But now that she wanted to show it to Pelle, she couldn’t find it. But Bosun could! First of all he had thought that Tjorven and Pelle were on their way to their secret hut, but as soon as he understood what it was that Tjorven was really hunting for, he looked at her as if he wanted to say, “Silly little Bumble. Why didn’t you ask me first?” And then he led them straight to the lair, right at the end of the field, as well hidden as any fox could wish in a heap of stones.
Pelle shivered with excitement. Down there in the dark passages was a fox. What did it matter if you could not see him when you knew that he was there, with his red coat and his long tail and his shining eyes! That was enough for Pelle.
They went to their secret hut too, as they were not in a hurry. It had been built as a protest against Teddy and Freddy and Johan and Niklas, the secret four. They had a secret hut somewhere and they had said that no one in the world who did not belong to their club would ever know where it was. Tjorven and Pelle had immediately suggested that they should join the club, but that was not allowed either, because they were too small, said Teddy, and the secret hut was far away on another island, a secret desert island, and no one was allowed to go there unless they were twelve years old or over. That was in the rules, said Teddy. Every morning for a couple of weeks, the secret four had taken a boat and rowed energetically away, while Tjorven and Pelle and Stina stood on the jetty, feeling very small indeed.
“We aren’t too small,” said Tjorven. “We’ll make our own secret hut.”
And they had built one in Jansson’s cow field. Even Stina had been allowed to help.
But two days later while they were sitting there being secret, Niklas had come and stuck his nose in. It was a lovely hut, he said, and very secret—although it could be seen every time anyone went to get the milk.
He had laughed a little and without meaning to had made their hut seem rather worthless, just a couple of boards and an old rug, where it was no fun to be at all.
But on this day there was no end to their enjoyment, for when they at last reached the farm, Farmer Jansson was just going to take a couple of his cows over to Great Island.
Pelle went quite wild when he saw the cows and without thinking dumped the milk bottles in front of the farmhouse door.
“Oh, Uncle Jansson, can we come with you?” he cried.
He had never seen a cow ferry before in his life and he had never seen cows on a boat either. It was only on Seacrow Island that wonderful things like that happened. Tjorven had the feeling that she more or less owned the island and so it was thanks to her that there were fox’s lairs and cow ferries. So she begged Uncle Jansson too, for she thought it would be a good thing to give Pelle a little extra pleasure when all it meant was being together with a couple of cows. Farmer Jansson was rather dubious, as he thought Bosun would take up about as much room as half a cow, but Tjorven assured him that Bosun could make himself so flat that he would take up no room at all, and then she led Pelle in triumph to the cow ferry.
There was not much room, in fact, and Pelle had a cow right against his face, but he thought it was very comfortable. He patted her damp muzzle and she licked his fingers with her rough tongue. Pelle laughed and looked blissfully happy.
“I would like to have a cow,” he said. “I would like this one. Her eyes are so loyal.”
Tjorven shrugged her shoulders. “All cows look the same,” she said.
Pelle never had a cow, either on that day or on any other day. But something quite fairytale-like happened to him. It began on the island, close by a rabbit hutch and a fisherman’s cottage. By that rabbit hutch stood Knut Österman, a redheaded, thirteen-year-old boy, a friend of Tjorven, and the happy owner of three white rabbits, the sight of which excited Pelle so much that he could hardly speak.
“The ferry will be going back to Seacrow Island in an hour,” said Farmer Jansson, before he let Tjorven and Pelle loose on the island. “If you aren’t on the jetty when I come, you’ll have to swim home.”
“Don’t worry,” said Tjorven, and then she took Pelle with her to see Knut Österman, the owner of the rabbits. Pelle thought him the luckiest boy in the world.
“How about yourself?” said Knut, when Pelle had stood for a long time, worshipping the rabbits. “Rollo, on Little Ash Island, has some rabbits for sale.”
