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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. . . .