Title: The Land of Hope and Dreams
Rating: M
Pairing: Jasper

I stare at the dry, open field before me. I cannot wait to leave this place; I'm so sick of it. This year is the third in a row of failed crops, famine, and hardships, not only here in Hälsingland, but in the entire country. Two years ago, Sweden was hit with a summer that came late, was cold, and left early, not giving the crop enough time to grow. The government decided to send catastrophe aid to the north of Sweden, and local charity events were held to raise money for the poor.

My master took part and donated money which made us laugh bitterly down in the farmhand quarters. You'd think he would have tended to his own starving employees before giving away money to others, but no. Who would have seen his gentleness and generosity if he simply gave it to us? Not the congregation, that's for sure, and it seemed like being highly regarded by the priest in the parish was more important than keeping your farmhands healthy with full stomachs.

Last year, the summer was long and dry, burning the fields, leaving a poor potato harvest and little to none of the spring seed to survive. The cattle starved and thirsted, and at the end of the summer we had to slaughter almost half of them because we couldn't feed them all. We even had to get rid of some of the horses, much to Master Albert's dismay.

This summer, 1869, is pretty much like the last. We're already starting to gather bark and lichens to mix into the bread during the winter. Not for the gentlefolk of course, they always eat good bread. Us commoners, on the other hand, we eat whatever is available. The only good bread we have nowadays are the dry leftovers. I'm somewhat glad that my mother didn't live to see these last summers. If the cholera hadn't taken her, the famine surely would have.

As the sun starts to set behind the fir trees on the hills west of the small lake, I heave the last armful of hay on the carriage and shove the hay-fork in the ground, leaving them there for tomorrow. A few drops of sweat are trickling slowly down my forehead and into my eyes, the salty water making them sting slightly. My dirty hand leaves a smudgy trail as I wipe my face, and I know Mistress Maria is going to make a snotty comment about it if she sees me before I have the opportunity to clean myself up. I suspect – no, I hope – that she's going to send for me from the farmhand quarters during the night, and I don't want to risk her being put off by the mere sight of me. Master Albert has been away for a fortnight and is expected home any day, making this night one of my few last chances to be with her for a while.

Her.

Maria Johannisdotter. Wife of Master Albert, mistress on this estate, and lover of a young, blond, and pining farmhand named Jesper Vitlock.

Me.

I'm not sure lover is the correct word for what she is to me, though. I fear her and love her. She gave me work and a place to stay when my mother died, and she could easily take them away from me again. Without her, I'm back to being a homeless bastard with no family. I'm her captive, albeit a very willing one, and I can't think of a more beautiful jailer. She toys with me, teasing me by showing just a hint of her ankles as she lifts her skirt to step up in her carriage, or bending over to pick up a carefully dropped handkerchief on the courtyard, giving me a perfect view of her round behind. It's well covered, mind you, draped in layers of fancy clothes, but I know what it looks like under the skirt, under the petticoat, and under the white cotton knickers. I know how the pale skin of her buttocks looks against my rough, sun-burnt hands, and the way it reddens where my fingers dig into her soft flesh. I know what her ankles look like when they are hoisted up against my shoulders as she's lying on the floor in the barn, hay in her hair, and a cry of ecstasy on her lips.

She says she loves me in those moments and I believe her – in those moments. But then comes the weeks when Master Albert is home and about, and my Maria is gone. In her place I see someone who looks just like her but doesn't lower herself to give me even a look, other than ones of utter disgust. When Master Albert is at home, she doesn't even use my name. She calls me 'boy' if she should ever decide to grant me a word. I hate those weeks. They make me unsure of my place in her heart and on this farm, and sometimes I think that she could throw me out any day.

So yes, she toys with me, and there is nothing I can do about it. Actually, I'm not even sure there's anything I want to do about it, and even if I did, I can't stop going to her when she demands me. If I do, I'll end up unemployed, homeless, and alone – and that's only the best possible scenario. A few years ago, a farmhand named Lars Svensson was convicted of trying to take Mistress Maria against her will and was sentenced penal servitude. The rumour in the quarters has it that Lars had an arrangement with Maria similar to mine but told her he wanted to get out of it.

