Now it was as coal-dark as it could get. Valter started to run. Not because he was afraid, but he would get home sooner if he ran. He was just passing the Stallion Moor where will-o’-the-wisps and trolls were supposed to run about with their lights after dark. He didn’t look in that direction, he didn’t need any light. At the edge of the moor lay Stallion-Daniel’s cottage, now long deserted. When Daniel died and was buried, he had taken all his money with him in the coffin; he kept his money in a bag that he had tied around his chest. His relatives missed the money and dug up the coffin in the churchyard. They found a huge snake coiled on the chest of the corpse, and the coffin was lowered again without anyone daring to touch the snake or the moneybag. Daniel still lay in the churchyard with the snake and the bag on his chest, and here stood his empty cabin, which Valter must pass.
The snake on Stallion-Daniel’s chest was said to be as thick as a man’s thigh; Valter ran a little faster.
Then rose a shriek between the trees, from the right side of the road, from Stallion-Daniel’s desolate cabin. It sounded like a human cry, like a person being slowly choked to death. It could come from someone being choked by a thick, enormous snake. Valter had heard the same cry before when passing this cottage; he took longer jumps in his single wooden shoe.
The shriek at Stallion-Daniel’s old house was well known. Once, when he heard it in daytime, Valter had gone closer to see what it might be. He found two young firs, grown so closely together that when the wind moved them back and forth, an eerie, complaining sound was caused by the friction of their trunks. He wasn’t afraid of a tree that cried. There was a wind tonight and the firs were crying, of course. It might be something else, but he wasn’t going to investigate tonight. Moreover, it was too dark to find the trees.
Now he must be near Potter-Isak’s place. Part of the chimney and a pile of stones with nettles were all that was left. Potter-Isak had practiced witchery with human bones, and one of his feet had been a horse’s foot. Isak had worn an iron horseshoe on that foot. Potter-Isak had been dead a long time when Valter was born; he wished he could have seen the man with a horse’s foot. Potter-Isak must have been the only one who didn’t wear wooden shoes on both his feet. But, then, he had been a witch man.
Now Valter had reached the road that led to the soldier-cottage in Hellasjö. Mr. Hellström lived there; he was a corporal and bailiff, and had a long black beard. Little Bäck from Bäckhult was the shortest soldier. All the soldiers came to Father’s Christmas party: Godfather Banda, the fat Nero from Bökevara, Flink from Sutaremåla—he got drunk and sang songs—Lönn from Hermanstorp, the tallest soldier except for Father, Tilly from Grimmanäs. They were Father’s buddies from the other villages. Mother prepared a feast for them, Father bought a can of anchovies, and brännvin was poured from a keg and drunk. The soldiers ate and drank and made much noise, and Valter would sit hidden behind one of them to listen. He didn’t understand all they said, and he heard that he was not supposed to understand. The soldiers were foul-mouthed, Mother used to say. But Valter liked to know the truth in all matters. He would not go to bed as long as the soldiers remained, but sat hidden and listened and learned. At last he would go to sleep in a corner with his clothes on.
From the soldiers he learned each Christmas a few more swear words, which he practiced while alone. He could practice also while Gunnar listened, for Gunnar did not tell on him. But Gunnar didn’t know nearly so many swear words as Valter, even though he was older and the best in his class according to the teacher’s report to Mother.
Valter wanted to become a soldier, too. If he didn’t go to America, he would be a soldier.
But soldiering would be abolished, Father had said. No more young men were accepted. Valter was deeply disappointed.
“But you can be a volunteer,” said Father. “You can volunteer for three years.”
Volunteer—that sounded almost better than soldier.
“Can I have my own gun?”
Of course he could have his own gun if he volunteered, said Father. The volunteers had the same kind of guns as the soldiers, model ‘96, the same gun which hung on the wall and which Valter was not allowed to touch. Exactly the same, with a yellow sling.
He would be a soldier, with his own gun to fight with, but his name would be Volunteer Valter Sträng. This was something to think about for a long time.
Now his right stocking was dripping-wet and his foot felt terribly cold. Valter had reached Carpenter-Elof’s cottage, and he slowed down—he had run so fast he had a pain in his chest; he panted and his stomach jumped out and in. Carpenter-Elof’s cottage was not deserted and empty. Elof was a religious man, respected by all. He was sent for when someone was to die and needed comfort. Carpenter-Elof helped people die, because this was very difficult.
D-i-e. Valter tried the word. It could be pulled out as much as one wished, into eternity. But: Dea-th. Death—that word could not be pulled out. It ended inexorably on the last letter. One hit a wall, and then it became silent and over and done with: Dea-th. Strange how that last letter stopped and one couldn’t do a thing with it. One’s tongue seemed to be locked in the mouth after the word Death.
Carpenter-Elof was a God-fearing man who could help one get by death.
Valter walked by his cottage slowly. Elof never swore. And no one swore in his presence. Valter decided not to swear any more while walking homeward.
He made a jump backward, a yell froze in his throat. In the dim light he saw a wild beast rise from the edge of the road, its long limbs and claws flailing the air. Our Father Who art in Heaven! This was like dying, as he thought dying must be like … Then he remembered the fallen tree with its roots stretching skyward. He started running again.
Now there was only Miller-Kalle’s cottage left before he reached home. The miller was the laziest man in the parish. He wouldn’t do anything except make children, people said. He had seven in school, one in each class. Altogether, he had eleven. That’s what happened when the father was lazy. And the miller’s family had lice. Laziness was punished with vermin, Mother said. The greatest shame there was, to have lice. The only thing one got in life without effort. Father and Mother were not anxious to visit at Kalle’s. The children in that cottage would scratch and twist their bodies from itching. They were skinny and miserable and coughed, and two had died from consumption. But their lice were fat and could make bigger and redder bites than any other lice hereabouts. If Father had some errand at Kalle’s, he would take off his shirt on the stoop when returning and examine it carefully before he came inside. No vermin was allowed at the soldier’s. No matter how poor, one could afford to keep free of vermin, Father said.
The biggest lice had the ace of spades on their backs. Valter had not seen them, but he had seen how big the ace of spades was. Banda’s Edvin had an old deck of cards which his brother Valfrid had given him, and Flink’s Ossian at Sutaremåla also had a deck. Valter would like to learn to play cards. Then he could play when he became a volunteer and had his own Crown gun to fight with.
Father served and defended King Oscar and the Crown. The King and the Crown belonged together and owned everything between them. The crown that sat on top of King Oscar’s head owned practically all of Sweden. But the King didn’t use the crown every day—Father had seen the King at a maneuver and then he wore a cap. He had left his crown at home, perhaps he was afraid of losing it. The great gold crown that Oscar wore at home when he sat on the silver throne, that crown owned the gun on their wall, as well as Father’s rucksack, his coat, his pants, everything. The crown was richer than anyone else, Father said.
It was so dark in the forest that Valter really should have been afraid. And the closer he got to home, the more afraid he grew; on one foot he had a cracked wooden shoe, on the other his stocking; it was Janne-Shoemaker’s fault, he made such poor shoes that they cracked for almost no reason at all.
Now he saw the light between the pines, the yellow light from a coal-oil lamp in a little cottage in the forest. It was a small tin lamp, but it spread a warm and friendly light. No longer did Valter’s wet foot