Nisse swallowed. “If it’s as you say, there’s only one thing to be done.”
Then Marta began to cry. She made no attempt to hide her tears, and she cried bitterly as she thought of someone who would take it even harder than herself. How were they to tell Tjorven?
Tjorven was not at home just then. She was running around looking for Yoka. Everybody was helping Pelle hunt for his rabbit, which had disappeared. Johan and Niklas, of course, and Teddy and Freddy and Tjorven. They looked everywhere but they could not find Yoka. Pelle hunted and cried and was angry with himself. Why hadn’t he closed the hutch properly last night? Why had he been in such a hurry? You should never be in a hurry when you’ve got a rabbit.
They found Yoka at last. It was Teddy who found him. She screamed when she saw the little rabbit lying lifeless under a bush not far from the sheep field.
“No,” she screamed. “No!”
Someone had come up behind her. She turned her head and saw it was Pelle. Then she shouted still more wildly, “Pelle, keep away!” But it was too late. Pelle had already seen. He had seen his rabbit.
They stood in a helpless ring around him. None of them had ever been so close to bitter sorrow, and they did not know what to do when anyone looked as Pelle looked now.
Johan cried. “I’ll get Daddy,” he mumbled and ran as fast as his legs would carry him.
Melker also had tears in his eyes when he saw Pelle. “My poor little boy.”
He picked him up in his arms, and carried him home to Carpenter’s Cottage. Pelle did not cry, he only hunched up closer and hid his face with closed eyes against his father’s shoulder. He never wanted to see anything in the world again.
“Here today and gone tomorrow.” He choked. His own rabbit, the only animal he had. Why hadn’t it been allowed to live? Pelle lay on his bed with his face hidden in the pillow and then at last he cried, a quiet, miserable sort of crying which cut Malin to the heart. She sat beside him, feeling quite helpless. No one was dearer to her than this weeping little boy, who lay there so thin and small, far too small to bear such a great sorrow. It was terrible not being able to shield him, at least a little, from what was hurting him so much. She stroked his hair and told him why she could do nothing to help.
“That’s the way life is, you see. Sometimes it’s very difficult. Even a child, even a little boy, sometimes has to endure something that hurts, and has to go through it all by himself.”
Then Pelle sat up in bed, his face white and wet with tears. He threw his arms around Malin. He clung to her, and said in a hoarse voice, “Malin, promise me you won’t die until I grow up!”
Malin promised solemnly that she would do her best not to. And then she said to comfort him, “We can buy you another rabbit, Pelle, you know.”
Pelle shook his head. “I never want another rabbit but Yoka!”
There was someone else who was crying, not silently like Pelle, but loudly and wildly so that it could be heard a long way off.
“It’s not true!” shrieked Tjorven. “It’s not true!” She hit her father for saying it. He could not say such dreadful things, that Bosun—no, not possibly!—had bitten Tottie and killed Yoka. No, never, never! Poor Bosun, she would take him with her and run away, far, far away. Yes, she would—and never come back again. She would hit anyone on the head who said anything like that to her.
In a rage she kicked off her shoes and looked for someone she could throw them at—not Daddy—someone, anyone, she did not know who, and so she picked up her shoes with a shriek and flung them at the wall. “I’ll give it to you! I’ll give it to you!” she shouted.
She stood there mad with rage. Then she saw that Daddy had tied up Bosun by the steps, and she panted, “Do you mean to say you’re going to keep him tied up always?”
Nisse sighed. “Tjorven, my poor little girl,” he said, crouching on his heels in front of her, as he always did when he wanted to make her listen properly. “Tjorven, now I have to tell you something which will make you very miserable indeed.”
Tjorven broke out into still wilder sobbings. “I’m miserable already.”
Nisse sighed again. “I know that—and it’s difficult for me too. But, you see, Tjorven, a dog who hunts sheep and kills rabbits can’t be allowed to live any longer.”
Tjorven stood quite still, looking at him. It was as if she had scarcely taken in what he had said, but at last she ran from him with a cry of grief.
