Vilhelm Moberg - The Settlers

But he moved on, wandering about in circles, in wide arches. No bell around his neck tinkled and disclosed his path as he searched for a place where he would be Un-get-at-able.

— 2—

It was late afternoon but the sun was still above the tree crowns when he reached a small stream that wound its way among the thickets. The stream had shrunk in the summer heat, and clean-washed boulders rose from its bottom, but the water purling around them was crystal-clear, and the thick bushes and trees had helped to keep it cool.

He threw himself headlong on the ground and dipped his face in the stream. The water ran into his wide-open mouth — he swallowed, he panted, he drank. It gurgled in his throat. He drank for a long time. When he had quenched his thirst he sat down to rest near the stream, water still dripping from his chin. The foliage formed a thick mantle over this brook. Close to him an elder bush spread its branches over the water.

He gave in to his weariness and sank down. He remained still as the ground itself, as he watched the running stream. His mind cleared.

Once before he had sat here. He had seen this narrow stream swell with the spring rains: it was that day on which he had first set out in the world, on his way to his first job as farm hand. But he did not wish to have any masters, and to escape from service he had thrown his coat in the water and pretended he had drowned in the brook. That had been his first attempt to become free and un-get-at-able.

Now he was back. He recognized the place, it was well known to him. Before his eyes he saw every detail: the smooth, shiny stones at the bottom, the lush vegetation on the banks, and the fresh, purling water with its bubbles glittering like water-lily pads. Everything he saw was the same. He had been here before; beside this little stream — so free in its course — he had rested during the last hour before he became a servant.

He had come back to the mill brook.

He took off his boots and socks and dangled his bare feet in the stream; he had always done this here when he was a young boy. The water purled and bubbled between his burning toes. It cooled his legs mercifully. It felt so good.

This water never stayed in the same place. It never had time to grow stagnant and rotten. The foam-pearls whirled on their way and he followed them with his eyes. The brook threw itself over obstacles, twisted hurriedly past bushes and roots, cut a course with its own strength. It was headed for the sea and when it reached the great body of water its way lay clear across the world. Then this little stream would mingle with the great billows that carried the ships on their broad shoulders, lifting them up toward the heavens, and lowering them again into the ocean’s deep valleys. On the ships grew masts, the tall pines that held the sails. With great white wings the ships flew across the ocean to the New World. The farm hands who had felled and cleaned the masts were not allowed to go with the ships on their journey; they must stay behind in their dark rooms, peering out through dirty windows, chained to their service and their masters.

But two farm hands had accompanied the tall pines from their homeland across the great sea. And one of them had returned from his long journey.

He sat dangling his bare feet in the cool water as he had done so many times before in this brook. He had strayed far before he reached home. He had roamed widely, he had been in the train of the hundred thousand, led by the Pillar of Gold, and he had almost perished in that evil place of sand and stone and thirst. He had lived years in a ghost town, full of rat cadavers and desolate sites where people once had had homes. He had not thought he would ever return again, he had not imagined he could return. But at last he had found his way home. He recognized everything. Here he had rested the day he set out into the world. Now he had come home.

He needn’t walk any farther, and that was good, as tired as he was. He hadn’t rested well for a long time. But here he could rest — he was at home.

What time of day was it? He had no watch — except the one that had stopped three years ago. He would have liked to know what time it was when he returned.

He lifted his feet from the water and stretched out full length on the ground beneath the wide elder tree. It was good to be home, to rest here at the brook and watch through the foliage how it hurried on its way. And here he could go to sleep and dream again the water-dream, the good dream.

— 3—

Once he woke up and lay and listened, greatly surprised. His ear was silent, it didn’t buzz any more. His left ear did not ache, did not buzz, did not throb. It gave no sound at all.

He lay quite still and listened intently, but could hear nothing. The world had grown completely silent. Then his left ear must be well. He felt no pain. And he felt released and refreshed and deeply satisfied. His torturing companion had disappeared. His pursuer had at last deserted his head and left him in peace. He was rid of his last master. He needn’t run away any more. He was unreachable, un-get-at-able, he was free.

He noticed it was evening, the day was over. He could just lie here and go to sleep again. Now that his ear was silent perhaps he could sleep the whole night through. He no longer had a master who would call him at a certain hour. And a drowsiness that was good and irresistible soon closed his eyes, pulled his lids shut.

All was silent in the world. His ear did not awaken him.

Close by the gold seeker’s still body the stream in its course hurried on its way to mingle with greater waters.

— 4—

A search party found his tracks near the bog, and from there on they followed them to the edge of the brook where he lay under the foliage. They thought he must have been dead for two days when they found him.

Karl Oskar Nilsson made the coffin for his brother. He was buried one evening on the out-jutting point at Lake Ki-Chi-Saga, where the Swedish settlement had chosen and consecrated their cemetery. Karl Oskar put an oak cross on the grave, and carved in the wood his brother’s name, with the usual dates, and a line from a psalm he remembered:

Here Rests

AXEL ROBERT NILSSON

Born in Ljuder, Sweden, 1833

Died in Minnesota, North America, 1855

Let me have a Pleasing Rest

His was the first grave to be dug in the cemetery on the point. Robert Nilsson was the first of the Swedes in the St. Croix Valley to be buried under the silver maples.

— 1—

Karl Oskar caught sight of her in the window of Newell’s Hardware Store on Third Street between Jackson and Robert streets; he was walking by and she was displayed in the window. Her name—“The Prairie Queen”—was lettered on the front. She was well polished; her shiny iron surface caught the eye from a distance. The Queen showed herself in all her glory to those on the street and many persons stopped to look at her. A poster, praising the Queen, also hung in the window, and recommended her to buyers: “Undersigned, James Boles, certifies that we use the Prairie Queen in our home and that she is better than any other we have had.” “J. Blien’s Post Boat Company certifies that the Prairie Queen is also suited for boats.” “Undersigned, Nicolas Dowling, certifies that I like the Prairie Queen better than any other make.” “The undersigned, Mr. and Mrs. John O. Andersson, certify that the Prairie Queen is superior to any of her competitors.”

But the price asked for her was high: thirty-three dollars.

Karl Oskar had driven to the pork market in St. Paul with four of his slaughtered hogs. In Stillwater pork brought only four cents a pound, but in St. Paul the price was six cents; thus it paid to drive the longer distance. The buyer had counted out forty dollars in silver to Karl Oskar. He could pay cash for the Prairie Queen and take her home with him on the wagon.