Only the Dead

by Vidar Sundstøl

  I am a star in the vault of the sky. Just a tiny speck twinkling high above. I can see the whole world from here. There is nothing but dark forest and snow-white water and marshland. A big lake that looks like a black tablecloth in the middle of it all. There is a cross at the very tip of a headland. A man is sticking out of a hole in the ice. Just his head and arms. In one hand he is holding an ax. The man with the black hat throws something to him. It falls onto the ice, lifeless, and stays there. The man in the hole doesn’t move. He simply hangs there, with his arms on top of the ice. The other man hauls back what he had thrown. He gathers it into his hands. Then he begins making his way out across the ice, hunched over, moving sideways, like a crab. I can hear him talking, but it’s impossible to understand what he’s saying. Nothing but sounds. Snorting. A low-pitched calling. Now he stops, preparing to throw something again. It comes rushing through the air and lands right in front of me. But I can’t move even a finger. I am just hanging here, in the middle of the vaulted sky, together with the other stars, watching what’s going on down below. The crab man shouts loudly several times, but nothing happens. The man sticking out of the hole in the ice doesn’t move at all. And now the shapeless four-legged creature slowly starts moving forward again. This time he doesn’t stop until he reaches the man in the ice. He smells of animals and smoke from a fire.

  Another star grabs me around the waist. I’m being dragged across the sky. A creaking sound all around me. I feel like I’m going to throw up but can’t manage to turn my head. I can’t open my hand that’s holding the ax. I hear someone talking behind me. It sounds like something from a dream. But this is a dream! I’m dreaming that I’m a star being dragged across the sky by another star. But that can’t be right. Because now I do throw up. Vomit and water on my cheek. Am I being dragged across the snow? Across the ice? I can see the stars and the moon high overhead. I guess I’m not a star after all. I can’t breathe. I thrash from side to side and throw up.

  Someone is shouting. I turn my head and see the black crab over there. He’s holding something in his hands. What is it? A long branch. No, a rope. The rope that is dragging me forward. It’s tied under my arms. I must have been dreaming, because I remember falling into the water. There were lots of people on shore throwing stones at me. If even one of them struck me, I would drown. Stones rained down all around me, but none of them hit me. I was able to walk on water. Then I saw a gray body underneath me. It was racing through the water at great speed. I couldn’t see what it was. But now I have awakened from the dream. I am lying here throwing up on myself. It’s not sour, stinking vomit, just water. I am lying on the snow and looking up at the stars overhead. I hear somebody talking. He seems in a frenzy.

  I can’t feel my arms or my legs. Not my face either. Only the ax that has grown onto my hand. I try to say something, but nothing comes out. I don’t recognize myself. Am I a dead man who’s been hauled up out of the water? From the blue ice down below? Is that why I’m so cold? Somebody rescued me. A big black crab wearing a hat. Now I hear his footsteps on the hard-packed snow. He comes close. Says something. Repeats it. I think he’s asking me a question. But it can’t be English. Now I see him. He has on a black hat with a round brim. Under the hat he’s wearing some kind of scarf tied around his head, covering his ears. His face is as dark as an otter’s. He squats down. I close my eyes. Then I feel a hand on my forehead. He is stroking my skin. My mother is the only one who has ever stroked my forehead before. It’s a warm hand. He unbuttons my jacket. I can’t move. He sticks his hand inside my clothes and places it on my chest. And leaves it there. Then he says something again, but I can’t understand him. I’ve heard English spoken every day for weeks. I should be able to recognize that language, even though I can’t speak it myself. No, this isn’t English.

  I open my eyes and look up at the face above me. He isn’t going to hurt me, is he? But didn’t he just rescue me? Yes, that’s why I’m lying here and not at the bottom of the lake. It’s as if I’ve come ashore once again. I was way up there in the sky. A star. I thought I was dead, and he has brought me back to life. I’ve heard the gypsies can do that sort of thing. And I think this man must be a gypsy. Now he’s nodding and muttering something. The brim of his hat is blocking out the moonlight. His face is in shadow. He’s still holding his hand on my chest. It’s the warmest hand I’ve ever felt.

