CHAPTER I
Carlsson takes a job and is found to be a bit of a chancer

He came like a snowstorm one April evening and had an earthenware jug hanging on a strap round his neck. Clara and Lotten had gone in the herring boat to pick him up but it was ages before they got back to the boat. They had to go to the store for a barrel of tar and to the chemist’s for grey salve for the pig and to the post to buy a stamp and then down to Fia Lövström’s at Kroken to borrow a cockerel in return for a couple of pounds of twine for making nets and finally they had ended up in the inn, where Carlsson treated them to coffee and cakes. At last they were back at the boat and now Carlsson wanted to take the helm, which he could not, never having seen a squarerigger before, but he yelled at them anyway to hoist the foresail – which the boat did not have.

Pilots and porters stood there on the customs quay grinning at all their manoeuvrings as the boat went about and ran before the wind down towards Saltsäcken.

‘Hey, you there, there’s a hole in your boat!’ an apprentice pilot yelled into the wind. ‘Put a bung in it!’ When Carlsson looked for the hole, Clara shoved him aside and took over the rudder while Lotten took the oars and managed to turn the boat into the wind again, and then they bore off down towards Aspösund at a good pace.

Carlsson was a small, solidly-built Värmlander with blue eyes and a nose as crooked as a clasp-hook. He was lively, full of fun and inquisitive, but he had no idea about anything to do with the sea. He was being brought to Hemsö to tend the fields and the animals, which no one else had wanted anything to do with ever since old Flod had passed away, leaving his widow in sole charge of the farm.

Now Carlsson started trying to pump the girls for information about life on the island but he got nothing but typical islanders’ answers:

‘Well now, I don’t know about that! Well now, I couldn’t say! Well now, I really don’t know!’

So there was nothing to be got out of them.

Long-tailed duck quacked behind the rocks and blackcock crooned in the sprucewoods as the boat splashed along between rocky islets and skerries, crossing bays and narrows until darkness fell and the stars came out one by one. Then it was out into open water, where the Huvudskär lighthouse was flashing. Here and there they slipped past a broom-beacon, sometimes a ghostly white sailing-mark, in some places late snowdrifts shone like linen on a bleaching green, in others net-floats rose to the surface of the black water and scraped against the keel as the boat passed over them. A dozing gull rose startled from its rocky perch, its cries wakening terns and gulls that set up a hellish din, while far, far out, where the stars met the sea, they could see the red and green eyes of a great steamer with a long row of round lights shining out through the portholes of the saloon.

Everything was new to Carlsson and he asked about everything. And now the answers started coming, so many of them that it became apparent to him that he was in alien territory. He was a landlubber, and so the islanders viewed him in the same way as townspeople view country yokels.

The water slapped at the yoal as it moved into sheltered water and they had to lower the sail and row, which quickly brought them into another sound from where they could see a light shining from a cottage in among alder trees and pines.

‘Here we are – home,’ Clara said as the boat shot through a channel cleared through the reeds into a narrow bay, with the reeds rustling against the gunwales and disturbing a spawning pike that was being tempted by a baited hook.

The farm mongrel started barking and a lantern could be seen moving around up by the cottage.

In the meantime they moored the boat to the end of the jetty and began to unload. The sail was rolled on the yard-arm, the mast taken down and the stays and shroud pins wound around it. The tar barrel was trundled ashore and soon the jetty was covered with bundles, jugs, baskets and packages.

Carlsson looked about him in the half-light and everything he saw was new and unfamiliar. There was a fish-cage dangling on a winch from the jetty, along the length of which ran a railing for hanging floats, painters, grappling irons, weights, lines, long-lines and hooks, while herring casks, troughs, creels, vats, tubs and line-boxes were stacked on the planking. In the boathouse at the end of the jetty, stuffed eider, goosander, red merganser, velvet scoter and goldeneye hung ready to be used as wildfowling decoys, and on brackets under the eaves rested sails and masts, oars, boathooks, rowlocks, balers, ice-picks and burbot clubs. The drying-frames on the shore were draped with herring-nets as big as the grandest church windows, flounder nets with mesh large enough to put an arm through, and perch nets as new and white as the finest sleigh net. Two rows of forked poles, running straight up from the jetty like the avenue to a manor house, were used to hang the great trawlnet, and at the far end of this avenue a lantern was moving. Its light shone down on the sandy path, making the mussel shells and dried fish gills sparkle and the herring scales stuck to the nets glisten like hoar-frost on a spider’s web. But the lantern also lit up the face of an old woman, her complexion dried by the wind but with two small, kind eyes that years of staring into an open fire had made narrow. The dog ran ahead of her, a shaggy beast as much at home in the sea as on land.

‘Bless my soul, you’re home at last,’ the woman greeted them. ‘You’ve brought the fellow with you, have you?’

‘Yes’m, here we are,’ Clara answered. ‘This is Carlsson.’

The old woman dried her right hand on her apron and held it out to her new farm-hand.

‘Welcome, Carlsson, I hope you find it to your liking here. Did you bring the coffee and the sugar, girls? The sails have been put away in the shed, have they? Come along, then, and we’ll get some food into you.’

The little group walked up the slope, Carlsson silent and curious, waiting to see how life would turn out in this new place.

There was a fire burning in the parlour and the tablecloth on the white, gate-legged table was clean. On the cloth stood an hourglass-shaped schnapps bottle, surrounded by Gustavsberg china cups decorated with roses and forget-menots. A newly baked loaf, fresh rusks, a butter dish, sugar bowl and jug of cream completed the table setting, suggesting more prosperity than Carlsson had expected to find out here in the back of beyond. And, on inspection, the room itself looked quite promising. The flickering light from the fire and from a candle in a brass candlestick shone on the slightly scuffed polish of a mahogany bureau, reflected off the varnished case and brass pendulum of a wall-clock, sparkled on the silver inlay of the long, damascened barrels of several fowling pieces and picked out the gilt lettering on the spines of hymn-books and homily-books, almanacs and farming manuals.

‘Come along, Carlsson,’ the woman said and Carlsson, being a child of the modern age, did not run off and hide in the barn but stepped forward at once and took a seat on the bench while the girls carried his chest through to the kitchen on the other side of the hallway.

Widow Flod took the coffee pot off its hook over the fire, dropped in a piece of dried fish skin to clear the coffee and hung it back to heat up. Then she repeated her invitation, this time adding that Carlsson should sit at the table.

Carlsson sat there twisting his cap in his hands and watching to see which way the wind was blowing before setting his sails. It was obvious that he had determined to get on the right side of his mistress, but since he could not yet decide whether she was the sort of woman who would tolerate chit-chat he did not want to risk nattering until he could see how the land lay.

‘That’s a very nice bureau you’ve got there,’ he tried for a start, fingering the brass roses on it.

‘Hm!’ said the widow, ‘not that there’s much in it.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that,’ Carlsson said in a flattering tone and poked his little finger into the keyhole in the lid. ‘Plenty of dinero in there, I bet!’

‘We bought it at auction and there was a time when there was a bob or two in it, but what with burying Flod and Gusten serving his time in the army and the farm going from bad to worse... Then they went and built that new house – no use to man nor beast! So it’s all trickled out bit by bit. Take some sugar and have a cup of coffee now.’

‘Shall I go first?’ Carlsson asked in an ingratiating voice.

‘Yes, there’s no one else at home,’ she answered. ‘That blessed boy is out wildfowling again and he’s taken Norman with him as well, so nothing will get done. Any chance of some fowling and off he goes, leaving the cattle and the fishing to go to rack and ruin. That’s why you’re here, Carlsson, you see, to get things back on an even keel. You’ll need to keep an eye on the boys, be a cut above them, so to speak. Won’t you have a rusk, Carlsson?’

‘Well, yes’m, but if I‘m supposed to be a cut above the rest and they’re supposed to obey me, there’ll need to be some discipline and I’m going to need some backing. I know what lads are like once you get too matey with them,’ Carlsson said, moving in quickly now he was getting the gist of things. ‘As to the seafaring side of things, I won’t interfere because I know nothing about it, but on land, that’s where I know my stuff and that’s where I must be in charge.’

‘Yes, we can see about all that tomorrow – it’s Sunday and we can talk about it by the light of day. Have a dram now, Carlsson, and then you can go to bed.’

She gave him another cup of coffee and Carlsson picked up the hour-glass bottle and poured himself a good quarter of a cupful. After taking a swig he felt disposed to resume the previous conversation, which he had been finding more than a little agreeable. The old woman, however, had got up and was fiddling with the fire, the girls were scuttering in and out, and then the dog started barking in the yard, catching everyone’s attention.

‘Aha, that must be the boys back,’ Madame Flod said.

Voices could be heard outside, accompanied by the clatter of hobnails on the stones. Peering through the Busy Lizzies on the window sill, Carlsson saw the outline of two men in the moonlight, gun barrels poking above their shoulders and packs on their backs.

The dog barked in the hallway and the parlour door opened. In strode the son of the house wearing sea-boots and a reefer jacket and, with the confident pride of the successful hunter, he tossed his game-bag and a brace of eider on the table by the door.

‘Evening, mother! Here’s some meat for you!’ he greeted her without noticing the newcomer.

‘Good evening, Gusten, you’ve been out a long time,’ she answered, looking with grudging pleasure at the fine eider drakes with their coal-black and chalk-white plumage, pinkish breasts and sea-green necks. ‘I see the shooting was good. Now Gusten, this is Carlsson, the man we’ve been waiting for!’

With his small sharp eyes half concealed by pale red eyelashes her son gave Carlsson a searching look and his expression changed immediately from open to wary.

‘Evening, Carlsson,’ he said, short and reserved.

‘And good evening to you,’ the farm-hand answered, affecting a casual tone but ready to take the upper hand once he had the measure of the young man.

Gusten took a seat at the head of the table with his elbow on the window-sill and let his mother give him a cup of coffee, into which he immediately poured some schnapps. While drinking it he stealthily watched Carlsson, who had picked up the birds and was inspecting them.

‘Fine birds, these,’ Carlsson said, squeezing the breasts to feel how plump they were. ‘I can see you’re a good shot – the shots have gone in just right.’

Gusten answered with a sly grin. He could tell straightaway that the farm-hand knew nothing about shooting since he was praising shots that had entered along the lie of the feathers, thus making the birds worthless as decoys.

But Carlsson carried on talking undaunted, praising the sealskin bags, admiring the gun and making a fool of himself by showing his complete ignorance of anything to do with the sea.

‘What have you done with Norman?’ Madame Flod asked, beginning to get sleepy.

‘He’s taking the things up to the shed,’ Gusten answered, ‘but he’ll be here soon.’

‘Rundqvist’s already gone to bed. Well, it’s about time, too. You must be tired, Carlsson, after all your travelling, so if you come with me I’ll show you where you’re to sleep.’

Carlsson would have been happy to stay and help empty the hour-glass bottle but the hints were too obvious to risk succumbing to the temptation. The widow accompanied him out to the kitchen and then quickly returned to her son, whose face had already assumed an open, candid expression again.

‘Well, what do you think of him?’ she asked. ‘He seems a decent, willing sort.’

‘Nah!’ Gusten pronounced in a long, drawn-out way. ‘Don’t trust him, mother. He talks a load of rubbish, the bugger!’

