Unto a Good Land (41 page)

“You are a man with a will, Karl Oskar. And you take care of your brats as well as your woman,” said Ulrika.

The man who received this praise felt somewhat embarrassed.

The Glad One went on: Kristina was a fine, honest woman, she did not begrudge her a good man. She, Ulrika, had accommodated many married men who were in need of her, but she would never go to bed with Kristina’s husband, no, not even for a whole barrel of gold.

This annoyed Karl Oskar and he rebuffed her tartly: “I’ve never asked you, have I?”

“You were pretty hot on me at sea. You can’t deny that. No one fools me about such things.”

Karl Oskar felt his cheeks burn; even his ears smarted: once on the ship he had used Ulrika—in his dreams. But no one could help what he dreamed. And even if there had been times when he felt himself tempted by the Glad One’s attractive body, he was too proud to go where other men had been before. Better not pay any attention to what she was saying, it wasn’t a penny’s worth. It was just like Ulrika to talk of bed play when they were on their way to a woman in childbirth. His own wife to boot! He would not be dragged into a quarrel with the woman he had fetched to help. . . .

Ulrika went on heedlessly. She nudged Karl Oskar in the side and told him it was nothing to be ashamed of that he was hot on women, particularly as he had been forced to go without for such a long time—his wife had been ill, and pregnant, these were long-drawn-out obstacles, trying his patience. But any man of Kristina’s she, Ulrika, would never help, however badly in need he might be.

What she said was true; it struck him to the quick. But he did not answer. He had a sense of relief as the surface of Lake Ki-Chi-Saga glittered in the moonlight ahead of them.

A hundred yards from the cabin they stopped short at the sound of a scream. Both listened intently; it wasn’t a bird on the lake, it was a human voice, a voice Karl Oskar recognized: “It’s Kristina!”

He ran ahead as fast as his legs could carry him. He hammered with his fists on the door, which was bolted from the inside; he could hear his wife’s shrieks, she was in her bed, unable to open the door. How would he get in?

“Kristina! Can you hear me?”

Ulrika came up to his side, panting: “Have you locked her in?”

“Yes. And I don’t think she is able to open . . .”

“Break a window.”

Karl Oskar picked up a piece of firewood and was ready to break the nearest window when he heard Johan inside: the boy was trying to open the heavy bolts. The father directed the boy, told him how to lean against the door while he pulled the bolts, and he and Ulrika tried to pull the door toward them. After a few eternity-long minutes, the door swung open on its hinges.

Kristina was lying on her side in the bed, her body twisting as she shrieked and moaned.

“Kristina! How is it?”

“It’s bad. Where is Ulrika? I’ve been waiting so . . .”

“We hurried as much as we could.” Karl Oskar took hold of his wife’s hand: it was clammy with perspiration; her eyes were wide open, she turned them slowly to her husband: “Isn’t Ulrika with you?”

Ulrika had thrown off her shawl and now stepped up to the bed, pushing Karl Oskar aside: “Here I am. Good evening, Kristina. Now we’ll help each other.”

“Ulrika! God bless you for coming.”

“How far along are you? Any pushing pains yet?”

“Only the warning pains, I think. But—oh, my dear, sweet Ulrika! Why did you take so long?”

The fire in the corner had died down, Lill-Märta and Harald were huddled on their bed with their clothes on, asleep, but Johan was up and about, his eyes wide open, full of terror: “Why does Mother cry so?”

“She has pain.”

“Is her nose going to bleed again, as on the ship?”

“You can see for yourself—her nose doesn’t bleed.”

There had been one night on the
Charlotta
which Johan never would forget. “Will Mother die?”

“No—she won’t die. Go to bed and be a good boy.”

“Father—is it true? Mother won’t die tonight?”

“She is just a little sick. She’ll be well again tomorrow morning when you wake up.”

