THE SMOKE BEATS BACK
1
Next day they burnt the corpse-straw, the air was still, with a breath
from the east maybe. Ane herself carried out the straw, and she took it
west into the paddock. She was indoors for a light, and set fire to it;
then she went in again.
There, the smoke began to drift to the westward. It surged up into the
air in a dense grey wave, now whitish, now yellowish, with rounded
crests pouring westward; it was heavy as doom.
Ay, the smoke was going west. But all at once Beret turned to her
mother--so thin and blue she was:
“I think it’s coming this way, mother!”
“Hm! hm!” Ane had seen it already.
It came creeping straight on the house, surrounding the walls
everywhere, they could feel it indoors, no matter what they were about,
and they turned one from another with grey faces; the smoke lay about
the windows; it was heavy as death.
“It’s for me, that’s sure,” said Beret, and with that she went out.
“Oh no, child,” muttered Ane. She was listlessly washing the death-bed,
seated on the edge of it. “Eh, ’tis no matter for them that are young,
that have their life before them. It’s when one’s old--”
But Beret had taken the rake and set off into the paddock; she ran
straight at the heap of straw and raked it over so that the sparks flew
about her ears. The smoke beat back on to the house just the same.
Jens stood by the stable wall with a mocking smile. Beret came quietly
back, putting her hair straight and brushing the straw from her clothes.
Well, did she think that was any help? Jens wondered.
She looked at him, slackened her pace and kept her eyes on him. The run
had made her hot, but now she turned pale as before, a long, blue-faced
misery; she gave him a crooked smile and wanted to pass.
“Head up!” he said. “Death’s not so terrible as he is ugly, you know.”
“Oh no. It won’t be any loss, the next one.”
But he stood still and watched her as she went. It seemed all she could
do to get indoors. No, poor thing, it wouldn’t be any loss. And she
hadn’t had too good a time.--Just then he remembered so vividly a thing
that had happened when he was a child: one day he crushed a little
bird’s egg in his fingers. It had just the same defenceless blue tint
as her eyes; he couldn’t get away from the memory.
Later in the day he came across her in the kitchen, caught her by the
hair, and gave it a little tug.
“Look here, Beret”--he had a little looking-glass in his hand, one with
a gilt frame and roses round it--he had found it lying in his chest and
it was only in the way: would _she_ like to have it? For he was not
likely to shave any more, he thought; he’d leave that to Per--it was
quite enough for _one_ of them to keep up old family customs. So, if
she’d like to have it--
She accepted it, and she thanked him; her face was as stiff as usual,
but she did look up at him. It made him feel foolish. Lord save us, she
took the thing, took it from him, and was glad almost! She couldn’t be
quite right, poor thing.
Their mother was pottering about, today like any other day. Only that
she didn’t hear when they spoke to her. It was mostly Valborg who kept
the house going.
The body lay in straw over in the old house. Valborg said to Jens,
looking up from her work: “Now there won’t be any flitting into the old
house for Per and us. For I’m afraid of it now.”
She had the same serious face she always wore, like a trusting child.
Jens looked straight into it: it was so broad and frank, and good;
freckled, but comely--and such a grand white figure of a woman!
“Then I’ll move over there,” he said. “For it’ll just suit me.”
She was not listening to him, and that always annoyed him.
Perhaps he would flit this very evening? he suggested--he’d like to
have a dance with a dead man in the dark, eh? Devil tear him--
She turned away. She always did that when he put some strength into
it, as he called it. Why did she turn her back?--she had the power of
making him quite mad with that back of hers!
“It wasn’t kind of father to give you to Per.”
Valborg did not answer. Married to her? No, of course not, he was
heartily glad to be out of that, but--
But now Valborg looked up. She thought long and deeply, a thought that
went right through him:
“Well, well, you move over there. I dare say you might do worse. You
and Beret too.”
Jens pulled a wry face. He whistled as he went off. But he turned in
the doorway and put on a careless air: “What’s become of Per? Is he out
rowing?”
Yes, he was, she answered--he had gone to see about the grave.