‘Ah, you’re just saying that. He could be a reliable enough fellow even if he is a bit of a chatterbox.’

‘Take my word for it, mother, that one’s a chancer and we’ll have a deal of trouble before we get shot of him. Not that it matters as long as he works for his keep and as long as he stays away from me. I know you never believe anything I say but you’ll see, you’ll see! And you’ll regret it when it’s too late. Remember what it was like with old Rundqvist – he could lay on the soft soap but it turned out his back was even softer and now we’re stuck with him, probably to his dying day. One thing you can be sure of with smarmy types like this one is that their bellies are as big as their mouths.’

‘Gusten, you’re just like your father, you know. Always thinking the worst of people, and always asking the impossible. Rundqvist is no seaman, he’s a landlubber, but he can do a lot of things the rest of you can’t. You know we’re never going to get an islander to take the job here because they’re all going off to the navy or the customs or the pilot service. It’s only mainland people who are prepared to come out here, and we have to take what we can get.’

‘Yes, it’s obvious no one wants to work on a farm anymore, they all want a Crown job – so all the flotsam and jetsam from the mainland washes up out here. No chance of decent people coming out to the skerries unless they’ve got a good reason to. Which is why I said what I said before: keep your eyes open!’

‘Right enough, Gusten, and you should keep your eyes open too and watch out for what’s yours,’ his mother said. ‘It’s all going to be yours after all, so you should stay at home more and not be out wildfowling all the time. At the very least, you shouldn’t be taking people away from their work the way you do.’

Gusten plucked at one of the eider before answering.

‘Oh all right, mother, but you know you like a roast on the table when there’s been nothing but salt pork and dried fish all winter, so don’t go on about it. It’s not as if I waste my time in the alehouse, so I deserve some fun somewhere. We have enough food, don’t we, and some money in the bank too, and the house isn’t exactly falling down. If it does burn down, so much the better – we’ve got fire insurance.’

‘The house may not be falling apart but everything else is. The fences need mending, the ditches need clearing, the barn roof’s rotting away and leaking on the beasts, there’s not a jetty that’s safe, the boats are as dry as tinder, the nets need tarring and the milk cellar needs a new roof. My, oh my! There’s so much needs doing and it never gets done. But now we’ll see if we can get it done after all, now we’ve got someone whose job it is to deal with it. It may well be that Carlsson’s just the man for the job.’

‘Let him get on with it, then!’ Gusten snapped, pushing his fingers through his short-cropped hair so that it stood up in spikes. ‘Look, here comes Norman. Come and have a dram, Norman.’

Norman, a short, broad, fair-haired fellow with the beginnings of a pale moustache and blue eyes, came into the room and sat down by his hunting companion after greeting Madame Flod. As soon as the two heroes had taken their clay pipes from their waistcoat pockets and filled them with Black Anchor, they took a coffee laced with schnapps and began – as hunters do – to go through their exploits out in the skerries shot by shot. They examined the birds, felt the wounds with their fingers, counted the pellets, discussed uncertain shots and made plans for future expeditions.

Carlsson, meanwhile, was out in the kitchen viewing his sleeping quarters.

The kitchen was a log cabin that resembled an upturned boat floating with its keel in the air on top of a cargo of everything under the sun. Nets and fishing equipment hung on beams right up under the sooty roof. Below them boards and planks were stored to dry, together with skeins of flaxen and hemp line, grappling-irons, wrought iron, bunches of onions, tallow candles and wooden provision boxes. A long row of newly stuffed decoys was lined up along one crossbeam, sheepskins were thrown over a second, and from the third dangled seaboots, knitted jerseys, linen clothing, shirts and stockings. Between the beams ran wooden spits on which rounds of crispbread had been threaded, and there were poles to hold eel-skins and long-lines and ledger tackle.

An unpainted wooden table stood by the gable-end window, and against the walls were three pull-out beds, already made up with fairly clean but coarse sheets.

The widow had pointed Carlsson to a place in one of these and then she had left, taking the candle with her and leaving the newcomer in the weak light provided by the glowing embers in the stove and the small, criss-cross pattern of moonlight on the floor made by the small panes in the window. For the sake of modesty, since the girls also slept in the kitchen, no candles were provided at bedtime and Carlsson began to undress in the gloom. He removed his coat and boots and took his watch from his waistcoat pocket to wind it up by the light of the coals in the stove. He had just put the key in the hole and begun to wind his watch with a rather unpractised hand – he only wound it up on Sundays and special occasions – when he heard a deep, grating voice emerging from the bedclothes.

‘Bloody hell, he’s even got a watch!’

Carlsson jumped, looked down and in the glow from the fire saw two peering eyes and a tousled head supported on a pair of hairy arms.

‘What’s it got to do with you?’ he responded, never short of an answer.

‘The church bell tells you when it’s time to go there – not that I ever do,’ the head answered. ‘You’re a posh one, aren’t you – morocco leather cuffs on your boots and all!’

‘I wouldn’t be seen with anything else, and I’ve got galoshes!’

‘Jesus, galoshes, too! You can probably run to a dram then?’

‘Certainly can, if that’s what’s needed,’ Carlsson answered in a decisive voice and went to fetch his earthenware bottle. ‘Here we go, help yourself.’

He pulled out the cork, took a swig and handed over the bottle.

‘God bless you, I do believe it’s schnapps! Cheers, and welcome to the island! Now we’re mates, Carlsson, you can call me Crazy Rundqvist. That’s what I’m usually called, anyway.’

And he crept back under the covers.

Carlsson undressed and slipped into bed after hanging his watch on the salt-box and placing his boots in the middle of the floor so the red morocco decoration was visible. The cottage was silent apart from Rundqvist’s snuffling over by the stove. Carlsson lay awake thinking of the future. Madame Flod’s words that he should consider himself a cut above the others and put the farm back on its feet stuck in his mind like a nail, and his brain ached and throbbed around this nail as if a tumour was forming. He lay and thought of the mahogany bureau and the son’s red hair and suspicious eyes. He sees himself walking round with a big bunch of keys on a steel ring and rattling them in his trouser pocket. Then someone comes up to him and asks for money and he lifts his apron, shakes his right leg and feels the keys against his thigh; he picks through the keys like someone picking oakum and when he reaches the smallest key – the one that fits the lid of the bureau – he puts it into the keyhole, just as he had done with his little finger this evening, but the keyhole, that had at first resembled the pupil of an eye, now grows round and big and black like the muzzle of a gun and at the other end of the barrel he can see the son’s keen and wily, rudd-red eye taking aim, as if to defend his gold.

Someone came through the kitchen door and Carlsson jerked out of his doze. In the middle of the floor, where the chequerboard of moonlight now lay, stood two white-clad figures who quickly dived into a bed that creaked for some considerable time like a boat against a rickety jetty. Then there was some more wriggling under the sheets, followed by giggling, then silence.

‘Goodnight, little girls,’ Rundqvist muttered in a sleepy voice. ‘Please dream about me.’

‘Fat chance of that,’ Lotten answered.

‘Shush! Don’t talk to that horrible old man,’ Clara warned.

‘You’re so sweet, you two. I wish I could be as sweet as you,’ Rundqvist sighed. ‘Oh God, we just get old and we can’t have what we want anymore and life’s not worth a damn. Goodnight little ones, you’d better keep an eye on Carlsson – he’s got a watch and morocco boots. What a lucky fellow! Luck can come and luck can pass, it’s the lucky man who gets the lass. What are you lying giggling about? Carlsson, Carlsson, can I have another dram? It’s hellish cold over here and there’s a draught from the stove.’

‘No, no more, I’m going to sleep,’ snapped Carlsson, whose dreams of the future had been disturbed – a future in which neither wine nor women figured since he had already started being ‘a cut above’.

Silence fell again, broken only by the dull murmur of hunters’ tales penetrating through two doors and the sound of the night wind gently tugging at the damper in the chimney.

Carlsson closed his eyes and listened half-asleep to Lotten’s quiet murmur as she recited by heart something he could not catch at first but which eventually ended in a long, unbroken stream from which he was able to pick out ‘andleadusnotinto temptationbutdeliverus fromevil forthineisthekingdom thepowerandtheglory foreverandever amen. Goodnight, Clara, sleep well!’

After a short while snores could be heard from the girls’ bed and Rundqvist, whether genuinely or as a joke, was driving them home enough to make the windows rattle. Carlsson was lying there dozing, unsure whether he was awake or asleep, when he felt the covers being lifted and a pudgy, sweating body slipped in alongside him.

‘It’s just me – Norman,’ whispered an ingratiating voice and he realised that he was going to have the farm-hand as his bedfellow.

‘So the hunter’s home from the hill, eh?’ croaked Rundqvist in a rusty bass voice. ‘And there’s me thinking the lad would be out for his Saturday night’s hunting.’

‘Fine one to talk about hunting, you are, Rundqvist, you haven’t got much of a gun left,’ Norman hissed.

‘Oh, I haven’t, have I?’ the old man answered, determined to have the last word. ‘I can shoot blackbirds with a pop-gun, I can – between the sheets, too.’

‘Have you put the fire out in there?’ Widow Flod called in a kindly voice through the door from the hallway.

‘Yes, yes!’ they answered in chorus.

‘Goodnight to you, then.’

‘Goodnight, mistress.’

There was much sighing and puffing and blowing and snuffling until the snoring started again.

Carlsson, however, lay half-awake for a while longer, counting the window-panes to make his dreams come true.

*

[...]

CHAPTER VII
Carlsson’s dreams come true; a watch is kept over the bureau, but the administrator comes and draws a line under everything.

Carlsson’s marriage, though short, could not have been described as happy. The old woman was getting on, though not exactly aged, and Carlsson himself was entering those dangerous years. For most of his forty years he had been forced to toil for his daily bread and make his own way in the world, and he had failed to win the girl he wanted. But now that he had gained his ends and could look forward to a peaceful old age, the demands of the body were becoming insistent – stronger, in fact, than before, perhaps because his work over the last year had been less strenuous and perhaps, too, because he had made more provision for the flesh than the flesh could tolerate. Whenever he sat in the warmth of the kitchen his mind would begin to play with such thoughts and his eyes took to following Clara’s young body as she passed in and out of the parlour. His eyes would linger a while, look down and rest, make small excursions here and there, dart away and return. Eventually the girl became fixed in his mind’s eye and he saw her wherever he went. But someone else was watching too, not watching Clara but watching Carlsson’s eyes following the girl, and the more she saw, the more she thought she saw, until her own eye ached and ran as if she had a sty in it.

It was a few days before Christmas Eve. Darkness had fallen but the moon had risen and shone brightly over the snowcovered spruces, the shining bay and the white ground. A bitter north wind was blowing, sweeping the dry snow before it. Clara was in the kitchen lighting the baking oven and Lotten was kneading the dough.

Carlsson was sitting by the cupboard in the corner, smoking his pipe and purring like a cat in the warmth. His eyes were roving, relishing and warmly caressing Clara’s white arms where they emerged from her smock.

‘Are you going to do the milking before we clean up?’ Lotten asked her.

‘Yes, I’ll do it,’ Clara answered, putting away the rake and brush and donning a sheepskin jacket.

Then she lit the byre lantern and went out – and once she had gone Carlsson stood up and followed her out.

