Then she told him the old stories of poor young women who, century after century, had come here in the night to hide little bundles away in the maze of holes and caves in the lava field.
“That’s the only thing that makes me sad about this place,” she said. “Knowing that so many little babies were brought out here to die because nobody could take care of them. And the poor unmarried women would have been punished with their lives if the truth had been known. How hard it must have been for them, how terribly hard and unjust.”
At this point in the story she fell silent for a while, and Henry thought there was nothing more to tell. He poured the milk from the bucket into the container without thinking, washed Brandy’s udders, and continued milking in a steady rhythm. His mind was ablaze with images from her story. It was like watching a painting come alive.
When Emily spoke again her voice was much brighter and happier, as if she had just needed a little moment to gather her thoughts.
“But then a young farmer came from another part of the country and built the house on the knoll. He also built the garden wall and planted the trees in the yard. He built the barn and the cowshed and sheep sheds. He was a hardworking man, and he laughed when the old people in the countryside told him that the place was cursed.
“He had a lovely wife and many children. Every summer he drove a tractor with a wagon to the faraway fields out east to mow them and then moved the hay back to the barn. It was hard work, but they were happy.
“He had a boat,” Emily said, “and moved it from the smithy, all the way along the path through the lava, and put it to sea in Shipwreck Bay. There’s no easy way to haul a boat down that steep cliff face, but he managed it, and rowed his boat when the sea was calm and smooth, cast out nets, and filled the boat with fish. Then he pulled the boat back up to the edge so the surf wouldn’t crush it when the tide came in. The farmers in the area called him the Miracle Man, because they envied him. None of them had ever tried to row out from these shores, with their steep cliffs and the sea being so rough. But the young farmer was determined to use every means possible to keep his family happy and well fed.
“But then tragedy struck in the most curious manner,” Emily said, and again her voice lowered a little.
“One night in the middle of winter, in a freezing blizzard, the farmer woke up from bad dreams. He told his wife to heat up some food, because they would have visitors that night. Then he went out into the blizzard and followed the path until he reached the edge of the cliffs above Shipwreck Bay.
“Out there he saw a huge trawler, a British trawler called Young Hope, stuck on a reef and being crushed to pieces by the roaring waves. Some of the crew were already in the water, fighting for their lives in the surf. But the farmer managed to shoot a line out to the ship. Then he climbed down the cliffs and got hold of the men, one by one, and pulled all twelve of them up onto the edge, to safety.
“The blizzard was so thick and the men so weak that they couldn’t even walk to the house. So he carried them, one by one, on his back along the path, all the way to the farm, where warm food and steaming hot coffee awaited them. Since then, the path has been called Spine Break Path in memory of this superhuman feat.
“How he knew about the trawler in the surf nobody will ever know, for when the twelfth crew member had been brought into the house the farmer disappeared into the blizzard again and never came back. Of course, the superstitious old people in the district said that the devil had demanded his toll, the thirteenth man.
“The poor widow sold the farm and moved far away with her children,” Emily said. “It’s almost ten years now since we bought the farm,” she added in a low voice. “And since then, no tragedy has ever taken place here, thank God.”
She whispered these last words, almost like a prayer.
Henry was dumbstruck. Not because of the superhuman feat of the Miracle Man, although he found that most impressive, but because he had realized that this was the first time anyone had told him a story. A real story of real people who had actually been alive, and their lives had been horrific and hard, happy and sad. Yes, his mom had read him some storybooks when he was little, but she had never told him a real story, told him anything in her own words, like Emily had just done.
Through her gentle voice, rising and descending, he had visualized the farmer and his family in his mind with no effort at all; they had just appeared there, their faces, their happy laughter, their bitter tears. He had almost felt the blizzard on his skin, the weight of the sailors on his own back — and completely forgotten himself. Her words, as if by some strange magic, had brought him into a mysterious new world, out of time and place.