She rushed to her bed and flung herself down on it, and there, with her head hidden in the pillow, she lived through the longest and most bitter day of her life.
Teddy and Freddy went about with their eyes swollen with crying. They grieved as much as Tjorven did, but when they saw her lying there they were full of compassion. Poor Tjorven, it was far worse for her. They sat down beside her, tried to say something that would comfort her, but it was as if she could not hear, and they got only two words out of her: “Go away!”
So, crying, they left her. Marta and Nisse also tried to talk to her but they could not get any answer either. The hours passed. Tjorven lay on her bed, dumb and immobile. Now and again Marta opened the door a crack, looked in and heard a little moan, otherwise all was silent.
“I can’t bear this any longer,” said Marta at last. “Come on, Nisse, we must try again!”
And they tried in every way that love and despair could suggest to them.
“Little Bumble,” said Marta. “Would you like to go to visit Gran? Would you like that?”
There was no answer, only a little dry sob.
“Or what if we bought a bicycle for you?” said Nisse.
Another sob and nothing more.
“Tjorven, isn’t there anything you want?” said Marta at last in despair.
“Yes,” mumbled Tjorven. “I want to die.” She sat up in bed and suddenly words came with a rush. “It’s all my fault. Because I haven’t cared about Bosun as I did before. I’ve only cared about Moses.”
She had thought it all out, she had thought and thought—and that must be it. It was her fault. Bosun had never done anything wrong before, and if it was really true that he had bitten Tottie and Yoka it was because Bosun was unhappy himself and no longer cared what he did.
“Yes, it’s my fault,” sobbed Tjorven. “It would be better if you shot me and not Bosun.”
Then she sank back on her pillows again. For a short moment she remembered Moses over at Dead Man’s Creek, but he belonged to another world and she did not want to think about him. She thought of one thing only. She longed for Bosun until her whole body ached. He was standing tied up by the steps and soon Daddy would take his rifle and go into the woods with him.
“Bring me Bosun,” she mumbled with her face in her pillow.
Nisse looked unhappy. “Tjorven, dear, wouldn’t it be better if you didn’t see Bosun just now?”
Then Tjorven roared, “Bring Bosun!”
Teddy brought him and Tjorven turned them all out of her room. “I want to be alone with him.” And then she was alone with her dog. She threw her arms around his neck and wailed. “I’m sorry, Bosun. I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”
He looked at her with eyes which showed nothing but an eternal loyalty, and perhaps he was thinking, Little Bumble, I don’t understand any of this, but I don’t like your being unhappy.
She took his great head between her hands and looked him straight in the eyes, trying to find the answer to all the incredibly grim things that had happened. “It can’t be true! Oh, Bosun, if only you could speak and explain everything!”
And poor Moses, locked in his boathouse in Dead Man’s Creek, who had time to think of him? No one but Stina. She had been crying too, about Tottie and Yoka and Bosun. Everyone on Seacrow Island had been crying that day. But Tottie would soon be well again, Grandpa had said, and even if everything was one big misery, Moses ought not to be left to die of hunger.
Pelle and Tjorven are just lying there, crying and crying, so I must look after Moses, she thought. “Gi
ve me some herrings, please, Grandpa!”
She was given her herrings in a basket and off she went. Söderman went on with what he was doing. Then Westerman arrived. He was furious with Nisse because of what he had said about Cora.
“Blaming my dog!” he said angrily to Söderman.
He had lost all desire to speak to Nisse about the seal—about who was its owner and was not its owner. He realized there was only one thing to do and that was simply to take the seal and keep it hidden until he could get hold of that young man who apparently was a prospective purchaser of seals. But where was the seal? Its pool was empty and it was nowhere else either as far as he could see and he had been looking all morning.
“Do you know where the children have put the seal?” he asked Söderman.
Söderman shook his head. “It can’t have disappeared altogether because Stina has just been here, asking for herrings for it.”
As soon as he had said that, he remembered something Stina had told him: that Westerman wanted to take Moses away from the children and sell him.
