whole valley, and all our graves, and keep your gold as well.”

  The men who had traveled thousands of miles to take over the Chippewas’ land, and who measured the topsoil of the Indians’ hunting grounds, gazed in wonder at the grave in the forest; they stood there timidly, glancing about suspiciously, as though listening to the oldest saga of all sagas in the world.

  —3—

  The land-seekers rested in the shade of some maples and ate from their knapsacks: bread and cold rabbit. They took off their shirts, wet and clammy with perspiration, and spread them to dry on the bushes. But as they sat with their upper bodies bare, the mosquitoes attacked them in great swarms and bit them furiously. They made a fire to drive away the plague, but Anders Månsson said the best way to protect oneself was to cover the whole body with mud; while sleeping in the forest one could in this way rest peacefully.

  Anders Månsson had been a homesteader for some time, he seemed to have much useful information. Jonas Petter asked him how it went with men in these womanless regions. He remembered the little shoemaker in Stillwater who had looked with such longing at the women in their company. There was only one woman to each twenty men in the American wilderness; what did the men here do?

  Jonas Petter put this question to Anders Månsson, but he looked away and answered only with an embarrassed grin. He was shy with people, especially with women; he had probably never touched a woman, Jonas Petter guessed. Fina-Kajsa had once asked her son, in the presence of all, why he hadn’t married yet. Anders Månsson had said nothing and had only grown redder in the face than he usually was.

  Jonas Petter went on. He almost wished he had been turned into a woman here in America, as they were the only ones who needn’t sleep alone. Even Ulrika seemed to think she might get married out here; she had said she need only choose among the men ready for marriage.

  “Well, why wouldn’t a man marry Ulrika?” Anders Månsson asked. “She is healthy and well shaped. How long since her last husband died?”

  Jonas Petter and Karl Oskar exchanged glances: unmarried Ulrika of Västergöhl was taken for a widow here, as she had arrived without a husband but with a daughter. And here people might think whatever they wished, let them think her husband was dead. Ulrika herself had said, when questioned by Swedish Anna if her menfolk had died: Yes, of course her menfolk had died, all her menfolk had passed away from her forever, none would return, she had none left. And people in Taylors Falls now believed that Ulrika had been married and widowed many times, and none of her group would tell the truth about her carryings-on at home; all had agreed that everything discreditable that had happened in the land of Sweden, no matter whom it concerned, must be forgotten, buried, and lost in this new country.

  Jonas Petter had almost let the cat out of the bag, but he saw Karl Oskar’s warning glance, and hastened to explain: Concerning Ulrika’s widowhood, he knew only what she herself had said—all her menfolk had left her forever, they were dead to her. And how long it was since the last one passed away, that Jonas Petter couldn’t say. But this much he knew: Ulrika was free and open to marriage.

  Thus Jonas Petter avoided the truth without telling a lie.

  Anders Månsson nodded and seemed satisfied with this information. Such an elegant and handsome woman as Ulrika, he said, would soon be married here in Minnesota Territory.

  —4—

  Later in the afternoon the four Swedes reached a small, longish lake with low shores overgrown with reeds and grass. Oaks, maples, lindens, and ash trees were scattered in this region, but the ground nearest the lake was even and ready to till, sloping gently toward the water.

  “Here it’s easy to break land,” said their guide. “This is a fine place for homesteading.”

  They walked around the lake, a distance of only a few miles, and inspected the ground everywhere. Yes, the earth was easy to break; one need only turn it with the plow. The topsoil was two and a half feet deep in some places. Material for building grew everywhere close by.

  Danjel and Jonas Petter were at once satisfied with the location and inclined to stake claims here. Karl Oskar admitted that the topsoil was excellent, but the ground nearest the lake was low and swampy, full of muddy pools and quagmires.

  “It’s a mosquito hole,” he said.

  Jonas Petter replied that the mosquitoes swarmed about every place and that they shouldn’t let this factor influence their decision. And when they discovered a spring with clear, translucent water under a fallen tree near by, he and Danjel were in enthusiastic accord: At this little lake they had found all they wanted, here they wished to settle.

  Anders Månsson advised neither one way nor another. The lake was about seven or eight miles as the crow flies from Taylors Falls, and he didn’t think they would want to be farther away from people.

  “It is far enough,” Danjel said. “Let us all three take claims here. This is a good place for us to live.”

  They laid down their burdens at the edge of the forest and rested in the shade to talk it over. Danjel continued: As they had come from the same place at home, they oughtn’t to separate now, they ought to stick together. If they settled here, close to each other, they could help each other and enjoy each other’s company. To begin with, they could even use each other’s tools and teams.