A little while later the old woman came out of the parlour and asked where Carlsson was.

‘He went out to the byre after Clara,’ Lotten answered.

Without waiting to hear any more, the old woman took a lantern and went out.

There was a bitter wind blowing outside but since it was no more than a stone’s throw to the byre she did not go back to put on something warm. The rocky slopes were slippery and the spindrift whirled round her like flour but she soon reached the byre and got quickly inside where it was warm. She stopped to listen and could hear whispering coming from the sheep-pen. In the weak moonlight that managed to filter through the cobwebs and hay-dust on the window-panes she saw the cows turning their heads to look at her, their great eyes shining a greenish colour in the darkness. The milkingstool was there and the pail, but that is not what she wanted to see. It was something else, something that she would have given anything not to see, something that – like witnessing an execution – attracted her at the same time as frightening the life out of her.

She moved on through the byre, climbing over heaps of straw until she came to the sheep. It was dark and quiet in there – the lantern had been extinguished but the candle itself was still smoking. The sheep were pushing and huddling and rustling their bedding of dried foliage. But they were not what she wanted to see. She moved on again and came to the hens, which had crept up on their perches and were clucking quietly as if they had just been woken up.

The door beyond was open outwards and she went out into the moonlight again. The snow revealed the tracks of two pairs of shoes, one smaller, one larger; in the shadows the tracks looked bluish and they led to the hurdle across the entrance to the paddock. The hurdle had been moved aside. She followed as if she were being dragged along, the tracks in the snow acting like a windlass chain to which she had been tied and which was now being wound in from some invisible point in the paddock.

And the chain pulled and pulled, pulling her into the same paddock, over the same stile and under the same hazel bushes where on another occasion – another dreadful occasion – she had lived through an evening hour she did not want to remember. Now the hazels were bare, bearing only their first, small, cabbage-worm catkins, and the oaks were leafless apart from a few hard brown leaves that rustled in the wind and were so sparse that the stars and the greenish-black sky were visible through them.

The chain continued, more chain, yet more chain, winding in under the spruce trees, which dropped snow on her thin grey hair when she brushed into them, snow that slithered down on her striped woollen bodice, powdering her neck and back and wetting and chilling her.

Deeper and deeper she pushed into the wood, where the capercailzie flew from its night’s perch and startled her; and on beyond, out over the bog where the unstable tussocks quaked, over fences that creaked as she climbed them.

The tracks went on, two by two, one pair small, the other large, sometimes side by side, sometimes stepping in one another, sometimes around one another as if in a dance, on, on, out across the stubble field, which the wind had blown clear of snow, on over cairns and ditches, on over stacks of fence-posts and wind-fallen trees.

She did not know how long she had been walking but her head felt frozen and her thin red hands were so numb she blew on them and put them under her skirts. She would have turned back but it was too late because she would have just as far to go back as to carry on. So she went on, through a copse of aspen trees where the remaining leaves shivered and trembled as if frozen by the north wind, until she came to a stile. In the clear, sharp moonlight she could see that they had sat down there: she noticed the imprint of Clara’s skirt and of the jacket with the sheepskin edging. So this was the place! Here! Her knees trembled and she froze as if her blood had become ice – and burned at the same time as if there was boiling water running through her veins. She sat down on the stile exhausted, wept, screamed, suddenly calmed down and got up and climbed over. On the other side of the stile the bay lay black and shining and across it she could see the lights in the cottage and a light up in the byre. The wind was blowing bitterly and she could feel it cutting right through her, tugging at her wispy hair and freezing her nostrils. Half running she went down onto the ice, skidded out on to its swaying surface, heard the dried reeds swish past her ears and crackle under her feet, tripped over a buoy frozen into the ice, got up again and ran as if death were at her heels and scorching her back. She reached the other shore but went right through the ice which, because of the receding water, had settled like panes of glass on the muddy bottom. With a splintering crash it broke under her weight. She felt the chill creeping up her legs but could not bring herself to scream in case anyone should come and ask her where she had been. Coughing as though her chest was about to burst she dragged herself clear of the broken ice, crawled up the slope, went straight to the bed in the parlour and told Lotten to light the fire and to make a pot of elderflower tea. And there she lay.

She asked Lotten to undress her, cover her with blankets and sheepskins and light a log fire, but she was still shaking with cold. Then she sent for Gusten, who was sitting in the kitchen.

‘Are you ill, mother?’ he asked in his usual unemotional way.

‘I’m nearing the end,’ the old woman panted. ‘I shan’t come through this. Shut the door and go into the bureau. The key’s behind the powder horn on the shelf.’

Filled with dismay Gusten obeyed her.

‘Open the lid. Pull out the third drawer on the left and take out that big letter. Good – now put it on the fire.’

Gusten obeyed and the letter flared up on the hearth, first crumpling and then crumbling to black ashes.

‘Shut the door, my boy, and lock the bureau again. And keep the key. Now sit here and listen to me because I shan’t be able to speak by tomorrow.’

Gusten sat down and cried a little, for now he could hear she was serious.

‘As soon as my eyes are closed for ever, take the wax and your father’s seal – you already have it – and go round and seal all the keyholes until the administrators come.’

‘And Carlsson?’ her son asked with some hesitation.

‘He’ll have maintenance rights – I don’t think anyone can take them away from him. But not a penny more! And if you can buy him out, do so! May God be with you, Gusten. You could have come to the wedding properly but I suppose you had your reasons. Just listen to me now, you are to be sensible when I’m gone: none of these lined coffins with silver-plate mountings. Just get one of those yellow stained ones they have down on Slussplan, and not too many people, either. But I want the bells, and if the minister wants to say a few words then that’s fine – you can give him your father’s meerschaum pipe with the silver ferrule, and a side of mutton for his wife. And Gusten, you need to think about getting married. Find a girl you like and stick to her, but find one of your own kind, and if she’s got a bit of money, so much the better. Don’t marry below yourself – that sort will just eat you out of house and home: remember that birds of a feather should flock together. Now, if you’ll read to me a little, I’ll see if I can get some sleep.’

The door opened and Carlsson slipped in, meek but full of confidence.

‘If you’re ill, Anna Eva,’ he said quickly, ‘we should send for the doctor’.

‘No need for that,’ she answered and turned her face to the wall.

Carlsson suspected how the land lay and wanted to be friends again.

‘Are you angry with me, Anna Eva? It really isn’t worth getting upset about nothing. Do you want me to read to you from the Good Book?’

‘No need for that!’ was all the old woman had to say.

Carlsson, who saw that there was nothing more to be done and who did not believe in wasting effort, accepted things as they were and sat down on the settle to wait.

Since matters had already been decided and the old woman had neither the desire nor the strength to say what she was thinking, there was nothing for Carlsson to add. As for things between Gusten and himself, they could all be sorted out later. No one gave much thought to fetching a doctor because people out here expected to die unaided and, in any case, all links to the mainland were cut off.

For the next two days and nights Carlsson and Gusten kept watch over the bedroom and over each other; when one of them fell asleep on the chair or sofa the other would cat-nap with one eye open, but as soon as one moved the other would jerk awake.

By the morning of Christmas Eve Madame Carlsson was dead.

For Gusten it was as if the umbilical cord had been cut at last, as if he had been pulled from his mother’s womb and become an independent being. After he had closed the old woman’s eyes and put the hymn book under her chin to prevent her mouth falling open he lit a candle, took the seal and sealing wax and, in Carlsson’s presence, sealed up the bureau.

Passions that had long been suppressed now came to the surface. Carlsson went and stood with his back to the bureau.

‘Hey, what do you think you’re doing, boy?’ he said.

‘I’m not a boy any longer,’ Gusten answered, ‘I am the farmer on Hemsö and you merely have maintenance rights!’

‘Hm, two can play at that game!’ Carlsson said.

Gusten took the gun down from the wall, cocked it so that the percussion cap showed, slapped the butt and roared for the first time in his life:

‘Get out! Get out before I shoot you!’

‘Are you threatening me?’

‘Yes, and there aren’t any witnesses!’ Gusten answered. He had clearly been talking to people with some knowledge of law.

That was a straight answer and Carlsson knew it.

‘Just you wait until the reading of the will!’ Carlsson said and went out to the kitchen.

It was a gloomy Christmas Eve, what with a corpse in the house and no possibility of sending for a coffin or having the body laid out. It was snowing continuously and the ice in the bays and straits would neither bear any weight nor be open enough for sailing. The water was just a mass of slush, across which it was impossible to walk, ski or row a boat.

Carlsson and Flod (as Gusten now insisted on being called) steered clear of one another and did not exchange a word even when they shared mealtimes at the same table. The whole house was in disorder and no one took charge of the work, with the result that everyone left things to everyone else and little was done.

Christmas Day arrived, grey, misty and with more snow. Getting to church was impossible, as was getting anywhere else, so Carlsson read a sermon in the kitchen instead. Everyone felt the presence of the corpse and any Christmas spirit was out of the question. The food was prepared in a slapdash manner, nothing was ready on time and everyone was dissatisfied. The atmosphere indoors and outdoors was permeated by a dull sense of apprehension and, with the old woman’s body lying in the parlour, they were all cooped up in the kitchen. They were like soldiers in a billet – when they were not eating or drinking they were sleeping, one on a sofa, another on a bed, and no one even thought of taking out the accordion or a pack of cards.

Boxing Day came and went in the same dull, tedious way but by now Flod was becoming impatient. Recognising that any further delay would lead to an unpleasant situation since the corpse was beginning to go off, he took Rundqvist with him to the work-shed, where they built a coffin and painted it yellow before using whatever they could find in the house as a shroud for the dead woman. The fifth day dawned and as the weather showed no sign of improvement – indeed, there were prospects of them having to wait another fortnight – they had to try to get the body to the church for burial at any price. They pushed the large herring-boat down into the sea and all the men collected their gear – sledges, ice-picks, axes and ropes – ready for the icy voyage. Early on the sixth day they set off on their perilous journey. Where the current had opened channels through the ice, they rowed; when they came to frozen waters, they had to haul the boat up on to sledges and drag it; worst of all was the mush-ice, in which the oars would simply splash up and down without moving the boat forward more than a few inches at a time. In some places the men preferred to walk in front and hack out a channel with their picks and axes, but woe betide anyone who cut too far beyond the channel into places where a current may have eaten its way through the thin crust.

It was already afternoon and only one more bay remained to be crossed and they had not yet taken time to eat and drink. An enormous snow-field stretched before them as far as the eye could see, broken only here and there by the small, rounded mounds formed by snow-covered skerries. The eastern sky was blue-black and threatened more snow. Crows came flying past them, moving in towards land to roost for the night, and now and then the ice crashed as if a thaw was setting in. Seals could be heard barking out at sea, but although the eastern side of the bay lay open to the sea there was no open water in sight; they were sure it was there, however, since they thought they could hear the calls of long-tailed duck in that direction. Having been cut off from the mainland for a fortnight, they did not know whether the lighthouses had been extinguished, but they assumed they would have been during the days between Christmas and New Year anyway.

‘We can’t go on like this,’ Carlsson said. He had stayed silent most of the time.

‘We have to,’ Flod said, putting his shoulder to the sledge,’ but we’ll get ashore on Måskläppan and get some food into us’.

