He Who Fears The Wolf

by Karin Fossum

  "So tell me about Johannes, now that we're making such headway."

  Morgan felt as though time had stopped. The future no longer existed, only the present. It was just him and Errki here between these four rough wooden walls. Dimly lit and comfortable. The whisky was burning in his veins, giving him a floating sensation.

  Errki thought about Johannes. A grey, wrinkled, dry old man with dead eyes. He seemed to recognise himself in those eyes, as if he and Johannes were related. Eyes without hope. And then one day, there he was, at the top of a ladder.

  "He'd started drinking. His wife was dead, and Johannes shrank to almost nothing in just a few months."

  "Sounds like my mother after my father died," Morgan said.

  "He started drinking. He drank all the time, without stopping, for months. People kept coming over to try and help him, but it didn't do any good."

  "So he drank himself to death?"

  "No. In the end he woke up and put a stop to it, after sharing a bottle of liquor with the minister."

  "Sounds like a great minister."

  "The minister saw me and started yelling, but I didn't stop. I could have stopped, but I went out of the door as fast as I could and hid behind the greenhouses."

  "Why was he yelling?"

  "Stop nagging at me like that."

  Errki turned around and grabbed for the bottle. Morgan let him have it.

  "Johannes got a job working for the minister as a handyman. He was whitewashing the church, standing at the top of a tall ladder, working hard. Then Errki Johrma came along. Johannes didn't hear anything because he was busy with his work, and besides, he was whistling, happy and sober as he was. That's exactly why I was disappointed. He'd started to look like everyone else.

  "But I shouted at him. I shouted, 'Hey, you up there!' And good God, what a fright I gave him! He shoved against the wall out of sheer fright, and the ladder made a big arc, and he fell backwards."

  "Holy shit!"

  "He slammed on to the stone. I stood there staring at his crushed skull. His legs kept twitching for a while, until he lay still. I hid behind a headstone. Then the minister came running, and I heard him shouting and wailing."

  "And so they said it was your fault?"

  "It was my fault."

  "How on earth does anyone get to be so incredibly unlucky?" Morgan said. "Were you born on Friday the 13th?"

  "Afterwards they came and got me from home."

  "What did you tell them?"

  "Nothing. Nestor told me to keep my mouth shut."

  "Nestor?" Morgan rubbed his eyes. "How you've managed to get yourself mixed up in so much misery is more than I can comprehend. I thought I was unlucky. But what about the old woman they found yesterday. Was that an accident too? Just tell me what happened."

  Errki turned to face him. "As I said. Things just happen."

  "That's a rather glib response, don't you think? The police are going to interrogate you. You need to work out what you're going to say."

  "I'm a wave," Errki said dramatically. "I break only once."

  "Then I think that's what you should tell them. And you'll land right back in the asylum."

  He wiped his brow. "My nose aches," he complained.

  Errki shrugged. "You could fix your nose with your own willpower if you'd just make the effort."

  "Is that right?"

  "You have to scare off the infection using all the powers you possess. You have to heal yourself."

  "I'm not a fucking Chinaman. I don't believe in that kind of stuff."

  "That's why you're sick."

  "Can't you do it for me?" he said sarcastically. "Besides, I'm not in any shape to exert myself. My bones are like jelly."

  "You have to do it yourself."

  "I thought as much, but thanks for the thought," he said despondently. "You know, I once saw a man on TV who could break glass just by thinking about it. It was really impressive. But it's all just a stunt."

  "Breaking glass with your mind isn't very impressive," Errki said. "I can do that too. Glass is under constant tension; it's easy."

  "Wow, listen to him! How come you don't travel around giving performances?"

  "Don't feel like it."

  "And who taught you this?"

  "The magician. In Central Park."

  "It's good you have a sense of humour. We're going to need it."

  "Do you know what he could do?" Errki asked. "He could stretch out the skin on his hands until it burst."

  "So give me a demonstration. But don't break the whisky bottle."

  "There isn't any glass here," Errki said. "All the windows are already broken."

