Two days later, as Bjorn was coming down from the plateau towards the Ventlinge farm buildings, his mind and soul were full of anxiety. Had he done the right thing by lifting the turf and peeping inside the mysterious chest? What could the fact that it was empty mean? Had he concealed the lid well enough again? Who was the weird stranger, who had strode across the plateau with his saddlebag, telescope and cane, as if taking a stroll about the royal gardens? Why hadn’t he appeared again since then? Yet worst of all was the doubt – should he report it to the steward? The king’s and the squires’ law was clear on this point: no outsider could appear on the island without their knowledge. Anyone who saw a newcomer or a castaway was duty-bound to report it immediately to the steward or the pastor. And now as he descended towards the Ventlinge crofts, Bjorn suddenly imagined all the immense commotion. On hearing the news, the steward would instantly run to the squire’s rooms. The master would send a messenger to the hunting estate at Ottenby, from where the royal reiters would come at a gallop with a force of thirty people. They would have what was needed: dogs, torches, muskets, rapiers and long pikes. No clump of grass, copse, cave or rock, no shepherd’s shack on the plateau or abandoned hut would then be a safe, secure shelter. How would it look? The stranger, running between two riders with his hands tied behind his back and a noose around his neck, would finally reach the spot where the chest was hidden. But what then? Here Bjorn’s imagination let him down, for what could be expected from an empty chest buried between two pine trees? The king’s men would fly into a rage and thrash the prisoner – let him admit the truth and confess his crimes. But could an empty chest be a crime? In the end they’d be sure to hang the man on one of the pine trees. Bjorn had once seen this sort of execution, which the reiters called ‘gee up, pony’. Made to stand on the saddle, the condemned man had been hopping on tiptoes like a dancer, struggling to keep his balance, while the laughing soldiers swigged hooch. Then as if by the way, the officer had made the nag jump, and that was the end of the poor wretch: he was left dangling from the pine tree like a heap of old rags.
So once he was finally standing before the steward, reporting most obediently that the wall above the precipice was finished, and that in this connection, after a year’s break he, shepherd Bjorn, was ready to take on a flock again, with the gracious consent of the steward and with the blessing of His Lordship the squire, and when he heard the bubbling stream of invective that poured over him like pigswill, he decided not to let out a single squeak about the newcomer. Then everything happened according to the old rules. As he made a record in the register, the steward ordered Jansen, the chief herdsman, to count out thirty-three sheep for Bjorn; once that had been done, Jansen gave him a dog too.
‘With a sheepdog,’ he said, ‘it’ll be easier for you. And he’ll always warn you of outsiders!’
This last remark made Bjorn feel extremely anxious. Could Jansen have guessed something? Strictly speaking, it was impossible. The chief herdsman only visited the shepherds in particular instances, and at the time when the stranger had landed at the foot of the cliff he must surely have been occupied elsewhere. On the other hand, what if he had come that way by chance and seen the unusual sailing ship that day? Jansen had uttered the word ‘outsider’ so specifically, as if he knew everything. Perhaps he was trying to test Bjorn? In any case, the dog really was helpful. On the way back from Ventlinge he remained so alert that Bjorn took to him at once. Every time he rounded up the flock, the year-old, fully-grown sheepdog ran up to Bjorn wagging his tail and barked merrily: ‘All in order, we can carry on!’
That evening, once he had shut the flock in the sheepfold and lit a fire in the hearth, Bjorn realised that the dog should have a name.
‘All right,’ he said, patting him on the nose, ‘you’re going to be called Harald. Just like our proud squire.’
Harald licked his new master’s hand and stretched out before the fire, while Bjorn scooped the remains of the millet porridge from a clay bowl, which, boiled without a single speck of fat, he and the dog had eaten earlier. There was nothing in the house to eat now, but the summer – with its lush pastureland – was only just setting in. Bjorn closed his eyelids, and brought all its wonderful abundance to mind: rabbit meat roasted on a bonfire, sheep’s milk and curds, the scent of juniper in the sunshine, the aroma of honey from wild hives, and also the unusual taste of the water from one particular spring on Alvaret plain, to a mug of which he liked to add a few mint leaves.
‘If such is the will of God,’ he sighed, laying down to sleep, ‘we shall live to see it all.’
For the first time in years he had used the plural. Perhaps the dog could sense it somehow, because as soon as Bjorn was lying on the bench with his sheepskin coat covering him, Harald jumped onto his master’s legs, rolled into a ball and went off to sleep with him.
A few days later they caught sight of the stranger. He was coming up from Alvaret plain along the gravel road, straight towards the farmyard. He looked exactly the same as the other time, after landing on shore. When he was only three paces away, instead of barking at him, Harald began to whine and fled into a corner of the yard. Bjorn felt a strange, piercing chill in his heart. Wherever this man had spent the last few days, his clothing, saddlebag and boots were not at all dirty.
‘Are you alone here, shepherd?’ he asked in a deep voice.
‘Yes,’ replied Bjorn, ‘I am always alone.’
‘Can you find room for me?’
‘I have no bed for myself, let alone for such a gentleman.’
The stranger nodded politely, as he was not expecting any other answer. He pointed his cane at the old forge building, and without looking at Bjorn, headed towards it, adding: ‘This will do for me, shepherd.’
In the dark interior, abandoned for years, golden pillars of dust went spinning like the beams of a lighthouse as the stranger reached up on tiptoes to open a tiny window.
‘I have no blanket, jug, candles or food. In a few days I’ll be off with my flock to Alvaret. I’ll be back when the grasses turn yellow. You should not stay here alone, sir.’
Bjorn was not sure if the man was listening to him.
‘I do not need a servant,’ said the stranger, examining the anvil and a tattered pair of bellows with interest, ‘but for these four walls I will give you a piece of gold.’
Bjorn quickly withdrew his hand as the man took a shining metal disc from his bag.
‘You must get out of here when I leave for the pasturage, Sir. Unless you ask the steward. Everything here belongs to the squire. Everything,’ Bjorn repeated emphatically, ‘do you understand?’
‘Including the stars and the sea? And your soul? Does that belong to the squire too?’
It was a strange remark. Bjorn shrugged his shoulders and left the forge, pushing away Harald, who was now fawning on him.
‘Next time you’re to bark at him, not tuck your tail under, got that?’
The dog’s good, wise eyes showed understanding. But for the next few days the stranger gave the sheepdog no cause to bark. Until noon he never came out of the forge at all. Then he spent long hours on the cliff top, as if waiting for a ship or watching the seal herds. At night he came out in front of the forge and gazed at the stars: now with the naked eye, and now through his telescope. But if there really was something unsettling about his behaviour, it was his silence. Not once did he ask Bjorn a question. He never lit a fire or took water from the spring. He must have slept on the dirt floor covered by his coat. But what did he eat? How did he quench his thirst? Maybe he had some provisions in his bag, but how long could they last him for? Bjorn noticed that the stranger never once went down to the foot of the cliff. Yet there, under the pine trees, his empty chest was buried. So he was waiting for something, not guarding it. This obvious fact suggested an idea to Bjorn, and suddenly all the strange elements came together into such a striking whole that the very thought of it took his breath away.