[Subsection]

A rainy evening.

In the morning there was thick mist. You saw nothing. When Father went to the cleared land, he vanished into the soft whiteness.

That's how it should be for Father, thought Per suddenly, soft around his cheeks and shoulders.

But if you followed him in a little while, you would hear his spade grating in the stone-filled earth, striking against the stones. Nothing was soft there.

A mound of mist came rolling in to crush the whole of Bufast. But Per ran into the mound, and it made room for him inside. He saw not a house nor a tree but ran with wide-open mouth towards the grayness to find out what mist tasted like.

There was no taste. And not even enough of it to spit out.

Then the mist swirled away. Nobody had done anything, but it was gone. You could see where the sun was. There was Father standing wiping the sweat from his forehead. It wasn't work for a sissy.

In the evening it thickened again.

"There'll be rain before bedtime," said Mother, sniffing at the weather.

  [p. 58]  

But it did not come until they were in bed. Botolv was already asleep when Per undressed and crept down beside him. Out in the little bedroom lay Father and Mother and the baby. The baby's name was Åsmund, when you stopped to think about it. The door between the bedroom and the kitchen was open as usual.

Then the rain began whispering. It sounded like the things Per didn't know about, snug and peaceful. Lots of strange things must be happening now out in the meadow and out in the woods---at least, that's what it sounded like. Per dozed and listened to it. Botolv's breathing was shallow; his body was feverish, as usual. Per lay and thought and thought. The rain whispered. There was great peace in the rain, but it did not put him to sleep; he only dozed.

In the bedroom he heard Father say Mother's name. Only once. Mother's name was left hanging in the air for a good while. Then Mother finally seemed to answer what Father had said, even though he had only used her Christian name. She said quietly, half asleep: "Yes, it's the hardest stint now, until Per can help you."

The earthy voice mumbled something in reply. Per could not catch it.

He wished he had not heard any of it. It worried him. A chill gust from something merciless that was facing him. And then an unexpected glimpse into Father's affairs. Was it a struggle for Father? Per had never heard him complain.

But there was more. It was Father's voice, full of gravel and incautiously loud: "This business of Botolv is the worst."

Per started so that he gave Botolv a nudge. He looked quickly to see if he was awake; it was light enough to see. No, he was lying just as before. Per trembled, certain that there was more to come, that what he had dreaded hearing for a long time was coming. Now the grown-ups in there would say that Botolv could not live.

And it came. Mother was the one who had to say it.

There was Mother's quiet voice. But she spoke clearly, and the calm whispering of the rain drowned nothing.

  [p. 59]  

"Yes, it doesn't look as if Botolv will ever grow up healthy," she said. "He might die any day now."

At that moment Botolv looked at Per, wide-eyed with terror. He had been lying awake listening. Botolv was six years old. Their eyes met in the summer evening light, but so warily that it was no more than a blink; Per looked into shock and fear, then Botolv shut his eyes again. Per only felt Botolv's body trembling and shivering as if from cold, only it was feverish.

His own body felt strangely numb.

Silence and yet more silence. Now it had been said. The rain increased to a great sizzling downpour. Peace. But here Botolv lay trembling.

In the bedroom Mother said, "Goodness, what rain!"

Father mumbled indistinctly, "Yes, the ground will be sodden."

Afterwards there was no sound. They had fallen asleep.

Per lay without moving, filled with a great love for Botolv. They had been small together and played; Botolv had clung to Mother, and Per had been a little sulky and felt a little neglected. Now it was not important. He had often been irritated by Botolv's grown-up eyes: those eyes that knew---as grown-up eyes do---and he had been afraid of them and felt inferior. Now it was not important.

And Botolv's eyes just now, when he heard! Deep down there had been nothing but blind terror. Botolv understood more of this than Per did. Per put out his hand and touched Botolv. He had to nerve himself to do it, burrowing his hand under Botolv's nightshirt. Botolv was alive and trembling.

"Botolv," he said.

No answer.

He took his hand back, feeling poor. He could not comfort anyone. And Botolv was six years old, but much older.

Per was nine.

He tunnelled down into the bedclothes, moving away from Botolv so as not to feel him. But then Botolv moved after him. He was still trembling. Per lay and endured it. The   [p. 60]   rain sizzled; even if you lay deep down in the bedclothes, you could hear it. The sound forced its way in and was good.

Tomorrow the ground will be sodden.

Per felt sleep coming in spite of what had happened. It's annoying that you can never see it, see it and feel it just as you're falling asleep, he thought. It creeps up on you. Ugh, all the things the teacher talked about and the pastor in church preached about. Death comes like a thief in the night. They stood there saying things like that, frightening you.

Dear God, you must let Botolv live, he thought, but he barely thought it, for he was heavy with sleep. So that won't be much use, he thought. God was supposed to be very particular about such things.

But how soft it was here now. Soft. Like diving into new-mown hay. . . .