They began steering their course towards a very small island in the middle of the bay.

It lay farther away than they thought and it changed shape as they moved closer, until at last it was only a cable’s length away.

‘Hole ahead!’ yelled Norman, who was acting as look-out. ‘Bear off to the left!’

The sledges turned to the left, and then to the left again, until eventually they had gone all the way round the islet. Whether it was from the heat of the sun or because of warm currents rising from the bottom, the island was surrounded by water and seemed to be unreachable on all sides, at least by sledge. Dusk was falling and a good plan was vital. Flod, who had taken command of the whole manoeuvre, immediately came up with a new plan of attack: they would slide the boat off the sledges and push it out into the water, simultaneously leaping aboard and manning the oars. Decision made, they set about doing it.

‘One, two, three!’ Flod gave the order. The boat shot forward, lost contact with the foremost sledge and tipped sideways, so that the coffin slid into the sea.

In their complete consternation Flod and Carlsson, who were at the stern, forgot to jump into the boat and remained standing on the edge of the ice while Norman and Rundqvist managed to scramble aboard. The coffin, which had not been tightly nailed together, quickly filled with water and sank before any of them had time to think of anything but saving themselves.

‘Now we must get to the manse as quickly as possible,’ Flod commanded, his present mood favouring rash action rather than clear thinking.

Carlsson objected, but when Gusten asked him whether he really thought it was preferable to spend the night out on the ice he had nothing more to say, particularly once he realised that there was no hope of them reaching the small island.

Rundqvist and Norman, however, had succeeded in scrambling ashore and were yelling and shouting to their companions to follow them. Flod’s only response was to wave his hand in farewell and to point south across the bay in the direction of the manse.

Carlsson and Flod marched on in silence for some time. Gusten walked in front, testing the ice with his ice-pick to see that it would bear their weight. Carlsson followed with his collar turned up, feeling distraught at his wife’s sudden and pitiful end, for which he would undoubtedly be blamed.

After they had been going for half an hour Gusten stopped to take a breather. He looked all round at the islands and shorelines to check where they were.

‘Hell, we must have gone wrong somewhere!’ he growled. ‘That island couldn’t have been Måskläppan because it’s over there,’ and he pointed to the east. ‘And there’s the pine-tree on Gillöga.’

He pointed in the direction of the mainland, towards a long low island on which a lone pine-tree had been left standing when a wooded hillock was clear-felled. The tree stood there, its two remaining branches like a semaphore signal that acted as a well-known navigation mark.

‘And over there is Trälskär.’

He was talking to himself and shaking his head.

Carlsson was becoming frightened. He was not at home out here in the skerries but he had had unlimited faith in Gusten’s local knowledge. Flod, however, now seemed to have taken his bearings and, changing course, he set off in a more southerly direction.

Dusk had fallen but the snow was giving some light, enough for them to know where land was. They did not speak but Carlsson followed close in the tracks of his guide.

Suddenly Gusten stopped and listened. Carlsson’s inexperienced ears heard nothing but Gusten seemed to have picked up a weak roar to the east, where a bank of clouds thicker and blacker than the veil of mist shrouding the horizon had begun to pile up.

They stood still for a while until Carlsson, too, became aware of a gentle roar and a thudding sound coming ever nearer.

‘What is it?’ he asked, creeping closer to Gusten.

‘It’s the sea! In half an hour we’re going to have a snowstorm brought in by the east wind and if things go really badly the ice will start breaking up. In which case, the devil only knows what’ll happen to us. Come on, get a move on!’

He set off at a trot, with Carlsson after him. The snow swished round their feet and the roar seemed to be following them.

‘We’ve had it now!’ Gusten yelled, stopping and pointing to a light that was flashing behind a small island to the south-east. ‘The lighthouse has been lit, which means the sea is opening up!’

Carlsson did not fully understand the danger, but he understood that their situation must be perilous if even Gusten was frightened.

Now the east wind was catching up with them and they could see a wall of snow no more than a stone’s throw away advancing on them like a dark screen; then they were enveloped in snow, falling thick, dense, as black as soot. Everything around them went dark and the light of the lighthouse, which only a moment before had been a pale and blurred mock sun showing them the way, was suddenly blotted out.

Gusten carried on running hard with Carlsson following as well as he could, but he had grown fat and was soon out of breath and unable to keep up. He called to Gusten to slow down, but Gusten had no desire to sacrifice himself: he just carried on running, running for his life. Carlsson seized the tails of Gusten’s coat and begged and pleaded with him not to leave him behind, promising him all the wonders of the world, appealing to him in the names of Paradise and Purgatory, but nothing helped.

‘It’s every man for himself now, and God help us!’ Gusten answered and told Carlsson to stay a couple of paces back as otherwise the ice might break.

It already seemed to be doing so. The noise of cracking ice behind them was growing louder, and worse, the roar of the waves was coming so close they could hear them breaking against the skerries and the edge of the ice, waking the blackbacks and herring gulls to scream in anticipation of unexpected prey.

Carlsson was panting and gasping, the distance between him and Gusten was widening and finally he was left running alone in the darkness. He came to an abrupt stop and began looking for tracks but could find none. He shouted but there was no answer. There was only loneliness, darkness, cold and water, with death in their train.

Fear spurred his feet to run on again, faster than the snowflakes though the wind was driving them in the same direction as him. He shouted again.

This time a fleeting voice reached him through the darkness: ‘Run with the wind – it will take you westwards towards the shore!’ Then silence.

But Carlsson had no strength left for running. His spirit failing, he began to slow down, plodding on step by step, unable to struggle any longer; and all the time he could hear the sea at his back, roaring, groaning, snarling, in tireless pursuit of its prey for the night.

*

The Reverend Nordström had gone to bed at eight o’clock that evening and lain there reading the Diocesan News before falling into a deep sleep. About eleven o’clock, however, he felt his wife’s elbow jabbing him in the ribs and heard her calling him:

‘Erik! Erik!’ he heard through his sleep.

‘What is it now? Why can’t you calm down, woman?’ he growled, only half-awake.

‘Calm down? I am calm, aren’t I?’

Fearing the start of a long-winded discussion the minister hastened to assure her he had no doubts about her calmness. Then he struck a match and asked what was going on.

‘There’s someone shouting down in the garden. Can’t you hear?’

The minister listened, putting on his spectacles so he could hear better.

‘Bless my soul, so there is! Who on earth can that be?’

‘Well, why don’t you go and see?’ his wife said, jabbing her elbow into him again.

The minister put on his long-johns and fur coat, shoved his feet into his over-boots and took his gun down from the wall. He put in a percussion cap, shook down the priming powder and went out.

‘Hello there! Who’s there?’ he shouted.

‘It’s me ... Flod!’ answered a dull voice behind the hedge of lilac bushes.

‘What the devil’s going on ... coming here at this time of night? Is your mother at death’s door?’

‘Much worse than that!’ Gusten said in a weary voice. ‘We’ve lost her!’

‘What do you mean by lost her?’

‘Yes, lost her, out at sea.’

‘For Heaven’s sake come on in. Don’t stand out there in the cold.’

When he came into the light Gusten looked as drained as a blown egg, having had nothing to eat or drink all day and been racing for his life to stay ahead of the east wind. Once the minister had been given a breathless account of the events, he went back in to his wife and returned – after a stormy few minutes – with the key to a certain cupboard in the kitchen, to which he led his shipwrecked guest. Soon Gusten was sitting at the big kitchen table while the minister set out schnapps, lard, brawn and bread for his famished visitor.

They discussed what could be done for the men who were marooned. It would be a waste of effort to call out the islanders in the dark of night, and if they lit fires along the shore it might be dangerously misleading to ships – always assuming the firelight could penetrate the fog.

They did not think the men left on the small island were in any great danger anyway, but things looked a good deal worse for Carlsson. Gusten was virtually certain the ice in the bay must have broken up and that Carlsson was done for by now. ‘It looks,’ he said, ‘as if he has got his just deserts.

Reverend Nordström objected: ‘Listen to me now, Gusten, I think you’ve all been unfair to Carlsson and I don’t know what you mean by his just deserts. Look at the state the farm was in when he took charge. Hasn’t he built the place up for you? Didn’t he get you summer guests and build you a new cottage? As to marrying your widowed mother, well, she wanted him. And as for asking her to make a will, there was nothing wrong in him trying though it was a bit short-sighted on her part to go along with it. Carlsson was an energetic chap and he did everything you’d have liked to do but weren’t up to! Now, wouldn’t you like me to make an approach to the widow in Åvassa on your behalf, she’s worth every penny of eight thousand? No, you shouldn’t be so unbending – your way of looking at people is not the only way.’

‘But whichever way you look at it he caused my mother’s death and that’s not something I’m going to forget easily.’

‘Rubbish, you’ll forget about it when you’re slipping into bed alongside a wife of your own. We can hardly be sure it was Carlsson who caused her death anyway – if your mother had put some proper clothes on before she ran outside that evening she wouldn’t have caught the chill that killed her. And I don’t think she took it that much to heart that he was flirting with the girl, young man that he was. Anyway, this would appear to be the end of the matter and we’ll see what can be done tomorrow morning. It will be Sunday and everyone will be coming to church so we won’t need to call them out specially. Go to bed now and be at peace: just remember that one man’s misfortune means fortune for another.’

*

The following morning when all the church-goers were standing round outside the church, the minister arrived accompanied by Flod. Instead of going in he joined the crowd of parishioners, who already seemed to have heard what had happened. After announcing that he would not be holding a service, he called on all the men to fetch their boats and to meet at the manse jetty as soon as possible so that they could go and rescue whoever there was to be rescued. Since Carlsson, as an incomer, had not been without his enemies on the council, there was some grumbling in the background, on the pretext that they did not want to forego the Word of the Lord.

‘What rubbish!’ the minister said. ‘Knowing you as I do, I can’t believe you’re all that keen to listen to the watery gruel I serve up. Are you? What do you think, Åvassa – you’re so well-versed in Scripture that you can tell when I’m scraping the barrel?’

This caused some quiet amusement among the crowd and stilled at least some of the objections.

‘There’s another Sunday next week. Come then and I’ll really lay about you, I promise you. Bring your womenfolk and I guarantee to give them the kind of scolding that’ll last for a couple of months. Right now, are we agreed that we’re going to pull the ox out of the pit even though it’s the Sabbath?’

The crowd mumbled its agreement, having been duly absolved of any breach of the Sabbath.

Then they went their separate ways, to go home and change their clothes ready to go to sea.

The snowstorm had stopped, the wind gone round to the north and the weather was cold and clear. By the time a dozen or so herring boats set out from the minister’s jetty the ice in the bay had broken up and there was a blue-black swell running around the gleaming white islands. The men had come dressed in fur-coats and sealskin caps and were carrying axes and grappling irons. Sailing was out of the question so they manned the oars, with the minister and Gusten in the first boat, rowed by four hand-picked skerrymen with Bosun Rapp as look-out and bow oarsman.

The mood was serious but not unduly sad: the sea takes little account of one life more or one life less.

The seas were running fairly high and any water that came into the boat froze at once and had to be hacked off and thrown overboard. Ice-floes, some of them with reeds, leaves and sticks ripped from the shore and frozen into them, floated past and scraped against the planking before submerging and surfacing again.

