Unto A Good Land

by Vilhelm Moberg

  However great the inconveniences out here, he felt vastly happier than he had in the old place. Here no one ruled him, no officials insisted that he bow to them, no one demanded that he obediently and humbly follow a given path, no one interfered with his doings, no one advised him, no one rebuked him for refusing advice. He had seen no one in authority, nobody had come to tell him what he must do; here he had met not a single person to whom he must defer; he was his own minister and sheriff and master.

  At home, people struggled to get ahead of each other until they were full of evil wounds that never would heal; their minds grew morbid, festering boils corroded their souls; they went about bloated by grudges and jealousy. Most of them were afraid, bowing in cowardice to the great lords who sat on high and ruled as they saw fit. No one dared decide for himself, no one dared walk upright; it was too much of an effort, their backs were too weak. They dared not be free, were incapable of freedom. That required courage, entailed responsibility and worry as well; anyone trying to decide for himself in the old country was derided, mocked, slandered, pushed out. For the Swedish people could not endure someone who attempted what the rest of them dared not do, or were incapable of.

  Here no one cared what he did, nor need he care what others did. Here he could move as he pleased, with his body and with his soul. Nowhere could he be freer than here. Here a farmer ruled himself—though in return, a demand was put on him that might scare many away: he must take care of himself—he must survive with only the help of his hands.

  But a man unable to improve his situation, with such generous freedom, such fertile soil—such a man was good for nothing in the world.

  XVI

  AT HOME ON LAKE KI-CHI-SAGA

  —1—

  The homesteader’s ax cut its way through the land—through trunk and timber, through beam and board, through shingle and shake, through branch and bramble. Clearing, splitting, shaping, it cut its way. There was the felling ax with the long handle and the thin blade, eating its way through the heart of the tree, leaving the stump heads even and smooth. There was the dressing ax with the short handle and the broad blade, shaving trunks and timbers while the chips flew in all directions; there was the splitting ax with the heavy hammer and the thick blade, forcing its blunt nose into the wood, splitting logs into planks and scantlings. Then there was the short, light, hand ax, clearing the thickets, brambles, and bushes. Narrow axes and broad, thin and thick, light and heavy. From early morning to late evening the echo of the axes sounded over the shores of Lake Ki-Chi-Saga—a new sound, the sound of peaceful builders in the wilderness.

  With the ax as foremost tool—with the ax first, with the ax last—the new home was raised.

  Karl Oskar and Kristina had chosen the site for their log house among some large sugar maples at the edge of the forest on the upper meadow, the distance of a long gunshot from the lake shore. Here their home would be protected by the forest on three sides, while the fourth overlooked the bay of the lake. Their house was to be twenty feet long and twelve feet wide, and placed the same way as farmhouses in Sweden: the gables to east and west, the long sides to north and south. The back of the house would then be toward the forest and the cold north winds, while the front opened on the lake and the warm south sun.

  Karl Oskar had promised to help Danjel and Jonas Petter, and they in turn would help him raise his house the second week in October. The green, peeled logs were too heavy for two men to handle; three or four would be needed. But Karl Oskar alone prepared all the timbers and laid a footing for his house. For the foundation, he selected the thickest pines he had cut, and with the aid of Anders Månsson’s oxen, dragged the clumsy logs to the building site. For floor boards he used young linden trees which he split in two, to be laid with the flat side upward. He hewed and smoothed the edges of these to make them fit as tight as possible, in order to avoid big cracks in the floor. For roof boards he cut straight elms—there were enough trees to choose from in the forest, and he selected what he thought most suitable for each need. Oak logs would have lasted longer for house timbers, but they were hard to work with, and pine would last long enough. He had no intention of living in this house of peeled logs for all eternity.

  He cut sod for the roofing—sod was used for roofing at home in Småland, and it took less time than to split shakes. Kristina said she was afraid the sod might not withstand the violent rains here—the earth might blow away in the merciless winds. Karl Oskar replied that he would put on shakes next summer if the roof did not withstand the weather. She must not worry, he would see to it that they did not sleep under a leaking roof.

  He had to buy odds and ends for the building and carry them on his back from Taylors Falls. He bought everything in Mr. Abbott’s store, except sash, which he ordered from Stillwater. Everything of iron was absurdly expensive; he paid a full dollar for a pair of hinges for the door. And the price of nails was equally high. But wood could substitute for iron in many instances, and he made pegs of ash—in Sweden used for rake teeth and handle wedges—to take the place of nails. Without cash, he was forced to be inventive. Each time he had to buy something he searched his mind: Couldn’t he make it with his own hands?

