The Settlers (20 page)

But there was another word in connection with snow, and that word Karl Oskar did not even wish to voice. But it was surely too early for that kind of weather, now, at the beginning of November. Yet, anything could happen weather-wise in this country—if they were unlucky. He began to feel apprehensive as he peered at the clouds; they were thickening and darkening above the tree tops. And the trees, which had been still when they drove past them a few hours ago, had begun to sway—slowly, to be sure—yet it was not a good sign; it boded ill.

But a storm couldn’t come on so suddenly; he had time to get home. Well, to be on the safe side, perhaps they had better take the road by Danjel’s and Jonas Petter’s claims, on Lake Gennesaret. This was a little farther, a mile or two, but in New Kärragärde they would find shelter should the threatening storm break. They would have to turn off at the creek, a few hundred yards farther on. He hesitated, scanning the fir tops every couple of minutes—it couldn’t come that quick . . .

Johan was unable to keep warm even though he ran behind the cart and kept in constant motion.

“I’m cold, Father! It burns . . .”

He wound the woolen shawl tighter around Johan’s head and shoulders and showed him how to flail his arms against his body to keep warm. He had no mittens but Karl Oskar dug his own out of his pocket and put them on the boy’s ice-cold hands. As the cold became more intense, the boy became a problem, for he was sensitive to it in a way a grown person was not. If Karl Oskar had suspected the weather would change he would have driven alone to Taylors Falls. But in the morning it had looked promising . . . For his son’s sake he now decided to take the longer road through Danjel’s claim and, if need be, seek shelter. At the creek Karl Oskar left his old tracks and turned off toward New Kärragärde. This stretch should take only half an hour, certainly not much more, if he just could get his ox to move a little faster.

He cut a juniper branch and struck Starkodder a few blows across the hindquarters. “Git goin’!” The black ox stepped up his pace a little, and sniffed the air as if he could smell an approaching calamity.

A raw fog was enveloping the wagon from all quarters. A sharp wind, which penetrated their clothing and cut the skin like a knife edge, had come up behind them from the northeast. In the air, high above the trees, a heavy roar could be heard; it sounded like breaking waves on a distant shore. The trees bent back and forth, swaying like masts of a ship. This was a sure sign: a northeaster was breaking. But it might not last long . . .

Karl Oskar looked skyward and discovered that he no longer could see the tree tops through the fog. Snow was all right, but that other word . . . No, he liked no part of it; it was a terrifying word in the Territory—
blizzard.
One’s life was always in danger in a blizzard if one happened to be more than five minutes from a house.

They were still only halfway home but they might reach Danjel’s cottage. Another half hour—if it didn’t get too bad in the next half hour. It couldn’t come that quickly. They would make it. He urged the ox on, he yelled and hit and slapped the reins. The cart was moving forward; each time the wheels turned he took a few steps, three long steps. They had to reach shelter.

The noise from above was closer, the tree tops were bending lower, the motion of the trunks had increased. The blizzard was hitting the forest at a terrifying speed, rolling across the valley in darkening clouds, bursting furiously over hundreds of miles while the cart trudged only a quarter of a mile. It had come upon them so unbelievably fast that they could feel its impact already; the first snow-hail was whipping Karl Oskar’s cheeks.

Like a hawk after its prey, the blizzard dove down upon the cart and its people.

Within a few moments it was upon them. It began with whirling hail, biting like gravel into the skin; then after this first smarting blow, it hurled snow masses with mighty force. All at once the world around them was enveloped in snow, hurling, whirling, whipping, piercing, smarting snow. Only snow could be seen. The northeaster drove the blinding mass through the forest, swept the valley with its blizzard-broom. Without warning, they had fallen into the ambush of a great blizzard.

If the onslaught had come from the opposite direction they would have been unable to drive on. Against such a force the ox would have been unable to move; the cart would have stopped in its tracks. Now they were driven forward by the storm.

Shivering and trembling, Johan clung to his father: “Dad! Please! Help me please, Dad!”

The boy cried pitifully. Karl Oskar took the blanket which covered the sacks and wrapped it around him and put him back on top of the load. He reined in the ox for a moment—the boy had lost his wooden shoes in the snow and Karl Oskar must find them. It took some moments, for the dense snow stung his eyelids, blinding him.

