Growth of the Soil Knut Hamsun (summer books .txt) 📖

first, it was only annoying to lose time at his work; there is no thought in his mind of being in danger, let alone in peril of his life. True, he can feel the hand that supports him growing numbed and dead, his foot in the cleft growing cold and helpless too; but no matter, Brede must be here soon.

Brede did not come.

The storm increased, Axel felt the snow driving full in his face. Ho, ’tis coming down in earnest now, says he to himself, still never troubling much about it all⁠—ay, ’tis as if he blinks at himself through the snow, to look out, for now things are beginning in earnest! After a long while he gives a single shout. The sound would hardly carry far in the gale, but it would be upward along the line, towards Brede. Axel lies there with all sorts of vain and useless thoughts in his head: if only he could reach the ax, and perhaps cut his way out! If he could only get his hand up⁠—it was pressing against something sharp, an edge of stone, and the stone was eating its way quietly and politely into the back of his hand. Anyhow, if only that infernal stone itself had not been there⁠—but no one has ever yet heard tell of such a touching act of kindness on the part of a stone.

Getting late now, getting later, the snow drifting thick; Axel is getting snowed up himself. The snow packs all innocently, all unknowing, about his face, melting at first, till the flesh grows cold, and then it melts no longer. Ay, now ’tis beginning in earnest!

He gives two great shouts, and listens.

His ax is getting snowed up now; he can see but a bit of the haft. Over there is his basket of food, hung on a tree⁠—if he could but have reached it, and had a feed⁠—oh, huge big mouthfuls! And then he goes one step farther in his demands, and asks yet more: if he only had his coat on⁠—it is getting cold. He gives another swinging shout.⁠ ⁠…

And there is Brede. Stopped in his tracks, standing still, looking toward the man as he calls; he stands there but for a moment, glancing that way, as if to see what is amiss.

“Reach me the ax here, will you?” calls Axel, a trifle weakly.

Brede looks away hurriedly, fully aware now of what is the matter; he glances up at the telegraph wires and seems to be whistling. What can he mean by that?

“Here, reach me the ax, can’t you?” cries Axel louder. “I’m pinned here under a tree.”

But Brede is strangely full of zeal in his duty now, he keeps on looking at the telegraph wires, and whistling all the time. Note, also, that he seems to be whistling gaily, as it were vengefully.

“Ho, so you’re going to murder me⁠—won’t even reach me the ax?” cries Axel. And at that it seems as if there is trouble farther down the line, which Brede must see to without delay. He moves off, and is lost to sight in the driving snow.

Ho⁠—well and good! But after that, well, it would just serve things generally right if Axel were to manage by himself after all, and get at the ax without help from anyone. He strains all the muscles of his chest to lift the huge weight that bears him down; the tree moves, he can feel it shake, but all he gains by that is a shower of snow. And after a few more tries, he gives up.

Growing dark now. Brede is gone⁠—but how far can he have got? Axel shouts again, and lets off a few straightforward words into the bargain. “Leave me here to die, would you, like a murderer?” he cries. “Have ye no soul nor thought of what’s to come? And the worth of a cow, no less, to lend a helping hand. But ’tis a dog you are and ever were, Brede, and leaving a man to die. Ho, but there’s more shall know of this, never fear, and true as I’m lying here. And won’t even come and reach me that ax.⁠ ⁠…”

Silence. Axel strains away at the tree once more, lifts it a little, and brings down a new shower of snow. Gives it up again and sighs; he is worn out now, and getting sleepy. There’s the cattle at home, they’ll be standing in the hut and bellowing for food, not a bite nor a drop since the morning; no Barbro to look to them now⁠—no. Barbro’s gone, run off and gone, and taken both her rings, gold and silver, taken them with her. Getting dark now, ay, evening, night; well, well.⁠ ⁠… But there’s the cold to reckon with too; his beard is freezing, soon his eyes will freeze too as well; ay, if he had but his jacket from the tree there⁠ ⁠… and now his leg⁠—surely, it can’t be that⁠—but all the same one leg feels dead now up to the hip. “All in God’s hands,” he says to himself⁠—seems like he can talk all godly and pious when he will. Getting dark, ay; but a man can die without the light of a lamp. He feels all soft and good now, and of sheer humility he smiles, foolishly and kindly, at the snowstorm round; ’tis God’s own snow, an innocent thing! Ay, he might even forgive Brede, and never say a word.⁠ ⁠…

He is very quiet now, and growing ever more sleepy, ay, as if some poison were numbing him all over. And there is too much whiteness to look at every way; woods and lands, great wings, white veils, white sails; white, white⁠ ⁠… what can it be? Nonsense, man! And he knows well enough it is but snow; he is lying out in the snow; ’tis no fancy that he is lying there, pinned down beneath a tree.

He shouts again at hazard, throws out a roar; there in the snow a man’s great hairy