But the trundles turned more heavily in the drifted snow, the cart moved ever more grudgingly. Karl Oskar tied the reins around his waist and pushed the cart from behind with all his strength. This would also warm him. And the trundles kept turning, still rolling, and each turn brought them a few steps closer to the house down there at the lakeside, a few steps closer to safety.
If he hadn’t been forced to wait at the mill they would have escaped the blizzard, he thought, and would now be sitting in front of the fire at home. They were in bad luck today.
Just then, the greatest of bad luck overtook them. A heavy crashing sound cut through the roar of the blizzard somewhere close ahead of them and the cart stopped with a jerk. Karl Oskar hit the ox with the reins, urging him on. But Starkodder stood still. Karl Oskar walked up alongside the ox, feeling his flanks. Why had the beast come to a stop? He walked forward to Starkodder’s head, which the ox was shaking in annoyance; a branch hit Karl Oskar smartly across his face; he brushed the snow from his eyes and now he could see that a giant fir had fallen across the road, its roots poking heavenward. The tree had fallen close to the ox, who now stood in a thicket of branches; the beast was shaking his head, twisting and pulling it to free his horns, which had become ensnared in the fir’s branches.
Further progress was cut off. With only a short distance left the blizzard had felled a tree and caught them. Now they could move neither back nor forward.
Karl Oskar pulled out his ax from under the sacks, cut a few branches from the fallen tree, and liberated the ox; he unyoked the beast and secured him with the reins to the cart. Johan made a faint sound. Karl Oskar climbed up and felt the bundled-up child body.
“Awfully cold, little one?”
He took the boy in his arms, stuck his hand into the bundle, and felt the tiny limbs. Terror struck him.
“You’re cold as an icicle!”
A faint whimper from Johan: “Are we home, Dad?”
The father began to rub the stiff limbs so violently that the boy cried out: “Stop it, Dad! It hurts! Please!”
Feeling still remained in the little body, no part of it was as yet frozen through. But Johan was terribly sleepy and wanted to be left alone. He knew the cart had stopped moving and thought they were home— “. . home with Mother.”
Karl Oskar shook and rubbed the tiny limbs. The boy cried out in pain. The cold bit and burned, cutting his skin like a knife. Johan could not understand: they were home, he had called Mother but she didn’t answer him. Why? With no reply from Mother he clung to Father, closer, shivering.
“I’m cold, Dad, worse, awfully bad. .”
Karl Oskar Nilsson held his oldest son in his arms and tried to find protection from the blizzard behind the cart. He sat down in the snow, squatting against the sharp sweep of the storm. The cold snow whirled around him. He crept under the cart with the child; it did not help noticeably. Where could he find protection for Johan against the merciless cold? He himself shook with cold and his limbs stiffened as soon as he stopped moving them; he had no warmth left for his son. What must he do to keep life in the little body?
Should he try to cut the tree and clear the road? It was only a short distance to Danjel’s. But he wouldn’t have time; before he could cut half through the giant fir, his son would be frozen to death.
No, there was nothing he could do, nothing that would help him. All he could do was pray to God for his poor soul. And sit under the cart and wait for the child in his arms to stiffen to a corpse.
At home Kristina was waiting with three more children and one unborn life, while he sat under an ox cart, preparing himself for eternity. A tree had fallen, and parted them forever; he had driven off to the mill, never to return. The blizzard had parted them forever. Was this the way his life would end?
Hadn’t the storm gone down a little? Or was the blizzard just catching its breath? No, it couldn’t be over so soon. There was no hope of that. And so all would be over. Over? No! He mustn’t give up! He had never given up! A person must use his sense and his strength as long as a drop of blood was left in his body. He mustn’t be tempted to think that nothing would help. He must try and try and try again. He still had some fight left in him. And it wasn’t the first time that a life close to him had been in danger. He had never given up before — why should he now? Hadn’t he any guts left?
A third life was with them — the ox, Starkodder, who bellowed now and then between the gusts. The black ox had seldom before made any sound, but now he bellowed in fright. Even a dumb animal could sense danger to life. Yet the beast would probably endure the longest of them, the ox would survive its owner and the owner’s son, the animal would survive the humans. Yes, how long could an old, tough ox withstand the blizzard? He did have a thick fur coat.
Now that the branches of the fallen tree had swept the snow from Starkod-der’s back he was black again; only the white star on his forehead shone through the mist, the animal’s big belly had been washed clean by the snow and shone wet.
They were so close to human habitation. He could try to get through alone the piece that was left. But Johan, what should he meanwhile do with the child?
Karl Oskar rose with the boy in his arms and walked toward his trusted beast of burden, who bellowed helplessly against the roaring blizzard; the man was approaching his beast for help, for a thought had come to him. There was still a chance — he must make a last effort.
Johan clung to his neck, his arms stiffening with the cold. The boy was small, the ox large. The little one could find shelter with the big one, a human being with an animal. Starkodder was his good, reliable beast, but he was only an animal, and a new animal could be found in his place. But no one could replace his son if he froze to death.
Karl Oskar had the necessary tools with him, the ax and the knife. He could do it quickly, it was still light enough for him to see. But he must hurry, it must be done within minutes. And it wouldn’t take long.
Karl Oskar had never moved as quickly as he did in the following few minutes. He bundled up Johan in the shawl and the blanket and laid him in the snow under the cart. Then he led the ox a few paces away, to the side of the road. Starkodder followed him trustingly, stopping when the man stopped. They walked with the wind, yet were almost blown over by its force. In the lee of a great tree trunk Karl Oskar halted, gathered the reins, and tied the right foreleg of the ox to his left hind leg, down low, near the hoof. The ox stood still, patient, accommodating. Karl Oskar picked up his ax and stationed himself near the head of the beast.
Starkodder stumbled toward his owner, sniffing his master’s coat as if seeking fodder hidden under it. Karl Oskar raised his arm with the ax but let it drop again; the ox’s mouth touched his sleeve, his tongue licked it, as if expressing his devotion. The animal’s behavior caused the master to stay his arm momentarily, but he hesitated only a few seconds. He remembered the life he was trying to save; there was no time to lose.
Grasping the handle firmly with both hands, he raised the ax above his head, aimed at the little white star between the ox’s horns, and let the ax hammer fall with a murderous blow on the beast’s forehead.
With a piercing bellow, the ox staggered to his knees, his head against the ground. The butcher hit again in the same spot. Now the ox was down; from his throat came a bellow of agony which for a few moments drowned the blizzard’s roar. With the third blow the bellowing died to a faint sound. The ox’s head was in the snow but his body still rested on his hind legs; Karl Oskar jerked the reins with which he had fastened the animal’s legs and the beast toppled over. The heavy body rolled on its right side, but the legs still kicked in the air.