From what Knut said, it seemed the simplest thing in the world to buy rabbits whenever one felt inclined. Pelle drew a deep breath. Could you really buy a rabbit as easily as all that? What would Daddy say, and what would Malin say? And then where could he keep his rabbit? Thoughts rushed through his head, but then he suddenly remembered something and the light in his eyes faded just as quickly as it had been kindled. “I haven’t any money.”
“Yes, you have,” said Tjorven. “The ice cream money—and if I tell Rollo on Little Ash Island that it’s enough, it will be enough.”
“But—but—” stammered Pelle.
“Take our boat,” said Knut. “You can row there in five minutes.”
But that was something they were not allowed to do. Neither Pelle nor Tjorven was allowed to go out in a boat alone.
“Only five minutes!” said Tjorven. “That’s almost nothing!”
She arranged everything. Pelle was paralyzed and could raise no objection. She dragged him to Knut’s boat and before Pelle knew exactly what was happening, she had rowed him over the narrow channel to Little Ash Island and introduced him to Rollo as a prospective buyer of rabbits.
And there were rabbits—long rows of rabbit hutches behind Rollo’s house were filled with black, white, gray and spotted rabbits of all sizes. Pelle pressed his nose against the wire netting and smelled the wonderful smell of rabbit, hay, and dandelion leaves. He stood in front of every single cage and looked into the eyes of every single rabbit. But in one cage sat a lonely little white-and-brown rabbit, eating his dandelion leaves energetically.
“That one,” said Pelle. And that was all he said. He just looked at the rabbit and wondered how it would feel to hold it.
“He’s the ugliest of the whole lot,” said Tjorven.
Pelle looked tenderly at the little brown-spotted creature.
“Is he? But his eyes are so kind,” he added.
Rollo was an old bachelor, who lived alone on his island and made his living by fishing and rabbit breeding. Once a week he went over to Grankvist’s shop and bought his coffee and whatever else he needed, so he had no more been able to avoid Tjorven than anyone else in the islands.
Now she stood there in front of him with Pelle’s money in her hand. “You can have all this for that one,” she said, and pointed at the brown-and-white rabbit. “Yes or no?”
“Oh, all right,” said Rollo uncertainly in the face of such a shameless piece of bargaining.
Then Tjorven pressed the money into his hand. “Thank you. I knew you would.”
She quickly opened the rabbit hutch, pulled out the rabbit and put it into Pelle’s arms. “There you are!”
Rollo laughed.
“You can do business all right, young Tjorven. But you wait until I go to buy my coffee next week!”
Pelle held the rabbit. He shut his eyes and felt how soft it was. And suddenly, almost as if it hurt, came the realization that this incredible happiness was his. This was the most wonderful thing that could happen to anyone, and it had happened to him!
“Yes, that one will make a good stew when he’s a bit older,” said Rollo.
Pelle turned pale. “He will never be a stew—never!” he said violently.
“What do you want him for then?” asked Rollo.
Pelle pressed the rabbit close. “For my own! I’m going to have him for my own!”
Rollo was not hardhearted. He agreed that you could keep a rabbit for that reason too, although he himself had never thought of it. He thought it nice to see a boy so happy just because he had a scrawny little rabbit, and he became quite excited himself. He found a wooden box for Pelle to put the rabbit in, and went wi
th him down to the jetty where Tjorven was already sitting at the oars.
“It’s very warm today,” said Rollo, wiping the perspiration from his forehead. “You’re lucky, Tjorven, that you haven’t got far to row.”
Tjorven looked knowingly at the clouds that had gathered on the horizon behind Little Ash and said gloomily, “It’s going to thunder!”
Yes, it certainly was a good thing that they did not have far to row. She was as brave as anyone, but she had one weakness. She was afraid of thunder, although she did not like admitting it. And she had scarcely begun to row before she heard the first faint roll.
Pelle did not hear it. He was sitting in the boat with the wooden box on his knee, looking in through the netting at his rabbit. His very own rabbit. It would need very heavy thunder to rouse him. But just then came a really loud clap, which made him look up. He saw Tjorven sitting there, looking as if she were going to cry, and he asked in surprise, “Are you afraid of thunder?”
