The long machete lay on the gravel, sharpened many times, the edge gleaming. The executioner threw the rifle away, grabbed the long knife, and knelt by Noah’s head. Placing the shiny edge at the throat, he sank the glistening blade into the black hide, right up to the spine. Blood gushed out of the gaping wound, as he pushed the blade with all his strength, loosening the head from the body with a firm movement and throwing it to one side. The monstrous body twitched on the ground for a while; the cloven hooves kicked the gravel sideways as if they were trying to run away. A powerful stream gushed from the open neck in a steady beat, and a wailing sound squeezed out of the throat, a long drawn cry that finally faded. The body trembled in horrific spasms and the tail hit the flank for the last time.
The sun appeared and disappeared behind a cloud. The beams ran across the yard and golden spots glimmered in the blood that floated over the gravel.
“A tough devil,” one of the men said, lighting a cigarette. Another one began to cut holes through the hind legs of the bull so that they could hoist him up on the tractor and take him away to skin and butcher him. The Brute rubbed his cheeks and said he’d never experienced anything like it.
Henry stood over his friend’s head and watched the blood escape.
He felt dizzy.
The singing of the little ones could be heard coming from somewhere, accompanied by Emily’s loud organ. She’d probably ushered them into the garage so they wouldn’t have to witness the scene. They must have been singing the whole time; he just hadn’t noticed until now.
If you’re happy and you know it clap your hands.
If you’re happy and you know it clap your hands.
If you’re happy and you know it and you really want to show it,
if you’re happy and you know it clap your hands.
The men stood in a group like in an old photograph, wearing dirty jeans with their shirts hanging over their belts, cigarettes between their fingers, or arms crossed over their broad chests, watching him. The dust hung in the air, and a single beam of sunlight ran across the yard, sparkling on the black hide.
If you’re happy and you know it stomp your feet.
If you’re happy and you know it stomp your feet.
If you’re happy and you know it and you really want to show it,
if you’re happy and you know it stomp your feet.
Henry looked at his friend’s head and suddenly realized that God didn’t rule the world at all; neither did the devil. It was people. It wasn’t really the Brute who had murdered Noah; he was just an obedient servant. It was the reverend who had done it to make more money.
Henry clenched his fists and growled deep down in his throat. He looked up and stared at the reverend’s servant, the poor wretch who had performed the evil deed for his master. Never before had he looked any man so straight in the face. The other men began to move a little as they saw Henry approach.
Before the Brute knew what was happening, a heavy fist crashed into his nose and he fell to the ground. The boy threw himself on top of him and punched his face, in a steady rhythm, with the two powerful hands that had once wrestled a bull in the name of friendship. Now these same hands viciously avenged the murder of his only friend.
When the men screamed and tried to drag him away, he brushed them off like flies and continued pounding the creature that had crushed his heart on this calm autumn day. Then there was a sharp pain on the back of his head and the world went black.
He was lost in thick darkness, and there was a terrible pain in the back of his head. He tried to move but he was paralyzed, tried to scream but no sound came out. Something had happened, he knew, something horrible, but he couldn’t remember what. He had to find out, it was important, he had to know. But he was in darkness and he couldn’t move; he could barely breathe. Maybe he was dead.
Then came the voice, a very soft voice, calm and reassuring. He had to listen to the voice, it was saying something important, something about friends, about missing someone you love, about seeing what is important. And there was something about a prince and a fox. It was a story.
Then everything went black again.
Some time later he opened his eyes and didn’t recognize the room. He was alone. There was an old-fashioned cabinet by the wall with a large mirror on one of the doors. Some clothes were laid out on a chair, but they weren’t his. The wallpaper was cream colored with tiny red flowers that at first looked like specks of blood. But there was a distinctive scent in the room that he recognized, coming from the open cabinet, a spicy scent full of warmth and sunshine. He was certain he knew that scent, but from where he failed to remember.