“But you’ve got nothing to do with the seal now,” said Söderman. “Surely you have a little shame in you!”
Westerman swore and went. He was angry with the children and with Nisse Grankvist and Söderman and with every single person here on the island. The whole of Seacrow Island could go up in smoke for all he cared. He dawdled homeward. Then he saw Stina a little way in front of him, with her herring basket on her arm. That hurried him up. With long strides he caught up to her.
“Where are you going, Stina?” he said gently, for now he had to be cunning.
Stina smiled at him with a friendly smile. “You’re just like the wolf.”
Westerman did not understand. “The wolf? What wolf?”
“Red Riding Hood and the wolf. Do you want to hear the story?”
Westerman did not want to hear the story. But Stina was Seacrow Island’s most enthusiastic storyteller and Westerman had to listen while she told him the story of Little Red Riding Hood from start to finish. Not until then could he get a word in sideways.
“Who are those herrings for?” he asked.
“They’re for Mo—” began Stina, but then she stopped herself, for she remembered now whom she was talking to.
Westerman did not give up. “Who did you say they were for?”
“Grandma,” said Stina firmly. Then she giggled and added, “ ‘What a big mouth you have, Grandma,’ said Little Red Riding Hood. ‘All the better to eat herrings with,’ said Grandma. What do you say to that, Mr. Westerman?”
She gave Westerman her most impudent smile and then she ran away.
But she was just as innocent as Red Riding Hood, who showed the wolf the way to her grandmother’s cottage. Stina went straight to Dead Man’s Creek without so much as turning her head. If she had done so she might have caught a glimpse of Westerman as he followed stealthily after her. In fact, there was really no need for him to take the trouble to hide. No one could have been less on the watch than Stina, and now she was in a hurry to get to Moses.
Moses hissed at her as soon as she came through the door, but he was silent when he saw his herrings. Stina sat beside him and stroked him while he ate.
“Perhaps you’re wondering why I’ve come by myself,” she said. “But I won’t tell you because it would only make you sad.”
Sad? Who wasn’t sad! Moses did not like this boathouse and he did not like being alone, so now that Stina had come he did not intend to let her go, and he knew how to keep her. He had only to sit on her. So as soon as he had finished eating he floundered up on to her knee. There he settled down, and he hissed at her when she tried to push him off. If he had to stay in this boathouse she should stay too! Stina felt her legs giving under her and she grew frightened. Who knew how long Moses meant to sit there? Perhaps until Midsummer! Then they both would starve, both she and Moses, and that was not a pleasant thought. So she said beseechingly, “Dear Moses, do get off me.” But Moses refused. She tried to push him down again, but he only hissed.
Then she saw there was still one herring left in the basket beside her and that saved her. She took it and held it high in the air so Moses could not get it, and then threw it with all her strength into a corner. Moses floundered after it, but squealed with fury when he came back and saw there was no longer any knee for him to sit on.
“Good-bye, Moses,” said Stina, shutting the door. She fastened the catch and went away very pleased with herself. She looked neither to the right nor to the left and so she did not see Westerman, who was hidden in a corner between two boathouses.
But even if Stina was as innocent as Little Red Riding Hood—what luck it was that she had taken the herrings to Moses just when she did and that he sat on her for as long as he did and that she passed the sheep meadow just at the moment she did; otherwise, she would never have seen the fox. A large, hungry fox which had not managed to get what he wanted last night, no lamb, not even a rabbit, because a ferocious dog had chased him back to his lair.
He was hungrier than ever now and thought at least he would get a lamb, but then Stina turned up and began screaming to high heaven. This frightened him out of his wits and he slunk terrified through a hole in the hedge, across the road and between the pine trees on the outskirts of the wood.
Like a shining red streak he shot past the feet of old man Söderman, who had come to see whether Bosun had done any more damage to his sheep than he had noticed last night.
“The fox,” shrieked Stina. “Oh, Grandpa, did you see the fox?”
“Did I see him!” said Söderman. “That was the largest rascal of a fox I have seen in my life. That must have been what worried my sheep last night.”
