Breidablik

Abstract

by RODNEY NELSON 12 Breidablik* ANDREW son, who Hogenson had built Breidablik. was the son Andrew of John had Hogen- been son, who had built Breidablik. Andrew had been seventeen in the summer. Peter Malmlund had no father at home. He would be seventeen in the winter. Andrew was lean and studious. He had crow-black hair and the gift of craftsmanship. When teachers looked at him, they would wag their pencils approvingly: "Just ^e J°hn-" Peter was round and red-cheeked. He had the fingers of a surgeon and the nature of a violinist. His mothers brothers never looked at him: "Too much like his old man." They had made friends over poetry.« # « They drove out from Red River early on the first morning of October. Red River, their home, was a prairie town governed by south wind in summer and north wind in winter; flowerless autumn was a good time on the prairie. "I see you brought some books," said Peter. "That I did," said the driver. "I see you've got some." * Abode of the Norse god Balder. Mr. Nelson's story is a "lyric prose eclogue of the friendship ... of two American boys [whose] grandparents were Norwegian [and who] retained, subliminally, a great deal of old-country culture." 229 Rodney Nelson Long Lake was in the hills at the edge of the prairie. It was here that John Hogenson had built his cottage and named it Breidablik. The wood had been so cunningly fitted that people who saw Breidablik held their breath in admiration , but not many were invited. John Hogenson himself came down rarely; the lake was for loafing and there wasn't time to waste. They drove up the first hill and came into the first valley. The groves would be turning soon; the leaves were splotched and wrinkled. Autumn mist hung over the lakes. Bone-white tree trunks stuck like spears out of the water. The morning sun was copper and the hills a burnt green. "We ought to split up until noon," said Andrew. "Yes, we should." They left the car at Breidablik and walked out in separate directions. Vacation had ended for most of the cottagers. Fall was the best time on Long Lake. * # # Andrew sat on a stump cleaning his glasses. Maybe it would be better without them. He was high enough to see the far end of the lake. The woods between had been cut back by farmers' fields. There was the pasture he had climbed up through: the sheep-dung was dry. Two flecks of white . . . Andrew put on his glasses. . . . Ploughgulls. He uncorked the canteen and put it to his mouth. The cider was warm; it didn't do the trick. The sun was too hot for October. He placed the clipboard on his knee and turned his back to the light. Well, how about a poem? No? He could write something; he had to write something. It was ten percent inspiration and ninety percent sweat. Think 230 BREIDABLIK of Ulysses and War and Peace; those books didn't happen in your spare time. Think of a girl's legs. Andrew socked himself on the forehead. But he had to have something to show for this walk. What about this walk? He thought of the slough with cattails; that had been a beautiful place. Should he mention it to Peter? Well, he could do better than mention it. He lowered his pen to the clipboard and began writing something about the slough with cattails. # a « Peter sank down in the welcoming shade of a big elm. The roots were exposed where the lake was touching them. The branches threw a shadow on the water. The lake was so quiet and friendly. Peter wondered where the shore would lead him. It might go in, it might jut out; there might be a flashing bay with an island and a river. He snapped a twig in half and bit his teeth into it. The other half he tossed in the lake. If only he could keep on walking. But he still had a weight in his throat. His mother had kicked him out of home; it was the...