Seacrow Island

  They all threw themselves at him. They hugged him and assured him that no children had a cleverer or kinder or better father than they, and they loved him so much.

  “Hmmm,” said Melker. He dried his tears with the back of his hand and then he smiled a little. “Aren’t I strong and handsome too? You didn’t mention that!”

  “Yes,” said Malin. “You’re strong and handsome too, and if you’re that, it doesn’t matter if you put a little too much salt in the fish.”

  But Johan and Niklas had thrown away the rest of their fish and there was no other food in the house. The shop was closed and they were hungry.

  “Is there any bread?” asked Niklas.

  But before anyone had time to answer, Tjorven came in with Bosun at her heels and she said, “Daddy is smoking herrings down on the beach. Would any of you like to come to a party?”

  Live for the day—one minute there had been wailing and gnashing of teeth and the next, joy and delight.

  They sat on the stones around Nisse’s smokehouse and the sun sank in the bay, which flushed with the summer warmth. Nisse gave them golden brown smoked herring, as much as they could eat. Marta gave them butter and potatoes and home-baked rye bread. Melker made a speech. It was a song of praise to friendship and smoked herring, for he felt a surge of gratitude in his breast. Life was beautiful, and think how much could be had on one single poverty-stricken summer day!

  “Yes, my friends,” said Melker, “it’s just what I always say—live for the day!”

  “And what a lovely day,” said Pelle.

  An Animal for Pelle

  MELKER loved his children with a fierce, stormy love. Now and then he even thought about them. He was, of course, a writer and when anyone asked him whom he thought about most he would answer, “Melker thinks of no one but Melker!”

  But this was not altogether true, because sometimes he thought about his children. It seemed to him quite incredible that he really had four such beautiful things. And all of them were so different. First there was Malin, his prop and stay. How did she manage to be so wise when she was so pretty? Pretty girls were usually so taken up with their own prettiness that they seemed to have no time to become wise. Malin was different. Of course, he did not know much about the thoughts hidden behind her calm forehead, but he knew that there was wisdom there, and warmth and sound common sense. She was charming too, but as unconscious of it as a flower. Or so it seemed, at least.

  Next came Johan. He was the most temperamental of all the children, the one with the most imagination and also the most restless. He would not have an easy life, for he was too much like his father, poor child! Niklas, on the other hand, was calm, steady, and full of common sense, as he had been from the day he came into the world. He was the happiest and most stable of the whole Melkerson family. Life would be kind to Niklas, Melker was sure of that.

  But then there was Pelle. How would he get along? How would life work out for someone who cried because people in a bus looked sad or because he met a stray cat which apparently had nowhere to live? He was in constant fear that people or cats or dogs, or even wasps, were not happy. How would he get along in the long run? And all the other strange things that he brooded over and questioned. Why did one feel like crying when one heard the telephone wires singing and why did wind in the trees sound so sorrowful? And the swish of the waves so dismal? Was it because of all the dead sailors? asked Pelle, with tears in his eyes. But he could be gay too in his own strange way. There were certain things that made him happy. For instance, sitting alone in a boathouse and listening to the rain on the roof, or creeping into a corner of the room when there was a storm, especially in the dusk, and sitting there, listening to the whole house creaking. Niklas tried to get out of him why he liked anything as strange as that, but Pelle only said, “If you don’t understand it yourself, I can’t explain it to you.”

  He was a naturalist besides, and there was always a great deal for a naturalist to do. For instance, lying on his stomach on the grass, watching all the insects moving around. Lying on his stomach on the jetty, looking down into the strange, green world where the little fishes lived their funny fishy lives. Sitting on the steps of the cottage at dusk and watching the stars come out one by one, trying to spot Cassiopeia, the Milky Way, and Orion. Pelle looked on the whole thing as a series of miracles and he was constantly trying to find out about things. He was dedicated and patient as a naturalist must be.

  Melker sometimes felt a twinge of envy when he looked at his youngest son. Why wasn’t one able to retain this sense of wonder all one’s life?