The thick, snow-filled air darkened the forest; a premature dusk fell about them. Karl Oskar felt as if he were naked, so penetrating was the fierce wind. The northeaster’s icy scraper tore at his face. Johan, despite being well bundled, whimpered and cried with the painful cold. Only Starkodder, in his thick hide, had adequate protection against the blizzard.

The ox plodded along between the shafts, pulling the cart and following the clearing among the trees. The wheels turned, the cart moved, but had they not been somewhat sheltered by the forest it would surely have turned over.

On, on! They must reach Danjel’s, they must find shelter. It could not be far now—if the boy was able to stand it . . . Karl Oskar walked beside the wagon and held onto it as if he were afraid of losing it. Now and again he felt for Johan to make sure he was still there; at the same time he watched his beast ahead of him. Starkodder tramped steadily through the blizzard, pushing his big-bellied body through the whirling snow masses like a slowly rolling boulder. The ox no longer seemed black—his coat was covered with snow and between the shafts he looked like a moving snowdrift with a pair of horns sticking out.

The snow lumped itself under Karl Oskar’s clogs, hung like a freezing cover over his back, stuck to the trundle wheels in big clumps. The cart rolled more slowly as the snow grew deeper, but they did move forward. God be praised for this ox; he was tough, he could get through.

And the blizzard-broom swept furiously and hurled the snow-masses over the St. Croix Valley. Karl Oskar had not seen the like of this storm in November. But a blizzard that came on so quickly usually did not last very long. It might be over in an hour, perhaps sooner. An hour, though, was too much for them; even a half hour or a quarter might be too much. So much could happen in a quarter of an hour in weather like this; indeed, a few minutes could mean life or death. They must find shelter quickly; their lives were now in danger.

The roar of the blizzard rose and fell. Sharp, crackling sounds were heard above the din: broken tree trunks that crashed in the forest. Here trees were felled without an ax, and the storm thundered and rumbled and swallowed all other sounds with its own tumult. The cart trundles, however, were still turning, the black ox still pulled his wagon, even though the snow had changed his color to shining white.

The driver’s cheeks were stiff, frostbitten; he rubbed them with snow. How long would his time of grace last? How long could the boy endure? No protection helped a body against this cold, however well bundled up. He called cheeringly to his son, who lay on the sacks like a bundle of clothes. A weak complaint was his only reply. Johan’s life was in danger, his resistance was not great . . .

The storm-broom swept with its mighty strokes; the forest crackled, to right and left they could hear trees falling. Karl Oskar yelled with all his might at his beast, urging him, hitting him, but his voice was drowned in the blizzard’s hissing cauldron.

Suddenly he stopped; his clog had struck against wood. He took another step, yes, he was standing on wood. He recognized the place. They ware crossing the wooden bridge which Danjel and Jonas Petter had built over the brook Kidron. They were now in the little valley which the biblically inclined Danjel had called Kidron’s Valley.

If he remembered rightly he now had only about half a mile left to Danjel’s cabin. If the ox didn’t slow down they could make it in a quarter of an hour, surely in twenty minutes. On a clear day they could have seen the lake from here, and the house, they were that close. Within fifteen minutes they would be out of danger, sitting in the warmth of Danjel’s cottage. He called to the boy that they were almost at his uncle’s.

But the trundles turned more heavily in the drifted snow, the cart moved ever more grudgingly. Karl Oskar tied the reins around his waist and pushed the cart from behind with all his strength. This would also warm him. And the trundles kept turning, still rolling, and each turn brought them a few steps closer to the house down there at the lakeside, a few steps closer to safety.

If he hadn’t been forced to wait at the mill they would have escaped the blizzard, he thought, and would now be sitting in front of the fire at home. They were in bad luck today.

Just then, the greatest of bad luck overtook them. A heavy crashing sound cut through the roar of the blizzard somewhere close ahead of them and the cart stopped with a jerk. Karl Oskar hit the ox with the reins, urging him on. But Starkodder stood still. Karl Oskar walked up alongside the ox, feeling his flanks. Why had the beast come to a stop? He walked forward to Starkodder’s head, which the ox was shaking in annoyance; a branch hit Karl Oskar smartly across his face; he brushed the snow from his eyes and now he could see that a giant fir had fallen across the road, its roots poking heavenward. The tree had fallen close to the ox, who now stood in a thicket of branches; the beast was shaking his head, twisting and pulling it to free his horns, which had become ensnared in the fir’s branches.

