“Let me see,” he said at last.
And Tjorven stood in the sparse light by the window and began. She made the wildest grimaces and then she asked hopefully, “Was that all right?”
“No,” said Pelle.
He did not understand why it was important to waggle one’s ears, but Tjorven explained to him how much Father Christmas liked people who could. Then Pelle laughed loudly and said that, to begin with, there was no Father Christmas and that meant that he could not like people who could waggle their ears any more than he liked other people. So it would be much better for her to learn something more useful, whistling for example. Pelle could whistle, and with Yoka tenderly clasped in his arms he whistled “Good King Wenceslas” to him and to Tjorven too, if she cared to listen.
Pelle did not know what he was doing when he said his piece about Father Christmas. Tjorven’s childish belief was dealt a tremendous blow. Could it be true that there was no Father Christmas? As Christmas Eve approached she became more and more afraid that Pelle might be right and by the time she sat at breakfast on Christmas Eve, eating her morning porridge, her disbelief and despair had gone so far that she had more or less lost faith in Father Christmas. It was no fun at all. What sort of Christmas Eve was this going to be? No Father Christmas and—and, besides that, porridge for breakfast! She pushed her plate away from her in disgust.
“Eat up, little Bumble,” said her mother kindly. She did not understand why Tjorven was so gloomy. It was this sort of porridge that Father Christmas liked best, she assured her.
“Then he can have mine,” said Tjorven miserably. She was furious at that old Father Christmas who half did not exist, and half wanted you to eat porridge and waggle your ears, and she said crossly, “Eating and believing in Father Christmas seem to be the only things a kid is supposed to do.”
Nisse realized that something was wrong. He almost always understood when things were wrong with Tjorven and could work out the reason, and when Tjorven looked him straight in the eyes and asked, “Is there a Father Christmas or isn’t there?” he knew that all the enchantment of her Christmas Eve would disappear if he answered, “No, he doesn’t exist.” So he showed her the old wooden bowl that his own grandmother had filled with porridge every Christmas Eve and put out at the corner of the house for Father Christmas.
“What if we did that too?” said Nisse. “Shall we put your porridge here in the bowl and put it out for Father Christmas?”
Tjorven brightened as if a candle had been lit within her. Of course there was a Father Christmas if Daddy’s grandmother had believed in him. And how delightful that he really did exist and came creeping around the house on Christmas Eve. It was a good thing too that he liked porridge so that you didn’t have to eat it yourself. Everything was all right now and she would tell Pelle.
She did not meet him until it was getting dark, when they all stood together down on the icy jetty of Carpenter’s Cottage and watched Father Christmas’ sledge appearing from out on the ice. He had a torch to light his way and looked just as Father Christmas should look. He had Jansson’s horse and sledge, Tjorven could see that, but of course Father Christmas had to borrow a horse when he had so many Christmas presents to carry.
Even Pelle was struck dumb. His eyes grew larger and larger and he pressed himself closer to his father. Father Christmas threw two sacks of presents onto the jetty, one for the Melkersons and one for the Grankvists. It was all done as quickly as when the crew aboard the steamer threw goods ashore, and then the sledge disappeared in the darkness.
Pelle stood wondering whether there actually was a Father Christmas after all and then he saw Johan laugh and wink at Niklas and he became almost angry. Did they really think that he was just a baby and that they could make him think whatever they liked? But whether or not there was a Father Christmas, it was great fun to stand here in the darkness and hear the sledge bells and see the light from the torch disappearing out in the bay and have a whole sackful of Christmas presents besides.
In fact it was wonderful to be Pelle during these winter days on Seacrow Island. Malin watched him going about shining with happiness and one evening when they were alone in the kitchen she asked him why he was enjoying himself so much. Pelle crept up onto the kitchen sofa and thought for a moment and then he told Malin what was such fun.