Ulrika pulled down the blanket and felt Kristina’s body with her hands, lightly touching her lower abdomen; then she asked: Had the birth-water come, and how long between the last pains? While Karl Oskar undressed the children and tucked them in, and rekindled the fire, the two women spoke together: they understood each other with few words, they had gone through the same number of childbeds, four each; they were united and close through their like experience.

“It feels large,” said Ulrika after the examination.

“I have thought—perhaps it’s twins.”

“Haven’t you had twins before?”

“Lill-Märta’s twin brother was taken from us when he was fourteen days old.”

“It runs in the family. Karl Oskar. Get me some light. Heat water over the fire. Be of some use!”

Ulrika assumed command in the cabin, and Karl Oskar speedily performed as he was told to do. It was not his custom to take orders, but tonight at his wife’s childbed he was glad someone told him what to do.

From dry pine wood he made such a roaring fire that it lighted the bed where Kristina lay, comforted by her helping-woman in between the pains. She had not had time to sew anything for the child, not the slightest little garment; she had had so many other things to do this fall. And she had thought it would be another two weeks yet; it came too early according to her figuring; no, not a single diaper—and suppose she had twins!

“No devil can figure out the time,” said Ulrika. “A brat will creep out whenever God wants him to.”

Kristina had hoped it would happen in warm daylight; then she could have sent her children out to play. Now they had to stay inside and listen to her moans; but she couldn’t help that.

The next pain came and she let out piercing screams, filling the small cabin with her cries. Johan began to sob; the father took him on his knee and tried to comfort him. Karl Oskar had never before been present at childbirth; at home the women had taken care of everything and never let him inside until all was over. He didn’t feel too much for other people—sometimes his insensibility made him feel guilty—but his wife’s cries of agony cut right through him, he could scarcely stand it.

“You look pale as a curd, Karl Oskar,” said Ulrika. “Go outside for a while. You’re of no use here. I’ll put the boy to bed.”

He obeyed her and went out. It was now about midnight. He went down to the shanty near the lake and gave Lady her night fodder. Then he remained in the shanty with the cow, who stood there so calm and undisturbed, enjoying her own pleasant cow-warmth. The closeness of the animal in some way comforted him. And he didn’t feel cold here—Lady warmed him too. The cow chewed her good hay peacefully and rhythmically, and he scratched her head and spoke to her as if she were a human. He confided his thoughts to Lady, it eased him somehow to talk: Yes, little cow, things are strange in this world. The Glad One is inside helping Kristina . . . and I stand here . . . I can’t help her. How many times I’ve wished to be rid of Ulrika! And Kristina herself thought she would bring disaster. Instead, she is our great comfort. Yes, little cow, we never know our blessings. It happens, this way or that, strange things, one never could have dreamed of at home. One can’t explain it.

Karl Oskar Nilsson spent most of the night in the byre, lost and baffled, talking to his borrowed cow; he felt he had been sent to “stand in the corner,” he didn’t know what to do with himself. He had been told to go out—he was driven out of his own house and home. The Ljuder Parish whore was master in his house tonight.

—4—

After a few hours he went to inquire how the birth was progressing. Kristina lay silent, her eyes closed. Ulrika sat by the bed, she whispered to him: He must walk quietly, she had just gone through another killing pain. Things went slowly, the brat did not seem to move at all. The real birth-water hadn’t come yet, and the pushing pains had not yet set in. This birth didn’t go according to rule, not as it should; something was wrong. Perhaps she had been frightened too much by the Indians, perhaps the fright had dislodged something inside her. The birth had come on too suddenly—the body was not yet ready for delivery, it did not help itself the way it should when all was in order. This appeared to be a “fright-birth,” and in that case it would take a long time. But there was no use explaining to him; he wouldn’t understand anyway.

“I wonder how long . . .”

No one could say how long it would take; maybe very long; Kristina might not be delivered tonight. And Ulrika told him to go to bed. There was no need for his roaming about outside, like a spook.