  Jonas Petter also wanted them to build close together, like a village at home; to live like villagers would be more enjoyable here in the wilderness than to live alone.

  Then it was Karl Oskar’s turn to voice his thoughts: Just because there was so much space out here, they must not settle on top of each other, elbow each other and build their homes corner to corner as farmers did in Sweden. He thought they should live a little apart. They could do as they pleased, but he wanted to settle in a place some distance from the others. He didn’t, of course, mean to be so far away that they couldn’t see each other and help each other when needed.

  Danjel wanted them to remain one family, as they w
ere at present; the first Christians, whom he tried to imitate, had owned all things in common. But Karl Oskar wanted to think this over, and he would obey no head except his own. Even though Danjel well knew that his sister’s daughter’s husband never followed any advice, he now seriously tried to persuade him: “Don’t seek any farther! Be satisfied with this fair land.”

  “I might find some more likely a little farther on.”

  “We should be satisfied when the Lord has shown us this.”

  Jonas Petter said: “Don’t be a fuss-pot, Karl Oskar! This place is good enough!”

  But Karl Oskar turned to Anders Månsson and asked him for more information about the region near the lake with the Indian name. That farmer from Helsingland who inspected the soil, hadn’t he said that the richest farm land in this whole valley was beside that lake? Karl Oskar would like to see for himself if this were actually the truth before he chose his own land. How far from here would it be to the lake?

  Anders Månsson didn’t think it was more than two miles from where they now were to Lake Ki-Chi-Saga, but he couldn’t say for sure. The country to the west and southwest had not yet been explored, no one except Indians and an occasional pelt trader had been farther. But streams ran in that direction, and if he followed one of these, he would undoubtedly reach Lake Ki-Chi-Saga.

  Karl Oskar looked thoughtfully at the fields in front of him: he did not wish to appear displeased with what he saw, but he had once and for all made up his mind that he would have the best soil in North America, wherever it was to be found. And now it was said that the soil was even better at the other lake. Why be satisfied with the next best if the very best was within reach? Suppose he took a claim here—and then for the rest of his life had to regret not having gone a few miles farther. He couldn’t know until he had seen the other place. He was to settle down for the rest of his life, he wanted to choose carefully, find a place that he liked so well he would never want to leave it. He had traveled many thousands of miles, all the way from Sweden. He had strength left to go a few miles farther.

  The farmer from Korpamoen was so stubborn that nothing could change his mind once he got an idea in his head, and Danjel and Jonas Petter could only wish him good luck when he said he would go on farther by himself. They had firmly decided to settle down here as squatters.

  “Cut marks in the trees,” said Anders Månsson. “That means you have taken a claim.”

  Danjel and Jonas Petter each blazed a maple; then Anders Månsson carved in each blazed tree a ten-inch-high letter, C: this indicated that the land at the lake had been claimed, anyone coming later would see it.

  But Karl Oskar picked up his pack again—there were still some hours before sunset, and if it were only a few miles to the lake with the peculiar name, he thought he might get there before dark. He would be back by tomorrow noon, if they cared to wait for him, but if he were delayed they had better return to Taylors Falls without him; he was sure he could find his way back alone.

  As he disappeared among the thick tree trunks, Jonas Petter looked after him and said: The old proverb was right—distant fields look greenest. . . .

  —5—

  Karl Oskar Nilsson walked alone through the wilderness. He continued directly southwest, and when the trees did not shade him, the sun shone right in his face, burning him like a flame. Progress became more difficult, he had to use his ax often to get through. He reached a swamp where he sank down to his boot tops, he circled giant trees, seemingly yards around the base, he climbed over fallen trees whose upturned roots towered house tall, he walked around deep black water holes like wells, he tore his way through tangles of ferns and bushes, he fought thorny thickets which clawed his hands and face until they bled. At times he walked on the bottom of the forest ocean with the sky barely visible, at other times—while craning his neck to look up at the tall trees—he was reminded of the church steeple at home, which, as a little boy, he had thought reached into the very heavens.

  Karl Oskar mused to himself that probably he was the first white man ever to go through the forest at this place.

  The ground had been tramped by hunters and game, by soft moccasins and light cloven hoofs, by the pursued and the pursuer. But now came a man, lumbering along in heavy boots, who was neither Indian nor deer, neither hunter nor hunted. Cautiously he took one step at a time, treading firmly on the unknown ground. He had entered this forest on a new mission, a mission that had brought no one here before: Karl Oskar Nilsson was the first one to enter here with a farmer’s purpose of planting and harvesting.

