14

For several days he avoided Aunt Anne, and she was more distant than ever. He would never tell anybody.

He and Olav Bringa were sitting beside the river. They met sometimes on the bank at a place halfway between the two farms. It was Sunday, but it was not all it should have been.

"Are you herding the sheep today as well?" asked Olav. "Yes."

Their guilty feelings were numbed a little since each of them had run away from the sheep to come to the agreed meeting-place on the river bank. The sheep would wander home, into the fields and meadows, and everywhere they shouldn't, but--- Per and Olav sat down defiantly. They seemed to be sitting on their consciences, holding them down, just as when you fought and sat on the loser. They could imagine with unpleasant clarity how the irritated sheep would run home through the luxuriant barley fields and the lush meadow and perhaps even through someone else's property, but---

"Don't you ever get out of it on Sunday?" asked Olav.

  [p. 71]  

"No."

"Neither do I."

But the grown-ups did nothing all Sunday. They smoked and went the round of the farms and talked about each other behind their backs. Why should we herd the sheep when nobody else does?

Some people had children who never did a darn thing, while they were ordered here, there, and everywhere. That was what Per felt, and that was what Olav felt; they had found out that they were alike. But Per had not told Olav about the judgment which hung over him about staying at Bufast to the end of his days.

There was a marvellous rushing sound from the big, cool river; it had been swollen recently by torrents of rain. The earth and the glistening leaves were fragrant---but what was the use when you had to herd sheep on Sundays? Bumblebees hummed and butterflies flickered. It was all so strange: you wanted to mourn over yourself for having to herd sheep on Sundays in the middle of all these marvels that you didn't understand. Herding, herding---may all the sheep drop dead! thought Per and turned cold in the pit of his stomach because he had thought of something so wicked. He looked quickly at Olav and asked, "Do you believe everything in the catechism is true?"

"Don't know," replied Olav uncertainly. Olav was uncomfortable; that was obvious. Per was pleased. Olav must have thought of something wicked too.

Now God was close by; they both felt it. He was close by, looking into their hearts. God was watching the sheep too, the sheep who were going home through the fields and everywhere they shouldn't. Per felt uneasy; he had to bring Olav into it and make him uneasy too.

"Something will happen to the sheep," he said.

"Yes," said Olav.

"Would you like to find them all lying dead in the copse?"

"No!" said Olav with a start of surprise.

"Yes, you would!"

  [p. 72]  

"No."

"Don't you believe that God sees you and the sheep and everything?"

"I haven't even thought about the sheep lying dead in the copse, I told you."

"Now God sees you're lying," said Per, cold in the pit of his stomach, he was so shocked at himself. The river rushed past; the fragrance of the earth reached him; but it was horrible here, and he himself was dreadful and committing dreadful sins.

Olav winced when Per said this and became a different Olav, who wanted to hurt and who knew quite well how to do it.

"Did you watch Botolv dying?" he asked abruptly.

Per, in a cold sweat, stammered no.

"Oh, yes, you did. They say you lay there watching---"

The way Olav said it made it feel like a dreadful accusation, as if it had been Per's fault that Botolv had died. For the moment Per thought it was his fault.

"Shut up!" he shouted, tormented.

"I expect God knows all about it," said this fellow Olav who was a new Olav, an evil, dangerous Olav.

"What does he know about it?"

Per was terrified. He saw that it was his fault Botolv had died.

"About Botolv, he knows it all."

This fellow Olav had not existed before. Now Olav was lost to him; he too was lost. Auntie was lost. Botolv was lost. Åsne was lost. Per groaned in dread. Botolv weighed down on him like a stone. All that misery had come back as vividly as ever. And this fellow Olav was an evil Olav. He must bit this stranger in self-defense.

He hit him.

Olav hit back.

"Do you think I'm afraid of you?"

"Bum!"

"Bum yourself!"

  [p. 73]  

"Bum of a father!"

They exchanged blows with each insult. Neither of them won.

What? Bum of a father? thought Per, and hit out with both fists at once. "How dare you say anything about Father! If I were to tell you what I've heard about yours---"

"You're lying," said Olav, gritting his teeth. And hit him.

Yes, I was, thought Per. And hit him.

Neither of them won. They only smarted from the blows, both of them furious---furious because of the blows and because God was watching, because they felt guilty about the sheep, and because it was Sunday. They stopped fighting and went away, each in his own direction. And wept bitterly. Again it came into Per's mind: He went out and wept bitterly.

Per walked alongside the Tvinna, downriver towards Bufast.

Sinning . . . he thought.

At school, in the long, long, solemn lesson, they talked about sin. Committing sin. Today he had committed a sin, he knew very well. But Olav had committed a sin too, hadn't he?

What was sin? How was it made?

He did not know. Its complexion was dark; that was all he knew. For the teacher talked about black sin. The worst sins were black. No, he could not picture it; it was just something huge and dark.

He wanted to swear. He knew very well how to do it. He hardened himself in defiance. Whatever happened, it would serve them right. When you had to herd sheep on Sunday, it served them right that he should be walking along committing dreadful sins. He thought two oaths, one after the other, but did not say them out loud.

He knew all sorts of swear words. When you heard words like that, you didn't forget them; you carried them around with you. And when you heard other wicked things being said, you didn't forget them either. They stuck as if hammered in. You went about full of swearing and wicked words when you came to think of it. But you weren't allowed to say them yourself. You didn't let them escape.

  [p. 74]  

Now Olav was lost.

Per stopped short beside the river and stared at it with empty eyes as he realized that Olav was lost.

He was losing everything.

He saw the whole sequence again. Åsne was lost, for she was a girl; Signe went around with a girl and was a girl herself; it was shameful to be with them. Botolv was dead. Olav had gone away from him today. He was shy of Auntie.

He stared down into the river. Life was miserable. Mother was always with the baby, Åsmund. Åsmund was no company. Father had set up a flaming text over his head: You are to love earth; you are to stay at Bufast. He couldn't help being afraid of Father because of that. It seemed as if Father wanted him to be miserable. Father dug in the earth until he was different from other people, and then he rose up out of the earth and said things as if he were God.

Per tried to see whether he loved earth and laughed scathingly and with satisfaction. No.

How lonely he was. He pitied himself, and that made it seem worse and worse. There couldn't be a living creature as friendless as he was.

When he got to the place where the sheep ought to have been, there they still were. Auntie was herding them. He knew she had found them among the crops. How would she take it when he went up to her? What would she say? He was excited. No, he wasn't excited; it would be just as bad whatever she did. He would make himself angry with her whether she scolded him or pretended that there was nothing the matter and was friendly.

She was sulky, and left without a word when he came and took over. He wondered whether that was the worst she could have done. Yes, it was the worst. In a fury he watched her go.

A sheep came up to him, greedy for salt. Instead of salt it got a painful blow on its black muzzle.

Father was good to animals, said Auntie, so Per struck the   [p. 75]   sheep on the muzzle. Here was someone who was going to be different.

Sin.

Today he would commit sin. Sin upon sin. It was Sunday today, and everything was at cross-purposes and impossible. He threw himself down. Immediately he saw his sin. Once he had seen a polluted well in the yard of a derelict farm; the well had been half dry and full of mud, and smelled rotten. He was like that inside now, he was certain of it. It was so bad that the mud was spurting out.