Per was across the fiord to start the church-bell tolling. This was an
ancient custom, and no more than a form now, but just for that reason
they kept it up at Juvik. Per Anders had said nothing about it, but
Valborg was sure it was his wish, and it had struck Per the same way,
when he thought about it.--Per rowed across in calm weather; he was in
his shirt-sleeves, and it didn’t take him long.
The sexton was a tiny little man, he ran up the belfry stairs light as
a cat; it was a joy to him to ring the bell, whether for weddings or
funerals; he loved his bell every whit as well as his glass. Per stood
below and watched him.--“You’ll have to give her a good swing,” he
called up to the man, and then he went into the churchyard. He walked
round looking at the graves; it was so seldom he came to church.
Now the bell was going. The clapper struck the metal, struck it once
more and with full force, and then the sound gathered strength and
boomed out through the louver-boards in great round billows, down over
the earth and up towards heaven. All other sounds were hushed when the
bell began: they could do nothing against it.
Per didn’t know how it was, but he had to sit down. He sat on a
grave, on a tuft of grass and frozen ground, for snow was not to be
found here, it seemed not to like the churchyard. “There are plenty of
dead people here,” he said to himself; “and it looks as if they slept
well.” But he put his hands to his head; it hurt him to sit so near the
bell--they had never had any great liking for that sound, the Juvik
folk, he felt that now. Time after time he wiped his forehead with his
sleeve; then he got up and walked past the north wall. For with such
a sea-way surging through one--it was no good trying to sit still;
he drew a deep breath and looked out over land and fiord.--“When the
heavens themselves open above you, it makes them feel like strangers,
the Juvikings; they turn pale and wan and look silly; would you wonder
at it? For they have no great mind to come here, I can feel that.”
Per hardly knew where they lay, his own folk. They must be on the south
side. “But I’m going to find that out this very day,” he said; “it’s
best to know where you’re bound for.”
At last the tolling of the bell was over. The booming still hung about
the hills, like the evening after a great day. Everything took heart
again and looked about: black rocks jutted out of the snow as before,
and the fiord was salty desolation.
The sexton came out, his forehead shiny with sweat and a smile on his
face.
“Was she heavy today?” asked Per. He was only joking, but he looked at
the sexton and expected an answer. “Was she heavy, I say?”
“Oh ay. She was that,” the sexton sighed. “I’ve known her lighter,” he
added.
Per bit his lip. This was the time Jens ought to have been here. They
started to walk, they were going the same way for a bit. Elias had to
jog the other for his fee today. He got an _ort_, and a dram thrown in.
But Per stood looking at him blankly; he forgot to say good-bye. “And
the grave?” asked Elias.--“Ah yes, of course--”
Per shook his head: “But I don’t believe it _means_ anything if your
swine of a bell goes a bit sluggishly; damned if I believe a word of
it!”
The sexton showed his great broad church smile, which reached from ear
to ear. “No, that’s so,” he said, and went off up the hill and home.
And Per went his way.
His mother looked at him rather uneasily, when he came home; she half
expected good news, but dared not ask.--Had he been in at Haaberg?--No,
he didn’t happen to stop there.--Ah, didn’t he? His mother was upset,
for what kind of thoughts could they be that troubled him?--“But the
bell,” said Per, “she went as easy as if she rang herself, Elias had
never known her so lively. So if that means anything--”
Oh yes, thank God, that meant a great deal! Ane clasped her hands. She
had to walk about the room. “Then he made a good end!” she said.
“She went as if she’d been greased!” said Per.
“Greased with heavenly fat,” sneered Jens; he got up and left the room.
In the evening the two brothers met out in the yard.
“She damned well didn’t go easy,” said Jens. “I could see that in your
face. There was no kingdom of heaven in that ringing.”
Per made no answer. He stood there, dark and heavy as the shades of
evening, rising above Jens and weighing him down. Now he was the one
who had the say here at Juvik, and so it should be.
“Let her go as she likes,” said Jens quietly. “There’s nothing to be
done about that.”
“No,” said Per; he stayed where he was. Jens had to make up his mind to
leave him.
2
Next day they were in the old house, taking measurements for the
coffin. Valborg came with them, she wanted to see the body again. Then
the others came too, now that there _was_ someone there. Per took the
cloth from the face.