“And then you go and say it was Bosun,” said Stina accusingly.
“Yes, then I go and say it was Bosun,” said her grandfather, scratching the back of his neck. He was old and very slow-thinking. How did it all hang together? he wondered. He had seen Bosun last night. And he had never heard of a fox daring to go right into the middle of a herd of sheep, but apparently there were some that did. One, at any rate. Were the fox and Bosun working together? Were they both hunting sheep? No, that couldn’t be it. And suddenly Söderman understood—he was not as stupid as all that. The fox had chased Tottie last night and Bosun had chased the fox. Bosun had protected his sheep, that was what he had been doing, and as a reward Söderman had accused him and made it seem that . . .
“Stay here,” he said to Stina, “and shout if you see the fox!”
He must get hold of Nisse—at once. He ran as he had not run for many years and at last arrived at the shop, panting and short of breath.
“Nisse, are you there?” he called anxiously, and then Marta came out, her face swollen with crying.
“No, Nisse has gone to the woods with Bosun,” she said. Then she covered her face with her hands and rushed inside again.
Söderman stood there as if he had been wounded. Then he began to run again. He groaned and ran and soon he could run no more. But he must find Nisse before it was too late.
“Where are you, Nisse? Don’t shoot!”
It was absolutely silent in the woods. Far away a cuckoo called, but then he fell silent, too. Söderman ran along, hearing only his own panting and his own anxious cries.
“Where are you, Nisse? Don’t shoot!”
He got no answer. Söderman kept on running. Then there was a shot. Söderman stopped dead and grasped his chest with his hands. He had come too late. It had happened! He would never be able to look Tjorven in the eye again! Söderman stood still and shut his eyes. Then he heard steps and looked up. Nisse was coming with his gun over his shoulder and beside him—Söderman stared and his jaw dropped to his chest. For beside Nisse padded Bosun!
“Wasn’t that you—firing?” stammered Söderman.
Nisse gave him an anguished look. “God help me, Söderman, I can’t do it! I must ask Jansson to do it, but he’s out shooting black-backed gulls today.”
Sorrow and joy go hand in hand and sometimes everything can change in the time it takes to sneeze. That day it only needed a panting old man with tears in his eyes to tell about the fox in his sheep field.
Nisse hugged Söderman. “No one has ever made me happier than you, Söderman!” And never has a happier man come home from the woods with his dog than did Nisse Grankvist.
He is happy, but even so he will lie awake tonight and remember that unhappy moment in the woods. Most of all he will remember Bosun’s eyes as he sat among the pines, waiting for the shot. Bosun knew what was going to happen and he gazed at Nisse submissively, sadly and faithfully. The memory of that gaze will keep Nisse awake tonight, but for the moment he is happy and he shouts to Tjorven, “Tjorven, come here! Come here, little Bumble. I’ve got something to tell you that will make you very happy!”
Operation Moses
“I CAN’T stop crying,” said Tjorven in surprise. She was sitting on the kitchen floor pressed tight against Bosun, and Bosun was eating steak. He had been given a whole pound of prime steak and everyone had asked his forgiveness. Now the whole family sat in a ring around him, adoring him and patting him, and everything was heavenly, thought Tjorven.
“But, just imagine, I can’t stop crying!” she said angrily and dried away her tears with her fist.
She remembered all that she had thought during those last few grim hours. She had been quite wrong. Bosun would never chase sheep, however unhappy he felt about Moses. He was just as good, whatever happened. But she had been right too, and things would stay right in the future. Everything would be as before, before Moses came and muddled everything up.
Oh yes, Moses! She wondered how he was over in his boathouse, and suddenly she remembered Yoka. And Pelle, poor Pelle, why couldn’t he be happy too if she was happy? Everybody should be happy now.
And Pelle was naturally very pleased when he heard that Bosun was innocent, as pleased as one can be when they are absolutely in despair. He had grieved about Bosun as much as over his own rabbit, and it was a comfort to know that it was not Bosun who had killed Yoka.
Seacrow Island Page 18