Johan had at last fallen asleep. Karl Oskar stretched out in Robert’s bed; he didn’t lie down to sleep, he lay down because he had nothing else to do. He had been sitting up late for several evenings, writing a letter to Sweden, but he couldn’t work on that tonight.

Kristina had dozed off between the pains; she moaned at intervals: “Ulrika . . . Are you here?”

“Yes. I’m here. You want something to drink?”

Ulrika gave her a mug of warm milk into which she had mixed a spoonful of sugar.

Kristina dozed again when the pains abated. She had always had easy births—what she went through this night surpassed all the pain she had ever experienced in her young life. But she felt succor and comfort close by now: a little while ago she had been lying here alone in the dark, alone in the whole world, alone with her pains, no one to talk to—no one except her whimpering children. Now she had Ulrika, a compassionate woman, a sister, a blessed helper.

There was so much she wanted to tell Ulrika, but she didn’t have the strength now, not tonight. She had lived with Ulrika in bitter enmity—she remembered that time when Ulrika had called her a “proud piece.” Ulrika had been right. She had been proud. Many times, at home, she’d met unmarried Ulrika of Västergöhl on the roads without greeting her. She was the younger of the two, she should have greeted her first with a curtsy. Instead she had stared straight ahead as if not seeing a soul. She had behaved like all the other women, she had learned from them to detest and avoid the Glad One. She had acted the way all honorable, decent women acted toward Ulrika. But when she had met the King of Alarum, she had greeted him and curtsied deeply, for so did all honorable women. One must discriminate between good and evil people.

Yes, all this she must tell Ulrika—some other time—when she was able to, when this agony was over. Oh, why didn’t it pass? Wouldn’t she soon be delivered? Wouldn’t God spare her? It went on so long . . . so long. . . . “Oh, help! Ulrika, help!”

The pains were upon her; she felt as if she were bursting into pieces, splitting in halves lengthwise. A wild beast was tearing her with its claws, tearing her insides, digging into her, digging and twisting. . . .

Ulrika was near, bending over her. The young wife threw herself from side to side in the bed, her hands fumbling for holds. “Oh! Dear God! Dear God!”

“The pushing pains are beginning,” Ulrika said encouragingly. “Then it’ll soon be over.”

“Dear sweet, hold me! Give me something to hold on to!”

Kristina let out piercing cries, without being aware of it. The billowing pains rose within her—and would rise still higher, before they began to subside. In immeasurable pain she grasped the older woman. She held Ulrika around the waist with both arms and pressed her head into the full bosom. And she was received with kind, gentle arms.

Kristina and Ulrika embraced like two devoted sisters. They were back at humanity’s beginning here tonight, at the childbed in the North American forest. They were only two women, one to give life and one to help her; one to suffer and one to comfort; one seeking help in her pain, one in compassion sharing the pain which, ever since the beginning of time, has been woman’s fate.

—5—

“It will be over soon now. Come and hold her.”

Ulrika was shaking Karl Oskar by the shoulder; he had dozed off for a while. The night was far gone, daylight was creeping in through the windows.

The midwife was calling the father—now she would see what use he could make of his hands.

Kristina’s body was now helping in the labor, Ulrika said. Her pushing muscles were working, she was about to be delivered. But this last part was no play-work for her; Karl Oskar might imagine how it would hurt her when the child kicked itself out of her, tearing her flesh to pieces, breaking her in two. While this took place it would lessen her struggle if she could hold on to him, as she, Ulrika, had to receive the baby and couldn’t very well be in two places at the same time.

Karl Oskar went up to the head of the bed and took a firm hold around his wife’s shoulders.

“Karl Oskar—” Kristina’s mouth was wide open, her eyes glazed. She tossed her head back and forth on the pillow. She stretched her arms toward her husband and got hold of his body, pressing herself ever closer to him, seeking a solid stronghold.

“Hold on to me. . . .” The words died in a long, moaning sigh.

“The head is coming! Hold her firmly. Ill take the brat.” Ulrika’s hands were busy. “A great big devil! If it isn’t two!”