Per Anders had his hymn-book under his chin, so that his mouth was
tightly shut, and on each eyelid lay a copper coin. But one of them
had slipped aside, so that the eye stood half open, staring at them.
It gave the womenfolk a little start, one or two of them caught
their breath, and Valborg went up and put the coin back, pressing it
down.--The face was at rest, in a deep, cold sleep; it met them with a
silence like that of the mountains. Per Anders had nothing more to say
to them. Apart from that there was no change in him: his cheeks were
purple, his forehead was white, and one eyebrow was slightly raised.
The women went out again, all except Valborg; she stood awhile longer,
with her hands clasped before her. The body was clean-shaved, no doubt
Per had done that. Valborg took the silver pin from the collar of her
dress and put it in the dead man’s shirt. She stood there a little
longer, and then she went out.
“Well, there he lies,” said Jens. “The last of us.”
Per looked up.
“Ay--for it’ll be a long time before it’s your turn,” said Jens.
“What about you?”
“I? Do you think I’m one that’ll lie in state?”
To that Per made no answer, and so they finished what they were doing
and went out.
They took some trouble over that coffin; it was a fine one. Jens said
it was worth while to be dead if you got such a grand bed to lie in.
But it was a long business getting ready for the funeral ale; and it
wasn’t very pleasant having the corpse lying at home all that time.
The womenfolk scarcely ventured out of doors after dusk, they thought
they had a white one at their heels wherever they went; and all sorts
of ugly noises were to be heard in the evening. Although it was strange
how little of that kind of thing there was this time. In former
days, when a corpse had lain in the old house, there had been queer
happenings: they were restless fellows in that way, the old Juvikings,
it was said.
Per Anders left a blank behind. In other ways he did not frighten them.
They almost felt they were alone in the place. For who was there now to
go outside, if anything uncanny turned up? and come in again and set
their fears at rest? Jens perhaps; yes, he could always go out, but he
was so little help when he came in again.
One evening he said he must go into the old house for a pair of
boot-lasts; and go he did. But he was pale as a sheet when he came
back. He had caught his jacket in the door as he was going out, and
it was just as if someone laid hold of him and held him back.--“Let
me go, you fool!” he cried, and when he had said it he was half
frightened, he told them; he shut the door behind him, but he felt like
running.
As the day of the funeral drew near, things grew better. There was such
a bustling about, they forgot all else. Except one day. Then the crow
came and sat on the roof of the old house and cawed. And that is a sign
of another corpse. Beret drove it off two or three times, but it came
back at once; so she knew what awaited her. They looked at one another.
But they soon forgot it.
Per went over once a day and looked at the body. He had a feeling that
it wanted to say something to him. But when he was there it had nothing
at all to say. It slept as soundly as before.
“Ay,” he thought, “here lies the last. Of them.”
And as he came out he saw it all: So the mountain range came down into
the sea. It was not to go any farther. And as death had left its mark
upon his face, so did hill and mountain look up at the evening sky:
stone-still and stone-dead, so far removed from life and all that lives
and moves. Per was surprised at himself: such strange thoughts were
coming to him; where did they come from? He could not talk of this to
Jens. He would have to speak of it to Valborg--to whom hitherto he had
had little or nothing to say.--“Well, now father’s gone,” he said;
he could make no more of it than that. Valborg was bending down to
wring out something she had washed.--“Oh ay,” she said over her work.
“_He’s_ gone.” A good while after she straightened her back and looked
over her washing; it was a great white sheet.--“Your father, he was
like a path in the darkness, he was.”--“Yes, like a narrow little path
in the darkness. And now it’s darker than before. And empty, seems to
me.”--She made no answer to this. She was red and uncomfortable, for
this was something she was not used to.--“And empty, I say?” She might
surely admit it.--“Oh ay; just at first it is,” she said. He left her.
It was easier to talk to Jens after all.--
A load was taken from everybody at Juvik when at last the Saturday
evening before the funeral arrived; for then they began to come, those
who lived farthest off, and from the nearest farms they sent baskets of
provisions, one after another; you could tell each farm by its basket.
