creek. It appeared he had fallen off the bridge. They had found his jacket, and Aron of Nybacken had dragged the pool, but his body had not yet been recovered. Strangely enough, a maid from Nybacken had drowned in the same pool a few years ago.
The farmer also knew that the drowned servant was son to Nils in Korpamoen. He was only recently confirmed. As a child he had been somewhat peculiar: he would run away from home, and his parents had been forced to hang a cowbell around his neck to locate him.
A young person’s sudden death—a horrible occurrence, the farmer sighed. He added that fortunately the victim was old enough to have received the Lord’s Holy Supper, so one might hope he was now with his Saviour in eternal bliss.
The last bite of bread stuck in Robert’s windpipe; he coughed for a moment: the same man who had given him the bread believed he deserved a blissful heaven. He was a kind man, he must be thanked sometime.
Here at the mill Robert felt he might be recognized any moment; he must remain here no longer.
He knew in which direction he must go: he wanted to reach Karlshamn, the town by the sea; he must reach the sea.
He intended to ask if perchance any one of the peasants came from the southern part of the parish; perhaps he could get a ride part of the way. But just as he opened his mouth to ask, the miller himself came into the room, covered from head to foot with white flour dust. He seemed to be looking for someone; he eyed Robert sharply.
“Are you Nils of Korpamoen’s son?”
As he looked closer he added: “You’re barefooted, and you haven’t any jacket. You must be the one.”
It was too late to ask for a ride.
“Your master is here. He heard about you from the other farmers.”
Up the steps into the mill room came a big man with thick, fox-red hair covering his forehead. His cheeks were smooth and shone as if greased with pork fat, and he had small, piercing eyes. It was Aron of Nybacken.
Robert crawled backwards into his corner.
Aron smiled with a broad grin as he espied the lost farmhand.
“Well, well, if it isn’t my boy, that little helper of mine!”
And he extended his hands toward Robert, a pair of hands covered with long, coarse, red hair. They were heavy and rough as gnarled birch clubs, they were the biggest hands Robert had ever seen. And they were fastened to a pair of powerful arms, the arms of Aron of Nybacken; they hung from the man who was his master.
Robert tried to pull himself into his shirt, into his trousers, he wanted to become small, so small that the master could not get hold of him, could not see him.
But Aron sounded very kind now, his voice was mild and soft as sweet cream: “Too bad you lost your way! My little boy, you didn’t find Nybacken this morning—now I’ll show you the way. Outside the coach awaits you.”
And he stretched out his big hand and grabbed the boy by the shoulder.
“Pick up your bundles and come.”
Robert walked out of the mill room followed by the farmer. He was hired according to law, he was bound to the man who had the biggest hands he had ever seen.
Outside the mill stood the horse and wagon from Nybacken, and here the master and the hired hand were alone. Aron got a good hold of Robert’s ear, while his broad smile vanished: So-o, the little farmhand was of that sort of wool! So, he wanted to run away, did he! And he had tried to make people believe he had drowned! And had caused his master great trouble—the whole morning had been spent in dragging for the lost farmhand! Now, in the midst of the most pressing time of spring! So he was of that ugly breed that wanted to leave his service before he began it! Was it in this way that the little hired man honored his father and mother and revered and obeyed his masters? His poor parents had today mourned him as drowned and dead, tomorrow they would be ashamed of him as living. He was confirmed and grown, but he couldn’t walk a mile from home without
The farmer also knew that the drowned servant was son to Nils in Korpamoen. He was only recently confirmed. As a child he had been somewhat peculiar: he would run away from home, and his parents had been forced to hang a cowbell around his neck to locate him.
A young person’s sudden death—a horrible occurrence, the farmer sighed. He added that fortunately the victim was old enough to have received the Lord’s Holy Supper, so one might hope he was now with his Saviour in eternal bliss.
The last bite of bread stuck in Robert’s windpipe; he coughed for a moment: the same man who had given him the bread believed he deserved a blissful heaven. He was a kind man, he must be thanked sometime.
Here at the mill Robert felt he might be recognized any moment; he must remain here no longer.
He knew in which direction he must go: he wanted to reach Karlshamn, the town by the sea; he must reach the sea.
He intended to ask if perchance any one of the peasants came from the southern part of the parish; perhaps he could get a ride part of the way. But just as he opened his mouth to ask, the miller himself came into the room, covered from head to foot with white flour dust. He seemed to be looking for someone; he eyed Robert sharply.
“Are you Nils of Korpamoen’s son?”
As he looked closer he added: “You’re barefooted, and you haven’t any jacket. You must be the one.”
It was too late to ask for a ride.
“Your master is here. He heard about you from the other farmers.”
Up the steps into the mill room came a big man with thick, fox-red hair covering his forehead. His cheeks were smooth and shone as if greased with pork fat, and he had small, piercing eyes. It was Aron of Nybacken.
Robert crawled backwards into his corner.
Aron smiled with a broad grin as he espied the lost farmhand.
“Well, well, if it isn’t my boy, that little helper of mine!”
And he extended his hands toward Robert, a pair of hands covered with long, coarse, red hair. They were heavy and rough as gnarled birch clubs, they were the biggest hands Robert had ever seen. And they were fastened to a pair of powerful arms, the arms of Aron of Nybacken; they hung from the man who was his master.
Robert tried to pull himself into his shirt, into his trousers, he wanted to become small, so small that the master could not get hold of him, could not see him.
But Aron sounded very kind now, his voice was mild and soft as sweet cream: “Too bad you lost your way! My little boy, you didn’t find Nybacken this morning—now I’ll show you the way. Outside the coach awaits you.”
And he stretched out his big hand and grabbed the boy by the shoulder.
“Pick up your bundles and come.”
Robert walked out of the mill room followed by the farmer. He was hired according to law, he was bound to the man who had the biggest hands he had ever seen.
Outside the mill stood the horse and wagon from Nybacken, and here the master and the hired hand were alone. Aron got a good hold of Robert’s ear, while his broad smile vanished: So-o, the little farmhand was of that sort of wool! So, he wanted to run away, did he! And he had tried to make people believe he had drowned! And had caused his master great trouble—the whole morning had been spent in dragging for the lost farmhand! Now, in the midst of the most pressing time of spring! So he was of that ugly breed that wanted to leave his service before he began it! Was it in this way that the little hired man honored his father and mother and revered and obeyed his masters? His poor parents had today mourned him as drowned and dead, tomorrow they would be ashamed of him as living. He was confirmed and grown, but he couldn’t walk a mile from home without
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