Being Maria's source of satisfaction while Master Albert is away is by far better than penal servitude. After all, I'm in love with her. Or in lust. I'm not quite sure I know the difference between them, to be honest. All I know is that it's between her thighs I want to be, and even though her thighs are the only ones I've ever seen that close, I can't imagine someplace lovelier.

Maria's thighs, and the soft curls surrounding the pink flesh between them, are on my mind as I leave the hayfork in the ground next to the carriage and head across the field down to the lake. My shirt, dirty and sweaty from the hard work, is slung over my shoulder, and a gust of wind drifts over my damp, naked skin, making me shiver slightly. The small lake is as smooth as a mirror, reflecting the dark green firs and the brighter birches perfectly; making it hard to distinguish where water ends and land begins. The water breaks occasionally by rings expanding from the water, revealing where the fish are snatching insects off the surface. Another night I would have taken the rowboat out to catch some trout, but not tonight.

It's late August, and since the summer has been both hot and dry, the water level is lower than usual and the temperature pleasant even after the sun has set. A few nights ago Maria took me skinny dipping and rode me furiously as I stood chest deep in the water, desperately trying to keep myself from falling over. But now, I'm alone. The houses are far away across the fields, like tiny red boxes in the distance, and the only living creatures around are the birds and the cows.

My erect cock bounces as I strip my pants off and wade into the water. It's aching – I'm aching – wanting nothing more than to plow myself deep into Maria's body. But she likes me with stamina, and if I don't release some of my pent up desire now, I won't be able to last for long tonight. I settle down in the brink of the water and start stroking myself. The water laps against my balls and tickles the sensitive skin. My fist pumps fast, splashing into the water, and my toes curl in the sand as the semen leaves my body in quick spurts and dissolves in the water.

I stay in the shallow water for a while using the sand and some bog moss to rub my body and rid my skin of the dirt before I wade further out and finally dive into the lake. A shoal of tiny fish runs quickly through the water, steering collectively against me but changing course once detecting me. After a few long strokes, I turn on my back and lie floating in silence, watching the dusky sky. Midsummer was two months ago already, but still the summer nights don't get much darker than this.

The winters are different, though. The amount of daylight gracing my homeland during the cold months is sparse. But this winter will be different. This winter, I won't be here. "Gods be willing," as my mother would have said. Well, mother, God has gotten me nowhere so far. Everything I've accomplished, I've done on my own. The money I've earned comes from hard work, sweat, and blood, not from God. I made it working extra shifts for my fellow farmhands so they could sleep in after the monthly barn dances, spending long nights in the row boat angling for fish to sell, and carving woodwork for the matrons at the nearby farms. When I get to America, it will all be by my own means. And if Maria loves me like she says she does, she will be there with me.

I've thought about it for a long time. The ticket to America is expensive, a year's salary in fact. I've spent almost two years saving every riksdaler I can spare in tin cans under my cot. I have enough for myself already, and soon I will be able to pay for Maria as well. I'm confident she will come with me. How can she not? We will have all the time we want, not just stolen nights when Master Albert is away. I can give her nothing here, nothing except for my body. In America, I can give her a whole new life. There is work, gold, land… They say they give away land for free. Life is good in America. Rich. That's what I want: a good life, a life where I'm more than the bastard son of a housemaid, more than a no-good farmhand, more than the secret lover of someone else's wife. In my new life, no one knows those things about me. I can make myself a new me.

A distant cuckoo brings me back from my dreams of America. It's in the west and that makes me smile. "Västergök är bästergök" they say – Cuckoo in the west is the best – and I take this as a sign that tonight is the night to talk to Maria about the future.

The swim back to the shore is revitalizing, and I can't help but hum to myself as I jog back to the quarters. We are six farmhands sharing a hovel behind the stables, and working together has made us close friends. Five sets of eyes lift from a game of Kille as I enter the quarters. Usually I would join in on their game, but not tonight. They tease me for my clean appearance, and I flip them off before throwing myself on my cot. Reaching down, I pull out the tin cans from underneath and pour the coins out to count them one more time.

I keep close track of how much I have, not because I think my roommates will steal any of it, but because it's my way of counting down the time until I can finally leave. I only have about a month left, by my estimations. I pick up my knife and a new piece of wood and continue carving out Kille pieces. Maria and I are going to need something to occupy our time on the boat, and Kille wood pieces are more likely to survive the wet journey over the Atlantic than their card equivalents.

