THE RAVEN FLIES BY NIGHT
It was a hard winter. All through December the snow swept the
fields, drifting into the willows in front of the Crow's Nest, the
only place in the neighborhood where a little shelter was to be
found.
The lake was entirely frozen; one could walk across it from shore to
shore. When there was a moon, the rag and bone man would go down and
with his wooden shoe break the ice round the seagulls and wild
ducks, which were frozen in the lake, and then carry them home under
his snow-covered cape. He would put them on the peat beside the
fireplace, where for days they stood on one leg gazing sickly into
the embers, until Soerine at last took them into the kitchen and
wrung their necks.
In spite of there being a fire day and night, the cold was felt
intensely in the Crow's Nest; it was impossible to heat the room.
Soerine, with the bread-knife, stuffed old rags into the cracks in
the wall; but one day when doing this, a big piece of the wall
collapsed. She filled up the hole with the eiderdown, and when Lars
Peter came home at night, he patched it up and nailed planks across
to keep it in place. The roof was not up too much either; the rats
and house-martens had worked havoc in it, so that it was like a
sieve, and the snow drifted into the loft. It was all bad.
Every day Soerine tried to rouse Lars Peter to do something.
But what could he do? "I can't work harder than I do, and steal I
won't," said he.
"What do the others do, who live in a pretty and comfortable house?"
Yes, how did other people manage? Lars Peter could not imagine. He
had never envied any one, nor drawn comparisons, so had never faced
the question before.
"You toil and toil, but never get any further, that I can see,"
Soerine continued.
"Do you really mean that?" Lars Peter looked at her with surprise
and sorrow.
"Yes, I do. What have you done? Aren't we just where we started?"
Lars Peter bent his head on hearing her hard words. But it was all
quite true; except for strict necessities, they had never money to
spare.
"There's so much wanted, and everything's so dear," said he
excusingly. "There's no trade either! We must just have patience,
till it comes round again."
"You with your patience and patience--maybe we can live on your
being patient and content? D'you know why folk call this the Crow's
Nest? Because nothing thrives for us, they say."
Lars Peter took his big hat from the nail behind the door and went
out. He was depressed, and sought comfort with the animals; they and
the children he understood, but grown-up people he could not. After
all, there must be something lacking in him, since all thought him a
peculiar fellow, just because he was happy and patient.
As soon as he had left the kitchen, the nag recognized his footstep,
and welcomed him with a whinny. He went into the stall and stroked
its back; it was like a wreck lying keel upwards. It certainly was a
skeleton, and could not be called handsome. People smiled when they
saw the two of them coming along the road--he knew it quite well!
But they had shared bad and good together, and the nag was not
particular; it took everything as it came, just as he did.
Lars Peter had never cared for other people's opinion; but now his
existence was shaken, and it was necessary to defend himself and his
own. In the stall beside the horse lay the cow. True enough, if
taken to market now it would not fetch much; it was weak on its legs
and preferred to lie down. But with spring, when it got out to
grass, this would right itself. And it was a good cow for a small
family like his; it did not give much milk at a time, but to make up
for it gave milk all the year round. And rich milk too! When
uncomplimentary remarks were made about it, Lars Peter would
chaffingly declare that he could skim the milk three times, and then
there was nothing but cream left. He was very fond of it, and more
so for the good milk it had given the little ones.
One corner of the outhouse was boarded off for the pig. It too had
heard him, and stood waiting for him to come and scratch its neck.
It suffered from intestinal hernia; it had been given to Lars Peter
by a farmer who wanted to get rid of it. It was not a pretty sight,
but under the circumstances had thriven well, he thought, and would
taste all right when salted. Perhaps it was this Soerine wanted?
The snow lay deep on the fields, but he recognized every landmark
through the white covering. It was sandy soil, and yielded poor
crops, yet for all that Lars Peter was fond of it. To him it was
like a face with dear living features, and he would no more
criticize it than he would his own mother. He stood at the door of
the barn gazing lingeringly at his land. He was not happy--as he
usually was on Sundays when he went about looking at his
possessions. Today he could understand nothing!
Every day Soerine would return to the same subject, with some new
proposal. They would buy her mother's house and move over there; the
beams were of oak, and the hut would last for many years. Or they
would take her as a pensioner, while there was time--in return for
getting all she owned. Her thoughts were ever with her mother and
her possessions. "Suppose she goes to some one else as a pensioner,
and leaves everything to them! or fritters away Ditte's two hundred
crowns!" said she. "She's in her second childhood!"
She was mad on the subject, but Lars Peter let her talk on.
"Isn't it true, Ditte, that Granny would be much better with us?"
Soerine would continue. She quite expected the child to agree with
her, crazy as she was over her grandmother.
"I don't know," answered Ditte sullenly. Her mother lately had done
her best to get her over to her side, but Ditte was suspicious of
her. She would love to be with Granny again, but not in that way.
She would only be treated badly. Ditte had no faith in her mother's
care. It was more for her own wicked ends than for daughterly love,
Granny herself had said.
Soerine was beyond comprehension. One morning she would declare that
before long they would hear sad news about Granny, because she had
heard the raven screaming in the willows during the night. "I'd
better go over and see her," said she.
