The drought had lasted seven weeks now, and the heat was serious; the potatoes stood all the time in flower; flowering marvellously, unnaturally. The cornfields looked from a distance as if under snow. Where was it all to end? The almanac said nothing—almanacs nowadays were not what they used to be; an almanac now was no good at all. Now it looked like rain again, and Isak went in to Inger: “We’ll have rain this night, God willing.”
“Is it looking that way?”
“Ay. And the horse is shivering a bit, like they will.”
Inger glanced towards the door and said, “Ay, you see, ’twill come right enough.”
A few drops fell. Hours passed, they had their supper, and when Isak went out in the night to look, the sky was blue.
“Well, well,” said Inger; “anyway, ’twill give the last bit of lichen another day to dry,” said she to comfort him all she could.
Isak had been getting lichen, as much as he could, and had a fine lot, all of the best. It was good fodder, and he treated it as he would hay, covering it over with bark in the woods. There was only a little still left out, and now, when Inger spoke of it, he answered despairingly, as if it were all one, “I’ll not take it in if it is dry.”
“Isak, you don’t mean it!” said Inger.
And next day, sure enough, he did not take it in. He left it out and never touched it, just as he had said. Let it stay where it was, there’d be no rain anyway; let it stay where it was in God’s name! He could take it in some time before Christmas, if so be as the sun hadn’t burnt it all up to nothing.
Isak was deeply and thoroughly offended. It was no longer a pleasure and a delight to sit outside on the door-slab and look out over his lands and be the owner of it all. There was the potato field flowering madly, and drying up; let the lichen stay where it was—what did he care? That Isak! Who could say; perhaps he had a bit of a sly little thought in his mind for all his stolid simpleness; maybe he knew what he was doing after all, trying to tempt the blue sky now, at the change of the moon.
That evening it looked like rain once more. “You ought to have got that lichen in,” said Inger.
“What for?” said Isak, looking all surprised.
“Ay, you with your nonsense—but it might be rain after all.”
“There’ll be no rain this year, you can see for yourself.”
But for all that, it grew curiously dark in the night. They could see through the glass window that it was darker—ay, and as if something beat against the panes, something wet, whatever it might be. Inger woke up. “ ’Tis rain! look at the windowpanes.”
But Isak only sniffed. “Rain?—not a bit of it. Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Ah, it’s no good pretending,” said Inger.
Isak was pretending—ay, that was it. Rain it was, sure enough, and a good heavy shower—but as soon as it had rained enough to spoil Isak’s lichen, it stopped. The sky was blue. “What did I say,” said Isak, stiff-necked and hard.
The shower made no difference to the potato crop, and days came and went; the sky was blue. Isak set to work on his timber sledge, worked hard at it, and bowed his heart, and planed away humbly at runners and shafts. Eyah, Herregud! Ay, the days came and went, and the child grew. Inger churned and made cheeses; there was no serious danger; folk that had their wits about them and could work need not die for the sake of one bad year. Moreover, after nine weeks, there came a regular blessing of rain, rain all one day and night, and sixteen hours of it pouring as hard as it could. If it had come but two weeks back, Isak would have said, “It’s too late now!” As it was, he said to Inger, “You see, that’ll save some of the potatoes.”
“Ay,” said Inger hopefully. “It’ll save the lot, you’ll see.”
And now things were looking better. Rain every day; good, thorough showers. Everything looking green again, as by a miracle. The potatoes were flowering still, worse than before, and with big berries growing out at the tops, which was not as it should be; but none could say what might be at the roots—Isak had not ventured to look. Then one day Inger went out and found over a score of little potatoes under one plant. “And they’ve five weeks more to grow in,” said Inger. Oh, that Inger, always trying to comfort and speak hopefully through her harelip. It was not pretty to hear when she spoke, for a sort of hissing, like steam from a leaky valve, but a comfort all the same out in the wilds. And a happy and cheerful soul she was at all times.
“I wish you could manage to make another bed,” she said to Isak one day.
“Ho!” said he.
“Why, there’s no hurry, but still. …”
They started getting in the potatoes, and finished by Michaelmas, as the custom is. It was a middling year—a good year; once again it was seen that potatoes didn’t care so much about the weather, but grew up all the same, and could stand a deal. A middling year—a good year … well, not perhaps, if they worked it out exactly, but that they couldn’t do this year. A Lapp had passed that way one day and said how fine their potatoes were up there; it was much worse, he said, down in the village.
And now Isak had a few weeks more to work the ground before the frost set in. The cattle were out, grazing where they pleased; it was good to work