They came quietly, those who were coming to the house, and quietly
they were received. It was not sorrow exactly, but there was an air of
solemnity. Ane Haaberg came by herself, and afterwards there was one
boat-load after another; and as they reached the house the host stood
at the door and bade them walk in, this way, if you please, straight on
and take a glass. It was Petter Liness who was host. He always acted
on these occasions, when the thing was to be done properly. He was a
great man in the parish, so it was no small matter to get him; but the
Juvik folk were related to him, so he came at the first asking.--Among
the guests on the first evening, Ola Engdal was the one who made most
stir. Whatever he did or said, the others followed him. He was old and
rich, and carried weight in the parish; he was as good a man as Liness
himself.
And he took it with a little smile. He just held their hands a little
longer than usual when he greeted them. He had the same smile for every
one of them, when he cleared his throat after a dram; the words came
all cut and dried:
“To think I should be the one to carry Per Anders to his grave! Whoever
could have foreseen that!” And as none of them could find anything to
say, but just sat there glued to their seats, he got up and turned to
Ane: If the others were of the same mind as he was, they’d go over and
see the body.
Then they all crowded to the door; they cleared their throats and
followed.
“Ay,” said Ola, as they stood there. “This here’s a death that’ll be
felt, and no mistake.”
One after another said the same, and from that moment their tongues
were set going; they talked of Per Anders, and they talked of this one
and that in the parish, with a touch of mourning in their voices, but
with calm satisfaction underneath. For a feast was a feast, and this
looked like being one of the grandest.--“Bless me, what a coffin!” they
heard a woman say.--“Ay, you’d hardly flinch if you could get the like
of that,” replied another.--“No, and such fine weather too, both on sea
and land.”--“Oh ay, that Per Anders Juvika, he was always in luck, he
was.”--“Yes, and just think: they’d been distilling too this year; and
that was such a rare thing with them.”
And they tasted what had been distilled and found it was good. Nobody
drank hard; they were decent folk; but it kept the talk going, and that
was a relief, and it made them kindly and good-humoured. The people of
the house passed in and out and sunned themselves in it; they had not
known such a cheerful air about the place for a long time.
And it was the same on the day of the funeral itself: it passed off
calmly and quietly, the weather was bright, and there was a deep warmth
in the crowd of people. They had a tear in their eyes, many of them,
and they left it for the sun and the clear air to take away. Not a
thing took place but what was fitting. It was only Valborg who sobbed
once or twice; a strangely sharp, dry sobbing, it looked as if it
broke her back. But she straightened herself again at once.
Per wondered at the folk. There was such solemnity about them, in every
little thing; and most of all about the bearers. They walked and they
stood as if they’d had a parson’s training. _They_ knew how it should
be. He had never known them till now, had only seen them in their
everyday life, and then they were rough and ragged as the grey earth
itself; but now they turned a face to him that had in it the power of
the church and the church-bell, he thought.
Jens bit his lip as he walked. “Lord love me, aren’t they all dressed
up!” he whispered to another young fellow. He was no doubt a bit primed
already. Just as they were putting the trestles under the coffin out
in the farm-yard, he burst out with a laugh: “Ha ha ha! have we got to
have more ceremonies?”
Not one of them took any notice of him, and that seemed to take the
bite out of him. Per turned red as fire.
On the way down to the beach he came close up to Jens and muttered:
“You look as if you’d come on a nail in your porridge, seems to
me.”--“Look the image of shame, don’t I?” Jens smiled. “Shame that’s
had its head bitten off.”
Per passed his hand over his eyes. It hurt him to listen to such talk
now.
He did the same when the bell began to toll. Time after time he drew in
his breath between his teeth, as one does when touched on an open wound.
Ola Engdal saw it; he had his eye on Per. He was watching him on the
way home too.--He came up to him later in the evening, and his voice
was low and cautious, with a ring in it: “Oh ay, you’re right there,
lad. A man like that leaves a blank behind. That’s bound to be.”--“But
that they should toll the bell for a Juviking?” said Per; he had
such a mind to say something. “For they’ve been heathens here, every
one of them, all their days--they say it’s a long way to church from
Juvik, don’t they?” Ola looked him up and down.--“One thing’s sure
anyway: that you’re no Juviking.”--“No?” it sounded as if Per was glad
of it. Ola left him, and Per repeated to himself: “One thing’s sure
anyway--ay. So now you’re rid of _that_ load, my boy!”