It took him a moment to realize that he was in fact here, in the cowshed, pouring the last bucket of milk into the container.
“You’ve graduated,” Emily said with a sweet smile. “Now you’re officially our farmhand, and a proper cowboy as well!”
After she’d left, Henry stood for a long time beside the water tank, listening to the cold water running.
While his mind had been far away on this strange journey, he had milked eight cows, almost without noticing.
It was a Sunday, and the reverend was giving the boys hell.
“In the beginning the devil’s name was Lucifer,” Reverend Oswald said in a thundering voice. “He was one of the archangels of the Lord, the angel of light. But he was proud. When the Lord ordered all the angels to bow to his creation, man, Lucifer refused. He said he loved God too much to bow to anyone but him. But the Lord saw into his arrogant heart. He became sad and angry that one of his beloved archangels had allowed himself to become so selfish and proud.
“So the Lord said, ‘Be gone!’
“And Lucifer was cast out of heaven and thrown into the deepest darkness, there to endure for thousands of centuries,” Reverend Oswald whispered in a threatening voice, his face red and warm, the sweat glistening on his brow.
“He roams the world, full of hate and jealousy toward man, whom he blames for his downfall, and tries to ensnare us so we too will fall from the grace of God. His only goal is to justify his own pride.
“And since he was the first one to fall from the grace of the Lord, he will also be the last finally allowed into heaven. When all men are saved and all the sins of the world have been forgiven, then, at last, the Lord will send an angel into the abyss. And the angel will say the words that Lucifer has been longing to hear for thousands of centuries: ‘Come home.’”
The pedal organ took over; the boys’ singing filled the garage. But Henry didn’t sing. The words of Reverend Oswald were screeching and shouting and droning inside his head, driving him mad. His heart was pounding against his chest, sweat was running down his back; he wanted to run very fast, very far. He wanted to scream at the top of his voice.
After the service, the boys rushed outside and ran toward the smithy. There was a playground there with a couple of old tractor tires, a seesaw, and a swing. They were building huts, laughing, chatting happily, fooling around, spending their energy.
Henry limped as fast as he could toward the cowshed. It was early afternoon and he had nothing to do, but he had to do something. His head was bursting.
When he reached the cowshed he leaned against the wall, catching his breath.
To the southeast he could see two huge boulders rising into the air, far away. And right there, only a few feet from where he stood, he noticed the path at the edge of the lava field.
The path wound itself around rocks and past deep crevasses, never straight but bending this way and that, endlessly. It wasn’t smooth either and it was no broader than a horse would need in order to place one foot in front of the other. Amazing how the hooves of horses had chiseled that groove into the hard rock, age after age.
Henry had a hard time walking down the path. His clubfoot began to hurt and sometimes it got stuck in a crack or between rocks so he had to pull it free with both hands. And all around him mysterious sounds could be heard
, a quacking or rattling or wailing; sometimes just a quick chirp, first close by, then farther away.
A deep bellowing could be heard where the furious surf crashed on the steep cliff wall. Halfway to the cliffs he paused by the Gallows to catch his breath. The huge boulders leaned together just as Emily had said: like two friends bidding farewell to each other for the last time.
Finally he reached the sea cliffs, limping along the edge until he came to Shipwreck Bay, where monstrous waves were beating against the remains of the rusty carcass of Young Hope.
The wide ocean stretched as far as his eyes could see.
He stood there for a long time, like a troll turned to stone, his clubfoot stuck between the rocks. The wind was cold and fresh, and the air wove between his fingers; a salty spray gently stroked his face. He looked down into the bay at the backs of thousands of white birds that rose in the air on the strong breeze and circled around him, silent and curious. Then they hurled themselves into the void, screeching and calling, then gliding off into the far distance.