The minister sat there with his field-glasses trained on Trälskär where the Hemsö men were trapped, but occasionally, and without much hope, he scanned the bay where Carlsson had almost certainly drowned. He scoured the drifting blocks of ice for any clues – a footprint, a piece of clothing or even the corpse itself – but it was all in vain.

After rowing for a couple of hours they came to the skerry where Rundqvist and Norman, who had seen the rescue flotilla approaching in the distance, had lighted fires of rejoicing on the shore. Since their lives had never been in any real danger, their mood was more one of curiosity than excitement when the boats pulled alongside.

‘Nothing for us to worry about once we had dry land under our feet!’ as Rundqvist put it.

The day being short they set about raising the Hemsö boat first, after which they began dragging for the coffin.

Rundqvist claimed he could point to the exact spot since he had seen the glow of sea-fire on the water. They dragged the area time after time without bringing up anything but long strands of seaweed with mussels and other creatures attached. They carried on dragging the whole morning and by noon had still not had any success. The men were beginning to look tired and despondent. Some of them had gone ashore for a dram and a sandwich and to make coffee when Gusten finally said he thought they had done all that could be done and the coffin had probably been carried out into the deep by the currents.

The men felt a general sense of relief at being spared the embarrassment of appearing unsympathetic to the troubles of others: none of them was particularly keen to see the corpse float up and the whole business, strictly speaking, was of no personal concern to them.

In order to provide a conclusion of sorts in spite of the dismal failure of their efforts, Reverend Nordström went up to Flod and asked if he would like something done to observe his mother’s passing. The minister had the book with him and they could certainly come up with a hymn they all knew by heart. Gusten accepted the suggestion with gratitude and the men were told what was to be done.

The sun was coming to the end of its short journey and the skerries lay rose-red in its last light as the men gathered on the shore to take part in the unusual funeral service circumstances had forced on them. The minister, accompanied by Gusten, stepped down into a boat, went to the stern and took out his book. Holding his handkerchief between the fingers of his left hand, he bared his head and all the men on the shore followed suit and removed their caps.

‘Let us take Hymn 452, “I go to meet my death”. Do you know it by heart?’ the minister asked.

‘Yes!’ the men on the shore answered.

And so the sound of their singing rose, quivering from the cold at first but then trembling with the emotions stirred by the unusual ceremony and the moving tones of the old hymn that had accompanied so many to their final rest.

The last notes rang out, echoing and fading over the water, out through the cold air, out to the skerries. Then there was a pause during which the only sounds were the soughing of the north wind through the needles of the dwarf pines, the splashing of the waves on the rocks, the cries of the gulls and the bumping of the boats against the bottom. The minister turned his furrowed old face out towards the bay and the sun shone on his bald head, around which the wisps of grey hair fluttered like lichen hanging on an ancient spruce-tree.

‘“Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in the sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life, through Jesus Christ our Lord.” Let us pray,’ the minister began in his deep voice, which had to fight against the wind and the waves to be heard.

And so the burial service continued, ending with the Lord’s Prayer, and after the blessing the minister stretched his hand out over the waters in one last farewell.

The men put on their caps. Gusten pressed the minister’s hand and thanked him, but he still seemed to have something on his mind.

‘Minister, I wonder ... do you think we should perhaps have a few words for Carlsson, too?’

‘I was speaking for both of them, dear boy, but it was generous of you to think of him,’ the old man replied, seeming more moved by this than he might have wished.

The sun went down and it was time for them to part and try to get home as quickly as they could.

They wanted, however, to give Flod one last mark of respect so, once they had all exchanged farewells and were back in their boats, they accompanied him part of the way, their boats arrayed in line as when setting out the herring nets. Then they raised their oars in salutation and shouted goodbye.

It was a token of sorrow but also of the acceptance of the young man into the self-reliant ranks of the men of the islands.

And so, sitting at the helm of his own boat, the new master of Hemsö was rowed home by his men, to begin piloting his own vessel across the windy bays and through the green straits of this uncertain life.

© Peter Graves & Norvik Press, 2012

Erstes Kapitel

Carlssons Ehe war, obwohl noch kurz, nicht ganz das, was man glücklich zu nennen pflegt. Die Alte war bei Jahren, wenn auch nicht uralt, und Carlsson war im Begriff, in das gefährliche Alter einzutreten. Bis zu seinem jetzt angebrochenen vierzigsten Jahr hatte er meist für Brot und Fortkommen gerackert, und auf das Mädchen, das er haben wollte, hatte er verzichten müssen. Nun, wo er am Ziel war und einem ruhigen Alter entgegensehen konnte, begann das Fleisch zu pochen, und vielleicht stärker als sonst, da er im letzten Jahr nicht so schwer hatte arbeiten müssen, vielleicht aber auch, weil er es kräftiger genährt hatte, als es vertragen konnte. So begannen seine Gedanken zu spielen, wenn er in der Wärme der Küche saß, und seine Augen gewöhnten es sich an, Claras jungem Körper zu folgen, wenn sie in der Stube aus- und einging. Nach und nach verweilte der Blick, ließ sich nieder und ruhte aus, machte kleine Ausflüge nach hier und dort, flog davon, kam zurück. Schließlich saß das Mädchen da, in seinem Auge, und er sah sie, wohin er auch ging. Da war aber noch jemand, der ebenfalls sah, wiewohl nicht nach Clara, sondern nach den Augen, die ihr folgten, und je mehr sie hinsah, desto mehr glaubte sie zu sehen, und das schlug sich ihr wie ein Gerstenkorn aufs Auge, das schmerzte und tränte.

Es war ein paar Tage vor Heiligabend. Die Dunkelheit war hereingebrochen, aber der Mond war aufgegangen und leuchtete klar über verschneite Fichten, über die blanke Bucht und das weiße Land. Es blies ein scharfer Nordwind, der trockenen Schnee vor sich her fegte. Drinnen in der Küche aber stand Clara und heizte den Backofen, während Lotten am Teigtrog arbeitete.

Carlsson saß in der Ecke beim Schrank, rauchte Pfeife und schnurrte wie eine Katze in der Wärme; seine Augen waren auf Wanderschaft und erquickten und erwärmten sich, wenn sie auf Claras weißen Armen haltmachten, die aus dem Leinenzeug hervorschauten.

- Willst du erst melken, bevor wir auskehren? fragte Lotten.

- Ja, antwortete Clara und zog eine Schaffelljacke an, nachdem sie Feuerkralle und Wischer beiseite gelegt hatte.

Dann zündete sie die Stallaterne an und ging hinaus. Und als sie hinausging, stand Carlsson auf und ging ihr nach.

Nach einer Weile kam die Alte aus der Stube und fragte nach Carlsson.

- Er ist Clara in den Stall nachgegangen! antwortete Lotten.

Ohne nähere Auskünfte abzuwarten, nahm die Alte eine Laterne und ging ebenfalls hinaus.

Draußen blies ein scharfer Wind, doch sie wollte nicht umkehren und sich etwas überziehen, denn es war nur einen Steinwurf weit zu gehen. Glatt war es auf dem hügeligen Boden, und der Schnee wirbelte wie Mehlstaub auf, doch sie kam ziemlich schnell zum Stallgebäude und ging gleich in den Kuhstall, wo es warm war. Dort begann sie zu lauschen und hörte jemanden im Schafstall flüstern. Im schwachen Mondschein, der durch die Spinnweben und Heureste auf den Scheiben drang, sah sie, wie die Kühe die Köpfe nach ihr umdrehten und sie mit großen, im Dunkel grün leuchtenden Augen ansahen. Der Melkschemel stand da und auch der Eimer. Doch das war es nicht, was sie sehen wollte, es war etwas anderes, etwas, das sie um alles in der Welt nicht hätte sehen wollen; etwas, das sie anlockte wie eine Hinrichtung und das sie gleichzeitig zu Tode erschreckte.

Dann ging sie über die Streuhaufen durch den Stall und kam zu den Schafen. Dort war es dunkel und still; die Laterne stand erloschen da, die Kerze aber rauchte noch. Die Schafe knackten und raschelten mit dürren Laubbüscheln. Nein, das war es nicht, was sie sehen wollte. So ging sie weiter und kam zu den Hühnern, die auf die Stangen geflattert waren und vor sich hin gackerten, als seien sie eben geweckt worden.

Die Tür nach draußen stand offen, und sie kam wieder in den Mondschein hinaus. Zwei Paar Schuhe, ein kleineres und ein größeres, hatten Spuren im Schnee hinterlassen, und sie waren blau in den Schatten und führten zum Tor des Hags, das herausgehoben worden war. Sie ging ihnen nach, als werde sie von jemandem gezogen, und die Spuren auf der Erde waren wie eine Kette, an der sie festgemacht war und die nun von einem unsichtbaren Ort im Hag eingeholt wurde.

Und es zog und zog, zog sie in denselben Hag, an demselben Zauntritt, denselben Haselbüschen vorbei, wo sie schon einmal bei einer anderen, einer schrecklichen Gelegenheit eine Abendstunde erlebt hatte, an die sie nie wieder erinnert sein wollte. Jetzt waren die Haselbüsche nackt und trugen nur die neuen Blütenknospen wie kleine Kohlmaden, und die Eichen raschelten im Wind mit ihrem braunen, harten Laub, das so dünn war, daß man hindurchsehen und die Sterne und den grünschwarzen Himmel erkennen konnte.

Und mehr Kette, immer mehr Kette wurde ausgelegt; sie schlängelte sich unter den Fichten entlang, die ihren Schnee auf ihr graues, gelichtetes Haar abluden, wenn sie sie berührte, und er rieselte an ihrem gestreiften Wolleibchen herab, stäubte über Hals und Rücken und machte sie kalt und naß.

Immer tiefer ging es in den Wald, wo der Auerhahn von seinem Nachtlager aufflog und sie erschreckte, über sumpfigen Boden, wo die Grasbüschel nachgaben - und über Zäune hinweg, die krachten, wenn sie hinüberkletterte.

Paarweise liefen die Spuren weiter, das eine klein, das andere groß, Seite an Seite, zuweilen ineinander und umeinander, als hätten sie getanzt; über Stoppelfelder, von denen der Schnee weggeweht war, über Steingeröll und Gräben, Stöße von Zaunpfählen und Windbrüche hinweg.