He went up to Ola again, later in the night; there was something he
wanted to say. But Ola was talking to another and didn’t listen to him,
any more than they listened to Jens that day.
But now they had to listen to Jens all the same. Folk were just
thinking of going to bed; they were out in the yard, the whole party
almost, young and old together, looking at the stars and the fine
weather, chatting away quite cheerfully. Then they saw Jens standing in
the doorway with a naked candle in his hand, he raised it on high and
lighted them up; his face was white and his eyes were glassy.
“Do you want to know where to look for the world?” he shouted. “You’re
to look for it in evil!”
In an instant Aasel was there, and she hustled him in backwards. He
struggled against her, but it was no good, he had too big a load, and
besides she was helped by Valborg; they got him into the closet, and
there he had to fall over the bed and go to sleep.
But on the whole they saw little of Valborg at that funeral ale. She
felt such an utter stranger in the place now.
The guests did not leave till late next day. They took a long time
going round and saying good-bye to one another before they set out.
They all said it had been a grand funeral. “_He’s_ been handsomely done
by,” they said. “And those that are left won’t starve either.”
3
Grey, sightless days. Winter had begun in earnest, and now there was no
end to it.
A house is never so empty and dull as after a big feast. And at Juvik
they went about feeling quite downhearted, for there had always been
life and bustle about the house, it had never been dreary. Now it had
come to a standstill, house and folk and everything, it had all lost
its voice; now one could hear all kinds of things ugly and bad.--It
seemed as if the men couldn’t even settle properly to any work. They
finished the threshing, and then hung about in the yard; Per was in the
smithy time and again, but got nothing done, and Jens made one or two
pairs of shoes in the evenings, for the womenfolk--there was more sport
in taking their measure, he said; but you couldn’t call that work.
“But just you wait till we get summer,” they said. And the womenfolk
repeated it. For it couldn’t last till Whitsuntide, even this winter?
“Ah, they’re lucky ones that’ll live to see summer,” said Ane. She
often sat reading her hymn-book, and Beret had moved down to the closet
with her as soon as her father was dead.--“Not that I put any faith in
that about the corpse-straw,” said Ane. “Per Anders never believed in
such things--and it didn’t blow on the house more than a moment either.”
“No, Per Anders never believed in such things,” said the others.
She talked about it more and more. And that about the corpse not
growing stiff--he stiffened pretty quick, so _she’d_ thought? And the
crow? Nothing but old superstitions; ask Per Anders.
Beret said nothing. One day Valborg had beaten Anders, her elder boy.
Beret patted her on the shoulder: “You’re a lucky one, to have somebody
to beat. If it was only a dog!” Valborg gave a shudder; she always did
when _those_ fingers touched her. But she smiled and understood.
But one evening as they sat at supper Beret jumped up from the table:
“Hush! Wasn’t that somebody calling for me?”
Jens laughed at her, and so did the others. So she had somebody waiting
outside for her, had she?
She sat down again, at the end of the table, took up her porridge spoon
and began to eat, but her eyes were elsewhere. The dairymaid, who sat
beside her, could not help staring at her, she was not like herself.
Now she looked round the table again: Didn’t they hear it this time
either?--They had heard nothing.
“Wait till it calls the third time--_then_ you’d better look out,” Jens
warned her.
No sooner had he said it than there was a call outside, and now there
was no mistake: it called _Beret_, and she hurried out. “If only
somebody hasn’t fallen into the well!” she said. Some of them thought
they had heard the cry, others said it was a cat outside the house.
“Ah, if only it wasn’t somebody fallen into the well,” said Valborg,
and she got up to go out.--“Yes, and what’s become of the girl?”
said Per, following her. For the well was a terrible great hole in
winter-time, with ice all round it so that you couldn’t go near, and
it lay in the middle of the yard; and deep as the pit. Never could the
men be got to hack away the ice, Valborg had been at them often enough
about it, she thought.
The ones who had gone out didn’t come back, and so the others laid down
their spoons too, they had to go and see what was happening.