My mind drifts as I work on the wood, and I lose track of time. The sound of the kitchen bell brings me back to the present. We rise in unison and hurry to the kitchen back door, our evening porridge waiting for us. There's a warm and hearty atmosphere in the kitchen, as farmhands, maids, and cooks crowd around the huge wooden table. Maria's lady's maid scurries by, carrying a tray of biscuits, honey, and warm milk for her mistress. She glances at me as she turns around, backing out of the kitchen door, and her simple nod tells me everything I need to know. Maria is expecting me.

I wait the customary hour before sneaking out of the kitchen and around the back of the main building. The laughter from the kitchen still reaches me as I stand quietly, hidden behind the large dog rose underneath Maria's bed chamber. Master Albert, who claims to be a God-fearing and chaste man, insists on them having their separate bedrooms. According to him, he wants to eliminate the risk of unnecessary temptation. I suspect the main reason is that he has his own little arrangement with Maria's lady's maid. Either way, I'm eternally grateful. I could not bear to be with Maria in a bed that's otherwise shared by her husband. At least this way it's easier to believe Maria when she says their conjugal visits take place elsewhere.

A warm, flickering light moves around in her room, and soon an oil lamp appears in her window. That's my cue, and I steal a quick glance around before climbing up the small ladder on the wall. It's been installed as a fire escape route, but it's proven very useful for my sneaky nightly visits. As far as I know, the only one aware of the relationship Maria and I have is the lady's maid, and since I believe she has her own reasons to keep quiet, I'm fairly convinced she won't tell anyone.

A quick tap on the window is all that is needed, and soon I'm on the inside, being dragged towards Maria's bed. My legs get entangled in her long, white nightgown and we fall down, giggling hysterically. I reach behind to unbutton it, but she's in a hurry and just hoists it up, all the way to her chin, revealing her dark triangle of hair and her soft, full breasts.

Her legs are spread wide in front of me and I sink down, covering her sex with my mouth. She makes the most perfect little moans as I work her with my tongue the way she's taught me, and she lifts her hips towards me to give me better access. Two of my fingers slide easily into her, and I push them hard and rhythmically against that ridged spot on the inside. I feel it swell and press harder, faster as I lick and suck on that small button that's buried in her folds. It doesn't take long for her to come hard on my fingers, crying out in pleasure, and she's still panting as I throw her around, pulling her buttocks up high and pushing myself deep into her.

I want nothing more than to fuck her quick and hard, but I know she expects me to make her come at least once more. I take a few deep breaths and pause, trying to keep myself in check. She's coming down from her high already and is impatient with me, and starts moving on her own, pushing herself back and forth, fucking herself on my cock. I keep still, knowing that the moment I give in and start meeting her motions I won't be able to hold it in anymore. Maria throws her head around, glaring at me over her shoulder, hissing at me to 'start moving, for God's sake, I'm not inviting you just to have to do all the work by myself.'

She's magnificent in her anger and lust, and I don't dare to do anything else but to give her what she wants. It's my luck that I've already gotten off once today because I manage to fight off my release until the moment I see her body shake in orgasmic spasms and feel her clench around me. My legs are quivering, and after I've pulled myself out, I fall down on the bed beside her. Strands of her dark hair are plastered against her forehead, and I gently push them to the side revealing her beautiful face. A satisfied smile is playing on her lips, and I lean down to kiss her.

This is the moment I've been waiting for.

This is it.

I whisper the words in her ear. I tell her about my plan. I tell her about the money I've saved, and how it's almost enough for us both now. I tell her about the life I can give her over there, in America.

And then I wait.

I wait for her to say something – anything. I look at her expectantly as she stares at me surely overwhelmed by my offer. She sits up slowly, turns around, and gets off the bed. She walks up to the window and stares out, her back turned against me, and I see her shoulders start to shake. She puts her hands over her face, and I realize that she's crying. Jumping out of bed, I hurry to comfort her, and it is then that I see that she's not in need of my comfort. Tears are streaming down her face, but it's clearly not tears of sadness. She's laughing, silently. The moment she lays her eyes on me she bursts out in high-pitched guffaws. It confuses me and I take a step back. Why is she laughing like this?