  "I suppose someone was here before you and did the job."

  "But there are still some big pieces left in that window over there," Errki said, pointing.

  "OK, then break them," Morgan said, full of anticipation. He was enjoying himself, although at the same time he had a feeling that something might go badly wrong.

  Errki got up unsteadily from the sofa. He stared at the window and sank down to the floor, bent his head and shut his eyes. Morgan looked at him with a mixture of glee and sadness. He stared at the piece of glass in the upper right corner of the window frame. The sun shone through, making it light up. Not a sound came from Errki, he sat like a statue. Morgan wondered hazily if he ought to make a decision about what they were going to do next. But the heat and the whisky had drained him of energy, and it was so nice just to sit still and doze. Life hadn't turned out quite the way he'd expected. It hadn't for Errki either. He looked ridiculous sitting there on the floor, a rock-hard knot of stubborn willpower. Morgan was struck by how thin he was, as fragile as an insect. And now he was going to perform a magic trick for him. It was almost painful to imagine how disappointed he'd be when nothing happened. He wondered what he would say to console him. Maybe put the blame on the whisky, say that it had sapped him of his strength.

  Then the glass broke. It didn't split apart with a little tinkling sound, just for fun. It shattered with a bang, and glass rained down in the room. Morgan jumped, feeling his heart jolt with fear. Errki was still sitting on the floor. Then he raised his head and looked around. He looked sleepy, at first. But then he looked surprised.

  "Something's not right," he said, and made for the door.

  "Something's not right? How the hell did you do that?" Morgan looked stunned. "Where are you going?"

  "Outside," Errki replied. "Outside to check on something."

  CHAPTER 18

  Kannick lowered his bow. He was standing approximately 25 metres away, looking at the empty window. What he'd hit was no great feat, but it was still a challenge to aim for the transparent, shimmering glass, and the arrow had made a great sound as it struck. In his mind he had just skewered the eyeball of General Crook. He went closer and stared at the house, which was empty and abandoned and looked dilapidated in the afternoon sun. He knew that he would find the arrow inside, sticking out of a wall. He looked around for another target because he had one arrow left in his quiver. It was getting late but he wasn't worried about the unpleasantness that awaited him back at Guttebakken. He knew exactly what would happen and had been through it many times before, so it didn't scare him. It was all so pitifully predictable. Grown-ups had so little imagination. Margunn might find somewhere else to hide the key to the cabinet. Chances are it wouldn't be any worse than that. Besides, she would be glad that he'd found the missing arrows, since she knew that he was worried about them. He would discover her new hiding place. And that would be all.

  He stared at the old house, at the grey wood, the flat stone steps in front of the door, and the empty windows. He had been inside many times, had been through all the cupboards, had even slept on the old sofa in the living room. He stared at the door. There were several black spots in the wood, and he decided to choose one of them.

  He was Chief Geronimo. The door was a Mexican soldier, and the dark spot was his heart. The enemy. They were the ones who had raped and ki
lled the tribe's women and children. He hated them from the depths of his warrior soul!

  This time he wanted to shoot from a kneeling position, the way the chief used to shoot. It was a big challenge. He went down on one knee and pulled out the next arrow from the quiver. This one had yellow and red feathers. He put the arrow into the bow and straightened his back. Through the sight he made sure the bow was level. He looked at the dark spots and chose the one in the middle of the door, a little to the left of where the door handle had been. Then he drew, felt the plate slide under his chin and the string of the bow move into place just above the tip of his nose.

  Long live the Apaches!

  Just the slightest adjustment and he had the spot in his sight. Vaguely he noticed that something was happening. The door opened and a black shape appeared in the entrance. But his brain had already given the command; his grip loosened and he wanted to lower the bow, but he couldn't stop the arrow from releasing. It flew from the string at a speed of close to 100 metres per second.

  There was not a sound as it struck. Errki stood on the steps and gave only a tiny start of surprise. Kannick saw the yellow arrow sticking out of his black trousers. Errki looked astonished, but said not a word. Hesitantly he moved his hand to pull it out. Then he caught sight of Kannick. The fat boy.

