He had found Olav Bringa.

Per had found something that he had no name for, any more than for all the other things he wondered about. It was in Olav, and he had always longed for it. Before school began he had not even known about Olav. Then, during one recess, each had stood facing the other, noticed the quiet, questioning, bewildered face in front of him, and recognized in it a friendship that would last forever.

It was unlike anything Per had experienced before. It was not in Botolv or the others at home, but it was in Olav---in the searching expression in his eyes, about his temples, and around his mouth.

I will never let him down, he thought, and something shot through his breast. It felt good. What was it?

They had to share the same desk in the schoolroom, and when they stole a glance at each other during the lesson, it   [p. 51]   felt as if this was the right way to sit if life were to be as it should.

"Do you have any birthmarks?" Olav had asked in great confidence as soon as they were alone.

"No."

"I have. Do you want to see it?"

Olav clearly asked as if giving him a present.

"Yes, please!" answered Per, wondering what he could do in return. He felt proud as well; this was for him alone.

They went into a little shed, and Per was shown the birthmark. It was in the small of the back, jagged and uneven, and quite long.

"Can you see what it looks like?" asked Olav.

"No."

"They say it looks like a country called England in geography."

Per looked again. He did not have much idea of what England looked like yet. He had not started geography, nor had Olav. It was a fine birthmark; he envied Olav greatly.

"I'll never really see it myself," explained Olav sorrowfully. "But they say it's made like England on the map. It's a big country, England."

"Yes, I'm sure it is," said Per, impressed. He had nothing that could compare with this, he realized. All the same there grew in him at that very moment an extraordinary affection for Olav. This was between Olav and himself. On the other side of the wall the rest of the children were playing; they had not been allowed to see it or know about it. Per and Olav went out to join them. Per was grateful; Olav too was grateful. Now they would be together.

He dreamed about Olav Bringa at night. But when he woke there was only Botolv beside him, Botolv's thin, warm body.

Events at Bufast became more and more remote. Father was driving timber and longing for the spring. Now and then he went to the woodshed and chopped wood, or he was in   [p. 52]   the carpenter's shed repairing something. Botolv sat around as good as gold. Mother and Aunt Anne looked after the cows, milked and churned, and brought in eggs from the henhouse. The storekeeper got more than enough eggs and butter. They were perpetually in debt to the storekeeper. Per hated the sight of him.

He longed for something. He was always longing for something: for invisible things and things he knew he was longing for.

There was Auntie, and Per longed to be close to her as in the old days.

Mother looked at him only fleetingly. "You're a big boy and must look after yourself," she said bluntly, busy with the baby or Botolv.

He did not feel big. Inside him he was tugged and pulled, and there were whisperings and orders and threats. It all slid away when he tried to catch hold of it. Then he remembered that Olav Bringa was still there and could not disappear.

Auntie was washing butter, standing with rolled-up sleeves washing yellow butter. She took it out of the churn, kneaded and slapped it, and changed the water. Per watched those arms which were so busy doing all kinds of work.

"Come and drink some buttermilk, Per," she said. "It's good for you."

She filled a cup with buttermilk. He watched her do so, and came and drank it. In the buttermilk floated small lumps of butter. While he was drinking, Auntie was very close. He thought he could catch the fragrance of her. He drank a great deal of buttermilk; it ran easily down his throat.

He knew she was watching him calmly. She must not be lost either.

"You're not my boy any more," she said.

"What?" He started and flushed.

She said, "Is Olav Bringa the one you like being with best? That's what I've heard."

"Yes," he said mercilessly.

She stood looking at him as if accusing him of something. His heart was heavy.

Only at school with Olav did he come alive. Home was just a place to do homework in. He had to know his homework; he must never arrive late. He had to be the best.

Olav had to be next best, and he was. The other boys hated them and called nicknames after them when they stood in a group thick enough for them to dare. They never shouted singly.

The spring was coming. The snow disappeared, and Father was able to start digging on the cleared land. School came to an end. The river churned. Per and Olav sat for a long time behind a thicket of willows the last day they were together. When they parted they had not said a word. "Good-bye," they said, with their backs to each other.