Sie wußte nicht, wie lange sie so ging, doch sie fror am Kopf, ihre Hände waren steif vor Kälte, und sie steckte die mageren, roten Hände unter den Rock und blies hin und wieder hinein. Sie wollte umkehren, aber es war zu spät, denn zurück war es wohl ebensoweit, wie wenn sie geradeaus weiterging. Und so ging es vorwärts durch ein Espengehölz, dessen übriggebliebenes Laub zitterte und bebte, als friere es im Nordwind; und dann kam sie an einen Zauntritt. Der Mond schien klar und scharf, so daß sie deutlich sehen konnte, daß sie hier gesessen hatten. Sie erkannte den Abdruck von Claras Rock und der Jacke mit dem Schaffellbesatz. Hier also war es! Hier! Ihr zitterten die Knie, sie fror, als sei ihr Blut zu Eis erstarrt, glühte, als habe sie kochendes Wasser in den Adern. Und sie setzte sich erschöpft auf den Zauntritt, weinte, schrie, wurde dann plötzlich ruhiger, stand auf und stieg hinüber. Auf der anderen Seite lag die Bucht blank und schwarz, und genau gegenüber sah sie die Lichter im Haus und ein Licht oben beim Stall. Der Wind wehte scharf und ging ihr durch und durch, zerrte an den Haarsträhnen und vereiste ihr die Nasenlöcher; halb laufend kam sie auf das Eis hinunter, schlitterte auf die schwankende Fläche hinaus, hörte das dürre Schilf an den Ohren vorbeisausen, unter den Füßen knacken, und sie fiel über eine eingefrorene Boje; stand wieder auf und lief, als sei der Tod hinter ihr her und versenge ihr den Rücken, erreichte das Ufer, ging aber mitten durch das Eis, das sich bei fallendem Wasser wie Fensterscheiben auf den schlammigen Grund gelegt hatte und unter ihrem Gewicht klirrend und krachend zerbarst. Sie fühlte, wie die Kälte ihr die Beine hochstieg, doch sie wagte nicht zu rufen, weil niemand kommen und fragen sollte, wo sie gewesen sei. Hustend, als wolle ihr die Brust zerspringen, schleppte sie sich aus der Wune, schlich den Hügel hinauf, ging sofort ins Haus zu ihrem Bett, legte sich hin und bat Lotten, Feuer im Herd zu machen und einen Kessel Holundertee aufzusetzen; und dort blieb sie liegen.

Sie ließ sich die Kleider ausziehen, sich in Decken und Schaffelle einhüllen, ließ große Holzklötze aufs Feuer legen, fror aber nach wie vor. Dann ließ sie Gusten rufen, der draußen in der Küche saß.

- Bist du krank, Mutter? fragte er in gewohnter Ruhe.

- Jetzt bin ich soweit, antwortete die Alte keuchend, und ich komme nicht mehr durch. Mach die Tür zu und geh zum Sekretär. Der Schlüssel liegt hinter dem Pulverhorn auf dem Regal, du weißt schon!

Gusten war niedergeschlagen und gehorchte.

- Öffne die Klappe; zieh die dritte Schublade links auf und nimm den großen Umschlag heraus ... Ja, den ... Tu ihn ins Feuer.

Gusten gehorchte, und bald flammte es im Herd auf, schrumpfte ein und verkohlte.

- Mach die Tür zu und schließ die Kommode ab, mein Junge! Nimm den Schlüssel an dich! Nun setz dich her und hör mir zu, denn morgen kann ich nicht mehr sprechen.

Gusten setzte sich und weinte ein wenig, denn nun verstand er, daß es Ernst war.

- Wenn ich die Augen zugemacht habe, nimmst du das Siegel deines Vaters, du hast es ja selbst, und dann versiegelst du alle Schlüssellöcher, bis die Herren vom Gericht kommen.

- Und Carlsson? fragte der Sohn zögernd.

- Der bleibt auf dem Altenteil; das wird ihm wohl niemand nehmen können; aber mehr kriegt er nicht; und wenn du ihn auslösen kannst, dann tu es! Gott sei mit dir, Gusten; du hättest zwar zur Hochzeit kommen können, aber du wirst wohl deine Gründe gehabt haben. Und nun, verstehst du, wenn ich fortgehe, mußt du vernünftig sein. Keinen Sarg mit Silberbeschlägen; nimm einfach so einen gelben gebeizten, wie sie sie in Slussplan haben; und keine vielen Menschen; aber die Glocken möcht' ich haben, und wenn der Pastor ein paar Worte sagen will, dann soll er das tun, und du kannst ihm dafür den Meerschaumkopf deines Vaters mit dem Silber geben und ein halbes Schaf für die Frau; und dann, Gusten, sollst du dich umsehen und dich verheiraten; nimm ein Mädchen, das dir gefällt, und halt zu ihr; aber nimm eine von deiner Sorte, und wenn sie Geld hat, dann schadet es auch nichts; aber .nimm keine, die unter dir steht; die fressen dich nur wie die Läuse; und gleich und gleich gesellt sich gern. Wenn du mir nun ein bißchen vorliest, will ich versuchen zu schlafen.

Die Tür öffnete sich, und Carlsson schlüpfte herein, etwas weich, aber zuversichtlich.

- Bist du krank, Anna Eva? fragte er kurz, dann wollen wir nach dem Doktor schicken.

- Das tut nicht nötig, war alles, was die Alte antwortete.
Carlsson ahnte den Zusammenhang und wollte wieder gut sein.

- Bist du böse auf mich, Anna Eva? Ach was, es lohnt doch nicht, wegen nichts und wieder nichts böse zu sein! Willst du, daß ich dir aus der Bibel vorlese?

- Das tut nicht nötig, antwortete die Alte und drehte sich zur Wand.

Carlsson, der merkte, daß hier nichts mehr zu tun war, und der von vergeblicher Mühe nichts hielt, nahm die Sache, wie sie war, und setzte sich auf die Sofabank, um zu warten. Da das Geschäftliche geregelt war und die Alte keine Lust oder Kraft hatte, sich zu äußern, gab es nichts hinzuzufügen; und was Gusten und ihn betraf, so würde sich das schon regeln. Einen Arzt zu holen, daran dachte niemand, denn die Leute waren hier gewohnt, allein zu sterben, und im übrigen war jede Verbindung mit dem Land unterbrochen.

Zwei Tage und Nächte bewachten sie die Kammer und einander, und wenn der eine auf einem Stuhl oder dem Sofa einschlief, dann gönnte sich der andere ein Nickerchen auf einem Auge. Doch sobald sich einer bewegte, zuckte der andere hoch.

Am Morgen des Heiligen Abend war Madam Carlsson tot.

Für Gusten war es, als sei die Nabelschnur erst jetzt zerschnitten; als sei er erst jetzt vom Mutterleib getrennt worden und ein selbständiger Mann geworden. Nachdem er der Alten die Augen zugedrückt und ihr das Gesangbuch unters Kinn geschoben hatte, damit der Mund nicht herabfiel, zündete er in Carlssons Anwesenheit eine Kerze an, zog Petschaft und Lack hervor und versiegelte den Sekretär.

Die unterdrückten Leidenschaften erwachten; Carlsson trat hinzu und stellte sich mit dem Rücken vor den Sekretär.

- He, was machst du da, Junge? meinte er.

- Ich bin jetzt nicht mehr Junge, antwortete Gusten, ich bin Bauer auf Hemsö, und du bist Altsitzer.

- Tja, dazu gehören zwei! meinte Carlsson.

Gusten nahm eine Flinte von der Wand, spannte den Hahn, so daß das Zündhütchen zu sehen war, trommelte auf den Kolben und brüllte zum ersten Mal in seinem Leben:

- Raus! Sonst brenn' ich dir eins über!

- Drohst du?

- Ja, wenn's keine Zeugen gibt! antwortete Gusten, der in der letzten Zeit Umgang mit Rechtsgelehrten gehabt zu haben schien.

Das war deutlich, und das verstand Carlsson.

- Wart nur, bis es zur Teilung kommt! sagte er und ging in die Küche hinaus.

Der Heiligabend war düster in diesem Jahr. Eine Leiche im Haus und keine Möglichkeit, nach Sarg oder Leichentuch zu schicken; denn der Schnee fiel unaufhörlich, so daß Ströme und Buchten weder trugen noch brachen; ein Boot zu Wasser zu lassen war unmöglich, denn die See war ein einziger Eismatsch, über den man weder rudern noch fahren noch gehen konnte.

Carlsson und Flod, wie Gusten sich nun nennen ließ, gingen sich aus dem Weg und wechselten, wenn sie zusammen zu Tisch saßen, kein Wort. Das Haus war in Unordnung; niemand setzte die Arbeit in Gang, und jeder verließ sich auf den anderen, so daß das meiste ungetan blieb.

Der Weihnachtstag kam, grau, neblig, mit neuem Schnee. Zur Kirche war ebenso unmöglich zu kommen wie sonstwohin; und deshalb las Carlsson eine Predigt in der Küche. Man fühlte, daß man eine Leiche im Haus hatte, und Weihnachtsfreude kam nicht auf. Das Essen war schlampig gemacht, nichts war rechtzeitig fertig, und alle waren unzufrieden. Etwas Dumpfes lag draußen und drinnen in der Luft, und da die Alte in der Stube aufgebahrt lag, hielten sich alle in der Küche auf. So war es wie bei einer Einquartierung, und wenn man nicht aß oder trank, dann schlief man, einer auf einer Bank, einer auf einem Bett; ein Kartenspiel oder die Ziehharmonika hervorzuholen, fiel niemandem ein.

Der zweite Feiertag kam und ging ebenso dumpf, ebenso öde; nun aber verlor Flod die Geduld. In der Einsicht, daß weiteres Zögern noch größere Unannehmlichkeiten herbeiführen würde, nachdem die Leiche begonnen hatte, sich zu verändern, nahm er Rundqvist mit in die Werkstatt, um einen Sarg zu zimmern, der anschließend gelb angestrichen wurde; und als Leichentuch für die Tote mußte herhalten, was sich gerade im Hause fand. Und damit war der fünfte Weihnachtstag gekommen. Da das Wetter keine Anzeichen zur Besserung erkennen ließ und die Aussicht bestand, daß man vierzehn Tage lang warten mußte, mußte man um jeden Preis versuchen, die Leiche zur Kirche zu schaffen, damit sie unter die Erde kam. Zu diesem Zweck wurde das große Fischerboot ins Wasser geschoben, und alle Mannsleute rüsteten sich zu einer Eisfahrt mit Schlitten, Eispickeln, Äxten und Tauen. Und früh am sechsten Tag traten sie die lebensgefährliche Fahrt an. Hier und da war eine Stromrinne offen, und dann ruderte man; dann wieder kam man an eine zugefrorene Bucht; da galt es, das Boot auf die Schlitten zu setzen, und wenn das glücklich geschafft war, hieß es anpacken und ziehen; am schlimmsten war es im Eismatsch, in dem die Ruder nur auf und ab platschten, ohne daß das Boot mehr als ein paar Zoll auf einmal vorwärtsgekommen wäre; manchmal zogen sie es vor, vorauszugehen und mit Eispickeln und Äxten eine Rinne zu schlagen, doch wehe dem, der dabei einen Fehlschlag tat und neben die Rinne geriet, wo sich eine Strömung durch die dünne Kruste gefressen hatte.

Es war Nachmittag geworden, ohne daß sie sich Zeit zum Essen und Trinken genommen hätten, und die letzte Bucht war noch zu durchqueren. So weit sie sehen konnten, erstreckte sich ein einziges großes Schneefeld, hier und da mit kleinen, runden Erhebungen, den eingeschneiten Kobben; der Himmel war im Osten bläulich schwarz und verhieß Schnee; die Krähen kamen von draußen hereingeflattert und zogen landeinwärts, um sich ein Nachtquartier zu suchen; das Eis dröhnte zuweilen, als solle es Tauwetter geben, und draußen auf See hörte man die Seehunde heulen. Die Bucht war im Osten zum Meer hin offen, doch es war keine Meereswake zu sehen. Verdächtig schien jedoch, daß sie die Eisente am offenen Meer zu hören meinten, da sie aber vierzehn Tage lang von Land nichts gehört hatten, wußten sie nicht, ob die Leuchtfeuer gelöscht waren» was sie in der Zeit zwischen Weihnachten und Neujahr jedoch für selbstverständlich hielten.

