Unto a Good Land (27 page)

And they were still all fifteen together as, toward noon, they started northward from the logging camp where the Stillwater Lumber Company dominated everything with its great signs. Thomassen, anxious to talk to the women, accompanied them part of the way, admonishing them to keep close to the river on their right hand; then they could not miss Taylors Falls: “You couldn’t miss it even if you tried to.”

During their long journey, the group from Ljuder had traveled on wheels and keels, they had ridden on flat-wagons and steam wagons, on sailing ships and steamships, on side-wheelers and stern-wheelers. They thought they had used all the vehicles in existence to transport a person from one place to another in this world. But for the last stretch of their long journey they must resort to the means of the old Apostles—the last part of their thousand-mile road they had to walk.

XII

AT HOME IN A FOREIGN FOREST

—1—

The immigrants had now seen a part of the new continent in its immense expanse; its size was inconceivable to them. Yet during their journey through this vast land they had lacked space in which to move about; in crowded railway wagons and ships’ holds they had been penned up in coops or shut in stalls. The country was large, but the space it had offered for their use had until now been very small. At last they were liberated from the shackles of conveyances: here they had great space around them and nothing but God’s high heaven above them.

They had felt lost in the towns through which they had passed, fumbling, awkward, irresolute. Mingling with great crowds of unknown people, unable to communicate with them, they had felt downhearted, worried, completely bewildered. But here they had at last come back to the earth and its trees, bushes, and grass. The immigrants now walked into a great and foreign forest, into untilled wilderness. But something marvelous happened to them here: For the first time in North America they felt at home in their surroundings.

They walked through a wilderness, and here they had elbowroom, a feeling of space in which to move freely. The path they followed resembled the cattle paths at home, but this path was not made by domestic animals, it was trodden by wild animals and wild people. They followed the paths of Indians and deer, of hunters and beasts. They were on the hunting trails which had been followed for thousands and thousands of years. But they were homeless wanderers without weapons, not looking for game or following animals’ footprints. They only followed a trail that would, they hoped, lead them to new homes.

Their path was along a winding ridge of sandstone, and this ridge followed the river. On their left extended a valley, on their right flowed the river that was to guide them. At the beginning of their walk, the forest near the river had been cut down in great sections and these seemed to them like graveyards, with their high, carelessly cut stumps resembling tombstones. But after a few hours they reached sandy plains with tall, straight, branchless trees, topped with lush dark-green crowns. Here each tree was a mast tree, capable of carrying sails across the world’s greatest oceans. On the foothills to their left were groves of leaf-trees, like a woof through which broke the darker warp of the pine forest. Here they discovered all the trees which each spring budded anew in Sweden: oaks and birches side by side, trembling aspens, elms, and lindens intertwined their branches with maples and ash trees; here and there they also espied the hazel bush. Of smaller trees, crouching under the tall ones, they recognized willow branches stretching above bushes of sloeberries, blackberries, and wild roses. Here lay fertile ground overgrown with underbrush of innumerable varieties whose branches, leaves, and clinging vines were intertwined, making one heavy impenetrable thicket, a living wall of greenery.

In these extensive thickets they discovered many thorny bushes that were new to them. They stopped now and then to inspect more closely some tree or bush which they didn’t recognize. They would scratch the bark, or break off a small branch, or gather a handful of leaves, and try to guess the kind of tree or bush to which these might be related.

As far as they could judge, here grew everything in God’s creation: trees for all their needs: for house timbers, floor planks and roof, for benches and tables, for implements of all kinds, and for firewood. The dead trees rotted in the places where they had fallen, never had a stump been removed, never had a dead tree been cut. All old bare trees remained standing, an unattractive sight with their naked, bark-shedding limbs in this healthy, living forest. Indeed, there were enough dead pines here for firewood for a thousand fireplaces for a thousand winters through. The forest was uncared-for, neglected, but it had cared for itself while living and covering the ground: it had died and lived again, completing its cycle: undisturbed and unmarked by man’s edged tools, it had fallen with its loosened roots decaying on the ground and disintegating among grass and moss, returning again to the earth from which it had sprung.

