"Yes," answered Björn. "I have given all I owned to God."
"But the farm was not yours," the brother mildly protested.
"Not mine?"
"No, it belonged to the family."
Ljung Björn did not reply, but sat quietly waiting. He knew that
when his brother had seated himself on that stone, it was for the
purpose of speaking words of peace. Therefore, he was not afraid of
what Pehr might say.
"I have bought back the farm," said the brother.
Ljung Björn gave a start. "Couldn't you bear to have it go out of
the family?" he asked.
"I'm hardly rich enough to do such things for that reason."
Björn looked at his brother inquiringly.
"I did it that you might have something to come back to."
Björn was overwhelmed, and could hardly keep the tears back.
"And that your children may have a place to come back to--"
Björn put his arm around his brother's neck.
"--and for the sake of my dear sister-in-law," said Pehr. "It will
be good for her to know that she has a house and home waiting for
her. The old home will always be open to any of you who may want to
come back."
"Pehr, take my place in the cart and go to Jerusalem, and I'll stay
at home. You are far more worthy to enter the Promised Land than I
am."
"No, no!" said the brother smilingly. "I understand how you mean
it, but I guess I fit in better at home."
"I think you're more fit for Heaven," said Björn, laying his head
on his brother's shoulder. "Now you must forgive me everything," he
said.
Then they got up and clasped hands in farewell.
"This time there were no rappings," Pehr remarked.
"Strange you should have thought of coming here," said Björn.
"We brothers have had some difficulty in maintaining peace, when
we've met of late."
"Did you think that I would want to quarrel to-day?"
"No, but I become angry when I think of having to lose you!"
They walked together down to the road. Presently Pehr went up to
Björn's wife, and gave her a hearty handclasp.
"I've bought the Ljung Farm," he said. "I tell you this now so that
you may know you've always got a place to come to." Then he took
the eldest of the children by the hand, and said: "Remember, now,
that you have a house and land to come back to, should you want to
return to the old country." He went from one child to the other,
even to little Eric, who was only two years old and couldn't
understand what it all meant. "The rest of you youngsters must not
forget to tell little Eric that he has a home to return to whenever
he wants to come back."
And the Jerusalem-farers went on.
***
When the long line of carts and wagons had passed the churchyard,
the travellers came upon a large crowd of friends and relatives who
had come out to bid them goodbye. They had a long halt here, for
everybody wanted to shake hands with them, and say a few parting
words.
And later, when they drove through the village, the road was lined
with people who wished to witness their departure. There were
people standing on every doorstep and leaning out of every window;
they sat upon the low stone hedges all along the way, and those who
lived farther off stood on mounds and hills waving a last farewell.
The long procession moved slowly past all these people until it
came to the home of Councilman Lars Clementsson, where it halted.
Here Gunhild got down to say good-bye to her folks.
Gunhild had been staying at the Ingmar Farm since deciding to go
with the others to Jerusalem. She had felt that this was preferable
to living at home in constant strife with her parents, who could
not become reconciled to the thought of her going.
As Gunhild stepped down from the cart she noticed that the place
looked quite deserted. There was not a soul to be seen, either
outside or at the windows. When she reached the gate she found it
locked. She stepped over the stile into the yard. Even the front
door of the house was fastened. Then Gunhild went round to the
kitchen door; it was hooked on the inside! She knocked several
times, but as no one came she pulled the door toward her, inserted
a stick in the crack, and lifted the hook. So she finally got in.
There was no one in the kitchen, nor was there any one in the
living-room, nor yet in the inner room.
Gunhild did not want to go away without letting her parents know
that she had been to say good-bye to them. She went over to the big
combination desk and bureau, where her father always kept his
writing materials, and drew down the lid. She could not at first
find the ink, so looked for it in drawers and pigeonholes. While
searching, she came upon a small casket which she remembered well.
It was her mother's--she had received it from her husband as a
wedding present. When Gunhild was a little girl her mother had
often shown it to her. The casket was enamelled in white, with a
garland of hand-painted flowers. On the inside of the lid was a
picture of a shepherd piping to a flock of white lambs. Gunhild now
opened the box to take a last peep at the shepherd.