- So geht das auf keinen Fall weiter! bemerkte Carlsson, der sich meist still verhalten hatte.

Es muß gehen! sagte Flod und stemmte sich mit der Schulter gegen den Schlitten, aber auf Måskläppan wollen wir an Land gehen und eine Kleinigkeit essen.

Und so steuerten sie auf die Kobbe zu, die mitten in der Bucht lag.

Sie war allerdings weiter entfernt, als sie gedacht hatten, und veränderte ihr Aussehen, je näher sie kamen, schließlich aber waren sie auf eine Kabellänge herangekommen.

- Wune voraus! schrie Norman, der Ausguck hatte, nach links halten!

Die Schlitten bogen nach links, dann noch weiter nach links, und schließlich war man um die Kobbe herumgegangen. Sie hatte sich durch die letzte Sonnenwärme oder durch warme Grundströmungen rings herum selbst vom Eis befreit und schien von keiner Seite her erreichbar zu sein, jedenfalls nicht mit den Schlitten. Die Dämmerung brach herein, guter Rat war teuer, und Flod, der den Oberbefehl über das Manöver übernommen hatte, entwarf schnell den Angriffsplan, daß das Boot mit gestrichenen Rudern in die Wune geschoben werden sollte, und im selben Moment sollten alle Mann hineinspringen und die Ruder ausbringen. Und wie gesagt, so getan.

- Eins, zwei, drei! kommandierte Flod; das Boot nahm Fahrt auf, rutschte nach vorn über den Schlitten, kam ins Kippen und der Sarg kam unter Wasser.

In ihrem Schrecken vergessen Flod und Carlsson, die am Heck gestanden haben, ins Boot zu springen, und blieben auf der Kante des Eises stehen, während Norman und Rundqvist sich retten konnten. Der Sarg war schlecht genagelt, füllte sich mit Wasser und versank, bevor irgend jemand wieder so viel Fassung hatte, um an etwas anderes als sich selbst zu denken.

- Nun müssen wir sofort zum Pfarrhof gehen! befahl Flod, der heute mehr Tatkraft als Überlegung besaß.

Carlsson hatte Einwände, doch auf Gustens Frage, ob er es für besser halte, die ganze Nacht auf dem Eis stehen zu bleiben, wußte er nichts zu erwidern, sondern sah ein, daß keine Hoffnung mehr bestand, die Kobbe zu erreichen.

Rundqvist und Norman krochen unterdessen an Land, schrien und riefen den Kameraden zu, sie sollten nachkommen, doch Flod winkte ihnen zur Antwort nur ein Adieu zu und zeigte südwärts in die Bucht, wo der Pfarrhof lag.

Carlsson und Flod wanderten lange Zeit schweigend drauflos; Gusten mit dem Eispickel voran, um zu prüfen, ob es trug; Carlsson mit hochgeschlagenem Rockkragen hinterdrein, voll banger Gefühle nach dem plötzlichen und jämmerlichen Ende seiner Frau, das man sicher ihm in die Schuhe schieben würde.

Als sie eine halbe Stunde gegangen waren, blieb Gusten stehen, um zu verschnaufen; dann schaute er nach Schären und Stranden aus, um zu sehen, wo er sich befand.

- Zum Teufel, wir sind tatsächlich falsch gegangen, brummte er; das war nicht Måskläppan, denn das liegt dort; - und er zeigte nach Osten. Und da haben wir die Kiefer von Gillöga.

Er zeigte landeinwärts auf eine langgestreckte Insel mit einer Kiefer, die allein auf einem abgeholzten Hügel stehengeblieben war und die, mit ihren beiden übriggebliebenen Ästen einem optischen Telegrafen ähnlich, als ein bekanntes Seezeichen oder als Landmarke diente.

- Und da haben wir Trälskär.

Er sprach mit sich selbst und schüttelte den Kopf.

Carlsson bekam Angst, denn er kannte sich in den Schären nicht aus und hatte zu Gustens Kenntnissen unbegrenztes Vertrauen gehabt. Flod schien inzwischen sein Besteck genommen zu haben, änderte den Kurs und setzte sich wieder in Bewegung, nun in südlicherer Richtung.

Inzwischen war die Dämmerung hereingebrochen, doch der Schnee leuchtete noch ein wenig, so daß sie die Landmarke nicht aus den Augen verloren; sie sprachen kein Wort, Carlsson aber blieb seinem Führer dicht auf den Fersen.

Plötzlich blieb dieser stehen und lauschte. Carlssons ungeübtes Ohr hörte nichts, Gusten aber meinte, ein schwaches Dröhnen im Osten aufgeschnappt zu haben, wo eine Wolkenwand, dichter und schwärzer als der Dunstschleier, der den Horizont einhüllte, aufgezogen war.

Sie standen eine Weile still, bis Carlsson ein sachtes Brausen und Klopfen hören konnte, das sich näherte.

- Was ist das? fragte er und rückte Gusten auf den Leib.

- Das ist die See! antwortete der. In einer halben Stunde ist der Ostwind mit Schneegestöber da, und wenn es ganz schlimm kommt, bricht das Eis auf. Weiß der Teufel, was dann aus uns wird. Nur schnell jetzt!

Er fiel in Laufschritt, und Carlsson hinterher; der Schnee wirbelte um ihre Füße, und das Dröhnen schien ihnen zu folgen.

- Jetzt ist es aus mit uns! schrie Gusten und blieb stehen, indem er auf ein Licht zeigte, das im Südosten hinter einer Schäre aufleuchtete. Das Leuchtfeuer brennt, die See ist offen!

Carlsson verstand die Gefahr nicht, doch er begriff, daß etwas nicht stimmen konnte, wenn Gusten Angst hatte.

Nun hatte der Ostwind sie erreicht, so daß sie einen Steinwurf entfernt die Schneewand sehen konnten, die wie ein dunkler Schirm auf sie zu rückte, und gleich darauf waren sie von Schnee umgeben, der dicht, sehr dicht fiel und schwarz war wie Ruß. Es wurde stockdunkel um sie, und das Licht des Feuers, das ihnen noch einen Augenblick bleich und verschwommen wie eine Nebensonne den Weg gewiesen hatte, erlosch schließlich.

Gusten lief in scharfem Trab weiter, und Carlsson folgte, so gut es ging; aber er war dick geworden und konnte nicht Schritt halten, kam außer Atem und bat Gusten, langsamer zu gehen, der aber hatte keine Lust, sich zu opfern, sondern lief, lief um sein Leben. Carlsson packte ihn am Rockzipfel, bettelte und bat, er solle ihm nicht weglaufen, versprach ihm Gold und grüne Wälder, beschwor ihn bei Gott und dem Teufel, doch es half nichts.

- Jeder für sich und Gott mit uns allen! antwortete Gusten und bat Carlsson, ein paar Schritte hinter ihm zu bleiben, sonst werde das Eis brechen.

Das schien es auch zu tun, denn hinter ihnen krachte es mehr und mehr, und was schlimmer war, das Brausen näherte sich jetzt so deutlich, daß man die Wellen gegen Schären und Eiskante schlagen hörte, und die aus dem Schlaf geweckten Möwen schrien nach unerwarteter Beute.

Carlsson keuchte und schnaufte, der Abstand zu Gusten wurde größer, und schließlich sah er sich allein durch die Dunkelheit laufen. Er blieb plötzlich stehen, suchte nach Spuren, sah keine; rief, bekam aber keine Antwort. Es waren die Einsamkeit, das Dunkel, die Kälte, das Wasser, die mit dem Tod kamen.

Von der Angst aufgescheucht, rannte er noch einmal los, lief so schnell, daß er sah, wie die Schneeflocken nach hinten gingen, obwohl sie dieselbe Richtung hatten wie er, und dann rief er noch einmal.

- Lauf mit dem Wind, dann kommst du im Westen an Land! ertönte eine fliehende Stimme aus dem Dunkel, und dann wurde es wieder still.

Jetzt aber hatte Carlsson nicht mehr die Kraft zu laufen, sondern fiel mutlos in eine langsamere Gangart, ging Schritt für Schritt, ohne sich zu Widerstand aufraffen zu können, während er hinter sich die See kommen hörte, dröhnend, schnaubend, seufzend, als sei sie eigens auf nächtlichen Raubzug ausgezogen.

*

Pastor Norström war um acht Uhr abends zu Bett gegangen und hatte die Stiftszeitung gelesen, woraufhin er sehr tief eingeschlafen war. Gegen elf aber fühlte er den Ellbogen seiner Frau in der Seite und hörte sie rufen.

- Erik! Erik! hörte er im Schlaf.

- Was ist denn, was regst du dich auf? knurrte er im Halbschlaf.

- Aufregen! Als ob ich mich aufrege!

Der Pastor, der langwierige Erklärungen befürchtete, beeilte sich zu beteuern, er sei überzeugt, daß sie sich nicht aufrege, riß ein Streichholz an und fragte, was los sei.

- Da ist jemand im Garten und ruft! Hörst du nicht!

Der Pastor lauschte und setzte die Brille auf, um besser hören zu können.

- Ja, meiner Treu, wahrhaftig! Wer ... kann das sein?

- Geh doch und sieh nach! antwortete die Frau und gab dem Alten noch einen Stoß.

Der Pastor zog sich Unterhosen und Pelz über, schob die Füße in die Galoschen, nahm die Flinte von der Wand und setzte ein Zündhütchen auf; schüttelte Zündpulver hinein und ging hinaus.

- He, wer da! rief er.

- Flod! antwortete eine dumpfe Stimme hinter der Fliederhecke.

- Was zum Teufel ist los, daß du um diese Zeit herkommst! Liegt die Alte in den letzten Zügen?

- Viel schlimmer! erklang Gustens mitgenommene Stimme. Wir haben sie verloren!

- Ihr habt sie verloren?

- Ja, wir haben sie auf See verloren!

- Ja, du lieber Himmel, so komm doch rein und steh nicht hierin der Kälte!

Im Schein des Lichts sah Gusten aus wie ein ausgeblasenes Ei, nachdem er den ganzen Tag weder gegessen noch getrunken und obendrein noch seine liebe Mühe gehabt hatte, mit dem Ostwind um die Wette zu laufen. Nachdem der Pastor in einem Atemzug über die Ereignisse unterrichtet worden war, ging er zu seiner Alten hinein, und nach einem kleinen Sturm von ein paar Minuten Dauer bekam er den Schlüssel zu einem gewissen Schrank draußen in der Küche, in die er seinen schiffbrüchigen Gast führte. Und bald saß Gusten an dem großen Küchentisch, während der Pastor Branntwein, Schmalz, Sülzwurst und Brot hervorholte und es dem Ausgehungerten auftischte.

Dann wurde beratschlagt, wie den Gestrandeten zu helfen sei. In die Nacht hinauszugehen und im Dunkel Leute zusammenzuholen, war verlorene Mühe; am Strand Feuer zu machen, war gefährlich, weil dadurch Schiffe in die Irre geführt werden konnten, falls der Schein den Nebel überhaupt durchdringen konnte.