Further progress was cut off. With only a short distance left the blizzard had felled a tree and caught them. Now they could move neither back nor forward.

Karl Oskar pulled out his ax from under the sacks, cut a few branches from the fallen tree, and liberated the ox; he unyoked the beast and secured him with the reins to the cart. Johan made a faint sound. Karl Oskar climbed up and felt the bundled-up child body.

“Awfully cold, little one?”

He took the boy in his arms, stuck his hand into the bundle, and felt the tiny limbs. Terror struck him.

“You’re cold as an icicle!”

A faint whimper from Johan: “Are we home, Dad?”

The father began to rub the stiff limbs so violently that the boy cried out: “Stop it, Dad! It hurts! Please!”

Feeling still remained in the little body, no part of it was as yet frozen through. But Johan was terribly sleepy and wanted to be left alone. He knew the cart had stopped moving and thought they were home— “. . . home with Mother.”

Karl Oskar shook and rubbed the tiny limbs. The boy cried out in pain. The cold bit and burned, cutting his skin like a knife. Johan could not understand: they were home, he had called Mother but she didn’t answer him. Why? With no reply from Mother he clung to Father, closer, shivering.

“I’m cold, Dad, worse, awfully bad . . .”

Karl Oskar Nilsson held his oldest son in his arms and tried to find protection from the blizzard behind the cart. He sat down in the snow, squatting against the sharp sweep of the storm. The cold snow whirled around him. He crept under the cart with the child; it did not help noticeably. Where could he find protection for Johan against the merciless cold? He himself shook with cold and his limbs stiffened as soon as he stopped moving them; he had no warmth left for his son. What must he do to keep life in the little body?

Should he try to cut the tree and clear the road? It was only a short distance to Danjel’s. But he wouldn’t have time; before he could cut half through the giant fir, his son would be frozen to death.

No, there was nothing he could do, nothing that would help him. All he could do was pray to God for his poor soul. And sit under the cart and wait for the child in his arms to stiffen to a corpse.

At home Kristina was waiting with three more children and one unborn life, while he sat under an ox cart, preparing himself for eternity. A tree had fallen, and parted them forever; he had driven off to the mill, never to return. The blizzard had parted them forever. Was this the way his life would end?

Hadn’t the storm gone down a little? Or was the blizzard just catching its breath? No, it couldn’t be over so soon. There was no hope of that. And so all would be over. Over? No! He mustn’t give up! He had never given up! A person must use his sense and his strength as long as a drop of blood was left in his body. He mustn’t be tempted to think that nothing would help. He must try and try and try again. He still had some fight left in him. And it wasn’t the first time that a life close to him had been in danger. He had never given up before—why should he now? Hadn’t he any guts left?

A third life was with them—the ox, Starkodder, who bellowed now and then between the gusts. The black ox had seldom before made any sound, but now he bellowed in fright. Even a dumb animal could sense danger to life. Yet the beast would probably endure the longest of them, the ox would survive its owner and the owner’s son, the animal would survive the humans. Yes, how long could an old, tough ox withstand the blizzard? He did have a thick fur coat.

Now that the branches of the fallen tree had swept the snow from Starkod-der’s back he was black again; only the white star on his forehead shone through the mist, the animal’s big belly had been washed clean by the snow and shone wet.

They were so close to human habitation. He could try to get through alone the piece that was left. But Johan, what should he meanwhile do with the child?

Karl Oskar rose with the boy in his arms and walked toward his trusted beast of burden, who bellowed helplessly against the roaring blizzard; the man was approaching his beast for help, for a thought had come to him. There was still a chance—he must make a last effort.

Johan clung to his neck, his arms stiffening with the cold. The boy was small, the ox large. The little one could find shelter with the big one, a human being with an animal. Starkodder was his good, reliable beast, but he was only an animal, and a new animal could be found in his place. But no one could replace his son if he froze to death.