  I can feel myself breathing again. And it hurts. A rib, I remember now. I fell into a creek. No, I jumped over it. I can move my head now. Take a look around. The enormous lake. The ice-covered bay. The hole in the ice. The moon. The black water merging with the sky, like the sea. And behind the gypsy a cross. Two sticks lashed together with rope. That was what I saw just before I went under. He is patting my chest. Gives a toss of his head. Does he want me to go with him? He puts his hand to his cheek, as if to signal that he’s tired. Does he want me to go with him and sleep? But I need to find Knut’s boat shed. From there it’s a straight path up to his cabin.

  I try to sit up but can only manage to move my hands a bit. So how will I be able to find my way to Knut and Nanette? It’s impossible. Either I lie here all alone and freeze to death, or I go with the man who rescued me. Because that is what he did. He rescued me from the water. Brought me down from the stars. I try to nod, but can’t manage it. He seems to understand. He grabs the rope and again starts dragging me across the packed snow. It’s worse here than out on the ice. There are rocks and tussocks under the snow. The ground goes up and down. But he’s careful. He drags me in between the big pine trees. I can hear a river. It must be the same one I saw just before I fell through the ice. Where are we going? But anything is better than lying there alone and freezing to death next to that cross, even though pain shoots through me when I slide over a tussock or a rock.

  I don’t let go of the ax. The gypsy drags me and the ax over the snow. Up above, between the big pines, I can see the moon. It has followed me the whole way. I was up there with it, but now I’m back on earth, where I belong. He stops. I turn my head and see a sort of sod hut like the Lapps build. He says something in his gypsy language, comes over to me, squats down, unties the rope and takes it off me. Then he grabs me under the arms and lifts me up. Sets me on my feet. I’m still holding the ax. I don’t think I could let it go even if I wanted to. I try to stand on my own, but I can’t. He grabs me as I fall. Then he partially carries me, partially supports me over to the hut. It’s not like an ordinary sod hut. It’s covered with birch bark. Animal hides are hanging from poles that are stuck between the trees. This place smells of animals. He moves aside a big sheet of birch bark. That must be the door. I fall into the dark.

  IT WAS SO QUIET Lance heard a ringing in his ears. He was sitting on post. Andy was supposed to start at the river and head west, crossing the path of the two first drives. Along a creek bed they thought would be promising. Lance was positioned near a small area that had been clear cut, half hidden behind a tree. The clearing was covered with a thick underbrush of raspberry bushes, but they weren’t so tall that they’d block a deer from view. There were also a number of tall, slender aspens, as well as some bigger birch trees.

  Lance was annoyed to feel his big stomach pressing against his thighs. Actually, it disgusted him. He thought about how easily Andy moved through the woods. No matter how much he ate, he kept the same lean physique. Tammy and Chrissy too. They were a thin family.

  He and Andy had exchanged only a few words, and only about the hunt, after Lance had mentioned Chrissy. Neither of them said any more than was necessary. He just hoped Andy also wanted to get this whole expedition over with as soon as possible. That he wasn’t trying to pull something behind his back. But it was obvious Andy was feeling uneasy. He could tell his brother knew something.

  Lance pictured the body of Georg Lofthus the way it had looked when he found the dead man on that morning nearly four months ago. He couldn’t even imagine what emotions must have provoked such a brutal attack. For a moment he thought about t
he cat hissing in the dark. How he’d struck blow after blow, and kept at it long after the cat had fallen silent. But good Lord, it was a cat! And one that was seriously injured. He hadn’t had the heart to just drive away and leave the poor animal like that.

  Andy would never hurt me, he thought. Not even if I turned him in. And yet Lance wasn’t so sure about that. Because if he did turn Andy in, his brother would spend the rest of his life behind bars, cut off from his family, locked up with hardened criminals. Lance assumed he’d go to great lengths to avoid ending up like that. But how far would he go?