Åsne Bakken and Per only looked at each other fleetingly in farewell. Signe Moen did not even do that. She simply left with some girl or other. It was all the same to Per.

The earth lay bare and black once more. The whole of Bufast smelled of soil. Father chuckled. The sheep came out onto the new spring pasture and had lambs to look after: newborn, long-legged lambs who skipped in flocks across the green grass.

Brownie sweated in the fields. Per was in the fields too, weeding and planting potatoes. Perhaps he would stay at Bufast to the end of his days? The escape he had thought of seemed so far away now that he could scarcely believe in it. When Father said do this and that, he did it on the spot. He was bored and sweated. Father sweated. Aunt Anne sweated.

Auntie was lightly dressed to let the sun shine on her body. She must never leave Bufast.

Botolv had stopped growing. Now and then Per noticed that Father let his eyes rest on Botolv longer than necessary. The baby toddled and then walked, but he was a sleepyhead and was often in bed.

You will stay at Bufast to the end of your days, heard Per from the corners of the kitchen, from the woods around the meadow, and from the evenings.

I will not. . . .

Summer days. He met Olav. There was no school, and each came barefooted down his own short cut to the river. When they found each other and sat down on the turf side by side, Per was at peace.

Their hands and wrists lay side by side on the slope: narrow, bony wrists, not quite white.

They bathed in the backwater. Olav ran about with England etched finely and sharply on the small of his back.

They sat on a rock and let the sun dry them. The moisture ran off them and down onto the flat, warm stone, making runnels which dried up before they got any farther. Per's body gave off a fragrance as he dried; Olav's body was also fragrant as it dried close beside him.

It seemed as if there could be no barrier between them when they sat like this. But there most likely was. They did not discuss everything with each other.

Per asked suddenly, "What is it you don't want to tell me?"

"What?" said Olav, standing up. He had been lying stretched out on the comfortable rock.

"There's something you know that you don't want to tell me."

Olav reddened. "No," he said.

It shot through Per that Olav was lying. "Yes, there is!" he said.

"No!" said Olav, scared, and got up and went over to where his clothes were lying on the grass. His birthmark stretched and changed shape when he bent down for his shirt. Then he put the shirt over his head, slipped into his trousers, and was dressed. He set off through the copse toward Bringa farm.

Per remained sitting on the rock. The Tvinna slapped gently against the edge of the stone, shallow and harmless.

No, they didn't talk about everything hidden inside them. He didn't do so himself. They didn't do so at home at Bufast either. He had noticed it: from time to time they fell silent and hid something away. Olav had something hidden too. He himself had a great deal that was painful and confused and nameless, that simply was there and must not come out. If you talked about it, the heavens would fall, or something equally terrible would happen.

He shouted so that it echoed: "Olav!"

He shouted a second time. Then he got dressed and took the same path as Olav had. There he sat, breaking a twig into small pieces. He got up.

"I know where there's a new thrush's nest," he said.

They went to see it.

It was in the cleft of a birch tree. The young birds were half grown. The thrushes screamed.

Olav fumbled, trying to say something.

"I spoiled a thrush's nest once," he said quickly, looking straight in front of him. "There were four eggs and I smashed them to bits. It was a long time ago, but still---"

He did not look at Per but moved slowly away. Per moved after him, ill at ease. Olav had told him a little of what he kept hidden; now he would have to do the same. No, he would not! He could not; they were only shapeless tangles. He had to attack Olav in order to defend himself.

"You're a liar as well," he said.

"Am I?" said Olav.

"Yes. You said there wasn't anything you didn't want to say. But you knew about this."

"Yes, but I've told you now," said Olav.

"Not everything. There's so much you haven't told me, that---"

Olav let fly at him and knocked him down. Per had such a guilty conscience that he felt sick. He ought to have hit back. But. . .

"I have to go home," said Olav.

He really did this time. Per watched him go. Olav looked   [p. 56]   back. Per turned away quickly, but then he watched him again. There was Olav, barefoot, dressed in shirt and trousers, the white shirt hiding a birthmark that looked like England. Per thought: We must always be together.