His head was a mountain; his eyes lay under the mountain and he couldn’t move them. Was he frozen or had he melted? His hands and feet were fence posts, sinking slowly into the swamp. His mouth was dry, his tongue a kelp-covered rock, half buried in the black sand. Each moment was an eternity; time stood still, but the same instant perpetually repeated itself.
How many days and nights? He couldn’t tell. He didn’t care. Then blackness engulfed him again and he was lost and utterly alone and terribly afraid.
He woke up with a sore throat and hot eyes. Had he been weeping? Had someone maybe heard him? He lay still with his eyes closed and a feeling of shame. Then he felt the touch of a warm towel on his forehead. He opened his eyes and saw Emily sitting by his bedside. He suddenly felt a powerful urge to rise up and hug her, snuggle up to her tightly and continue to weep forever. The longing was so overwhelming he had to double up and face the wall.
Then he realized he was lying in her bedroom in the farmhouse.
She asked him if he was hungry, if he’d like some hot soup. He just folded his arms around his head. He didn’t really want anything, just to hug her tightly. And when she was gone he noticed for the first time that he was wearing pajamas he’d never seen before. They were white with red stripes, and gave off a pleasant scent of soap and salty breeze from hanging on the clothesline.
She’d washed him and put him to bed like an infant while he was unconscious. She was definitely the best person in the world. It was like he had died and gone to hell but then woken up in heaven, wearing perfumed pajamas.
The only sound he heard outside was the quick chirping from the tiny gray bird with the long black tail.
When he sat up he felt dizzy. He rested his head in his hands for a moment, looking at the floor. Then he remembered that he hadn’t seen his only friend in the world for days, maybe weeks. He had no idea how long.
He stood up slowly and leaned on the wall on his way down the stairs and went out of the door.
The sun was burning white, so he covered his eyes.
He stumbled, barefoot, in his new pajamas, across the yard. Behind him he heard Emily calling his name.
The cowshed was dark and gloomy, the floor cool under his feet.
Who was taking care of the cows now? Someone had to fetch them and milk them. He should get dressed and get going.
The fence around Noah’s stall was open. Noah wasn’t there. The stall was empty. And now he remembered the song, the happy song, the clap your hands song. He stood in Noah’s stall, breathing in the emptiness around him. Then he screamed. Yelling out the wordless grief as the memory of his friend’s last moments on Earth came back to him.
Emily came rushing through the door, and he fell to his knees.
Then he sank into the gentle embrace of utter darkness.
His consciousness stirred as he felt a spoon with warm soup on his lips. Then a glass of cold water. Then his head fell back on the soft pillow and his mind kept on falling, further downward, deeper into the abyss where there was neither light nor sound.
His eyes opened and he was standing in the bathroom. Someone was holding him up on his feet while he took a pee. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Emily reflected in the mirror, standing behind him, making sure he didn’t fall over. He saw his own pale face, like a dead man’s, his eyes bloodshot. She helped him back to bed, where he
died once more. His heavy body sank into the soft white grave of fresh linen as his spirit flew away, out of the window, ascending ever higher into the sky.
Darkness came once more and he was lost, deep in a strange forest somewhere. But there was a voice, a tiny voice whispering to him. Perhaps the Lord had sent him an angel after all.
In the dark, pictures began to emerge, in shafts of light, like when sunbeams find their way through the thick foliage of a forest roof. It was an enchanted forest with talking rabbits and scheming wolves, with clever little boys and girls who managed to trick the witch and eat her house, to ensnare the wolf and cook it in a pot. What joy! And then there were princes and princesses, singing dwarfs, an evil stepmother talking to a mirror, a brave knight, and a duckling who froze in a pond but then turned into a swan. How beautiful!
The darkness came alive with wonders he had never known, never heard of before. And far away in the background of it all he could just barely hear the thin voice whispering to him, painting those pictures with words, making way for the light pouring into the darkness.
