Unto a Good Land by Vilhelm Moberg

Author:Vilhelm Moberg [Moberg, Vilhelm]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Contemporary, Genre Fiction, Family Saga, Contemporary Fiction, Literary
ISBN: 9780873517140
Amazon: B002J05IME
Publisher: Minnesota Historical Society Press
Published: 2009-06-28T16:00:00+00:00

—4—

They had reached Taylors Falls; they were only a short distance from Anders Månsson’s home.

He told them he had been out with his two neighbors to shoot some rabbits for supper. And now they also heard the explanation for the strange behavior of the woman and the other two hunters: The settlers here were afraid of cholera, and all newcomers were met and questioned before they were allowed to enter the settlement. If anyone arrived from a contaminated region he was put into a shed near the falls where he was fumigated with sulphur and tar for a few days before he was let out. Weak people could not stand the ordeal of being smoked like hams, some only lasted a day before fainting. But it was a fact that in this manner they had so far avoided the sickness in Taylors Falls.

Fina-Kajsa pointed out to the group what might have happened to them if she hadn’t been along to recognize Anders. And turning to her son she asked: “But what kind of sickness ails you? Your face blooms like a red rose!”

“It’s the heat, Mother.”

Anders Månsson greatly resembled his father, whom they all remembered from the beginning of their journey, and whom they had helped bury in the North Sea. Anders was a thickset man with broad, somewhat stooping shoulders. He was almost bald, his complexion was red, his nut-brown eyes restless, avoiding a direct look at them. At first he had looked threatening, but now they discovered he was shy to a fault.

Twilight was upon them, they had arrived none too soon. They walked down a slope, through a grove of green trees, and arrived at a level, low-lying piece of ground. They could see water, a lagoon or small tarn, bordered by tall grass. Near the water was tilled ground, they saw a yellowed stubble field with some rye shocks. These were Anders Månsson’s fields which he himself had cleared. By now it was too dark to see how far the fields extended. A cabin stood in the flat meadow, with a few lindens and elms around it. There were other cabins across the rye field.

Anders Månsson approached the small cabin of roughly hewn logs; it was situated like a hay barn in the meadow.

“So this is your hay shed,” said Fina-Kajsa.

“Hay shed?” the son repeated, as if not remembering what the Swedish word meant.

Anders opened the door, and Fina-Kajsa stuck in her head to inspect the hay crop in her son’s shed.

“Did you get much hay this summer?” she asked. She couldn’t see any hay at all, but in the dim light she espied pieces of furniture; clothing and tools hung on pegs around the walls: “You keep your hay shed empty!”

“Yes—no—You see, Mother, I have no hay in this house—”

“Do you have people living in the barn?”

“I live here myself.”

“Isn’t this your hay barn?”

“No, Mother. It is my house.”

“But why do you live in the barn? Where’s your main house?”

“I have built this cabin for my own use.

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