Thus Valter learned that each one in this world must take care of himself. He must do the same.
The autumn evenings were bleak and lonely while Father was away for the yearly maneuvers. Mother was afraid of hobos who asked for shelter. She never opened the door to a stranger after dark. She always had Father’s jacket or pants on the line outside to give the impression that there was manfolk in the house. But while Father was away, thirteen-year-old Fredrik was the oldest manfolk in the cottage.
It was at the height of the lingonberry season. One afternoon Mother had gone into the woodlands with Fredrik, and to make sure the smaller children would not open for some stranger, she had locked the door and taken the key with her. Mother said she and Fredrik would pick only a gallon each at a certain moor and would be back before dark.
The three locked-in children—Anton, Gunnar, and Valter—huddled close together at the window looking down the road. It was already growing dark outside. The children pressed their noses against the windowpanes, waiting for Mother’s return. So they had been sitting many afternoons during these gray, monotonous autumn days. As twilight fell, Mother would return. Inside, it was almost dark already, for they were forbidden to light the lamp; they were not allowed to touch matches. Nor were they permitted fire in the stove while alone—Mother was that afraid of fire.
Valter pressed his lips against the cool, hard pane; his breath warmed it. They had nothing to do but sit and look out. Valter and Gunnar had occupied themselves for a while in counting the freckles on each other’s noses, but now they were through with this. Valter was quite freckly, but they had now found out that Gunnar had forty-three more than his brother on his nose alone. Anton, to the envy of the others, had no freckles at all.
Valter sat at the window and observed the blue mantle of night draw closer, the forest’s black wall creep nearer the cottage. Wasn’t someone approaching? Was it Mother and Fredrik? Someone was calling, anyway, loudly and persistently—now plaintively, now shrilly. Anton said it must be a crane on the moor. Valter’s eyes peered through the window, but he could see no one near the moor.
Everything changed with twilight. The gate seemed to flow together with the barn. The gooseberry bushes crouched until you hardly saw them, the top of the pear tree bent its head. And someone was moving in the road; a figure took shape and stepped cautiously through the darkening dusk.
It was a man. Valter saw him first, a huge man, almost as tall as Father. He wore a fur cap, and he stopped at the gate, apparently headed for the cottage. Or would he walk by? Then he opened the gate, and Valter could see that he pulled a cart behind him; with bent body and slow steps he pulled the cart toward the stoop.
“There’s a man coming!” Valter warned his brothers.
Anton and Gunnar took one look through the window, but quickly turned away in fright. How fortunate that the door was locked and that no one except Mother could unlock it, they comforted each other.
But Valter remained at his lookout post. His eyes could not leave the figure in the yard. The man was dressed in a long, black coat that hung all the way to the knees, and his face was all covered with beard, the part Valter could see below the fur cap. On the cart lay a big sack; it must be very heavy, the way the man stooped as he dragged the cart behind him. What might he have in the sack? Now he had reached the pear tree; he stopped and straightened his back and looked toward the cottage. However scared Valter was, he could not leave the window; it was not only fear that he felt; he caught himself wishing that the man would come in.
Anton and Gunnar dared not look out, but Valter told them what he saw.
The stranger struggled on with his heavy cart; it must be an awfully heavy sack, and Valter wondered about it. Now the man had reached the stoop. He looked toward the window with a horrible bearded grin; he leaned the cart handles against the stoop and began to unload the sack.
“He’s coming up on the stoop!”
Anton and Gunnar held on to each other back in the corner, but Valter followed every movement of the man. Particularly the sack—what could he have in the sack? The man put it down on the stoop, panting noisily. Valter could now observe him more closely—a red beard, a crooked nose, lardy eyes. He was looking toward the window, where he had discovered Valter. He made ready to knock.
Valter kept his brothers informed about the man’s smallest activity; they felt far from secure even though the door was locked. Gunnar suggested that one of them should go to the door and tell the man that no one was home, but Anton thought this silly, as it wouldn’t help if the man were dangerous.
Valter was concerned with the stranger’s sack—what could he have in the sack?
He remained at the window, following every move the man made. Now the man was knocking lightly on the door. Gunnar and Anton listened, but could not hear back in the corner.
“He’s opening the sack!”
The man was fumbling with the sack’s long strings, and now they were loose and the sack was open. Valter craned his neck; he must know what was in the sack.
The man stooped and put his hand in the sack. He pulled out something which he held up for Valter to see as he nodded and grinned. And Valter had already guessed what it was—a child’s head!
He yelled to his brothers: “The man took a child’s head from the sack! Just cut off!”
Anton yelled at the top of his voice and scampered to the darkest corner behind the stove. Gunnar crawled under the bed, so afraid he dared not let out a sound. But Valter remained in the window, watching the man with the child’s head in his hand. It was the head of a small girl, with long flaxen braids and wide-open eyes. Valter thought it strange that the eyes should be open. He tried to look into the sack’s mouth—it must be full of children’s heads. But he was glued to the window, he must follow everything that took place outside, the man, the sack, the cart.
Now the man was knocking again; perhaps he was trying to break down the door.
And someone was indeed coming in. But Valter sat quite calmly on his bench at the window and waited for the caller. He was not in the least afraid as they heard steps in the entrance hall. A moment passed, then the door opened. But the man with the sack never came in; instead, Mother and Fredrik entered, their baskets full of lingon from the moor.
Two of the little boys crept forth from their respective hiding-places, crying, trembling with fear. But the third and youngest one remained calmly on his bench at the window, without the slightest sign of concern.
What had happened here at home? Had someone tried to break in while the children were alone? What had frightened the two boys out of their senses?
Anton and Gunnar told the mother between sobs: A horrible man had come with a cart and a sack, and the sack was full of children’s heads that had just been cut off.
But the mother would not believe them. She questioned each of the boys in turn: Who had seen the man with the cart? Not Anton. Nor Gunnar. Only Valter had seen him. He had been sitting at the window the whole time and had told the brothers about the man. Anton and Gunnar had been too afraid to look out of the window. Now they were ashamed of having been so scared.
“Why didn’t you look for yourselves?” asked the mother. “Must you big ones rely on the little one?”
“We didn’t think he was fooling us,” sobbed Anton.
“I did not fool you!” said Valter, hurt. “As truly as I live!”
“You’ve lied and scared your brothers!” said the mother.
“I have not lied!”
“You invented the whole thing!”
“No! I saw the man—as truly as I live!”
“You persist, little one?”
“Yes,