Little by little his heart found its way through the enchanted forest, and his mind was finally at rest behind his eyelids.
When he opened his eyes he saw a boy sitting by the bed with a book in his lap, reading out loud. A tiny boy, thin and fragile, with curly blond hair glowing in the sunlight that seeped through the window. His small mouth twitched with every word he read, as if he was tasting the words before he read them out loud. Henry watched him for a while and wondered if he was ever going to stop. Finally Henry cleared his throat. The boy suddenly stopped, but didn’t raise his head at first. Only his eyes moved slowly up from the page, over the brim of the book until they met Henry’s. His eyes were large and blue. When he realized Henry was awake he jumped to his feet. The book fell to the floor, and the boy ran out.
Henry was relieved to see that he was back in his own room.
On the chair were clean clothes, neatly folded, and on the floor his specially made shoes, polished and shiny. He felt as if he had finally arrived home after a long, hard journey; he felt rested now and terribly hungry.
The cows greeted him with their moos as he entered the cowshed. He scratched Old Red behind the ears and patted her on the belly. Her eyes were full of warmth and tenderness. He noticed that the stalls and the dung canal were clean. Someone had obviously taken care of everything while he lay in bed. But when he limped past the small window by the door he stopped in his tracks. The windowsill in the cowshed was full of books. Shiny picture books and illustrated fairy tales stood side by side in a proud row, almost filling up the window. Henry couldn’t help but snort angrily. He spat on the floor and stumbled out the door.
The yellow Volvo wasn’t in the yard, so Henry knew that the reverend was away. When he entered the kitchen the small boy was sitting on the chair beside the stove. And Emily was frying rye pancakes. She was laughing at something the boy had said. Then she glanced over her shoulder and smiled.
“Henry, dear. Come in, sit down.”
But Henry didn’t sit down, because the boy was in his favorite seat, the chair by the stove. He could have taken another chair, but he didn’t. Suddenly he was filled with a strange regret, as if he didn’t belong there anymore, as if the little boy had arrived to take his place.
Emily came toward him and hugged him.
“I’m so glad that you’re up and feeling better,” she said. “I was quite worried about you. But the doctor assured us that you’d be fine.”
She continued to talk, but Henry barely heard what she said; something about someone who had hit him on the head so he’d fallen unconscious on the ground. Something about high fever and that he’d been in bed for a very long time. It felt like a lifetime.
“And here’s Ollie,” she said, and turned to the little boy. “He comes from the North, and will be staying with us. He’s a little bookworm,” she said, and ruffled the boy’s hair. He giggled shyly.
“He’s been sitting by your bedside every day, reading for you,” she added with a smile.
The boy smiled nervously. Henry noticed he had freckles on his nose and a crooked front tooth. Emily buttered a warm rye pancake and put it on a plate.
“He’s also been helping me out in the cowshed while you were ill,” she said.
That information didn’t make Henry feel any better. It was obvious that Emily was fond of the little boy. And why shouldn’t she be? He was sweet and pretty, with big blue eyes. Not ugly and crippled. And he was a bookworm as well.
“Find a chair, Henry, and have some pancakes with us,” she said.
But Henry didn’t want to sit down. He looked at the pancake on the plate and felt hunger pangs in his stomach. The scent was as sweet as ever, but somehow he felt like an intruder, as if she didn’t really want him to stay.
“Not hungry,” he whispered, and turned away.
“We’ll be in the cowshed on time,” he heard her say, but he didn’t reply. Why would they come to the cowshed anyway? He was back on his feet now; he’d take care of the cows like he’d always done. He didn’t need any help.
He limped out and for a brief moment he really wanted to slam the door shut behind him. But he didn’t.
He was angry, but there was no particular reason for his anger; nobody had done him any wrong — on the contrary. He suddenly realized that Emily had loved him like a true mother, cared for him like no one else had ever done before, and been so kind and understanding. But now she had turned all her affections toward the new boy. Once again, he was alone in the world. And this time it hurt deeply, because now he knew what he had lost.