  Then there was Pelle’s boundless love of animals. It was really sad that he had never had a dog. He had begun to talk about having one as soon as he was old enough to say “Bow-wow.” He had had goldfish and tortoises and white mice, but never a dog.

  Poor Pelle! And then he had come to Seacrow Island and found a dog like Bosun. In Pelle’s opinion, Tjorven must be the luckiest person in the world.

  “But I would be quite satisfied if I had any kind of animal,” he explained to her. “I’ve got my wasps, of course, but I would like to have an animal I could stroke.”

  Tjorven was sorry for Pelle, and she was generous. “You can have a little bit of Bosun. A few pounds!”

  “Huh! One of his back legs,” said Pelle, and he went to his father to complain. “Who wants one of a dog’s hind legs? Do you really think that’s enough to keep anyone happy?”

  Melker was sitting in his little room behind the kitchen and writing, and the last thing he wanted was to think about his children and their needs at that moment.

  “We’ll talk about it another day,” he said, and waved Pelle away.

  Pelle went away gloomily. But leaning up against the cottage wall he saw his fishing rod, which he had been given on his birthday last week. Even a fishing rod can be an experience and this was no ordinary fishing rod—it was the first one in his life. Pelle picked it up—the bamboo felt smooth and good in his hand and a sort of joy spread all through his body. He decided to go down to the jetty to fish. How nice Daddy had been to give him this fishing rod! He had given Tjorven one too, for she happened to have a birthday at about the same time.

  So Pelle took his fishing rod and went down to the jetty. This was where Stina found him, and she rushed toward him joyfully. It was very seldom that she was allowed to be alone with Pelle. It was Tjorven who made the rules and decided who should play with whom. How she managed it, no one knew. It was not that she ever said anything in plain words, but things always turned out as she wanted. She, Tjorven of Seacrow Island, could play with whomever she liked, Stina or Pelle, whichever she fancied. Sometimes, when she was in the mood, all three might play together, but what was never allowed was for Pelle and Stina to enjoy themselves without her.

  And now, on this warm August morning, without the least suspicion of any evil in store, she made her way to Carpenter’s Cottage and came on the other two, sitting together down on the jetty. She stopped dead and stared at them. They didn’t realize it, for they were talking together, Stina laughing and gesticulating with her hands. It had to stop.

  “Stina,” shouted Tjorven angrily, “you aren’t allowed on the jetty. Children aren’t allowed—because they may fall into the sea!”

  Stina started, but she did not turn her head. She pretended she had not heard. If she did not answer perhaps there would be no Tjorven.

  So Stina crept a little closer to Pelle and said in a low, confidential voice, “You’ll get a bite soon, Pelle.”

  But before Pelle had time to answer, Tjorven shouted again, “Children aren’t allowed on the jetty. Are you deaf?”

  And now Stina realized there would have to be a battle, for the issue could not be avoided.

  “Then I suppose you’re not allowed on the jetty either?”

  Tjorven sniffed. “Huh, you and I are different.”

  “Yes, especially you,” said Stina boldly. She had Pelle beside her, so she said things that other
wise she would not have dared to say.

  Pelle sat there, looking as if he would much rather be somewhere else, and Tjorven said, “As a matter of fact, Pelle isn’t with you. He’s with me.”

  “Pelle is with me,” said Stina angrily.

  Then Pelle realized he must say something. “I’m with myself.”

  He wished Tjorven and Stina were miles away, but now Tjorven had come to sit down on his other side and they all three sat there, looking at the float. At last, Stina said again, “You’ll get a bite soon, Pelle.”

  Nothing more was needed to make Tjorven lose her temper. “It’s nothing to do with you. Pelle isn’t yours.”

  Stina leaned forward and looked her straight in the eye. “And he’s not yours, either—so there!”

  “No, I’m my own,” said Pelle.

  At that, Tjorven and Stina both fell silent. Pelle belonged to himself, and he sat there, feeling how good that was. No one was going to have even one of his back legs!