The farther into the wilderness the immigrants pushed their way the denser grew the oaks. In one day they had seen more oaks on root than in their whole lives before. At home the oak was the royal tree—King and Crown had from old claimed the first right to it, while the peasants had to be satisfied with poorer and less sturdy trees. At home the noble oak tree was nursed like a thoroughbred colt. Here they walked through an oak forest that stretched for miles. And when their trail brought them atop a knoll, they saw across the western valley a whole sea of oak crowns, wreathed together until they appeared like one many-miles-wide crown of rich foliage. Here was a whole region—wide as a county at home—entirely filled with royal trees. In their fertile valley the oaks had for countless centuries grown straight and proud through their youth and maturity and quietly rotted in their old age. No Crown-sheriffs had disturbed them with marking axes, no despotic king had exacted timber for his fortifications and men-of-war. In this heathen land the royal tree had remained untouched and unviolated, here it displayed its mane of thick foliage, the lion among trees.

The landscape changed often and quickly, with hills and dales on both sides. They came to an open glade with still more fertile ground: here herbs and grass prevailed rather than trees and bushes. Here grew crab apple and wild plum, the heavy fruit bending the overladen boughs. Between thickets of berry bushes the ground was covered with wild roses, honeysuckle, sweet fern and many flowers. Here throve in abundance a lower growth of fruit and berry plants: blueberries, raspberries, currant bushes, black as well as red. And the berry vine did not crawl retarded along the ground in thread-thin runners as in the forests at home; here it rose on thick stems covered with healthy leaves, thriving as though planted in a well-fertilized cabbage bed. The blueberry bushes were flourishing with berries as large as the end of one’s thumb, as easy to pick as gooseberries.

They would cross a meadow with fodder-rich grass reaching to their waists. Here the ground lay as smooth and even as a floor in a royal palace. No stone was visible, no scythe had ever cut this grass; since the time of creation this hay meadow had been waiting for the harvesters.

They climbed over brooks and streams where fallen trunks lay like bridges, they saw a tarn into which branches and other debris had fallen in such great quantity that it filled the lake completely, rising above the surface, a picture of death-haunted desolation. They walked by small lakes with tall grass all around the edges, the water bubbling and boiling with wriggling fins. They stopped and looked at the fish playing. The water was so clear they could see to the bottom where the sand glittered in the sun like gold. And they mused over this clear blue lake water, seemingly taking its color from the skies above.

In one opening they came upon a herd of grazing deer, sleek-antlered animals with light-red fur and short white tails. Fleet-footed, the deer fled softly, their tails tipping up and down. The immigrants had already tasted their meat, they knew how tender and delicious it was. Now and again a long-eared rabbit disappeared into the grass directly at their feet. Known and unknown forest birds took flight along their path, on the lakes swam flocks of ducks, undisturbed by their passing, and several times they heard the potent, whizzing sound of many wings in flight: flocks of bluish doves flew over their heads.

In this wilderness there was plenty of game; in the water, on the ground, and in the air there was meat, fowl, and fish. Many a meal had run past them into the forest, swum away into the depths of the lakes, flown away into the air.

The immigrants had reached a lush country, fertile and rich earth, a land well suited for settling. Here people could find their sustenance if anywhere on earth. Yet nowhere did they see tilled fields, nowhere a furrow turned, nowhere a prepared building site. No trees had been blazed to mark a settler’s claim. This was a country for people to settle in, but as yet few settlers had come.

The group from Sweden walked along an unknown path in an unknown region, with no guide except the river; but they felt less insecure and put down their feet with more confidence than at any time before in the new country. They were walking in accustomed ways through old-country landscapes. They walked through a forest, they tramped on tree roots, moss, and grass, they moved among pungent foliage, soft leaves, herbs, among growing things on earth, its running and flying game, and they began to feel at home.

The travelers from Ljuder were in a foreign forest, yet they had arrived home: No longer were they the lost ones of this world.