  October—the almanac’s slaughter month—had arrived, but the only slaughter which took place at Lake Ki-Chi-Saga was the occasional killing of rabbits and deer. The days sped by, the weeks flew, only one month remained of the autumnal season of grace, with its mild weather, permitting them to live in the shanty. Winter was fast approaching, and Karl Oskar had promised his wife their new log house would be ready to move into in good time before her childbed.

  The third week in November, Kristina’s forty weeks would be up, if she had counted aright. It seemed to her as though this pregnancy had lasted longer than any of the previous ones; she had been through so much during this tedious year, her twenty-fifth. She had gone through the usual period of expectancy during a hard journey, carrying the child within her from Sweden to the new land. Perhaps this was why she felt the period had been longer this time than any of the others. And now she was as big as the time she had carried the twins; she wondered if she would again give birth to two lives. As things were with them at the moment, twins would be inconvenient; she had not even had time to prepare swaddling clothes for one baby.

  Her movements became more cumbersome every day, every day she felt heavier. She could walk only short distances; her chores were confined to the shanty and its immediate vicinity. But she never let her children entirely out of sight. At home she had let them run free, but here she never knew what kind of snakes might hide in the thick, tall grass; what kind of biting, stinging, flying creatures infested the air. All around the cabin she saw hordes of creeping, crawling little animals she had never found at home, and as yet she could not distinguish between the dangerous ones and the harmless. In the meadow, the men had killed snakes with yellow and silver-gray stripes; these vipers lifted their egg-shaped heads from the ground, open mouthed, their blood-red stingers protruding exactly like those of the poisonous snakes at home. She tried to keep the children where the grass had been mowed and where they could watch where they stepped. A few times the children had been frightened by a gray, furry animal the size of a dog, with thick legs and a short tail, which they thought was a lynx or small wolf. Large, fat, gray-brown squirrels called gophers played around the shanty in great numbers, their heads sticking up everywhere in the grass; one could hardly avoid stepping on them, and they looked as if they might bite; they frightened the children, but they were harmless. There were flying squirrels, too, with skin stretched between their legs. They flew about in the trees, waving their long tails like sails. They came and ate out of one’s hand, like tame animals; the children liked them.

  The little creature who made the persistent screeching sound had at last been discovered, and they had been told its name—cricket. It was gray-brown, smaller than a grasshopper, and difficult to see on the ground; its wings were so small it couldn’t fly but jumped
about like a grasshopper. This small thing screeched loudly all night through, and because of its noise they called it “the screechhopper.” If a cricket happened to get into the shanty at night, Kristina had to find it and kill it before she could get a wink’s sleep.

  However small an animal might be in America, it always caused trouble. But the rodents, devouring Kristina’s food, were the greatest nuisance of all. Rats and ratlike vermin were everywhere, running in and out of their holes, hiding underground. Kristina found it did little good to hide food in a hole in the ground, she still found rat dirt in it, and her heart ached when she had to throw away rat-eaten pieces of food. If only they could get hold of a cat to catch the rats. But Karl Oskar had no idea where they might find one. In Taylors Falls, he had seen only one cat; probably cats were as expensive as other animals; perhaps a cat would cost five dollars, like a hen. It would be a long time before they would have all the domestic animals they needed.

  One day Johan came rushing into the shanty holding tight in his arms a small, black-furred animal: “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 d
ied, 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.

  Then the truth about him had been revealed to Kristina. And Ulrika said that she was only one of his victims, he had seduced and ruined many girls before they were of age. But the mighty ones could do whatever they wanted to in that hellhole, Sweden. Two of the jurors at her trial ought to have been in prison themselves, they had stolen money entrusted to them as guardians of orphans; and one owed her four daler for having committed what was known as whoring, not punishable in men. This she had told the judge and had pointed out that the law ought to be the same for all. But he gave her fourteen days extra on bread and water for having insulted the jury. And she had never received the four daler.

  Ulrika was straightforward and said whatever came to her mind to whomsoever she met, even mighty lords. She could not help it, she was made that way. But in Sweden such honesty brought only misery; if you told the truth there, you were put in prison.

  Having believed that justice ruled in her homeland, Kristina was deeply disturbed by Ulrika’s confidence. How rash and unjust her condemnation of Ulrika had been! She had listened to what other women said about the Glad One. No woman had a right to judge Ulrika and hold her in contempt unless she herself had been sold at auction as a four-year-old, and raped at fourteen. Kristina felt she could no longer rebuke Ulrika for her adultery before coming to live with Danjel. Vanity and self-righteousness were as sinful as whoring, and she had committed these sins many times. But that day in the steam wagon, when she had shared her food with the onetime parish harlot and her daughter, then her eyes had been opened: she had approached Ulrika, and Ulrika had approached her. When at last she had accepted Ulrika—something she felt now she should have done from the very beginning—she had discovered that this so-called bad woman was honest and could be a good friend.