  In spite of the many obstacles hindering his progress, he felt in high spirits. During the whole journey from Sweden he had lived closed in with other people, forced to be part of a group. Here he had miles of space in every direction, he didn’t hit his head on a ceiling, his elbows against walls, he didn’t jostle anyone if he moved. Here he walked along as if the whole wide wilderness were his own, to do with as he pleased; wherever he wished, he could choose his land, blaze a trunk: “This earth is mine!” he thought.

  He was in high spirits because he was the first one here, because he knew a freedom which none of those would have who came after him. He walked through the forest as if he had a claim to everything around him, as if he now were taking possession and would rule a whole kingdom. Here he would soon feel at home and know his way.

  Now he was searching for Ki-Chi-Saga; the name was like a magic formula, like a word from an old tale about an ancient, primeval, moss-grown, troll-inhabited forest. He spelled the word and tried to pronounce the three syllables he had heard Anders Månsson utter; the foreign name had a magic lure; he would not return until he had seen this water.

  He reached a rushing stream, which he followed; the creek, with all its turns, indicated the direction he must go. To make doubly sure of his way back, he blazed occasional trees with his ax as he had done all day.

  Karl Oskar followed the brook until dusk began to fall. But he had not reached a lake, large or small. Fatigue from the long walk during the hot day overtook him, and he decided to find a place to camp for the night. In the morning he would continue his search for Ki-Chi-Saga. Perhaps the distance was greater than Månsson had guessed, perhaps the brook had led him astray—who knew for sure that it emptied into the lake? But he didn’t think he had gone far since leaving his countrymen, he had walked slowly and been delayed by having to cut his way through thickets.

  He sat down to rest on a fallen tree; he ate a slice of bread and some meat and drank water from his container, water he had taken from the spring where the other men were. The landscape was different here, it was now more undulating and open. Should he lie down and sleep under this tree trunk, or should he try to go on? His feet had gone to sleep in his boots, his injured leg ached. Another day would come tomorrow—the land around him would not run away if he rested here for the night.

  A flock of birds, large and unfamiliar to him, flew overhead, their wings whizzing in the air. They were quite low, barely above the tree-tops—they slanted their wings and descended and he lost sight of them. He guessed they were water birds—the lake must be near by!

  This action of the birds made him decide to go on. After a few hundred paces he reached a knoll with large hardwood trees amid much greenery, behind which daylight shone through. He hurried down a slope and was in an open meadow. Now he could see: the meadow with its tall, rich grass sloped gently toward glittering water; the lake lay in front of him.

  At first glimpse he was disappointed: this was only a small lake, it was not the right one. But as he approached he discovered that it was only an arm of a lake. Through a narrow channel it connected with other arms and bays and farther on the water expanded into a vast lake with islands and promontories and channels as far as his eyes could see. He had arrived.

  All that he saw agreed with what he had heard—this lake must be Ki-Chi-Saga. Staggering with fatigue, he walked down to inspect it. He must complete his mission before night fell.

&nbs
p; The shores had solid banks without any swamps, and he could see sandy beaches. Here and there, the topsoil had clay in it. The stream, his guide, emptied into the west end of the arm, near a stand of tall, slender pines. To the east a tongue of land protruded, overgrown with heavy oaks. A vast field opened to the north between the lake and the forest’s edge, open, fertile ground covered with grass. He went over to inspect the tongue of land with leaf-trees: besides the oaks there were sugar maples, lindens, elms, ash trees, aspens, walnut and hazel trees, and many other trees and bushes he did not recognize. The lake shores were low and easily accessible everywhere. Birds played on the surface of the water splashing, swimming in lines, wriggling about like immense feathered water snakes, and there were ripples and rings from whirling, swirling fins.

  Karl Oskar measured the sloping meadow with his eyes. It must be about fifty acres. He supposed a great deal of this ground once had been under water, the lake had at one time been larger. The soil was the fattest mold on clay bottom, the finest earth in existence. He stuck his shovel into the ground—everywhere the topsoil was deep, and in one place he did not find the red clay bottom until he had dug almost three feet down.

  Earlier in the day he had seen the next best; he had gone on a little farther, and now he had found the best. He had arrived.

  He felt as though this soil had been lying here waiting just for him. It had been waiting for him while he, in another land, had broken stone and more stone, laid it in piles and built fences with it, broken his equipment on it; all the while this earth had waited for him, while he had wasted his strength on roots and stones; his father had labored to pile the stone heaps higher and higher, to build the fences longer and broader, had broken himself on the stones so that now he must hobble along crippled, on a pair of crutches for the rest of his life—while all this earth had been lying here waiting. While his father sacrificed his good healthy legs for the spindly blades that grew among the stones at home, this deep, fertile soil had nurtured wild grass, harvested by no one. It had been lying here useless, sustaining not a soul. This rich soil without a stone in it had lain here since the day it was created, waiting for its tiller.