by Agnes Ravatn
There are locks on all of the doors.
Even so.
His concern sent a warmth surging through my body.
Do you have enemies locally, then?
A few.
I couldn’t tell if it was intended as a joke; it could quite as easily not have been. I started to think about the shopkeeper again, her hushed tones charged with hostility, the woman I had made up my mind to reject, whatever that now meant. I pulled the wool blanket more closely around me. I’ve started afresh, I thought, I’m doing it. This is it.
Why? What have you done?
He raised his eyebrows.
You don’t need to be afraid.
I’m not afraid.
He poured a slug of neat gin into his glass and knocked it back in one go.
If you carry on being this forthcoming then it won’t be long before I lose interest in you, I thought. A perpetual human defect, this impulse, enticed by distance and rejection, but as soon as that changes…
What now, then? I asked.
What do you mean?
It’s summer. Almost autumn, now.
And?
We didn’t really discuss how long you might need me here.
For the summer, he had told me at the start. So I was under the impression that his wife would be back by the autumn. I had let him understand that I was flexible, but I was also careful to imply that I didn’t have much to return to when he no longer found that he had much use for me. It wasn’t easy to envision what else I could do. He would need help with the fruit picking, but there wasn’t much for me to be getting on with after that. There was no work to be done outside in the winter, not beyond a little snow-shovelling at most, and I couldn’t really accept payment unless he came up with something else he needed help with around the house.
Do you need me? I asked.
Isn’t it you who needs me?
That might be true. But I need to work, if you’re going to keep paying me.
What will you do with the money while you’re living here?
I have a student loan to pay off.
There are always odd jobs that need doing around the house. It’s more than a hundred years old, you know.
Is it?
Yes, built in 1890.
What you really need is some kind of historic property expert, not me.
It’s getting late, he said.
Not that late.
I threw another log on the fire to keep him where he was.
I’ll need some wood for the winter too, Allis.
No longer us, just him. How quickly things changed.
But this evening has been so nice.
A person can stay outside for as long as they like if they just make up their mind to do so, he said, as if it were some kind of enigmatic proclamation of truth.
Having offered too much of himself he was now forced to turn back to being difficult. It was too predictable. He acted like a puppet master, and I needed to become better at asserting my independence rather than being endlessly controlled by his whims. The light of the flames flickered across his face, illuminating the lines and creases, and this image of him evoked criminality of some kind or another; he exuded punishment. Once his hair had grown back, even just a little, it would be thick and dark, infinitely handsome. He was clean-shaven for the first time since I had known him, but I only noticed it now, his cheeks smooth, a cleft in his chin that I hadn’t previously observed. He looked more dangerous. I reached out for another log, couldn’t bear the thought of him going anywhere.
Ow!
I held my hand up to the light of the fire to find a splinter plunged deep into the flesh of my index finger.
What is it?
A splinter.
I pressed at it with my fingertips, but only succeeded in embedding it more deeply.
Let me see.
I stood up to make my way towards the light. He followed me.
Let me see.
I stopped and held out my hand under the outside light on the veranda.
It’s nothing, it’s only tiny.
I’ll get it for you.
You’re drunk, you’ll only make things worse.
Nonsense.
He walked through the veranda door and I followed him, taking a seat at the table. He re-appeared from his bedroom moments later with a needle pinched between his fingertips.
Is it a sewing room you’ve got in there?
He laughed.
Don’t you want to use tweezers?
It’s better with a needle. Trust me.
I looked at him and felt my insides turn to ice. He lit the candle on the chest of drawers and held the needle up to the flame. A red glow flickered across his face. He pulled the needle from the heat and looked at me.
Do you want a swig of gin first?
Yes.
He went outside and returned with the bottle, passing it to me. He held the needle to the flame once again as I took a mouthful, as if it would make the slightest difference now. He sat down in the chair opposite me, grasped my hand and looked straight at me, his expression mild but firm.
It’s important that you stay very still.
I’m not sure this is a good idea.
Very still.
OK.
I thought about how much he had had to drink then looked the other way.
Allis, he whispered softly. There’s something I need to tell you.
What is it?
Something I’ve been thinking about lately.
I heard him swallow.
What?
He said nothing.
What were you going to say?
Gotcha. He held the splinter triumphantly up to the light.
Surprised, I gazed up at it and then down again at my hand, still held in his. He let go.
Wait here.
He stood up and made his way to the bathroom, fetching some antiseptic ointment and cotton wool. He sat down and took my hand once again.
This’ll be fine. It’s not bleeding.
Thank you.
How does it feel?
You were about to say something, I thought to myself.
Fine.
He didn’t let go of my hand. As we sat there together, I thought: it’s about time, now. It’s about time. Let me in.
Time for bed, I think. He let go of my hand and stood up. Goodnight, Allis.
Goodnight.