  He recognised the ragged trousers and the bulging body. Now he understood what he'd had in the case he had been clutching as he'd raced down the path with madness in his eyes. A bow. The boy lowered it now. It gleamed red in the sunlight, and the arrow the boy had just shot was sticking out of Errki's right thigh. It didn't hurt. He gripped the arrow close to his trousers and clenched his teeth. It slid out, quite easily. He felt at once something give way, a tight clamp that let go. The boy turned and ran.

  Errki did something he hadn't done in years, he ran after him. Hot blood was starting to pour down his thigh. Kannick was gasping for breath, but otherwise not a sound came from his mouth as he raced away. He dropped the bow; he'd never thought he'd be able to do such a thing, but it was hindering his escape, and the black shape that was Errki Johrma was after him! As the terrible seriousness of his situation dawned on him, the strength drained from his body, leaving him empty for a moment. He lost his concentration and began to stumble over low branches and undergrowth. He thought, if I fall now, there's no hope. He was running to save his life; he wanted to go back home to Guttebakken. Home to Margunn and all the others, to the safe life in that ugly building, to Philip wheezing in the bed beside him. Home to Christian, to the dream of defeating all the other contenders for the national championships, home to dinner and freshly baked bread, to the flickering TV set and clean sheets every other week. Life suddenly seemed to him so precious, something he wanted to fight for, and the feeling swamped him.

  Then he stumbled, and fell full length, face down in the dry grass. But he didn't give up, he was still fighting; he had to find something to defend himself with so that he could kill his pursuer before his pursuer killed him! He looked around for a stick but found only twigs; there was no stone that he could see. At the end of his tether, he saw his life vanishing, slipping away. He surrendered, rolled up into a ball and lay still. Kannick had never imagined he would die so young. He used the last of his strength to prepare himself. Errki's footsteps were coming closer. At last they stopped right beside him. The man was crazy. He wasn't going to behave like anyone else. That was the worst part, not knowing what to expect. All the stories that he'd heard about Errki raced through his mind.

  "He who fears the wolf shouldn't go into the forest," Errki whispered.

  Kannick heard the low voice. He didn't move, he was already as good as dead. Cautiously he turned his head and caught a glimpse of the leg of Errki's black baggy trousers. The wound didn't seem to be bothering him. Yet another sign that the man was inhuman. He probably didn't feel pain, not his own, and definitely not anyone else's. He was without feeling. Being inhuman meant that you had no feelings about anything.

  "Get up."

  The voice was not menacing. It even held a trace of surprise. Kannick got unsteadily to his feet, keeping his head bowed. The beating would come soon, and he had to take the brunt of it on his forehead and temples. A hard slap on the cheek was the worst thing Kannick could imagine. That kind of blow was so humiliating. But nothing happened.

  "Back to the house," was all Errki said.

  There was something threatening about the fact that he didn't raise his voice. That's the way a sadist talks, someone who enjoys causing pain, Kannick thought. The voice was so clear and quiet; it didn't match the rest of him. He was overwhelmingly sinister up close. Kannick didn't dare look at his eyes. That was something he wanted to avoid for as long as possible, because when he saw them he would be utterly lost.

  Back to the house. He was hiding out in the old cabin, had been up there the whole time. He wasn't on his way to Sweden as they'd said on the radio. Going inside that house with Errki was like stepping inside the realm of the dead. Once he was inside no-one would hear him scream for help. He started shaking violently, thinking that now he would be punished for everything he had ever done.

  If you don't shape up, Kannick, I don't know what's going to become of you in the future.

  The future, which had never worried him before, was not just catching up with him, it was about to vanish. Maybe he would die painfully. The only thing Kannick really feared was pain. His body began shaking so much that the rolls of fat quivered and sloshed. Maybe he still had time to faint and disappear, to sink unseen through the heather, anything to escape this nightmare. But there was nowhere for him to go, and he didn't faint. Errki was waiting. He was patient, because he was sure that he would win, sure that Kannick didn't have a chance of getting away.