The stark blue waves rushed against the cliffs below, with white foam on top, exploding so furiously that the rock trembled underneath him. The deep, deep rumble of the waves, the relentless roar of the ocean; full of sadness or regret somehow, then suddenly full of anger and spite. It foamed like soap down in the bay and moved around the rust-burned corpse of the trawler.
Henry lay down on his stomach, his head over the edge, the cliff underneath him trembling against his heart. He no longer knew where the cliff ended and he took over, where the surf ceased and his heartbeat began. The ocean was so cruel, so overwhelming, so cold and deep, maybe deeper than the height of the sky above him. With a loud roar it banged its fists against the cliffs, snatching the longhaired seaweed with its sharp claws, ripping it from the cliff face, crunching the rocks with its sharp teeth.
The birds swung in the air below him and above him, so white and clean. They were like the words in his head, the words that flew, screeching around, inches from colliding into one another. Following the birds with his eyes, he suddenly realized his head was finally empty of words. There was nothing there but the overwhelming sound of the roaring ocean, almighty and unconquerable.
Why had the words of the reverend hurt him so much? Why had he wanted to jump to his feet and scream: No! You’re wrong! You know nothing!
Before he came to this place Henry had only heard Jesus mentioned when somebody was swearing. He’d known next to nothing about God or the devil. But the reverend’s sermons had taught him that there is a system in the world, and that God was a kind of king in heaven, who had sent his son, Jesus, to save mankind from the devil. So Henry had imagined that the devil was really evil and everybody should hate him. But now he had been told that the devil was thrown out of heaven because he loved God more than anything. So who was the evil one? The one who threw him out of heaven, or the one who only wanted to have a friend?
The voice of Reverend Oswald had become quiet in his mind, and all the angry words had dispersed among the birds in the cliffs. All that was left was the emptiness of his own soul.
Was it because he felt pitiful, like the archangel turned devil? Longing for a friend, just like that lonely creature in hell? Henry wondered if God would ever send him an angel with some comforting words. But he doubted that would ever happen. Why should the Lord bother with him?
Sitting on the edge of the cliffs, he could see the huge freighters disappearing over the horizon; the long, drawn-out bellow from their foghorns echoed across the vast ocean. It was a sound of regret. It stirred something inside of him and made him sad. Then he thought about his mom.
He remembered the day he’d sat on the bus at the station, the government official sitting beside him, constantly trying to make conversation with him. Henry had just stared out the window, waiting for Mom to bid him farewell. But Mom didn’t show up, and the bus slowly began to move.
It had been raining so hard that day. As he peered through the raindrops he suddenly saw her standing in the parking lot, her right arm in a cast. She had wrapped a plastic bag around the cast so it wouldn’t get wet. When she saw he had noticed her, she raised her other hand and waved. The man beside him asked if he wasn’t going to wave back. But Henry neither wanted to look nor wave. And yet he couldn’t take his eyes off her; she was so vulnerable in the cold, with a hat on, dressed in her old coat and wearing her winter boots in the pouring rain.
When the bus finally moved off she started to run beside it, right under the window where he sat. She had waved and sobbed. His mom, who had always taught him that crying made no difference, that crying didn’t make things any better, that it was useless to cry. He’d learned that from her. And then she had cried in the broad daylight. And it made him terribly angry.
Once the bus turned out of the parking lot, she stopped running. He could see her in the large side mirror; the plastic bag had blown off and was dancing around her. She grew smaller and smaller until the bus turned again and her image disappeared.
There had been so many hard days, so many bad men; how he had longed to become big and strong so that he could protect her. He had dreams of the two of them, happy and carefree somewhere, with a proper bedroom each, with proper food on the table. But they were always on the move and the houses were gray and small and the happy days never came. And when he had finally become strong enough to protect her, he had hurt her.
Somehow, one way or another, everything had been his fault.
The roaring fury of the ocean beneath him echoed in his thoughts: Your fault! Your fault! Your fault!
He jumped to his feet and shouted, “No!”