  But Tjorven knew who Pelle really belonged to and she intended to make this quite clear to him, and so she said, just as Stina had done, “You’ll have a bite soon, Pelle.”

  This was obviously not the right thing to say.

  “No, I won’t,” said Pelle impatiently. “Stop chattering about it. I can’t have a bite because there’s no worm on my hook.”

  Tjorven stared at him. She was an island girl and she had never heard anything as mad as what Pelle had just said. “Why haven’t you got one?” she asked.

  Then Pelle explained. He had tried to put a worm on his hook, but he couldn’t because he felt sorry for the worm. The worm had wriggled so much that Pelle had shuddered at the mere thought. Besides, he was sorry for the fish too, which might come and get the hook fastened in its mouth and so . . .

  “But why do you sit there fishing then?” asked Tjorven.

  Pelle explained even more impatiently. Hadn’t he been given a fishing rod? And anyhow he wasn’t the only one who sat there fishing without catching any fish. He had seen people sitting for days on end without getting a single bite. The difference was that they were torturing the poor little worm, and quite unnecessarily. That he did not do, but otherwise he was fishing just like everyone else. Did she understand now?

  Tjorven said she understood, and Stina said she understood, too.

  Then they sat there and stared at the float for a long time and Tjorven realized that it was a lie to say that she understood. But the sun was shining and it was lovely down here on the jetty, and if only she could make Stina go it would be better still.

  “Stina’s going to be a waitress when she grows up,” said Pelle. Stina had told him this.

  “I’m not,” said Tjorven. She did not really know what a waitress was, but if Stina said she was going to be one, she certainly wouldn’t. Stina’s mother was a waitress. She lived in Stockholm and sometimes came down to Seacrow Island. She was the prettiest thing Tjorven had seen, next to Malin. But waitresses could be as pretty as they liked—if Stina was to be a waitress, Tjorven would not be one for the world.

  “What are you going to be when you grow up?” asked Pelle.

  “I’m going to be fat and write books, exactly like Uncle Melker.”

  Pelle raised his eyebrows. “Daddy isn’t fat!”

  “Did I say he was?” said Tjorven.

  “Yes, you did!” shouted Stina.

  “You’re deaf,” said Tjorven. “I said that I was going to write books like Uncle Melker and that I was going to be fat. They’re two different things.”

  Stina had become braver and braver. She believed, quite wrongly, that Pelle was on her side, and so she said that Tjorven was silly. Then Tjorven observed that Stina was much sillier than Jansson’s pig.

  “I’ll tell Grandpa you said that,” shrieked Stina, but Tjorven shouted, “Tattle-tale! Tattle-tale!”

  Pelle shivered with distaste. “If only they’d leave me in peace,” he muttered. “It’s just one thing after another all the time.”

  Then Tjorven and Stina were quiet again. No one said anything for a long time, until Tjorven began to find it boring.

  “What are you going to be when you grow up, Pelle?” she asked, just to keep the conversation going.

  “I’m not going to be anything,” said Pelle. “I’ll just have hundreds of animals.”

  Tjorven stared at him. “But you must be something!”

  “No. I don’t want to be anything.”

  “Then you needn’t,” said Stina ingratiatingly.

  Now they were off again.

  Tjorven grew angry. “That’s not for you to decide, anyway!”

  “Did I say it was?” retorted Stina.

  “Go home,” said Tjorven. “Little children aren’t allowed on jetties, I told you.”

  “That’s not for you to decide either,” said Stina.

  Then Pelle shook himself as if he had been sitting on an anthill. “Well, I’m going, anyhow,” he said. “I can’t stay here!”

  Melker sat typing in the little room behind the kitchen. His window was open so that he could smell the flowers outside, and when he lifted his eyes from the typewriter he saw a little blue stretch of the bay, which was pleasant. But it wasn’t often he had time to take his eyes off the paper. He was in the mood for writing, and when he was in the mood it was best to get on with it.

  The worst of an open window was that too many sounds from the outside made their way into his writing world. He heard Malin arguing with Johan and Niklas. She wanted them to go for the milk, but they begged to be let off. Couldn’t she send Pelle instead? They were just going off to explore the old wreck at Crow Point with Teddy and Freddy.