  Then Kannick saw the gun. In the midst of his despair, a thought occurred to him, a thought from a soul that faced death: if only he could get a bullet in the head instead of being tortured. That was Kannick's last hope. Grudgingly, slowly he started through the grass. He had no idea how his legs managed to carry him; they moved against his will, back towards the house, in the direction he didn't want to go, to his end. Errki followed behind him. He had stuck the gun in his belt with the big eagle on the buckle, and was holding one hand over his wound. His leg was bleeding still, but he would be able to staunch the blood by tying something around it; it wasn't more serious than that.

  "You're scared," Errki said.

  Kannick stopped and tried to understand what the crazy man meant. Was this part of the torture? To make him feel safe and then deal him a death blow? To enjoy his terror as he realised that he was going to die? He pondered this so long, standing still on the path, that Errki had to give him a little push. Kannick cringed and whimpered softly, but no shot was fired. He started walking again until the house was visible through the trees. He thought they had run for ever, but it was only a few hundred metres. They stopped in what had once been a garden, and Kannick had his second shock. A man with blond hair was in the doorway in brightly coloured shorts.

  There were two of them. One to hold him down and one to administer the torture! He tried again to faint, tried to make himself fall forward, but his knees refused to obey. I'm going to die here, he thought, closing his eyes. With bowed head he waited for the shot. Errki gave him another shove in the back.

  "That man over there wants to be called Morgan."

  Morgan stared at them, wide-eyed. "Hey, Errki! Have you been to the butcher to buy some lard?"

  He was leaning against the door frame, looking in disbelief at Kannick's impressive double chin and the thighs that were the same width as Errki's waist.

  Kannick scowled at his nose.

  "He shot me in the thigh," Errki said.

  "Damn it, Errki, you're bleeding like a pig!"

  "I said he shot me." He bent down and picked up the arrow. "With this."

  Morgan examined it with curiosity, stroking the yellow and red feathers. "I'll be damned. Were you playing Indians? Is there
a cowboy out there too?"

  Kannick shook his head vigorously. "I was j-just out here p-practising."

  "Practising? For what?"

  "F-for junior national ch-champion."

  He barely managed to gasp out the words. Errki heard quite clearly the sound of a bagpipe, not quite pitch perfect.

  "Take him inside." Morgan moved aside to let them in. Errki pushed Kannick ahead of him, wondering what he could use to tie around his leg to stop the bleeding.

  "I have to go home," Kannick squeaked.

  "Sit down on the sofa," Morgan said harshly. "We need to clarify the situation first. Maybe we can use you for something."

  The sight of Morgan's nose made Kannick stare. It looked worse than ever, with the loose part dangling hideously. Its colour reminded him of a rotten potato. He noticed the whisky bottle on the floor, the radio on the mantelpiece, and his arrow sticking out of the wall next to it. The man with the curly hair was obviously drunk. That didn't make him feel any safer. He sank onto the sofa, and sat there feeling dazed, with his hands in his lap. Then came the question he had dreaded.

  "Does anyone know where you are?"

  No. Nobody knew. They wouldn't even know where to start looking, unless Margunn was sharp enough to check the cabinet, find that the bow was missing and realise that he had gone to the woods. But the woods were huge. It would take for ever for them to find him, and besides, they would wait a long time before they even started looking, and at first she would only send out Karsten and Philip. And they were hopelessly lazy and didn't know their way around very well.

  "Answer me!" Morgan said and hiccoughed.

  "No," he whispered. "No-one knows."

  "Not very pleasant, is it?"

  Kannick bowed his head. It was worse than unpleasant, it was the beginning of the end.

  "You don't have an ice-cold beer, do you?" Morgan licked his lips. As he asked the question, he was suddenly overwhelmed by a terrible thirst.

  This was not what Kannick had expected. "I've got some lozenges," he mumbled.

  "OK. Let's have them. I haven't got a drop of spit left."