"Ay, that's right, you go," answered Lars Peter. "I'll drive you
over. After all, the nag and I have nothing to do."
But Soerine wouldn't hear of it. "You've your own work to do at
home," said she. However, she did not get off that day--something or
other prevented her. She had grown very restless.
The next morning she was unusually friendly to the children. "I'll
tell you something, Granny will soon be coming here--I dreamed it
last night," said she, as she helped Ditte to dress them. "She can
have the alcove, and father and I'll move into the little room. And
then you won't be cold any longer."
"But yesterday you said that Granny was going to die soon," objected
Ditte.
"Ay, but that was only nonsense. Hurry up home from school. I've
some shopping to do, and likely won't be home till late." She put
sugar on the bread Ditte took to school, and sent her off in good
time.
Ditte set out, with satchel hanging from her arm, and her hands
rolled up in the ends of her muffler. The father had driven away
early, and she followed the wheel-tracks for some distance, and
amused herself by stepping in the old nag's footprints. Then the
trail turned towards the sea.
She could not follow the lessons today, she was perplexed in mind.
Her mother's friendliness had roused her suspicions. It was so
contrary to the conviction which the child from long experience had
formed as to her mother's disposition. Perhaps she was not such a
bad mother when it came to the point. The sugar on the bread almost
melted Ditte's heart.
But at the end of the school hour, a fearful anxiety overwhelmed
her; her heart began to flutter like a captured bird, and she
pressed her hand against her mouth, to keep herself from screaming
aloud. When leaving the school, she started running towards the
Naze. "That's the wrong way, Ditte!" shouted the girls she used to
go home with. But she only ran on.
It was thick with snow, and the air was still and heavy-laden. It
had been like twilight all day long. As she neared the hill above
the hut on the Naze, darkness began to fall. She had run all the way
and only stopped at the corner of the house, to get her breath.
There was a humming in her ears, and through the hum she heard angry
voices: Granny's crying, and her mother's hard and merciless.
She was about to tap on the window-pane, but hesitated, her mother's
voice made her creep with fear. She shivered as she crept round the
house towards the woodshed, opened the door, and stood in the
kitchen, listening breathlessly. Her mother's voice drowned
Granny's; it had often forced Ditte to her knees, but so frightful
she had never heard it before. She was stiff with fear, and she had
to squat on the ground, shivering with cold.
Through the keyhole she caught a glimpse of her mother's big body
standing beside the alcove. She was bent over it, and from the
movement of her back, it could be seen that she had got hold of the
old woman. Granny was defending herself.
"Come out with it at once," Soerine shouted hoarsely. "Or I'll pull
you out of bed."
"I'll call for some one," groaned Granny, hammering on the wall.
"Call for help if you like," ridiculed Soerine, "there's no-one to
hear you. Maybe you've got it in the eiderdown, since you hold it so
tightly."
"Oh, hold your mouth, you thief," moaned Granny. Suddenly there was
a scream, Soerine must have got hold of the packet on the old woman's
breast.
Ditte jumped in and lifted the latch. "Granny," she shrieked, but
she was not heard in the fearful noise. They fought, Granny's
screams were like those of a dying animal. "I'll make you shut up,
you witch!" shouted Soerine, and the old woman's scream died away to
an uncanny rattle; Ditte wanted to assist her grandmother, but could
not move, and suddenly fell unconscious to the ground. When she came
to herself again, she was lying face downwards on the floor; her
forehead hurt. She stumbled to her feet. The door stood open, and
her mother had gone. Large white flakes of snow came floating in,
showing white in the darkness.
Ditte's first thought was that it would be cold for Granny. She
closed the door and went towards the bed. Old Maren lay crouched
together among the untidy bedclothes. "Granny," called Ditte and
crying groped for the sunken face. "It's only me, dear little
Granny."
She took the old woman's face entreatingly between her thin
toil-worn hands, crying over it for a while; then undressed herself
and crept into bed beside her. She had once heard Granny say about
some one she had been called to: "There is nothing to be done for
him, he's quite cold!" And she was obsessed with that thought,
Granny must not be allowed to get cold, or she would have no Granny
left. She crept close to the body, and worn out by tears and
exhaustion soon fell asleep.
Towards morning she woke feeling cold; Granny was dead and cold.
Suddenly she understood the awfulness of it all, and hurrying into
her clothes, she fled.
She ran across the fields in the direction of home, but when she
reached the road leading to the sea, she went along it to Per
Nielsen's farm. There they picked her up, benumbed with misery.
"Granny's dead!" she broke out over and over again, looking from one
to the other with terror in her eyes. That was all they could get
out of her. When they proposed taking her home to the Crow's Nest,
she began to scream, so they put her to bed, to rest.
When she woke later in the day, Per Nielsen came in to her. "Well, I
suppose you'd better be thinking of getting home," said he. "I'll go
with you."
Ditte gazed at him with fear in her eyes.
"Are you afraid of your stepfather?" asked he. She did not answer.
The wife came in.
"I don't know what we're to do," said he, "she's afraid to go home.
The stepfather can't be very good to her."
Ditte turned sharply towards him. "I want to go home to Lars Peter,"
she said, sobbing.