It was still half light out of doors, a grey evening with black hills;
the northern sky was flushed with coming wind.
Per and Valborg were standing by the well; Beret had fallen in, and
they were just drawing her up. She was stiff already. Per and Valborg
carried her in and laid her on the bed; Jens followed and wanted to
help, but they had no use for him--he brought in one of her shoes.
“_She’s_ stiff enough anyway,” he said, as they were trying to bring
her back to life.
“Oh ay, oh ay,” said Ane, when at last she could say something. “But
that _she_ should be the one that was to go first!”
Jens turned round--he was feeling for something behind the clock--he
turned his whole ugly fleering face upon her, as if he had found
something curious behind there:
“Ay, one may be glad it--”
Ane drew her finger under her nose, she didn’t quite catch this. Per
looked black and stern.--
They laid Beret on straw in the old house, and then there was another
funeral ale to be got ready. They said one to another that she lay with
a smile on her face, did Beret; as if she wanted to say that now she
was out of the road anyway.
Ane brightened up remarkably after this. It was just as if she had
taken a new lease of life. Time after time she came forward and tried
to take the housekeeping out of Valborg’s hands; but she made no
trouble when it didn’t work.
Valborg was the one they couldn’t make out. She said so little. If
she talked at all it was usually of Per Anders--grandfather, as she
called him. He was the one who had brought her here, to be mistress of
Juvik, and he was the one she had confided in; now she was alone, but
one didn’t let oneself be pushed out of doors for all that. She worked
enough for two, at whatever she was doing; and she had her two little
lads besides, a pair of boisterous young wolves, and carried the third
under her apron, seemingly.
At Beret’s funeral an unpleasant thing happened. Ane got drunk. She
was all over the place, pushing her way in among the guests, as jolly
as could be. At last she went up to the host and wanted to drink his
health in a mug of beer.--“It might have been much worse,” she said.
“It might have been much worse. For Beret, she was never too sound. No,
you see, the death smoke blew this way, when we burnt after Per Anders:
it was plain enough there was another to come.”
Aasel tried to get her to bed, but it was no use.--“Go to bed yourself,
child; you’re tired, I can see that,” she answered. “Beret, poor thing,
she ran out and routed in the fire, but what then--? No, child, if one
isn’t fey, then there’s nothing to fear; I shall only be seventy come
summer. So I didn’t think it was time yet.--No, Beret--there was such a
big star blazing right above us that evening we carried her in--_she_
wasn’t long on the way up. We didn’t even toll the bell for her.”
Ane’s eyes were watery; folk had never seen them before, they were
small and round and not used to looking one in the face. She drew her
finger under her nose and laughed:
“And there’s still four of them to share among; that’s more than
enough.”...
It was about three weeks later, and then they burnt the corpse-straw
after Ane too. It was blowing a gale off the land, so there was no
trouble about the smoke this time; it had to leave the house alone.
She fell flat on the kitchen floor and lay there moaning. They carried
her to bed, and there she lay sighing and groaning, till it was all
over. One of her hips seemed to be out, but she had ruptured herself
inside, and that was the death of her.
It was a gruesome end. She was so frightened. All at once she would
start up: there was a call for her outside, didn’t they hear it? There,
it was knocking, didn’t they hear that? Why didn’t they go out and
drive the devils away! Her eyes were wild with terror, she dared not be
alone an instant. Now and again she lost consciousness, but then she
came to again and there was the same horror.
Aasel came and saw to her. She just went home and did what had to be
done, then came back and stayed with her till it was all over. Her two
smallest she brought with her.
When she bent over her and spoke of the one thing needful, her mother
generally grew calmer.
“Now you must keep quiet, mother, and lie still and go to sleep!” she
said at last, one night. “It’s only father standing there waiting for
you.”
Then she smiled like a little child, quite unlike herself; so she
must have looked when she was small, or that time Per Anders came and
fetched her; her face resolved itself in a tiny childish piping:
“Ah ha ha! And I do believe it, I do!”
And when her struggles were over, towards dawn the same night, and
Aasel alone stood over her, she stretched out her hand and groped in
the air:
“What’s become of you, Per Anders? Wait a bit, you’re always in such a
hurry!”