Tjorven fidgeted in her seat. “No,” she said, “not really—only sometimes—only when it’s thundering.”
“Oh, there’s nothing dangerous in it,” said Pelle, and felt proud that for once he was braver than Tjorven. Of course, he did not like sitting in a kitchen all night, listening to the thunder, but he was not afraid of it, although he was afraid of a good many other things.
“Teddy says it isn’t dangerous, too,” said Tjorven, “but when it’s thundering, I hear the thunder say, ‘I am dangerous’—and then I believe the thunder more than Teddy.”
Scarcely had she said this than there was another clap, which really did sound dangerous. Tjorven shrieked and put her hands over her face.
“Oh, look out! The oars!” said Pelle. “Look at the oars!”
So Tjorven did. She looked at the oars and they were floating quite quietly on the water, both of them, and were already several yards away from the boat.
Tjorven had lost oars many times before and that did not frighten her; but now there was thunder as well. She did not want to sit at sea in an open boat, unable to get to land. She started to shout for Rollo and Pelle helped her. They could still see him. He was going up the hill toward his rabbit hutches, but he did not turn when they shouted to him.
“Are you deaf?” shrieked Tjorven. Quite obviously he was. Soon he was out of sight.
Pelle wondered nervously if this was what was called a wreck and if he would have to die now, just when he had got a rabbit.
“Not if you go on sitting in the boat till she drifts ashore on Knorken,” said Tjorven.
Around Great Island and Little Ash Island the islets lay scattered as thickly as raisins in a fruit cake. One of them was called Knorken and anyone with any sense could see that they could not possibly be wrecked, as their boat had just decided to drift ashore there in a suitable little creek. Tjorven steered it in by splashing with the bailer.
They had just managed to pull the boat up on shore when the rain came. It was like a wall over the gray-blue water and was approaching quickly. In a few seconds it would be over them like a flood.
“Run,” said Tjorven and she led the way, running across the beach toward the sheltering trees behind. Pelle raced after her as quickly as he could with his rabbit hutch in his arms and with Bosun pushing him at the back of his knees to help.
Then came a shout from Tjorven. A shout of joy. “The hut,” she shouted. “We’ve found the hut!”
And they really had. There it was, the secret hut they had heard so much about all summer. There could not be a finer hut on any other island in any other archipelago anywhere. It was hidden between thick, leafy branches and was built almost like a real house. The walls had been made of tightly packed moss and branches and the roof was of moss—a hut ought to look just like that! And they could not have found it at a better time. For now the rain burst over the little island of Knorken. They sat in the hut and looked out between the branches at the rain whipping up the sea.
“And here we are, absolutely dry,” said Tjorven happily. “I’ll really have to thank Teddy and Freddy when I get home.”
“We will never get home,” said Pelle, and strangely enough he did not feel frightened as he said it. For sitting in this hut with the rain pouring down outside was even better than sitting in a boathouse. And besides he had a rabbit—that was enough to make up for everything. He opened the box and patted his rabbit.
“You’re not afraid, are you?” he said. “You needn’t be, because I’m here.”
Tjorven sat there, shining with contentment. It would be fun to get home and talk to Freddy and Teddy about the secret hut. She was really looking forward to that. And she was not at all afraid that they would have to stay on the island till they died. She was not afraid of anything any longer now that the thunder had stopped and the rain would soon stop too. You could play in this hut, thought Tjorven. You could pretend that you were shipwrecked and were thrown up on a desert island like that Robinson Crusoe Freddy had told her about. He must have had a hut just like this one. Pelle could be Friday. Who would be Robinson went without saying, but she meant to be a Robinson with a cosy little household, one who had strawberries for supper. She could see that the grass was thick with strawberries outside. If only Friday had been like ordinary people he could have taken Teddy’s old fishing rod, which was standing outside the hut, and gone down to the sea and landed a couple of perch. For when you’re shipwrecked you must eat the whole time, said Tjorven. But Pelle said he would rather die of hunger than torture any more worms today or any other day.
