The Hills Reply

by Tarjei Vesaas

  * * *

  —

  NO USE ANY LONGER. The strain on the heart becomes greater. The wind has blown forward something nobody wanted. The dull rhythm out there becomes more insistent, turning to heavier thuds against the wall. One thing is clear: the boat is to stay beside the house. Blackening thwarts or no, it is to wait here.

  What then?

  It’s simply to wait here.

  No one shall sing about it.

  But no one has any reason to weep either. Is the one perhaps just as simple as the other? It is only that it does not seem so.

  Think it over.

  I can’t.

  It was dark to start with, the clouds and the downpour came later. It will not become denser than this. More room is needed, but the iron walls cannot permit it. Soon it will be more cramped. The boat gives constant reminders that it is there, if that means anything. The lonely thwarts and the rain and the wind are dancing with one another in the dense night.

  What is happening out there?

  It is no dream, it is now. The moment now.

  The moment one knew about, and which gave warning of its coming, warning of an arduous and wearisome night.

  * * *

  —

  THE RAIN IS SLANTING low before the storm. The old, unpainted wooden walls out there are already blackened by the driving rain. It does not show, and means nothing at all; it is correct that my house is black.

  Yes, old house walls and driving rain – let that find room. The commonplace, and soaked house walls, that’s how it should be, in a song. Even if it was formerly a torment, now it is blessed to have the memory of it. To have it in the center of one’s heart like love. Once there was love, once there was a frosty night, and spring. The house stands in the night and is dark. A girl who stood in the driving rain and is dead, what of her? My heart expands, but receives nothing. It is large and shocked by memories.

  The fine things that were lost have their place in eternity, but eternity somehow seems to be for others.

  Large and shocked by memories. Almost forgetting that there is no room, and reminded of it by iron hands. My heart struggles wildly to escape.

  And what is this?

  Straight through what is devastating it and filling it up. The dark current is lifting. One is in the iron hands, and the gift of a new eye enables one to see that the current outside is lifting.

  Walls are of no consequence. In the congestion a new eye springs out. One knows this and sees it at the same moment. Straight through all obstacles one sees the darker part of the darkness lifting against the wind.

  No one could have foretold this. It is lifting against the storm. The boat thuds heavily meanwhile. Something heavy as lead has risen from the bottom in the storm. What does it want? What is it?

  The heart is between iron walls, no more must happen now. What is it?

  One has an idea of what it is, but will not admit that one understands. The rising of the current was the sign. The dark current will well up and rise like the wind, so that its pale underside shines visible. It will shine in the hour of night above the fairways and the rain-drowned boat and in the fairway of the boat once more. The fairway for the boat must disclose itself even though it has never done so before; it will not be a mystery.

  So it is too late to sing now.

  The heart grows larger and larger within the walls which have no room; it must break. The current has lifted, and the boat seems to have split its lip against the house, but the storm does not slacken and the thwarts have danced with the rain. All of them are obvious signs that it is too late to sing now.

  The current sinks again, but it will soon lift even higher.

  * * *

  —

  ONE KNEW A LITTLE about this uplifting, but did not believe in it. Had an uplifting in oneself that one tried to send out. It was lost. The heart is in distress – so full that that is what lifts the current against the storm and the weather, with its naked, white underside.

  * * *

  —

  A NAGGING THOUGHT: I know something all the same.

  Oh no.

  But I know something all the same.

  No! Too late to sing now.

  * * *

  —

  THE CRAMPED CHAMBER with its many old guests. They are thronging back. It is like that when such things happen.

  What is happening really?

  No answer.

  It is a mystery.

  That the heart must make itself larger, but cannot. It must break shortly.

  The thronging must cease.

  The thronging does not cease.

  The heart desires the throng, desires everything that used to be, every single thing, the bad and the good, as long as it used to be. The signals are going out now, beckoning in this direction. The throng increases because of it, crowding in. The chamber is bound to break apart soon, but sends out signals to everyone. The throng presses on, the crush is beyond bearing, since there is no more room, there is no more room, but the throng presses on and the heart sends signals without pause, for a greater throng.

  All of that has been forgotten, lost or neglected – it has never really been lost, and now it knows where it came from and where it belongs to. It hears the signal. Does not ask whether there is room. Forces its way in.

  The tension is so great that it lifts the current outside into darker ridges. The heart, unable to beat, sends burning impulses through the earth and stone and water. Signals. Desiring to be open to everything, it must clench itself and shrink and wither instead.

  But come, come.

  Come all that used to be, that belonged here, that went out from here.