I sank. Motionless, I remained there until he was inside his bathroom. Bagge, Bagge. Please, tread softly on my heart. I traipsed up the stairs. This wasn’t on. I brushed my teeth, washed my face and went to bed, my heart stuttering in my chest, fast-paced, knowing the amount I’d had to drink would never allow me to fall asleep. I heard him emerge once again from his bathroom. I closed my eyes. Don’t you understand anything at all?
*
I awoke with a sense of unease. In the middle of a dream I had remembered the fire we’d left burning outside. It was unlikely, but the past few days had been so dry, if an ember were to fly up and drift away … I got up out of bed and walked over to the window. The fire was out, but there, beside what was left of it sat Bagge, stockstill in his chair. The sight of him was like a knife to the heart. Not because he wanted to be alone, but because of the way he had gone about it. There he sat, by himself in the darkness, mining the depths of his own soul. I didn’t like it. It was three o’clock in the morning. What can you possibly be mulling over like this? Without warning, he turned his head and looked straight at me. Without thinking I stepped aside, away from the window, but there could be no doubting that he’d seen me. I stood by the wall, rigid, motionless. I only got up to check the fire! Should I call down to him, tell him that? Shout out of the window? I didn’t need to shout the words, even if I were to whisper them I knew that he’d still hear me, it was as silent as the grave out there.
I went back to my bed, my heart beating all the faster, pulling the sheets up and over my head. But enclosed in the darkness, everything felt all the more overw
helming.
I heard his footsteps on the stairs. Fast-paced, heavy, straight to my door. He’s going to kill me. He’s coming to finish me off. I don’t know why the thought leapt into my mind.
Allis.
He was standing outside my door, his voice thick, strange.
I only got up to check the fire was out!
Silence.
Can you come out here?
What is it?
He said nothing else, but I heard his breathing through the door.
Answer me! I insisted, close to wailing.
Can I come in?
What do you want?
There was a key in the door on my side, I could bound across the room and turn it, lock him out, but still I lay there, paralysed.
What do you want?
Let me in!
No! I whimpered.
He fell silent, then I heard the sound of his heavy breathing once again. My heart hammered in my chest, my eyes never once leaving the door. I couldn’t move.
My God, he moaned softly. I’m sorry.
I held my breath, lying completely still.
I’m sorry.
What is it? My voice was at breaking point.
I didn’t realise that I was frightening you. I’m sorry.
I didn’t answer him.
I’m sorry, Allis. I didn’t mean to scare you.
I said nothing.
Do you want to go to sleep? Can I come in for a bit?
It’s unlocked.
The door opened slowly. He stood before me, gazing at me with his deep, dark eyes; he must have had much more to drink since I turned in for the night. Confused, he took an unsteady step into the room before sinking down onto his knees.
I’m sorry, Allis.
It’s alright.
He threw one arm behind him and closed the door.
You’re blind drunk.
He looked up.
There’s a hammer on your bedside table.
I need to be able to defend myself.
Can I sleep on your floor, Allis?
On my floor?
He didn’t reply.
I placed a pillow on the floor, on top of the rug.
I don’t have an extra cover, I told him.
I’m sorry… he slurred, flipping over onto his side.
He closed his eyes and instantly drifted off into a deep sleep. Slowly I shook my head. A child. His back rose and fell as he lay there, his bare head resting on one arm. What was he? These sudden eruptions, the wolf in him. All the same, I felt so warm and safe having him there, curled up on my bedroom floor. I closed my eyes and turned to face the wall.
Two hours later I was forced to wake him. It had started with whimpering and shallow breathing, his knuckles white, his body tensed, his shoulder blades digging into the floor. Then he had started howling. I reached a hand down and gently shook him by the shoulder.
You’re dreaming.
His eyes shot open and he gasped for air.
No!
Yes. You’re dreaming.
He looked at me, then sank back and closed his eyes once again.
My God.
What were you dreaming about?
He buried his face into the pillow, saying nothing.
What was it?
I could tell from the sound of his breathing that he was fast asleep once again.
When I awoke, he was gone. The pillow had been left on the floor, but other than that there was no trace of him.
He was sitting at the table when I arrived downstairs. Inwardly I hoped that he wouldn’t feel embarrassed, forced to compensate by treating me with his traditional icy contempt. But he wasn’t angry. He looked up at me and smiled.
Good morning.
Good morning, I replied. I felt a warmth surge through my body from deep within.
There won’t be any repeats of last night. I must have been very drunk.
It’s fine. It was nice to have a visitor.
I didn’t know where I was when I woke up, he said, smiling self-consciously.
I put the coffee on and set the table. He ate voraciously and was quick to laugh, talkative. Perhaps he was still drunk. I stood at the kitchen worktop, coffee cup in hand, a presence he didn’t seem to find invasive. If either of us was being invasive, it was him. After he had finished his breakfast, I felt compelled to ask him.
Do you remember what you dreamt about last night?
Last night?
You had a nightmare. Don’t you remember? I had to wake you.
You woke me up?
You fell asleep again straight away.
He looked as if he were considering things for a moment.
It must have been awful. You were covered in sweat. You were screaming.