In this casket Gunhild's mother had always kept her most
cherished keepsakes-the worn-down wedding ring which had
belonged to her mother, the old-fashioned watch which had been
her father's, and her own gold earrings. But when Gunhild
opened the box, she found that all these things had been taken
out, and in their place lay a letter. It was a letter that she
herself had written. A year or two before, she had made a trip to
Mora by boat across Lake Siljan. The boat had capsized. Some of her
fellow-passengers were drowned, and her parents had been told that
she, too, had perished. It flashed upon Gunhild that her mother
must have been made so happy on receiving a letter from her
daughter telling of her safety, that she had taken everything else
out of the casket, and placed the letter there as her most
priceless treasure.
Gunhild turned as pale as death; her heart was being wrung. "Now I
know that I'm killing my mother," she said, She no longer thought
of writing anything, but hurried away. She got up into the cart,
taking no notice of the many questions as to whether she had seen
her parents. During the remainder of the drive she sat motionless,
with her hands in her lap, and staring straight ahead. "I'm killing
my mother," she was saying to herself. "I know that I'm killing my
mother. I know that mother will die. I can never be happy again. I
may go to the Holy Land, but I am killing my own mother."
***
When the long line of carts and wagons had passed through the
village, it turned in on a forest road. Here the Jerusalem-farers
noticed for the first time that they were being shadowed by two
persons whom they did not seem to know. While still in the village,
they had been so engrossed in their leave-takings that they had not
seen the strange vehicle in which the two unknown people sat; but
in the wood their attention was drawn to it.
Sometimes it would drive past all the other carts and lead the
procession; then again it would take the side of the road and let
the other teams go by. It was an ordinary wagon, the kind commonly
used for carting; therefore, it was impossible to tell to whom it
belonged. Nor did any one recognize the horse.
It was driven by an old man, who was much bent, and had wrinkled
hands and a long white beard. Certainly none of them knew who he
was. But by his side sat a woman whom they somehow felt they knew.
No one could see her face, for her head was covered with a black
shawl, both sides of which she held together so closely that not
even her eyes were seen. Many tried to guess from her figure and
size who she was, but no two guessed alike.
Gunhild said at once, "It's my mother," and Israel Tomasson's wife
declared that it was her sister. There was scarcely a person among
them but had his or her own notion as to who it was. Tims Halvor
thought it was old Eva Gunnersdotter.
The strange cart accompanied them all the way, but not once did
the woman draw the shawl back from her face. To some of the
Hellgumists she became a person they loved, to others one they
feared, but to most of them she was some one whom they had
deserted.
Wherever the road was wide enough to allow of it, the strange
cart would drive past the whole line of wagons, and then pull to
one side until they had all gone by. At such times the unknown
woman would turn toward the travellers, and watch them from behind
her drawn shawl; but she made no sign to any of them, so that no
one could really say for certain who she was. She followed all the
way to the railway station. There they expected to see her face;
but when they got down and began to look around for her--she was
gone.
***
When the procession of carts and wagons passed along the
countryside, no one was seen cutting grass, or raking hay, or
stacking hay. That morning all work had been suspended, and every
one was either standing at the roadside in their Sunday clothes or
driving to see the travellers off; some went with them six miles,
some twelve, a few accompanied them all the way to the railway
station.
Throughout the entire length and breadth of the parish only one
man was seen at work. That man was Hök Matts Ericsson. Nor was he
mowing grass-that he regarded as only child's play. He was clearing
away stones from his land, just as he had done in his youth, when
preparing his newly acquired acres for cultivation.
Gabriel, as he drove along, could see his father from the road. Hök
Matts was out in the grove prying up stones with his crowbar, and
piling them on to a stone hedge. He never once looked up from his
work, but went right on digging and lugging stones, some of which
were so big that Gabriel thought they were enough to break his
back--and afterward throwing them up on to the hedge with a force
that caused them to splinter, and made sparks fly. Gabriel, who was
driving one of the goods wagons, let his horse look out for itself
for a long time while his eyes were turned toward his father.