“For example,” he said, “going out first thing in the morning when there’s new snow and helping to shovel a way to the well and the woodshed. Seeing the tracks of different birds in the snow. Putting the Christmas wheat sheaf up in the apple tree for all the sparrows, bullfinches, and tits. Having a Christmas tree which you’ve brought from the woods yourself. Coming home to Carpenter’s Cottage as dusk is falling when you’ve been out skiing, and stamping off the snow in the hall, and coming in and seeing the fire burning in the kitchen grate, and seeing how the kitchen looks with all the lights. Waking up in the morning while it’s still dark and hearing Daddy making a fire in the stove. Lying in bed and watching the light flicker behind the shutters of the stove. Crossing the attic in the evening and feeling a little frightened of the dark, but only a little! Going out on the ice right to the edge of the steamer channel and feeling a little afraid. Sitting in the kitchen and talking to Malin—like now—eating buns, drinking milk, and not being afraid at all. Oh, and of course, sitting in Jansson’s cowshed and talking to Yoka—that’s almost the greatest fun of all. But have you heard that the fox took one of Jansson’s hens again last night?” he asked Malin.
Pelle was afraid of that fox. For two consecutive evenings he had taken hens from Jansson, and a fox who took hens could also take rabbits. That was a dreadful thought. The fox was creeping about everywhere. Of course, it was the fox which had eaten Tjorven’s Christmas porridge, although she thought it was Father Christmas. What did Malin think? wondered Pelle.
“Perhaps the fox, and perhaps Father Christmas,” said Malin.
Pelle lay awake for a long time that evening and was anxious about his rabbit. Of course, he had Yoka safely in the cowshed, but foxes were cunning, particularly when they were hungry.
Foxes should be shot, thought Pelle. He was not generally so bloodthirsty, but now he lay in his bed and in his mind’s eye saw the fox leaving his lair in the cow field and creeping across the quiet snow toward Jansson’s cowshed.
Pelle began to perspire as he lay there, and he slept fitfully all night.
Next morning he happened to meet Björn, who was coming from the forest with a newly shot hare. Pelle shut his eyes to avoid seeing the poor little hare. Why didn’t Björn shoot that stupid fox instead? Uncle Jansson would be very glad if he did. Björn thought so too when he heard what had happened.
“We must put an end to that rascal. You can tell Jansson that I’ll try tonight.”
“What time shall we come?” Pelle asked eagerly.
“We?” said Björn. “You won’t be coming at all. You’ll be lying in your bed asleep.”
“I certainly won’t,” said Pelle.
He did not say this to Björn, but to Yoka a little later, for the wonderful thing about Yoka was that he could not make any objections.
“Don’t be afraid if you hear a shot tonight,” said Pelle, “because I’ll be with you, you can be sure of that.”
And he was, but he had very nearly broken his promise to Yoka. He had lain blinking his eyes to keep himself awake until Johan and Niklas had gone to sleep and then he had crept out through the kitchen door, with Daddy and Malin sitting in front of the fire in the sitting room with the door open to the kitchen. It was a miracle that they had not heard him.
And then he had gone out into the moonlit night and had run along a snowy road, absolutely alone, to the dark cowshed which was not at all as homey as it usually was. He had crept in silently, afraid that Björn might see him. He was really afraid as he felt his way over to Yoka. “Oh, little Yoka, I am here after all!”
A cowshed at night is a strange place. It is silent; the cows are asleep, but on
e hears noises. Now and then a chain rattles when a cow shifts a little. Now and then a hen cackles, as if she were dreaming about the fox. Now and then you can hear Björn fixing his gun and whistling quietly behind his shutter. The moon shines in through the window and there is a path of moonshine across the floor. The farmyard cat glides over it and is immediately swallowed by the darkness again, and you can see only his yellow eyes shining. Poor farmyard rats, if they are out tonight. And poor Yoka, if Pelle were not there to protect him from the fox. He presses Yoka close to him and enjoys feeling how soft and warm he is, wondering how long it will take. Perhaps, just now, at this very moment, the fox is creeping across the snow toward Jansson’s farmyard.
At any rate it is just now, at this very moment, that Melker goes up to tuck in his boys. In Pelle’s bed he finds no Pelle but a piece of paper and a message written in large capital letters: I AM OUT SHOOTING FOXES FOR JANSSON.
Melker took the paper down to Malin. “What do you think about this? Can Pelle be out shooting foxes for Jansson in the middle of the night?”
“No, certainly not,” said Malin firmly.
