Unto A Good Land
Page 34
But it was a long way to fetch her from Taylors Falls—a three-hour walk by daylight. And would she come with him through the wilderness tonight? This had happened so suddenly, night was falling, and this too was bad luck.
“I had better get Swedish Anna. But it will take a few hours.”
“You needn’t go so far,” Kristina said. “Get Ulrika.”
“What? Ulrika of Västergöhl?”
“Yes. I asked her at the housewarming.”
“You want the Glad One to be with you?”
“She promised me.”
Karl Oskar was stamping on his right boot, and he stopped, perplexed: The Glad One was considered as good as anyone here, no one spoke ill of her now. Both he and Kristina had made friends with her, had accepted her in their company. But he had not imagined that his wife would call for Ulrika of Västergöhl to be with her at childbed, he had not thought she would want her so close. Yet she had already bespoken her—the woman she had wanted to exclude as a companion on their journey. She would never have done this at home; there a decent wife would never have allowed the public whore to attend her at childbirth.
Kristina rose and began preparing the bed: “Don’t you think Ulrika can manage?”
“Yes! Yes, of course! I only thought . . .”
But he never said what his thought was. It was this: he had accepted Ulrika, but hardly more. He could not forget that, after all, she had been the parish whore in Ljuder, and he was surprised that Kristina seemed to have forgotten. Perhaps it was as well, perhaps it was fortunate that she was within call when a midwife was needed. She should know the requirements at such a function, she had borne four children of her own, she should know what took place at childbirth. Ulrika had health and strength, she was cleanly. She would probably make a good midwife. She could help a wedded woman, even though all her own children had been born out of wedlock. What wouldn’t do at home would have to do here; here each one did as best he could, and they must rely on someone capable, regardless of her previous life.
Karl Oskar now was surprised at himself for not having thought of Ulrika. “I shall fetch her as fast as I can run.”
“It’s already dark. It won’t be easy for you.”
He said he could find the road to their neighbors’ settlement, he had walked it often enough. But it was too bad that Robert was staying with Danjel, or he could have sent him instead. Now he must leave Kristina and the children alone—and just after they had been frightened by the Indians. She must bolt herself in, to be safe. Would she be able to push in the bolts after he left? It would be almost two hours before he could get back.
“Can you hold out till I get back?”
“I think I can. But be sure to bring Ulrika with you.”
Karl Oskar cut a large slice of bread for each of the children, to give them something to gnaw on while he was gone. He stopped a moment outside the door while Kristina bolted it, and then he took off.
Outside it was pitch-dark. Karl Oskar had made himself a small hand lantern out of pieces of glass he had found in Taylors Falls: he had fitted these into a framework of wood. But the tiny tallow candle inside burned with so weak a flame that the lantern helped him but little. Later there might be a moon, but at the moment the heavens were cloaked in dark clouds, not letting through a ray. He must hurry, he hadn’t time to look for obstacles, he strode along fast, stumbled on roots, slipped into hollows; thorns stung him and branches hit him in the face; he was drenched with perspiration before he was halfway to Danjel’s. A few times he had to stop to get his breath. It was difficult to hurry in his heavy boots.
Karl Oskar was panting and puffing like a dog in midsummer when at last he espied the light from Danjel’s cabin; he had never before covered the distance between the two settlements in so short a time.
He arrived as the Lake Gennesaret people were preparing for bed. Dan-jel, shirt-clad only, opened the door for him. Looking at Karl Oskar’s face he guessed the caller’s errand: “It’s Kristina? She must be ready.”
“Yes.”
Ulrika of Västergöhl was sitting on the hearth corner darning socks in the light from the fire. She stood up: “How far has it gone?”
“I don’t know. The pains came right after dusk.”
“Had the birth-water come?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s probably just begun.”
“It came on somewhat suddenly. Two Indians came in and frightened her. That might have brought it on.”
“It’s always sudden,” Ulrika told him.
She gathered up the worn socks and put them away; then she threw a woolen shawl over her shoulders and was ready. Danjel handed her a bottle of camphor drops and a large linen towel.
Robert asked if he should go with them, but Ulrika said: “There’s no need for any more menfolk.” She glanced at Karl Oskar, who stood there anxious and pale: “No—no more chickenhearted males!”
And out into the darkness went Karl Oskar in Ulrika’s company; he went ahead through the forest and tried to light their way with his lantern. Now he couldn’t walk fast, partly because he was tired, partly because of Ulrika.
Soon the moon broke through the clouds, and the moonlight was of more help than the lantern.
Ulrika talked almost incessantly: Yes, menfolk were soft at a woman’s childbirth; they used as excuse that they couldn’t bear to see a poor woman suffer. . . . Hmm. . . . The truth was, probably, they suffered from bad conscience—those who had a conscience; they themselves had put the woman in childbirth pain.
Karl Oskar answered her in monosyllables, mostly he listened. Whatever was said of Ulrika in Västergöhl she was a fearless and plucky woman. This was well—such a one was needed at a childbed.
Ulrika continued: She herself had been delivered four times, but at her childbeds no man had needed to see her suffer; least of all the fathers of the children, for they had kept themselves far, far away. They had kept away at the birth and after; indeed, she had never heard from them again. It was best for them, of course; they were wise; they wanted to partake of the sweet tickling, but not of the sour suffering. Men were always quick to be on their way; and she had been too proud to ask their whereabouts. No one could ever accuse her of having run after men. It was the menfolk who had never left her in peace, they had tempted and promised and lured her in every way; and that poor excuse for a man who didn’t do the right thing of his own will was not worth running after.