  Obviously they managed to get around Malin. Melker heard their gay shouts die away in the distance and he was grateful for the silence which came with their departure.

  Unfortunately it did not last long. Suddenly Tjorven stuck her nose through the window. She had just left Stina down on the jetty, for when Pelle disappeared, Tjorven hurried away too. She only waited to make it clear to Stina that she could never hope to play with Tjorven ever again, and Stina had said she could think of nothing better.

  And now Tjorven had come up to Carpenter’s Cottage to try to find Pelle and reason with him, but he was nowhere to be seen. Instead, she discovered her friend Melker through the window of the little room behind the kitchen.

  “And you’re just writing and writing and writing,” she said. “What are you writing actually?”

  Melker’s hands slipped down off the typewriter keys. “Nothing that you would understand,” he said shortly.

  “Wouldn’t I? I understand everything,” Tjorven assured him.

  “But not this, at any rate,” said Melker.

  “Do you understand it yourself, then?” Tjorven wondered.

  She leaned against the window sill as if she planned to stay there for the rest of the day, and Melker groaned.

  “Are you ill?” asked Tjorven.

  Melker said that he felt quite well, but would feel better if she would disappear. And so Tjorven went. But after a few steps she turned around.

  “Uncle Melker, do you know what? If you can’t write so that I can understand it, you might as well stop writing altogether.”

  Melker groaned again, sighed once, and then once more, for he saw Tjorven settle down on a stone, well within sight.

  “If I sit here, I won’t be in your way, will I?” she shouted.

  “No, but you might just as well pull up grass with your toes in your own garden,” said Melker. “There’s more grass there, I believe.”

  Of course, it was a very pretty picture, thought Melker—a sturdy little child on a stone among yellow buttercups and grass—but he knew that he could not write a single word as long as he had that child within view every time he looked up.

  Then he heard Pelle coming along with the milk bottles, and he shouted to him wildly, “Pelle! Take Tjorven with you! Here, I’ll give you some money so that you can go and bu
y yourselves ice cream cones at the shop—and you needn’t hurry back!”

  Pelle had thought that he would have a nice walk all by himself without any womenfolk around. He needed to rest his ears after all that noise on the jetty, but ice cream cones were ice cream cones and of course he didn’t mind Tjorven. She was very pleasant to be with when Stina wasn’t there.

  With tremendous satisfaction, Melker saw them disappearing up the path toward Jansson’s farm with Bosun at their heels. He tried to collect his thoughts and had almost succeeded when he heard a little piping sound outside the window and Stina’s nose appeared above the window sill.

  “Are you writing fairy tales?” she said. “Write one for me!”

  “I am not writing fairy tales!” roared Melker, so loudly that Malin jumped when she heard him, although she was halfway to the shop.

  Stina did not jump. She only blinked a little. Of course she realized that Uncle Melker was not really very happy, but that was probably because he did not know any fairy tales.

  “I can tell you a fairy tale,” she said comfortingly. “Then you can write it.”

  “Malin!” shouted Melker. “M-a-l-i-n! Come and help me!”

  Stina looked at his typewriter with interest. “I suppose it is difficult to write books, especially the covers. Does Malin write them?”

  “M-a-l-i-n!” yelled Melker.

  There is no need to hurry, Melker had said to Pelle. What an entirely unnecessary thing to say! One would have thought he knew nothing about children and had never seen Jansson’s cow field. It was through this field that one had to go when one went for the milk.

  The children walked along a little path between leafy birches, Tjorven, Pelle, and Bosun. There were no cows in the field at the moment, which Pelle was a little sorry about. But there were wild strawberries and flowers, and butterflies fluttering about; there were ants and their ant paths; there were large mossy stones to climb on and a bird’s nest that Tjorven knew about in a birch. There was no need to tell them to take two hours to cross the field. There was even a fox’s lair, Tjorven said. She had been there with her father early one morning and had seen it run inside the lair.