  Lance was keeping an eye on the clearing the whole time. This took some effort since nothing was happening out there, but a good hunter had to master the art of constant vigilance, or else he wouldn’t have a chance when something finally did happen. That was something he fully understood. Now it occurred to him that this might also be the right way to deal with his brother. Stay alert the whole time, even now, when nothing seemed to be happening. Especially now. If he didn’t, all of a sudden it might be too late.

  I’m not taking any chances, he thought.

  It had started to drizzle. The same dismal cold rain. He raised his hands to his lips to blow on his fingers. He never wore mittens or gloves while out hunting. And it wasn’t just because he needed to pull the trigger. He could have done like so many other hunters did, cutting off the index finger on their right glove or wearing fingerless mitts. For Lance it was a matter of his grip on the rifle and having complete contact between the palms of his hands and the stock of the gun, whether it was made of wood or, as in his case, fiberglass. He rubbed his hands hard against each other until they turned a fiery red. Then he picked up his rifle and resumed the same motionless position.

  What if Andy had lost control, just like that time in the school yard long ago? If it comes down to him or me, thought Lance, how far am I willing to go?

  ANDY WAS WALKING ALONG A CREEK, holding his rifle in his hands. All around him grew tall maple trees. They were spaced relatively far apart, which gave the woods a more open, almost park-like feel—something that was quite unusual for the area. When he reached a place where the creek made a ninety-degree turn, he stopped and looked around. A couple of rocks were sticking up out of the foaming white water. All the rain over the past few weeks had made for a forceful current. Even so, he leaped from the bank and crossed the creek with a couple of light, quick steps, almost as if he were dancing across the rocks, holding his gun in his right hand, his left arm outstretched to keep his balance. He disappeared among some bushes on the opposite bank, but soon reemerged.

  Suddenly Andy spun around and stared straight ahead. Lance swiftly pulled back behind the small spruce tree. But when he ventured another look, he saw that his brother was continuing along the creek at the same slow pace. It didn’t look like he’d noticed anything, but if he had, it would have been nothing more than a split second of movement. It was probably coincidence that he had spun around to look in his brother’s direction.

  Now Lance left his hiding place and walked along the ridge, making sure the whole time that he couldn’t be seen from the creek bed below. As long as he stayed up here, it shouldn’t be a problem to reach the post before Andy did. The distance he needed to cover was significantly shorter than the route his brother was taking. He could cut straight across the ridge and he’d be at his post. Andy, on the other hand, had to follow the creek, which meandered in a great loop around the same ridge. It was in this valley that they were hoping to find deer.

  The backs of Lance’s hands were burning from the cold. The light drizzle continued to come down. Little more than a fine mist, and it wasn’t going to get any worse. It didn’t bother him that he could no longer see his brother. Andy would have to stay down in the valley if he was going to carry out the drive properly. Lance felt he now had him under control. It was only a matter of waiting for a while; then Andy would once again appear among the big maple trees below.

  It occurred to Lance that he’d never been in exactly this spot before. It was true that he and Andy had hunted in this area several times, and as part of his job, he’d driven along a gravel road on the north side of the ridge. When he was a kid he’d also played fur trapper out here with his cousin Gary Hansen. Yet in all these years he’d never come up onto the ridge itself.

  It was like a plateau, fairly flat and good for walking, mostly covered with a sparse conifer forest. He could see the lake and Highway 61. The cars looked like little matchboxes. Because of the distance, they all seemed to be moving at a snail’s pace. For a moment he almost forgot why he was here. He remembered that time when they’d stood and looked at the lake in the dark, with the reflection of the moonlight spreading over the whole, huge surface of the water. The world around them cloaked in darkness. Was it here we stood? he wondered. Had he been here before, after all? He knew that couldn’t be true; they’d been much farther away from the lake back then. Not a single light had been visible, not from any houses or cars. What if Dad could see us now? he thought. He was the one who taught us to appreciate all this.

