games, festivals, and always drinking, drinking—so many men, and women, have the weakness for drinking. I know you don't understand, here drinking is a serious sin, so there is no such problem."
"You mean whiskey drinking? Eugene Collum's pa makes whiskey. Drinks it, too."
"He is an exception in this community. My father Steinn and his rival, whose name, I think, was Sigurdur, fell to quarreling during réttir, the gathering of the sheep. Because of drink they had no restraint. They had fought before, but this time my father crippled Sigur."
"Was he as strong as—"
"As your father, yes." Birka smiled fondly. "But Enoch has no violence in him, thanks be to God. Well, it was decided by the village council that Steinn Vilhjálm must pay for the crippling with a nine-tenths share of our farm, and accept banishment. Or else go to jail. With what little money my father had left from the sale of the farm he took us to this country. But he was never successful here, as farmer or fisherman, and finally his drinking wore him down—just wore him down."
She looked as if she were going to cry from the pain of recalling her father's humiliation and gradual decline. Arne shifted restlessly in his chair and reached for another potato slice.
"Don't you want to know what's in the crate?" he asked Birka.
"The professor will tell us when he comes for it—if he wants us to know. Otherwise, what business is it of ours?"
"But you know where it came from, and you said—"
"I said I have heard of the Ásatrú region. Once upon a time—" Arne grinned contentedly at this storybook beginning—"a time as old as Noah's flood—there was a great forest, covering many square miles, in Ásatrú. But after the Norsemen, our ancestors came, then little by little the trees were all cut down, sheep ate the grass and destroyed the roots, the winds carried away the soil, so today there are only poor farms left, bare, windswept hills —nothing there."
"Something was there—and now it's in the crate."
"Yes. I have wondered—"
"Don't you want to know for sure?" Arne said quickly. "We could open the crate, then nail the lid back so tight nobody—"
"We will wait for the professor," Birka said, lowering her head and rubbing a little color into one cheek. The crate was mysterious. It was something from home. Birka's eyes were sharp from the speculation she tried to hide from him. But she was firm in her scruples.
3
Instead of a visitor a letter, addressed to Birka, arrived at the end of June.
"It says," she told them at supper, "that Professor Ayres is on a field trip to the South Pacific, and will not return to the university until the spring term, nineteen seven."
"A year?" Arne said, scowling.
"What do they want us to do with his crate?" Enoch asked.
"They don't say." Birka folded the letter and glanced at Arne with a slight frown. Arne interpreted her look as conspiratorial, and said nothing more as he carefully separated the skin from a drumstick in his chicken and dumplings.
Arne's father shook his head. "Reckon it can just sit there in the barn. Ain't likely to be in the way. Maybe he'll give us a few dollars' storage when he does come."
"Or a reward," Arne suggested, his mouth full.
His father grimaced, working a fingernail between two teeth where something was stuck. "I don't think those professors have a right smart of money. Not much more than we've got, anyhow."
"If he doesn't have money," Arne said, "then how can he take such a long trip to—" He looked at his mother. "Where did you say he's gone to?"
"The South Pacific."
"That where China is?"
"No. If you don't want the chicken skin—"
"You can have it."
"I just don't like leavings," Birka said.
4
After supper, with three good hours of daylight remaining, his father took the shay down the road a third of a mile to help a neighbor who was drilling a new well, and Arne went out to the barn to mix whitewash for the fireplace, a chore he'd been neglecting, and
"You mean whiskey drinking? Eugene Collum's pa makes whiskey. Drinks it, too."
"He is an exception in this community. My father Steinn and his rival, whose name, I think, was Sigurdur, fell to quarreling during réttir, the gathering of the sheep. Because of drink they had no restraint. They had fought before, but this time my father crippled Sigur."
"Was he as strong as—"
"As your father, yes." Birka smiled fondly. "But Enoch has no violence in him, thanks be to God. Well, it was decided by the village council that Steinn Vilhjálm must pay for the crippling with a nine-tenths share of our farm, and accept banishment. Or else go to jail. With what little money my father had left from the sale of the farm he took us to this country. But he was never successful here, as farmer or fisherman, and finally his drinking wore him down—just wore him down."
She looked as if she were going to cry from the pain of recalling her father's humiliation and gradual decline. Arne shifted restlessly in his chair and reached for another potato slice.
"Don't you want to know what's in the crate?" he asked Birka.
"The professor will tell us when he comes for it—if he wants us to know. Otherwise, what business is it of ours?"
"But you know where it came from, and you said—"
"I said I have heard of the Ásatrú region. Once upon a time—" Arne grinned contentedly at this storybook beginning—"a time as old as Noah's flood—there was a great forest, covering many square miles, in Ásatrú. But after the Norsemen, our ancestors came, then little by little the trees were all cut down, sheep ate the grass and destroyed the roots, the winds carried away the soil, so today there are only poor farms left, bare, windswept hills —nothing there."
"Something was there—and now it's in the crate."
"Yes. I have wondered—"
"Don't you want to know for sure?" Arne said quickly. "We could open the crate, then nail the lid back so tight nobody—"
"We will wait for the professor," Birka said, lowering her head and rubbing a little color into one cheek. The crate was mysterious. It was something from home. Birka's eyes were sharp from the speculation she tried to hide from him. But she was firm in her scruples.
3
Instead of a visitor a letter, addressed to Birka, arrived at the end of June.
"It says," she told them at supper, "that Professor Ayres is on a field trip to the South Pacific, and will not return to the university until the spring term, nineteen seven."
"A year?" Arne said, scowling.
"What do they want us to do with his crate?" Enoch asked.
"They don't say." Birka folded the letter and glanced at Arne with a slight frown. Arne interpreted her look as conspiratorial, and said nothing more as he carefully separated the skin from a drumstick in his chicken and dumplings.
Arne's father shook his head. "Reckon it can just sit there in the barn. Ain't likely to be in the way. Maybe he'll give us a few dollars' storage when he does come."
"Or a reward," Arne suggested, his mouth full.
His father grimaced, working a fingernail between two teeth where something was stuck. "I don't think those professors have a right smart of money. Not much more than we've got, anyhow."
"If he doesn't have money," Arne said, "then how can he take such a long trip to—" He looked at his mother. "Where did you say he's gone to?"
"The South Pacific."
"That where China is?"
"No. If you don't want the chicken skin—"
"You can have it."
"I just don't like leavings," Birka said.
4
After supper, with three good hours of daylight remaining, his father took the shay down the road a third of a mile to help a neighbor who was drilling a new well, and Arne went out to the barn to mix whitewash for the fireplace, a chore he'd been neglecting, and
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