Screaming? What was I screaming?
Well, more like howling, really.
He chuckled briefly.
You must have been terrified. Did I say anything?
Nothing that I could make out.
I don’t remember a thing.
After he spoke, he fell silent. He looked as if he were gathering his thoughts about the forgotten episode. I stood up and cleared the table, pouring the last of the coffee into his cup. As I washed the dishes, he turned his chair around to face me.
What is it?
I just remembered.
Remembered?
I’ve never told you about the time that I was taken, he said, looking at me.
Taken?
Yes. Perhaps you should know.
I turned to him.
What do you mean, taken?
Well, I still don’t know for certain who they were. They came in the middle of the night and seized me. Five or six of them, big men. Nor was here with me, but they tore her from my arms and bundled me into the back of a van.
What?
I sat down at the table.
We drove for hours. I lay on the floor in the back, tied up, slamming against the walls of the van whenever they turned a corner. I heard barking. Then the van stopped, we had arrived, the back doors were opened and they pulled me out. We were at the edge of a coniferous forest. It was the middle of winter, there was snow all around, the branches of the trees were weighed down by it. We marched into the forest, each of them shoving me deeper and deeper in. Nobody said a word. I couldn’t see their faces, they were all wearing balaclavas, dark clothing, boots, I remember thinking they must be ex-military. There wasn’t a sound, only our breathing and the occasional whimper from the dogs. There were two or three of them ahead of me, and just as many behind. I knew that I couldn’t get away. After a while I realised that we were getting close – the dogs started barking, on and on and on, then howling. By the time we reached a clearing in the forest they were wild, leaping up and down, straining at their chains, the men shaking their fists and beating the dogs’ snouts to silence them. They drew back into the snow and whimpered quietly.
Bagge said no more, returning home, as I had begun to think of it when he so often and so abruptly fell silent and grew distant.
And? What then?
He looked up at me inquisitively.
What else?
They gave me a chair.
A chair.
Someone behind me brought out a chair. We were standing in the middle of the clearing, and I was allowed to sit down. I sat there, my hands still tied behind my back, cold, my head bare. I was dead beat after the trek through the forest.
I was perched on the edge of my seat, cold with shock and anguish at the tale that was unfolding.
Then the men that had taken me brought several more chairs out, lining them up in two rows in the snow in front of me. The chair in the centre was much larger than the others. Men and women appeared, emerging from the woodland on all sides. They all wore long, dark cloaks and masks, bird masks that covered their faces. There were twelve of them, birds of every species, a raven and a magpie, a gull and a great tit and a robin. I saw a swan. A buzzard. One woman wore a mask that covered her whole head,
a mallard. It was an incredible sight, astonishingly beautiful, shimmering green on top of the body of a woman dressed in dark garments. I did nothing but stare at her.
I started to laugh, and he looked up at me, startled.
You’re pulling my leg, aren’t you?
I’m not!
I looked at him, puzzled.
I realised then that this was a tribunal. My case was to be heard. The twelve judges sat in silence and stared straight ahead from behind their bird masks. My guards stood in a straight line behind me, and I turned around to find that they had removed their balaclavas: one had the head of a halibut, blind on one side with two eyes on the other. One had the head of a toad. One had the head of a mouse. One had the shining black head of an adder. I felt an intense, pulsating rush in my ears, but when the head judge stepped forward, I did all that I could to look her in the eye and hold her gaze. She wore an eagle mask. She instructed me to stand. She read my name aloud and announced that I was charged with skemdarvig. I wasn’t familiar with the term, but still I knew what she meant. She asked whether I pleaded guilty. I shook my head. We saw you, one of the judges cried, and my eyes scanned the rows and landed on the gull, I knew it was she who had called out. I shook my head yet again. The judges turned to one another and whispered, conferring. I stood bolt upright, my back straight. After that, things moved quickly. The judge in the eagle mask read the verdict: it had been prepared and written down beforehand; I was given no chance to make a statement of my own. She sentenced me to death. ‘The nature of your evil deeds make you nothing but a foul nithing.’ As she said the words, I looked again at the mallard and she turned away from me. It was only then that I recognised her: it was Nor.
I sat there, unflinching, listening to every word he said.
And then you woke me up.
So it was a dream! Bloody hell, Sigurd! You told me it wasn’t!
What?
You were talking about it as if it had actually happened!
That was what I dreamt about last night… he replied, confused.
I was sitting here listening as if this had actually happened to you, as if you had actually been dragged out into the forest, it was awful.
He laughed with surprise.
Well, it was a very lucid dream.
I shook my head, then rinsed and squeezed out a cloth, wiping the table in front of him. Deep in thought he sat there, gazing vacantly into the air in front of him, paying no heed to me as I carried on around him. He rubbed a hand over his stubble. Fortunately his hair had started to grow back more noticeably, even just overnight. A thick, dark layer. When I turned on the tap he was wrenched from his thoughts, pushing his chair back from the table and hastily thanking me for breakfast.
