“Arvid — you must puke it up!”
“The hell I must. .?”
“Don’t you hear — the pool is poisoned! You’ve drunk your death!”
“Well, it couldn’t be that bad. .?”
Robert pulled Arvid away from the water, into a thicket of low bushes at the edge of the muddy pool. His friend must not be tempted to drink any more.
“Puke, Arvid! Put your fingers in your throat! Get rid of the water!”
But Arvid refused to think that he had drunk death into his body. His belly was full of water, brimful, but he felt no discomfort. He refused to put his fingers in his throat, he didn’t want to vomit. All he wanted was to lie down and go to sleep. His stomach felt a little heavy after all the water, a rest would be good. And with a tired sigh of contentment he stretched out on his back under the bushes.
“Please, Arvid — listen to me! You must get rid of the water!” Robert tried to put his own fingers into Arvid’s throat and make him vomit.
“Let me alone! I’m all right! Let me sleep now. .”
There was nothing more to be done with Arvid. He just wanted to sleep, right in this spot. He refused to move an inch. Why should he put his fingers in his throat? He wasn’t sick. All he wanted was sleep; it was the middle of the night and he was more tired than any person on earth had ever been before.
Arvid pushed his head under some low branches as if he wished to hide it. He went to sleep at once, snoring noisily.
Suddenly it became very dark; a great cloud had crossed the moon and cut off its light. The contours of the landscape with its cliffs and boulders and sharp grass and bushes were enveloped in darkness. Somewhere under that black mantle lay the chewed-off horse shank with a new shoe, and near it a white finger pointing from the sand.
Robert sat beside his sleeping comrade, staring out into the desolate night. His vision could not penetrate far in this darkness. He could not see the pool, even though it must be less than thirty feet away. He could not see the wooden cross that was raised beside it. But it was there all right, the words remained where they once had been chalked on the wood: Look at This — The Death. Death remained, it was near. It had only hidden itself. Perhaps it did so at times, to fool one. But it was there, and kept close to them.
He had two names for death, each sounding very different to his ear: the Swedish word sounded hard and frightening and threatening: Döden! It would be the clarion call over earth on doomsday morning: Döööden! That word cut like an ax through bone and marrow. Its echo was fear, a sound without mercy, a wailing without comfort. But the English death sounded soft and peaceful, quiet and restful. It didn’t call for an end to life in threatening and condemning sounds. Death was soft-voiced, merciful, it approached silently, kindly. It brought comfort and compassion to a person at the end of his life. Death — it was a whisper in the ear, it didn’t frighten or terrify. It said in the kindest of words how things stood; it said in all friendliness: Now you will die.
But it was only due to the softer word that the English death sounded kinder than the Swedish, and words were nothing but foolery and cheating. The English, lurking back there in the dark only a few paces from them, it too had no mercy.
Arvid had drunk of death’s water and now he slept and was satisfied. Robert had not drunk, he still had the thirst that consumed life in him. If he drank from the pool he would die. If he didn’t drink, he would die.
He moved his dry, swollen tongue; he said something to God. He wanted to tell the Lord over life and death that he did not wish to die. He wanted to explain that life was dear in the moment it was to be taken away. Never was it dearer. Never had it been dearer to him than during this night in the wilderness. How could his creator demand of him that he, only in his twentieth year, be consumed by an unbearable thirst, his body to disintegrate until only whitening, clean-gnawed bones would remain? Like the rotting hind leg of the horse, helplessly kicking toward the heaven? No, he wanted to keep his body intact, walk on his feet over ground that was covered with soft, fresh, green grass — and he wanted to drink of the clear, fresh, running water on earth!
Water, water! He must find it!
Exhausted, Robert sank down against the body of his sleeping comrade. Confusion entered his thoughts, his head grew dizzy, and he sank into a hot, febrile slumber. As he slept he wandered about on green paths, and found running brooks that streamed over his face, filled his nose and mouth, and watered freely a verdant earth.
He dreamed deep, wonderful, purling water-dreams.
— 3—
He was awakened by a groan; first from a great distance, then closer, until at last it was close to his ear:
“Ooohhjj — ooojjhojj! My guts! They kill me!”
Arvid was rolling over in the sand, pulling his knees against his chin, twisting himself into a bundle, stretching out again, throwing himself to and fro, rolling over. He fumbled for Robert, got a cramp-like hold on his arm. Robert’s hands found his and their fingers twisted together in a knot. Their tied-together hands held them together:
“Its killing me! Its tearing the guts out of me! Help me, Robert! Please, help me! Help. . me. .”
Two great swollen eyes stared in the dark from Arvid’s face. He held his hands against his stomach and rolled over again. Then, violently, he pulled away his hands and dug them into the sand, scratching wildly, kicked the sand with his feet until it whirled in a cloud around them. He was digging a hole where he lay, poking himself down into the earth, as his cries became a howl.
“Oooooh! Oooooohh! God. . help. . me. .”
Death had arrived — Arvid had death in him. He had unsuspectingly opened his mouth and in deep swallows let it enter his body. Now it tore at his guts, and he screamed out his pain as loudly as his voice could manage.
Robert felt in the dark for Arvid’s flailing hands. If he only had had some medicine, a few drops to give him, some salve to put on, any help. But he had nothing to offer.
“OOOOHHJJJ! Help me! Please! Help! OOOJJJ!”
Arvid dug, beat wildly about him, yelled until his voice and strength failed. As he weakened, his wail sank to a pitiful whine, a quiet whimper, a feeble sound like a bird’s peep.
The intense pain continued for a few hours. At last Arvid emitted only a weak, slow complaint. In his pain-ridden impotence he groped again for his comrades hands and crept close to him on trembling limbs. They lay twined together. Robert could feel Arvid’s burning breath panting in his face; against his chest Arvid’s chest pumped like a smiths bellows.
“Don’t leave me. . please. .”
The two comrades lay close together. They had come together from Sweden to North America, they had started out together on the California Trail, they had traveled together thousands of miles, and now they were still together. They had sealed with a handshake their intention never to part.
“Don’t. . leave. . me. .”
Arvid had once wanted to turn back from the California Trail, but had kept his promise and stayed with his friend. Now he could trust Robert to stay with him. The two of them would never part — how many times hadn’t they repeated that. And Robert said it here again:
“. . never leave you. .”
Arvid could trust him — they would never part. But as his cries gradually died down there was nothing to keep Robert entirely awake. He slid into a sort of doze, between waking and sleeping. He felt Arvids fingers fumbling for his, and he held on to them even harder. A cool wind swept under their clothing — he moved closer to his comrade, who now lay almost silent, his breathing sounding choked. Something inside him was closing his windpipe.