—2—

At first the group of immigrants walked with good speed along the path on the ridge, but as the day wore on their burdens grew heavier and their steps slowed. All grownups had something to carry: of the children, only Danjel’s two sons were able to walk the whole distance; he had to carry his four-year-old daughter Fina. Karl Oskar held Lill-Märta on one arm, extra clothing over his shoulder, and the knapsack in one hand. Kristina carried Harald, and this was considered sufficient, as she also carried another child within her. The food basket was entrusted to Robert. Johan could walk short distances, but his little legs soon tired and he too wanted to be carried. Karl Oskar stooped down and let the boy climb onto his back with his arms around the father’s neck. Karl Oskar was no longer a fast walker.

Jonas Petter walked ahead of the others to locate the trail, which sometimes seemed to disappear in dense thickets filled with mosquitoes. It was his duty to see that they never lost sight of the river. As they progressed the thickets became more prevalent, and those with heavy burdens had to walk with care through the thorny bushes.

They had feared Fina-Kajsa would delay their progress but the old woman had a surprisingly tough body, and in spite of her emaciated condition, she kept well ahead of the younger walkers. She trotted along quite briskly, holding onto her iron pot, which she dared not leave behind with the minister in Stillwater, fearing it might be lost, as the grindstone was in New York. She had walked many miles during her lifetime, going to church at home on Öland every Sunday for fifty years, a distance of fifteen miles back and forth. Altogether, this would make enough miles to cover the distance from Sweden to Minnesota many times; indeed, she would easily manage the short distance left to reach her son’s home, if it were true that they were now so close to him. And she described again the fine house he had built himself in the wilderness. He had written many letters to his parents about it—there was no place on Öland that compared with his home, his extensive fields, and possessions. He had asked his parents to come and see it, then they would be well pleased with their son. And Fina-Kajsa was convinced her son had changed into an industrious, capable man here in America, or he wouldn’t have been able to acquire such a home. It had been well for him to get out in the world.

A west wind was blowing, cooling their perspiring brows; the air no longer felt oppressive.

By midafternoon they sat down to rest under a great oak that stood all by itself in an open, pleasing meadow. Now their communal food basket was brought out; during the last weeks of their journey they had become one big household; it seemed unnecessary to divide themselves into two families at meals, leaving Jonas Petter to sit alone. It was easier to keep all the food together; what one missed someone else had, one had bread but no meat, someone else meat but no bread.

After the meal, the immigrants stretched out on the ground under the giant oak; it was comfortable in the shade, and they all felt well and rested contentedly. But the children played in the tall grass of the meadow; they had already eaten their fill of raspberries, blueberries, currants, and wild plums. Many unfamiliar berries also grew hereabouts but parents forbade the children to taste these, fearing they might be poisonous. On little trees almost like bushes grew clusters of berries resembling over-large blueberries, and Robert insisted these were wild grapes. From them wine could be pressed, the drink of noble people at home, which ordinary people got a taste of once a month at communion. They tasted the grapes cautiously, they seemed sweet and good, but they dared not eat more than a handful lest they get drunk from these sweet berries that made wine: it was written in the Bible that one could get drunk from sweet wine.

Elin filled her little basket with great, juicy dark-red raspberries, which she showed proudly to her mother. The girl’s fingers were stained blood red from the overripe berries.

“Here in America we can have beautiful rosy cheeks,” Ulrika said. “We can wash our faces in raspberry juice.”

Kristina’s eyes never left her children. They mustn’t go too far away, no one knew where snakes might lie hidden in the thick grass which was indeed a good hiding place for all kinds of dangerous creeping things. Jonas Petter had already killed two green-striped snakes, but they were no larger than the snakes at home. Danger was by now such a persistent companion that Kristina considered it omnipresent: its shape might alter but it was always at hand in some guise. She had once and for all accepted danger, and consequently she met it with less worry than before.

Here in the forest only the venomous mosquitoes annoyed her and all of them; they swarmed about constantly and bit every exposed part of the body. The delicate skin of the children was attacked most fiercely, and their faces showed welts from the bites. They had never encountered such disgusting gnats before. Everything was different in America, day and night, weather and animals: the warmth was warmer, the darkness darker, the rain wetter than at home—and the mosquitoes were a thousand times worse.