You get sleepy, sitting in a cowshed with a warm rabbit in your arms. Pelle was just about to fall asleep when suddenly he started. He heard Björn cocking his rifle and in the moonlight he could see him over beside the shutter in the wall. He saw him lift the rifle and aim.
Now—now, the fox is coming, and now he is going to die, his life is over. He will never return to his lair in the cow field and it is Pelle who has arranged it all!
With a shriek Pelle put the rabbit hastily back and rushed out to Björn. “No, no, don’t shoot!”
Björn was absolutely furious. “What are you doing here? Get out of the way—I’m going to shoot.”
“No,” cried Pelle and clung to his legs. “You mustn’t! Foxes have to live too!”
And certainly no fox died that night for Pelle’s sake. There was no fox out there in the moonlight, but instead Malin on her skis. Björn turned white. Think what would have happened if he had shot, if Pelle had not stopped him!
“It was a good thing you came,” said Pelle to Malin when he lay in his bed again. He had promised never to go on a fox hunt at night again and Malin had assured him that the fox could not take Yoka as long as he was securely fastened in his hutch.
But now Pelle lay fidgeting. There was something that troubled him even more than the fox. “Malin,” he said, “are you going to marry Björn?”
Malin kissed him, laughing. “No, I’m not,” she assured him. “The fox can’t catch Yoka and Björn can’t catch Malin as long as we each stay in our little hutch.”
Winter days were short and dusk came early. During the long evenings everyone collected in the kitchen, which was the warmest spot in the cottage. To tell the truth, it was the only really warm place in the whole of Carpenter’s Cottage.
The nights were cold. The boys slept in their attic in warm pajamas and sweaters. Melker fared well in his little room off the kitchen, but Malin had to move down to sleep in the kitchen.
“Two attics needing fires will not do,” said Malin and she enjoyed herself on her kitchen sofa. “The only drawback is that one never gets to bed early in the evenings,” she said, “because everyone is cluttering up the kitchen.”
Nisse and Marta came there for an evening cup of coffee and a chat. Teddy and Freddy sat there playing Casino with Johan and Niklas. Tjorven and Pelle drew and played. Bosun lay in a corner and slept, Malin knitted, Melker sang and chatted and was generally happy.
Outside it was the coldest of winters. Cold stars shone over the icy bay and the cold hit you as you turned the corners. Then it was delicious to settle down in a warm kitchen. Pelle beamed and filled the stove with wood; this was all just as it should be, with everyone sitting together, warm and cosy, singing and talking. Until at last he grew so sleepy that he heard everything in a kind of hum and tottered to bed.
Otherwise, Pelle spent most of his time in Jansson’s cowshed. Not only with Yoka. He helped Uncle Jansson to clean it out and he came home smelling so strongly of cowshed that no one could go near him. Malin had to put aside a pair of old ski pants and an ancient castoff jacket as cowshed clothes, which Pelle had to take off in the hall as soon as he got indoors.
“Then we will burn them when we leave,” said Malin.
“No, I’ll take them with me to town,” said Pelle, with unexpected fervor. Malin was about to destroy something that he had thought out and a little shyly he explained to her what it was. “I want to keep them in a special cupboard,” he said, “and when I miss Yoka badly I can go there and smell them.”
Tjorven went with him to Jansson’s cowshed once or twice, but finally she got tired of it. “I don’t want to be with cows the whole time,” she said.
Instead she skied. She had been given a pair of skis for Christmas and she struggled about the island perseveringly. When she fell she found it difficult to get up by herself, so she lay there, kicking her legs like a beetle, until Teddy or Freddy helped her onto an even keel again. But they were very seldom around nowadays. They spent most of their time with Johan and Niklas, being “secret” again. They had a secret snow castle, which anyone with eyes in his head could see down by Crow Point. They spent most days there, but sometimes they grew tired of it and set out on long ski tours across the ice to other islands, or else they fished for herrings with Söderman, who was at home now and swore he would not go to town again for a long time.