Huge boulders, rocks, and stones of all sizes were strewn around him on the edge of the cliff, thrown up by the powerful waves over the ages. He grabbed one with both hands, raised it high above his head, and threw it over the edge. The birds below swung to the sides as the black rock fell straight into their midst, falling until it disappeared into the frothing waves far below. He found another rock, much too heavy for him to lift, but he could roll it toward the edge if he used all his strength. So he did. His anger made him powerful; his stubby fingers dug themselves into the rock as he pushed.
He roared at the top of his lungs as it plunged over the edge, exploding into a huge wave as it rolled in. He couldn’t stop but limped hurriedly toward another rock, even bigger than the last one. With every rock that he pushed over the edge, he felt his strength increase, his anger exploding as the rocks hit the cliffs on the way down, his regret and sadness engulfed by the furious waves.
Somewhere deep down on the ocean floor, these rocks would rest for eternity, preserving inside their thick armor the memory of his emotions, the sound of his voice.
For the first time since he reached the farm, he broke his routine and didn’t get back in time for dinner. By the time he limped into the yard it was dark already and he went straight to the cowshed.
Inside, the darkness was thick before his eyes.
Noah stood in his stall, waiting. Maybe he understood exactly how Henry felt. Henry crawled into the stall and took the large bull’s head between his hands. But the bull didn’t press against him as he usually did when they played this game. He just nudged the crown of his head gently against the boy’s chest.
And that was no small sign of compassion from a fully grown bull.
Of course, breaking the rules had consequences.
At breakfast Emily didn’t greet him with her usual smile. She just showed him into Reverend Oswald’s office.
The reverend was sitting at his desk, leafing through some papers. He didn’t look up. Emily pulled out a chair for Henry and closed the door behind her.
There were bookshelves that reached up to the ceiling, bursting with a multitude of folders marked with capital letters. Then there were other shelves full of books. On a lectern in the corner lay an open Bible with a red ribbon between the pages.
The cover on the chair was torn around the armrests. He
nry wound up the loose threads, dug his fingers underneath the upholstery, and picked at the stuffing. The room was warm; the dusty smell of the books tickled his nose. He wanted to sneeze, but he didn’t dare. Snot trickled from his nose. He wanted to sniff, but he didn’t dare make a sound, so every now and then he shot out his tongue, just like Noah, and licked his upper lip clean.
Finally Reverend Oswald looked up and rested his hands on the desk. His eyes were cold and hard behind the gold-rimmed glasses.
“Where were you yesterday evening?” he asked.
Henry swallowed, and sweat ran down his brow. He opened his mouth a little, not to talk, just to breathe, for his heart was pounding hard.
“Asleep,” he finally managed to whisper.
“That is not the truth,” the reverend said sternly. “I went to your room myself to look for you, but you weren’t there.”
Henry felt as if his eyes were popping out of his head. Please, he thought, don’t make me rebuild the cairn, don’t lock me up in the Boiler Room! He had to think fast to come up with an answer, but thinking up an answer had never been easy for him, least of all under such pressure. His fingers were tearing uncontrollably at the upholstery.
“I-I w-w-was a-at th-the c-c-c-cliffs,” he finally said after having fought every word. His voice sounded so funny in his ears; high-pitched, screeching almost, like in a cartoon. The sweat trickled down his back and from under his arms.
The reverend raised an eyebrow in surprise for a second. Then he became angry.
“That’s strictly forbidden! It can be dangerous! You are absolutely not allowed to go down to the cliffs. Do you understand?”
Henry shot his tongue upward, licking the snot in a frenzy, digging his fingers into the holes in the armrests.
“There are dangerous pits in the lava, and someone with your walking disabilities shouldn’t go there by himself. From the Gallows, Spine Break Path can be dangerous. It is strictly forbidden to go down to the sea cliffs. You might easily be washed out by the waves, or you might slip and fall over the edge! Do you understand?”
Boy on the Edge Page 4