For days the lava field was wet and gray, and dark clouds marched over the land. Then came a bright day with no wind and a calm ocean. The golden moss sparkled in the sunlight and yellow leaves on bushes in the lava field gleamed. In the morning there were frost roses on the windowpane, and when the moon appeared, pale in the dark-blue sky, frost sparkled on the Cairn of Christ.
Winter was arriving.
All the little boys had left. Emily told Henry that she and Ollie had stood in the yard, waving good-bye. She said the little boys had pressed their faces against the bus windows, probably hoping that they’d never see the farm again, or perhaps remembering happy days and joyful moments they’d had here, in spite of everything.
Now the only boys left were Henry, John, and Mark — and Ollie, of course. He hadn’t come here through the social system, but rather because his late mother had been Emily’s childhood friend. When his mother died he had been taken in by his grandparents, who cared for him as long as they were able. But now they were moving to a nursing home and there was no relative to take care of Ollie. His grandparents had found out that Emily was running a home for boys, and wrote her a letter, asking her to bring up the son of her childhood friend.
“It wasn’t a difficult decision to make,“ Emily told Henry. “Especially when I knew all the other boys were being taken away. What would have been the point of staying here if this angel hadn’t arrived?” she added, as if to herself.
Henry didn’t dare ask: What of me? What of John and Mark?
He was helping her in the kitchen after dinner. Ollie and the other two were watching television in the living room. Perhaps Emily felt that Henry and John and Mark were too grown up to be in need of her love and attention in the same way Ollie was. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps they should be. Henry didn’t know about the others, but he knew what he longed for: Emily’s love. He never wanted to be parted from her, the woman who was more his mother than his real mother had ever been. But now it seemed that Ollie was the center of her attention. And Henry felt left out.
It had begun to snow.
The land disappeared under a white sheet for as far as the eye could see. And it continued to snow: sometimes delicate grains, sometimes hail, sometimes large heavy flakes that covered everything in an instant. The footsteps of the wind were weighty; it moaned under its burden and poured the thic
k mass from its bosom with a tired sigh.
But it was warm in the cowshed. Emily had put an electric heater in there for Henry, since his sickness. And it was probably the increased warmth that brought the dung flies. They irritated him constantly when he was working. They sat on his hands and face, heavy and dazed, yellow and furry. Maybe they also had more dirt to feed on, since he didn’t bother to wash the dung canal as thoroughly as before. He didn’t care as much about cleanliness in the cowshed.
It was also a long time since he had cleaned himself properly. It didn’t matter whether he washed or not anyway; the dirt always came back. Emily brought him clean clothes, but he let them lie on the chair. He just milked the cows, and besides that he slept. There were no sheep anymore: the reverend had sold them. Henry couldn’t help feeling a little regret, for feeding the sheep had been a part of his duties. And despite the hateful smell, he had enjoyed their eager bleats when he’d appeared at the door of the sheep shed with his arms full of hay. But now the sheds were empty and silent.
His body went through the motions, his hands did the work that needed to be done; he was still the same old ugly cripple that he’d always been. But inside everything had solidified. The sweet feeling that he had experienced so briefly in the last days of summer had disappeared, buried under the thick snow.
After breakfast each morning John and Mark had to shovel the path to the church so they could continue their work in there, painting the ceiling and the walls. After lunch they spent most of their time in the smithy, making pallets for a moving company in the city. It was a new assignment that the reverend had obtained in order to have some income for the home. The boys were happy with the work, for unlike the slavery in the rock mine, they got their share of every pallet they made. It seemed that the reverend had learned his lesson; he even allowed them to smoke, as long as they did it outside the smithy. Sometimes the reverend stayed in the city for days, only coming back on the weekends. Henry didn’t know why he went, and Emily never talked about it.
Boy on the Edge Page 11