Old Hök Matts worked on' and on, toiling and slaving exactly as he
had done when his son was a little lad, and he strove to develop
his property. Grief had taken a firm hold on Hök Matts; yet he went
on digging and prying up larger and larger stones, and piling them
on the hedge.
Soon after the procession had passed, a violent thunderstorm came
up. Everybody ran for cover, and Hök Matts, too, thought of doing
the same; then he changed his mind. He dared not leave off working.
At noon his daughter came to the door and called to him to come to
dinner. Hök Matts was not very hungry; still, he felt that he might
need a bite to eat. He did not go in, however, for he was afraid to
stop his work.
His wife had gone with Gabriel to the railway station. On her
return, late in the evening, she stopped to tell her husband that
now their son had gone, but he would not leave off an instant to
hear what she had to say.
The neighbours noticed how Hök Matts worked that day. They came out
to watch him, and after looking on a while, they went in and
reported that he was still there, that he had been at it the whole
day without a break.
Evening came, but the light lingered a while, and Hök Matts kept
right on working. He felt that if he were to leave off while still
able to drag a foot, his grief would overpower him.
By and by his wife came back again, and stood watching him. The
grove was now almost clear of stones, and the hedge quite high
enough, but still the little old man went on lugging stones that
were more fit for a giant to handle. Now and then a neighbour would
come over to see if he was still at it; but no one spoke to him.
Then darkness fell. They could no longer see him, but they could
hear him--could hear the dull thud of stone against stone as he
went on building the wall.
Then at last as he raised the crowbar it slipped from his hands,
and when he stooped to pick it up he fell; and before he could
think, he was asleep.
Some time afterward he roused himself sufficiently to get to the
house. He said nothing, he did not even attempt to undress, but
simply threw himself down on a wooden bench and dropped off to
sleep.
***
The Jerusalem-farers had at last reached the railway station which
was newly built in a big clearing in the middle of the forest.
There was no town, nor were there any fields or gardens, but
everything had been planned on a grand scale in the expectation
that an important railway community would some day spring up in
this wilderness.
Round the station itself the ground was levelled; there was a broad
stone platform, with roomy baggage sheds and no end of gravel
drives. A couple of stores and workshops, a photographic studio,
and a hotel had already been put up around the gravelled square,
but the remainder of the clearing was nothing but unbroken stubble
land.
The Dal River also flowed past here. It came with a wild and angry
rush from the dark woods, and dashed foamingly onward in a cascade
of falls. The Jerusalem-farers could hardly credit that this was a
part of the broad, majestic river they had crossed in the morning.
Here no smiling valley met their gaze; on all sides the view was
obstructed by dark fir-clad heights.
When the little children who were going with their parents to
Jerusalem were lifted out of the carts in this desolate-looking
place, they became uneasy and began to cry. Before, they had been
very happy in the thought of travelling to Jerusalem. Of course
they had cried a good deal when leaving their homes, but down at
the station they became quite disconsolate.
Their elders were busy unloading their goods from the wagons and
stowing them away in a baggage car. They all helped, so that no one
had any time to look after the children, and see what they were up
to.
The youngsters meanwhile got together, and held council as to what
they should do.
After a bit the older children took the little ones by the hand and
walked away from the station, two by two-a big child and a little
child. They went the same way they had come across the sea of sand,
through the stubble ground, over the river and into the dark forest.
Suddenly, one of the women happened to think of the children, and
opened a food basket to give them something to eat. She called to
them, but got no answer. They had disappeared from sight. Two of
the men went to look for them. Following the tracks which the many
little feet had left in the sand, they went on into the woods,
where they caught sight of the youngsters, marching along in line,
two by two, a big child and a little child. When the men called to
them they did not stop, but kept right on.
The men ran to overtake them. Then the children tried to run away,
but the smaller ones could not keep up; they stumbled and fell.
Then all of them stood still--wretchedly unhappy, and crying as if
their little hearts would break.
"But, children, where are you going?" asked one of the men.
Whereupon the littlest ones set up a loud wail, and the eldest boy
answered:
"We don't want to go to Jerusalem; we want to go home."
And for a long time, even after the children had been brought back
to the station, and were seated in the railway carriage, they still
went on whimpering and crying: "We don't want to go to Jerusalem;
we want to go home."