She shakes her head at me. I stand dumbstruck before her as she explains, through fits of hysterical laughter, that there is no way on earth she is going to give up this life, where she has everything she's ever wanted, for a simple farmhand like me.

A simple farmhand like me.

I fall to my knees ready to beg, but all I hear is her assuring me that the only thing she's ever wanted from me is my cock, and to be honest, that can easily be replaced. My mind is reeling from the things she's saying, and there's a buzzing sound growing louder and louder in my head until something snaps inside of me and everything turns quiet. I see her mouth move but I hear nothing.

Then, through the silence, her voice rings clear as she calls me silly, opens the window, and motions for me to get out. I rise on unsteady legs and reach for her face, my hand stopping mid-air, trembling. She smiles sweetly, but slightly contemptuously, and says something about me needing to get some sleep and regain my wits. She says that Master Albert is expected back by noon tomorrow and the courtyard needs to be tended to before that.

The courtyard needs to be tended to before that.

Her laughter is still ringing in my ears as I climb down the ladder and sneak back to the quarters. My cheeks are burning with shame, and I try furiously to blink away the tears of anger and embarrassment that are threatening to escape. The humiliation is worse than anything I've ever felt before. If only she'd just said no, but she had to go and laugh at me, to stomp on my plans and dreams and throw them in my face. She said I'm just a cock, and a replaceable one, at that.

Easily replaced.

I can still hear sounds from the kitchen, loud men singing and maids laughing, and I'm relieved to find the quarters empty. My body is numb; I can see my legs walk but don't really feel the motion. It makes me wonder how it's possible to move around like this, effortless, without sensing the weight on my feet, the movement of my arms, and the tension in my muscles.

The cot creaks as I sit down heavily, staring blindly ahead of me. Slowly it sinks in, what just happened. Everything I thought Maria and I had is a lie. She feels nothing for me. I'm nobody to her. And then I see it, clear as day. Why would a woman like her ever want a life with a man like me? That's right, she wouldn't. Of course she wouldn't. We are from different worlds, and the only time our worlds do blend into each other are in the bed. Or the barn. Or the lake.

How could I have been so stupid?

The sadness I feel over her rejection is transforming into anger. Anger at her, yes, for being so cold-hearted and condescending. But most of all, I'm angry with myself for not seeing things clearly, for letting my vision blur because of a pair of soft thighs, full breasts, and a wet pussy. I swear I will never make that mistake again.

It feels like I'm trapped in a dream; the world around me seems out of proportion. The floor is swinging and the walls look bent, and my hands seem to be too far from my body as they start gathering my stuff. I don't own much; an extra pair of rough, homespun flax trousers, a flax shirt and a nicer cotton one, and the provincial costume with its knee length yellow woolen breeches, bright red embroidered vest and little woolen hat. That costume is the only thing I have left of my family. It was Uncle Peter's once, and he left it for me before he emigrated with Charlotte and their children.

I fold my clothes and put them on my blanket before carefully pouring all my saved coins into the four leather pouches I've made for this purpose. I hang two of them around my neck and hide the other two among my clothes. The Kille pieces I've carved for the trip are neatly collected in a handkerchief with a leather strap tied around it, and I place it on top of my clothes. I bring the corners of the blanket together and tie them up in a bindle, and then fasten it to a stick. I look at the tattered mattress on my cot, decide to bring that as well, and roll it together tightly. I fasten it to my back with a leather belt, put the bindle stick on my shoulder, and leave the quarters without looking back.

I walk the entire night, thanking my lucky star for the light northern summer nights. The gravel crunches under my shoes as I follow the road south, each step taking me further away from my native district. I've read the letter from Uncle Peter a hundred times, slowly spelling out word after word, and I know his description of the journey by heart. I probably need an entire week to get to Uppsala walking by foot or catching rides with hay-carts. Once there I can take a train to Stockholm. In Stockholm there are daily trains all the way to Göteborg, and from Göteborg, I'll take a Wilson Line boat to Hull in England. Then it's the train again, but this time to Liverpool. From the Waterloo docks in Liverpool, I will take the transatlantic liner to New York.

Four to five weeks, all in all.

Four to five weeks to decide what kind of person I want to be when I set my feet on the ground in America.

America, my new homeland.