  In his mind Lance pictured his brother holding out his hand and shouting: “Come on and eat, and be quick about it, you fucking ungrateful little birds!” It was a grotesque parody of the way his father used to talk, made even more grotesque because the object of ridicule was deceased. The dead should be respected, he thought. Nobody knows what it means to be dead. Nobody knows where the dead are.

  Now he saw Andy again. He’d covered a good distance, but it should still be no problem to reach the post before he did. Lance had the situation under control. He followed his brother, making sure the whole time that he’d be able to make a quick retreat and slip out of sight. For that reason he kept a suitable distance away from the edge of the ridge so that all he really needed to do was duck down to avoid being seen from the valley floor.

  Andy stopped and stood still next to a big boulder. He seemed to be looking at something on the ground. Then Lance realized what his brother was doing. With a slight feeling of discomfort he pulled the rifle strap off his shoulder and raised the gun, as if he were about to shoot. When he looked through the scope, the trees in the valley came into sharp focus. He had to move the scope back and forth a bit before he found Andy, who was pissing against the big boulder. Like a dog, thought Lance. Steam rose up from the urine. He made a point of keeping the crosshairs off Andy. For a second they settled on the boulder, which was about three feet from his brother’s left shoulder. The whole time Lance was keenly aware of the placement of the fingers of his right hand. Not because he was afraid of shooting his brother by accident, but there was something frightening about looking at him in this way. There was a certain tension about standing here like this, even though he wasn’t aiming at Andy, because he wasn’t. He was just studying him. But he’d stood in this same position so many times, aiming at a deer. If a deer had been standing there right now, taking a piss, he would have shot it.

  Andy finished and pulled up his rain pants. Then he started walking again. Viewed through the rifle scope, he seemed wrapped in total silence. As if he were moving through a different world than the one in which Lance found himself. When he lowered his gun, Andy was instantly far away, as were any sounds he made.

  Lance headed through the pine trees, holding his rifle in his right hand. If a deer appeared, he was going to shoot it, no matter what Andy might think about why he was up on the ridge. He could say the deer had first turned up near the post but took off as soon as he raised his gun, and so he’d followed the animal up here. It wasn’t really important whether Andy believed the story or not. The only thing that mattered was bringing this hunting expedition to an end.

  Couldn’t he just call it quits? A tempting idea, but it wasn’t that simple. Lance couldn’t think of anything that would make his brother more suspicious than if he phoned to say he was giving up. In the twenty-six years they’d been doing this, they had never once called off a hunt. And even though he might have conv
inced Andy that he’d suddenly taken ill, doing so would merely postpone things. He couldn’t very well keep playing sick for the rest of November. Sooner or later they’d have to set out again to finish what they’d started today. There was only one way out of this, and that was for one of them to bag a deer. That would finally put an end to it. With a whole year until next time, he’d be able to think up some excuse for never going out hunting again.

  He could no longer see Andy, but he spied an open area at the bottom of the valley, and his brother couldn’t possibly have reached that spot yet. All Lance had to do was wait a few minutes, and then he’d have him in sight again. He couldn’t see the lake or the road anymore, just the valley below, and on the other side the terrain rose up to approximately the same height as the ridge where he was standing. He leaned against the trunk of a pine, focusing his gaze on the open area below.

  As he stood there, he began to freeze. The cold moved up his legs to his hips and the small of his back. It crept farther up, until even his scalp was shivering. His jaw muscles began to tremble. He had to stand still and wait for Andy to appear in the clearing down in the valley; he couldn’t lose him now. He couldn’t allow himself to jump up and down or do a few knee bends. It was essential that he remained as still as possible. That was why he stood there, soundlessly shaking, with his back pressed against a pine tree. It felt like the last remnants of warmth, a sort of core somewhere deep inside his body, was being pushed out by the cold.