Yes, Ulrika knew the menfolk; the only one who might know them better was God the Father Himself, Who had made them. She had been with many; she knew what cowards they were toward women, how they tried to shirk their responsibility for what they had done, how they lied and accused others, how they wriggled and squirmed—those men. She knew how they shammed concern and acted the hypocrite, their tongues sweet and soft until they got a woman on her back, and how afterward—having been let in to enjoy the feast—they grew cheap and penurious and unkind: turned back into the useless cowards they actually were.
There might be a few real men; the best that could happen to a woman in this world was to be married to a real man, one she could rely on when she needed him.
“You are a man with a will, Karl Oskar. And you take care of your brats as well as your woman,” said Ulrika.
The man who received this praise felt somewhat embarrassed.
The Glad One went on: Kristina was a fine, honest woman, she did not begrudge her a good man. She, Ulrika, had accommodated many married men who were in need of her, but she would never go to bed with Kristina’s husband, no, not even for a whole barrel of gold.
This annoyed Karl Oskar and he rebuffed her tartly: “I’ve never asked you, have I?”
“You were pretty hot on me at sea. You can’t deny that. No one fools me about such things.”
Karl Oskar felt his cheeks burn; even his ears smarted: once on the ship he had used Ulrika—in his dreams. But no one could help what he dreamed. And even if there had been times whe
n he felt himself tempted by the Glad One’s attractive body, he was too proud to go where other men had been before. Better not pay any attention to what she was saying, it wasn’t a penny’s worth. It was just like Ulrika to talk of bed play when they were on their way to a woman in childbirth. His own wife to boot! He would not be dragged into a quarrel with the woman he had fetched to help. . . .
Ulrika went on heedlessly. She nudged Karl Oskar in the side and told him it was nothing to be ashamed of that he was hot on women, particularly as he had been forced to go without for such a long time—his wife had been ill, and pregnant, these were long-drawn-out obstacles, trying his patience. But any man of Kristina’s she, Ulrika, would never help, however badly in need he might be.
What she said was true; it struck him to the quick. But he did not answer. He had a sense of relief as the surface of Lake Ki-Chi-Saga glittered in the moonlight ahead of them.
A hundred yards from the cabin they stopped short at the sound of a scream. Both listened intently; it wasn’t a bird on the lake, it was a human voice, a voice Karl Oskar recognized: “It’s Kristina!”
He ran ahead as fast as his legs could carry him. He hammered with his fists on the door, which was bolted from the inside; he could hear his wife’s shrieks, she was in her bed, unable to open the door. How would he get in?
“Kristina! Can you hear me?”
Ulrika came up to his side, panting: “Have you locked her in?”
“Yes. And I don’t think she is able to open . . .”
“Break a window.”
Karl Oskar picked up a piece of firewood and was ready to break the nearest window when he heard Johan inside: the boy was trying to open the heavy bolts. The father directed the boy, told him how to lean against the door while he pulled the bolts, and he and Ulrika tried to pull the door toward them. After a few eternity-long minutes, the door swung open on its hinges.
Kristina was lying on her side in the bed, her body twisting as she shrieked and moaned.
“Kristina! How is it?”
“It’s bad. Where is Ulrika? I’ve been waiting so . . .”
“We hurried as much as we could.” Karl Oskar took hold of his wife’s hand: it was clammy with perspiration; her eyes were wide open, she turned them slowly to her husband: “Isn’t Ulrika with you?”
Ulrika had thrown off her shawl and now stepped up to the bed, pushing Karl Oskar aside: “Here I am. Good evening, Kristina. Now we’ll help each other.”
“Ulrika! God bless you for coming.”
“How far along are you? Any pushing pains yet?”
“Only the warning pains, I think. But—oh, my dear, sweet Ulrika! Why did you take so long?”
The fire in the corner had died down, Lill-Märta and Harald were huddled on their bed with their clothes on, asleep, but Johan was up and about, his eyes wide open, full of terror: “Why does Mother cry so?”
“She has pain.”
“Is her nose going to bleed again, as on the ship?”
“You can see for yourself—her nose doesn’t bleed.”
There had been one night on the Charlotta which Johan never would forget. “Will Mother die?”
“No—she won’t die. Go to bed and be a good boy.”
“Father—is it true? Mother won’t die tonight?”
“She is just a little sick. She’ll be well again tomorrow morning when you wake up.”
Ulrika pulled down the blanket and felt Kristina’s body with her hands, lightly touching her lower abdomen; then she asked: Had the birth-water come, and how long between the last pains? While Karl Oskar undressed the children and tucked them in, and rekindled the fire, the two women spoke together: they understood each other with few words, they had gone through the same number of childbeds, four each; they were united and close through their like experience.
“It feels large,” said Ulrika after the examination.
“I have thought—perhaps it’s twins.”
“Haven’t you had twins before?”
“Lill-Märta’s twin brother was taken from us when he was fourteen days old.”
“It runs in the family. Karl Oskar. Get me some light. Heat water over the fire. Be of some use!”
Ulrika assumed command in the cabin, and Karl Oskar speedily performed as he was told to do. It was not his custom to take orders, but tonight at his wife’s childbed he was glad someone told him what to do.
From dry pine wood he made such a roaring fire that it lighted the bed where Kristina lay, comforted by her helping-woman in between the pains. She had not had time to sew anything for the child, not the slightest little garment; she had had so many other things to do this fall. And she had thought it would be another two weeks yet; it came too early according to her figuring; no, not a single diaper—and suppose she had twins!
“No devil can figure out the time,” said Ulrika. “A brat will creep out whenever God wants him to.”
Kristina had hoped it would happen in warm daylight; then she could have sent her children out to play. Now they had to stay inside and listen to her moans; but she couldn’t help that.
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!”