Mit den Knechten auf der Schäre, meinte man, habe es keine Not, für Carlsson aber sah es schlechter aus. Gusten glaubte nämlich zu wissen, daß die Bucht aufgebrochen war und daß es mit Carlsson nun wohl aus sei, und »es sieht so aus«, meinte er, »daß er den Lohn für seine Taten bekommen hat.«

- Hör mal, Gusten, wandte Pastor Norström ein, ich finde, ihr seid ungerecht gegen Carlsson gewesen, und ich weiß nicht, was du mit seinen Taten meinst. Wie sah der Hof aus, als er anfing? Hat er das Anwesen nicht für dich hochgebracht? Hat er dir nicht Sommergäste verschafft und ein neues Haus gebaut? Und daß er die Witwe geheiratet hat, na ja, sie wollte ihn ja; und daß er sie gebeten hat, ein Testament zu machen, nun ja, es war ja nichts Böses an dem Versuch, aber daß sie es getan hat, war wohl nicht sehr überlegt. Carlsson war ein flinker Kerl, und er hat alles getan, was du hättest tun wollen, aber nicht konntest! Oder? - Willst du etwa nicht, daß ich für dich um die Witwe in Åvassa mit ihren achttausend Reichstalern freie? Nein, hör zu, Gusten, du mußt nicht streng sein, und sieh mal: man kann die Menschen von anderen Gesichtspunkten aus betrachten als von deinem!

- Ja, ja, aber Mutter hat er auf jeden Fall umgebracht, und das werde ich nicht so schnell vergessen.

- Ach, Unsinn, das hast du vergessen, wenn du mit deiner Frau ins Bett gekrochen bist, und ob Carlsson sie wirklich umgebracht hat, ist ziemlich unsicher. Wenn sich die Alte zum Beispiel etwas angezogen hätte, bevor sie am Abend nach draußen lief, dann hätte sie sich nicht erkältet. Und das wird sie sich wohl nicht so zu Herzen genommen haben, daß er, jung wie er war, mit dem Mädchen geschäkert hat. Nun scheint das Spiel allerdings aus zu sein, und wir müssen morgen früh sehen, was wir tun können. Es ist Sonntag, und die Leute kommen sowieso zur Kirche, da brauchen wir sie nicht extra zusammenzuholen! Geh jetzt zu Bett und reg dich nicht auf, und denk daran, des einen Tod ist des ändern Brot.

*

Am nächsten Morgen, als die Kirchgänger auf dem Hof standen, kam Pastor Norström in Begleitung Flods angeschritten. Anstatt in die Kirche zu gehen, blieb er in der Menge stehen, die über das Geschehene schon unterrichtet zu sein schien. Und nachdem er verkündet hatte, daß der Gottesdienst ausfiel, forderte er alle Männer auf, sich so schnell wie möglich mit ihren Booten unten bei der Pfarrhofbrücke zu versammeln, um auszufahren und die Leute aus der Not zu retten. Es gab jedoch ein gewisses Murren im Hintergrund unter ein paar Leuten, mit denen sich der Fremde in der Gemeindeversammlung verfeindet hatte und die nun vorgaben, daß sie auf das Gotteswort nicht verzichten wollten.

- Ach, Quatsch, erwiderte der Pastor, so versessen seid ihr nicht darauf, mein Gewäsch anzuhören, wenn ich euch richtig kenne. Oder? Was meinst du, du da von Åvassa, du bist doch so schriftgelehrt, daß du hören kannst, wenn mein Seifenfäßchen alle ist.

Ein leises Gelächter ging durch die Menge, und die Bedenken waren nur noch halb so groß.

- Wir haben übrigens in acht Tagen wieder Sonntag, dann kommt her, und ihr werdet sehen, wie ich euch den Text lese, und bringt eure Alten mit, ich verspreche, ich geb ihnen eine Abreibung für ein halbes Quartal. Sind wir uns nun einig, daß wir den Esel aus dem Brunnen ziehen?

- Jaa! murmelte die Menge, als habe man Vergebung für den entweihten Feiertag erhalten.

Und dann zerstreute man sich, um heimzugehen und sich umzuziehen und auf See zu gehen.

Das Schneegestöber hatte aufgehört, der Wind hatte nach Norden gedreht, und es herrschte kaltes, klares Wetter. Die Bucht war offen und brandete blauschwarz um die blendend weißen Kobben, als etwa zehn Fischerboote von der Pfarrhofbrücke ablegten. Die Männer waren in Pelzmänteln und Mützen aus Seehundsfell gekommen und hatten Äxte und Draggen mitgebracht. An Segeln war nicht zu denken, und man hatte die Ruder bemannt. Der Pastor saß mit Gusten im ersten Boot, das von vier der stärksten Schärenbauern gerudert wurde, Bootsmann Rapp war als Ausguck und Eishauer dabei.

Man war ernst, doch nicht übertrieben traurig; mit einem Menschenleben mehr oder weniger pflegte die See es nicht so genau zu nehmen.

Die See ging ziemlich hoch, und das überkommende Wasser gefror sofort, mußte aufgeschlagen und über Bord geworfen werden. Hin und wieder kam eine Eisscholle angetrieben, scheuerte am Boot entlang, tauchte unter und kam wieder hoch; zuweilen mit eingefrorenem Schilfrohr, Laub und Holzstückchen, die von den Ufern losgerissen waren.

Der Pastor saß mit seinem Fernrohr da und hielt Ausschau nach Trälskär, wo die Knechte von Hemsö gefangen waren, bald einen hoffnungslosen Blick auf die Bucht werfend, wo Carlsson wahrscheinlich ertrunken war, bald auf den treibenden Eisschollen nach einer Spur suchend, der Spur eines Fußes, eines Kleidungsstücks oder der Leiche selbst. Aber vergebens.

Nach ein paar Stunden Rudern näherte man sich der Schäre. Rundqvist und Norman hatten die Rettungsflottille von weitem entdeckt und am Strand Freudenfeuer entzündet. Und als die Boote anlegten, zeigten sie mehr Neugier als Rührung, denn in Lebensgefahr waren sie nie gewesen.

- Nicht, solange man noch Land unter den Füßen hat! meinte Rundqvist.

Da der Tag kurz war, ging man sofort daran, das Boot zu bergen, und begann gleich anschließend, mit den Draggen nach dem Sarg zu suchen.

Rundqvist konnte genau auf die Stelle zeigen, wo er lag, denn er hatte auf dem Wasser ein Meeresleuchten gesehen. Wieder und wieder warf man die Draggen aus, ohne aber etwas anderes als lange Tangbüschel mit Muscheln und anderem Tierzeug heraufzuziehen; man arbeitete den ganzen Vormittag mit den Draggen, jedoch ohne Erfolg. Die Leute sahen allmählich müde und verdrossen aus. Einige waren an Land gegangen, um einen Schnaps zu trinken und ein Stück Brot zu essen oder Kaffee zu kochen, als Gusten schließlich erklärte, man könne seiner Meinung nach nichts mehr tun, da der Strom den Sarg wahrscheinlich mit sich ins tiefe Wasser genommen hatte.

Da niemandem weiter daran gelegen war, die Leiche an die Oberfläche kommen zu sehen, und die Sache strenggenommen auch keinen persönlich etwas anging, empfand man eine gewisse Erleichterung, daß man nun von dem Unbehagen befreit war, sich den Sorgen anderer gegenüber gefühllos zeigen zu müssen.

Um nun aber einem jämmerlichen Ende einen einigermaßen runden Schluß zu geben, ging Pastor Norström zu Flod und fragte ihn, ob er wünsche, daß sie etwas für die Alte täten. Die Bibel hatte der Pastor bei sich, und ein Lied würden sie schon auswendig wissen. Gusten nahm voller Dankbarkeit den Vorschlag an, der der Versammlung mitgeteilt wurde.

Die Sonne war im Begriff, ihre kurze Bahn zu beschließen, und die Kobben lagen im letzten Licht rosenrot da, als sich die Leute am Strand sammelten, um dieser den Umständen angepaßten Beerdigung beizuwohnen. Der Pastor stieg in ein Boot, gefolgt von Gusten; begab sich an den Achtersteven, holte seine Bibel heraus, nahm das Taschentuch zwischen die Finger der linken Hand und entblößte das Haupt, während die Männer am Strand die Mützen vom Kopf zogen.

- Wollen wir Nummer 452 nehmen, Dem Tod geh' ich entgegen - könnt ihr das auswendig? fragte der Pastor.

• - Jaa! wurde vom Strand her geantwortet.

Und dann stieg der Gesang auf, zuerst vor Kälte zitternd, dann vor Rührung über das Ungewöhnliche der Zeremonie und die ergreifenden Töne des alten Lieds, das schon so viele zur letzten Ruhe begleitet hatte.

Die letzten Töne klangen aus und hallten über dem Wasser, an den Schären, in der kalten Luft wider, und es entstand eine Pause, in der man nur das Brausen des Nordwinds in den Nadeln der Krüppelkiefern, das Plätschern der Wellen an den Felsen, das Geschrei der Möwen und das Scharren der Boote auf dem Grund hörte. Der Pastor wandte sein altes, zerfurchtes Gesicht zur Bucht hinaus, und die Sonne leuchtete ihm auf das kahle Haupt, um das die grauen Haarsträhnen wehten wie Hängeflechten an einer alten Tanne.

- Von Erde bist du genommen, zu Erde sollst du werden, bis unser Heiland Jesus Christus dich erwecken wird am Jüngsten Tag! - Lasset uns beten! begann er mit seiner tiefen Stimme, die gegen Wind und Wellen kämpfte, um gehört zu werden.

Und so ging die Beerdigung vonstatten, bis zum Vaterunser, und nach dem Segen streckte er seine Hand über das Wasser zu einem letzten Lebewohl.

Die Mützen wurden wieder aufgesetzt, Gusten drückte dem Pastor die Hand und dankte ihm, schien aber noch etwas auf dem Herzen zu haben.

- Hör mal, Pastor, ich finde doch, daß ... sollte nicht auch Carlsson ein kleines Wort bekommen?

- Das war für zwei, mein Junge! Aber es ist doch schön von dir, daß du an ihn denkst, antwortete der Alte, der gerührter zu sein schien, als er wollte.

Die Sonne ging unter, und es galt nur noch Abschied zu nehmen und so schnell wie möglich nach Hause zu kommen.

Aber man wollte Flod doch noch eine letzte Aufmerksamkeit erweisen, und nachdem sich alle verabschiedet hatten und an Bord gegangen waren, begleitete man ihn ein Stück Weges, brachte die Boote wie beim Netzesetzen in eine Linie, grüßte mit den Rudern und rief adieu!

Es war eine Huldigung an die Trauer, doch auch an den jungen Mann, der nun in die Reihe der verantwortlichen Männer aufgenommen war.

Und in seinem eigenen Boot am Ruder sitzend, ließ sich der neue Herr von Hemsö von seinen Knechten heimwärts rudern, um sein eigenes Schiff über die stürmischen Buchten und grünen Sunde des launischen Lebens zu steuern.

© Wolfgang Butt, 1991