“Well, I suppose we will have to have just strawberries, then,” said Tjorven and went out in the wet grass.
Pelle took his rabbit with him and went down to the sea, not to fish but to try to get away from their shipwreck. He had found an old newspaper in the hut and if he stood on the shore and waved it as hard as he could then perhaps someone on Great Island would see it.
Pelle waved until his arms ached but it was no use. He was just as wrecked as before. He felt that by now it must be more than an hour and Uncle Jansson had most likely taken his cow ferry and gone back home to Seacrow Island. Probably he was angry, and they would all be very angry at home when they were told that Tjorven and Pelle had gone out to sea without permission and were lost.
It was a grim thought, but he had a rabbit and that made up for almost everything.
The water lapped, blue and glittering, for now the sun was shining again. Pelle sat down on a stone with his rabbit in his arms. Then he suddenly thought it would be a good idea to christen it.
“You can’t just be called ‘my rabbit.’ You must have a real name, you know.” He thought for a long time and then he dipped his hand in the sea and christened the rabbit.
“You shall be called Yoka, Yoka Melkerson.”
It felt even better to have a rabbit which had a name. Now it was not just any little rabbit but a special one called Yoka. Pelle tried it out to hear how it sounded.
“Yoka. My little Yoka.”
But then Robinson called his man Friday, and he went obediently. Robinson had arranged some clover in a glass jar on the sugar box which was the table and had put out the red strawberries on the green leaves, for this was a housewifely kind of Robinson, who shared his strawberries equally with his servant.
When they had eaten Tjorven said, “That was good, but now I think we’ll go home.”
Pelle almost lost his temper. Why did Tjorven say such stupid things, when she knew they could never get away from here?
“Of course we can get away from here,” said Tjorven. “I can put a motor on the boat.” And she called, “Here, Bosun!”
Pelle knew there was no dog in the whole world like Bosun. He had been together with him the whole summer and admired him for all the wonderful things he could do. Bosun could play hide-and-seek and he could work the seesaw. He could find things and he could retrieve things; once he had even retrieved Stina when she had fallen into the sea. But what he did now was more wonderful
than anything else, thought Pelle. If only Daddy and Malin had been there to see it. If only they could have seen Bosun swimming along, pulling the boat behind him! The rope was fastened to his collar and he swam calmly and steadily straight to Great Island, while Pelle and Tjorven sat there like royalty without having to lift a finger. What a dog!
Tjorven did not think it was anything out of the ordinary, but Pelle sat back in the boat and loved Bosun so much that his heart almost burst.
“He’s cleverer than a human being,” said Pelle.
The next moment he saw something which made him shout. “Look, there are the oars!”
And so they were. They were bobbing gently, close to a little rock.
“What luck,” said Tjorven, when she got hold of them. “Knut would have been very angry if we had come back without the oars.”
Then her face suddenly darkened, it was almost as if she were afraid of the thunder again. “I know someone else who’ll be angry now, and that’s Uncle Jansson.”
He had a violent temper, she knew, for she was well acquainted with everybody on the island. Uncle Jansson could sound like the thunder when he was angry and Tjorven would have preferred not to see him just now.
“But I bet he went back to Seacrow Island ages ago,” said Pelle, “and surely that’s far better.”
They landed at the Great Island jetty. Tjorven set Bosun free and tied up the boat. And when Bosun had shaken off the water he looked at Tjorven with his wise, rather sad eyes as if to say, “Little Bumble, is there anything else you want me to do?”
Tjorven took his great head between her hands. “Bosun, do you know what? You’re my own darling little soppy dog.”
There was nobody to be seen; no Knut, no Uncle Jansson. But the cow ferry was still there and that must mean that Uncle Jansson was rushing around furiously, looking for them.
They stood there on the jetty and felt miserable. Then they saw someone coming down the hill from the Östermans’. It was Uncle Jansson. Tjorven shut her eyes anxiously. Now they had nothing to do but wait for the scolding.