Everyone was busy with his own affairs and Tjorven continued to be a rather solitary Tjorven, with Bosun as her dearest companion. One very cold day when the sky was icily green over Seacrow Island, and the whitebeam by Carpenter’s Cottage was white with hoarfrost, Malin came home from a ski trip and found Tjorven crying on the little hill behind Söderman’s cottage. She generally only cried when she was angry, but this was an unhappy crying because her feet were so cold that they ached and she was overcome by that feeling of desertion which comes when one has been wandering about in the snow for hours and has suddenly noticed how terribly cold one is. Söderman’s cottage was locked up, and there was no one at home either there or at Carpenter’s Cottage, and Teddy and Freddy had forgotten that they had promised to look after her while Mummy and Daddy were in Norrtälje. So when she saw Malin, the tears, which till then had only been a lump in her throat, suddenly welled out of her eyes.
Malin picked her up and carried her home to Carpenter’s Cottage and sang to her as she carried her. And when they arrived in the kitchen of Carpenter’s Cottage, Malin did something very strange, something fantastically strange, thought Tjorven.
“But you can’t undress and go to bed in the middle of the day,” said Tjorven.
“Yes, you can, especially when little children have to have their toes warmed. It’s the best way,” Malin declared.
They both lay comfortably on Malin’s sofa, and it was warm, like heaven for anyone who had been wandering about in the snow for four hours. Tjorven’s eyes began to shine.
“Can you feel my toes?” she asked, and Malin assured her with a shiver that she could for they were certainly the coldest child’s toes that had ever been thawed out on this kitchen sofa.
Tjorven could not get over her surprise at Malin’s strange behavior. Now and then she laughed, as she thought that it was quite unlike anything else she had ever done.
“But you shouldn’t go to bed in the middle of the day,” she said again.
“Yes, you should—if your hands and feet are full of snow and your eyes are full of tears, you certainly must,” said Malin.
Tjorven yawned. “Don’t sing that sad little song you’ve just been singing. Sing one that makes toes warm.”
Malin laughed. From where she lay she could see the frost flowers on the window and the pale winter sun, which shone so coldly through the branches of the whitebeam and which would so soon go down and leave Seacrow Island in the darkness and creaking cold. To be sure, they needed songs that would make th
eir toes warm! So she began:
“Gently blows the summer breeze,
The cuckoo calls among the trees—”
and then she stopped, for she felt a violent longing for summer, so violent that she could not go on. But she did not need to, because Tjorven was asleep.
Two Enchanted Princes
ONE SPRING day Tjorven fell into the sea from the steamship jetty. She had lived in the belief that she could swim at least five strokes, but now she realized that she was wrong. Still, she was not afraid, for before she had time to be, Bosun had pulled her out and by the time Nisse came running, she was already on the jetty, wringing water out of her hair.
“Where’s your life jacket?” asked Nisse sternly.
“Daddy, do you know what?” said Tjorven. “When Bosun’s with me I don’t need a life jacket.” She flung her arms around Bosun and put her wet head close to his. “Bosun,” she said tenderly, “you are my own darling little soppy dog.”
Bosun looked seriously at her and, if it was true that he could think like a human being, perhaps he was thinking, Little Bumble, I would die for you if you wanted me to. You have only to say the word!
Tjorven patted him. Then she laughed contentedly. “Daddy, do you know what?”
But Nisse stopped her. “No, Tjorven, no more ‘Do you know whats’ before you have been home and changed your clothes.”
“Oh, but I only wanted to say that now I’ve fallen into the sea three times—and Stina has only fallen in twice!” And Tjorven went off, pleased that she would be able to show herself off to Stina.
On the slope in front of his cottage Söderman was tarring his boat. He was about to refloat it. The whole of Seacrow Island was engaged in spring-cleaning. The sea was free of ice once more, and all the boats were being made ready. The whole island was enveloped in the smell of tar and paint and the continual smoke from burning leaves. But stronger than all the other smells was the smell of the sea. Söderman felt it in his nose and he felt the spring sun warming his back. His boat looked splendid, he was feeling very content, but his brain was beginning to get tired, for Stina was sitting in the sun beside him, telling him fairy tales which seemed never to come to an end. Poor Söderman, it was impossible for him to keep track of which prince was turned into a wild pig and which was turned into an eagle. But Stina kept questioning him at regular intervals and she would stand for no mistakes. “Guess who was enchanted then!”