Vilhelm Moberg - The Settlers

In the afternoon the skies grew overcast; with the sun hidden the air cooled off, and toward evening it began to rain. Soft drops wet his skin, they fell more heavily, and at last drove away the mosquito wreath around his head, and its monotonous song died away. It was a relief to be rid of this crown of bloodthirsty insects.

With dusk the rain increased. The drops no longer caressed his skin, they were sharp, whip-like. Wet grass and leaves soaked his skin, his pants clung to his legs, water splashed in his boots. For a while he looked for shelter. Then he crept into a thicket of mountain ash. He tore leaves from the lush foliage and spread them on the ground. He would make a bed; he covered himself with a branch and stretched out on the leaves. He lay hidden by the foliage, and the thicket was hidden by darkness.

Night fell with urgency over the forest. Here there were animals, and his good ear registered the night sounds of living creatures, sneaking, creeping, hissing, wings fluttering. A few times he heard persistent calls, perhaps Indians, perhaps birds. But his left ear heard only the usual sound, accompanied by pain.

He picked up a few wet leaves and tried to press them into his ear. They felt soft and cool, seemed to relieve the ache for a moment. He went to sleep but woke up immediately. His pursuer had awakened him. He pushed fresh leaves into his ear. Then he went to sleep again.

His night in the thicket passed in a continuous sleeping and wakening, and during both he heard his pursuer’s voice: I’m with you wherever you go! I’m inside your head and you can’t get away from me! You can run away from other masters but not from me!

At daybreak a clear summer morning dawned over the wild forest. The clouds opened their portals for heaven’s sun, which shone into even the densest thickets. He rose from his bed of leaves, a few of them revealed red spots where his head had been against them. He was struck by the old saying that leaves spotted red when a bird coughed. When he tried to move, he felt as if he had heavy weights on his limbs. He trembled and shuddered; this warm morning he felt cold inside.

He walked on, slower now, his steps unsteady, unsure. The oppressive heat returned, and the swarm of mosquitoes with it. Again he became a king with a mosquito crown; but the bloodsucking creatures ruled over him.

He felt thirsty and began to look for water. His stomach was empty but he felt no hunger.

His ear hummed and throbbed and drove him on. He must get away, he must flee to some place where he would be unreachable. Only the unreachable one could enjoy peace and rest. He did not recognize this part of the forest, did not know what time of day it was. In his pocket he carried Arvid’s watch, but it had stopped three years ago and had not been wound since.

Snails in great numbers had come out after last nights rain, enlivening the ground with their beautiful houses — blue, yellow, red, and brown — striped in all colors. But the rain had already been sucked up by the earth, the holes and creeks were empty. He must quench his thirst, he kept looking. In a clearing he found some wild strawberries and picked and ate them. They tasted to him of summer at home in Sweden, when children removed their stockings and shoes and ran barefoot, but they did not relieve his thirst.

Suddenly he realized where he was; above him rose the green brow of the Indian, the sand-cliff king, crowned with a stunted growth of greenery. The dethroned ruler of the forest looked out over his lost kingdom. His face was petrified in sorrow, his eyes so deep they appeared bottomless. But proudly the Indian turned his brown-yellow forehead to the east and called to the intruders who swarmed over the valley like bloodthirsty beasts: Fill this deep valley with gold! We do not accept your gold for the graves of our fathers!

Gold! A great mocking laughter filled his ear, it echoed through the forest, it echoed through the whole world. A farm hand had started out for California to dig gold. He peeled potatoes, dug cellar-holes, cut wood, fed mules, washed dishes. And in between he dreamed a dream that had nothing to do with the yellow gold, and that was the true dream, the dream of running water. But now he was confused by words he recollected, scenes he had witnessed, songs he had partly heard: Oh the good time has come at last — the best time in California is over — they’re digging like hell for gold — Corn and pudding and tapioca pie — Hi and ho and off we go! — and a heart torn from a carcass of ribs, and a decaying horse-leg kicking futilely against the heavens with a silvery shoe. .

For some time he followed a winding deer path, until he came to a bog with a narrow water hole in the center. But this was stagnant water and he dared not drink it. In that hole lay fevers and ills and the poison of lurking death. One careless swallow of that water, and death would enter his body. Stagnant waters spoiled quickly and no one could trust them.

Drinking water must be running water. The dream-water must be in motion, pouring forth, purling and swirling in freedom; it must flow free as the river that ran to the sea.

We will be free, we will be free,

As the wind of the earth and the waves of the sea.

He walked around the bog without attempting to drink, his feet sinking deep in the mud. He left clear tracks behind him. Indians never left any tracks when they passed through the forest. An Indian’s foot moved lightly and quickly as a wing above the earth. Now he was back at the place where his boot tracks indicated he had been earlier.

He thought now and then that he had run away again. As soon as no one was looking he ran away to the woods and hid. This he had done ever since he was a small child. But this time no one had hung a bell around his neck. This time no one would find him. He would remain unreachable.

He saw a great body of water shining blue among the pines: he was back at Ki-Chi-Saga. Many people had lately come to this lake, cutting the trees, timbering their houses. But in this particular spot the shoreline still lay wild and untouched as far as he could see. He walked slowly along the shore, looked down into the water which clearly reflected the skies above him. He could see the reeds growing upside down, stretching their heads toward an open sky which undulated at the bottom. He could see two skies, two heavens, the one above him and the one below in the water, and between them lay the earth on which he himself wandered about, lost.

Striking fins made circling ripples among the boulders; near the shore the lake bubbled with fish. If he had a fishing pole he would immediately have a bite. And if he could make a fire and if he had a pan. . For a moment he thought about the taste of good, fried fish; but he felt no real hunger.

On a flat stone in the sand lay a fish, washed up by the waves; it had a big head with two horns, a long narrow tail. Its whiskers told him it was a catfish. But its skin was white, perhaps it had been lying here dead, in loneliness, drying for a long time in the sun. He picked up the fish by the gills and held it to his nose; it smelled disgusting, making him want to vomit. It had already spoiled. With a jerk he threw the fish away, far out into the lake.

His feeling of hunger entirely disappeared as soon as he smelled the fish. But his burning thirst remained. His tongue felt dry and thick and squeezed. His ear throbbed and ached. He walked along under the tall pines near the shore, it was cool in their shade; under them the water lay black as tar. In several places he found fish skeletons, gnawed clean by animals; and in the sand were the round tracks of fox paws.

Weariness came over him, dulling his senses. The pursuer hammered and buzzed, hurting. It felt as if something had swelled up in there and wanted to get out; it knocked and thundered and pounded on the closed door: Open! Open! I want to get free!