  The downpour outside seems even heavier. The loose thwarts in the boat may have floated away. Maybe the prow of the boat is completely staved in.

  * * *

  —

  NO CONSIDERATION is shown by those who have been called back. The signal has gone out telling of extreme distress, and here they throng to come in. It is irrelevant that the space is becoming more cramped, it is of no concern that the heart’s distress is increasing because of it – when its resting place wishes it to be so.

  The beleaguered heart clenches itself and accepts them all.

  Choked up, it clenches itself inside the iron ready to break apart.

  The signal goes out constantly: Come.

  Is there anyone left outside who has not come in? All must come in.

  It is night.

  This is a struggle.

  The signal is sounding in blasts in all the thoroughfares, picking up and bringing back thousands of forgotten details. In spite of torment the ravaged heart cannot cease calling. It will at least send its message. In blinding clarity they will be remembered, sought out and forced back. The heart will never give in; it labours on in a worn-out chamber. Life has been many-faceted and colorful.

  Come, come.

  This is what life has been like.

  Now it is a lonely struggle among memories. The message goes out for more memories. They serve as a weapon. But they make the space increasingly more cramped.

  A blind struggle, in diminishing room.

  Not blind. The signals deny that.

  Processions of them back again. Greater difficulties. Clenching itself to make room.

  There must be a breaking point – and now it is almost here. The current from the bottom rises in earnest and the pale underside glimmers through the darkness. It rises higher. The muted glimmer remains. The dark river flows on. On into darkness.

  * * *

  —

  IT BROKE.

  Did it break?

  No. Not this time.

  It only seemed so.

  It only felt so in an unbearable moment. On the contrary it broke out into relief. It emerged free of
all burdens. All those who were summoned have left.

  Ought one to go out as the victor?

  No. One cannot do that.

  Never as the victor.

  But we shall win and we shall not win.

  For the time being.

  There is a great reserve that stands ready.

  One understands this now, knowing they will come as soon as the signals go out. Then one is not lonely, and the hurt takes second place. There are more than many who will volunteer.

  * * *

  —

  FOR THE TIME BEING, as if invincible, the heart lies beside the road to the dark river. Naked, and awaiting the next event, be that what it may.

  The Tranquil River Glides Out of the Landscape

  WHAT IS STILLNESS LIKE when it is so great that it cannot be grasped? When it has come gliding out of its own place and feels more oppressive than thunder?

  It is only someone sailing out of the woods. Not so important, perhaps. Putting himself in order calmly and with strength.

  The shining, tranquil river glides out with all its burdens. It comes as if from far away in the interior, and delivers its innermost secrets. On its way towards a distant ocean.

  What accompanies it on the journey? Intense desires that have subsided. Nothing more.

  The water goes on gliding and gliding.

  It does not draw attention to itself. But the land that lies beside it cannot escape being marked by the journey.

  Brightly shining water from the innermost core. More shining water follows after. All is tranquil. A tranquil movement that does not look as if it can ever come to an end. Merely moving on. It is all ordered without any trouble.

  Large matters and small. And the matter today? What of that?

  No matter any longer. This is a farewell procession of quenched, intense desires. And they are being carried to the ocean.

  It glides out of the landscape and towards the distant, wide ocean. For the one who has an inkling, however small, of the ocean, the tranquil journey is not important.

  * * *

  —

  THE MIGHTY RIVER casts out what has no resting place. No one interferes with it.

  It is as simple as that, as tranquil as that.

  * * *

  —

  AS IF SOMETHING HAS REARED UP behind a hazy hill far beyond what is called the horizon: what has no resting place any longer must be carried away. A river still as a mirror is clear from within; there is no more to it than that, it seems.

  The air may be charged with bitter questions, useless questions. They will not be asked. They merely rest above the carrying water, rest while on the move like everything else. No current halts because it is difficult to understand that intense desires are quenched.

  The fine carrying surface is filled with reflections from the banks, reflections so vivid that they are ready to tear themselves away and glide with it. But this must be a long journey after all; the hillsides and woods shudder to see their reflections exhibited thus, mirrored so translucently.

  The river is the carrier, and it carries away a quenched desire, and has the most limpid water.

  Yet the hillsides and woods do not join the company. They see themselves in the water, but remain where they are. It has been ordered so that no one may go wherever he wishes.

  * * *

  —

  QUESTIONS ARE IN THE AIR.

  But no answers.

  There will never be any answers. The water glides out of the wood and past all questioners. What is so difficult? Farewell to a thousand glimmers, and a thousand rough raps and noises. What kinds of blessed sounds. What offers resistance? What is reluctant?

  None of the banks will collapse; slowly the earth builds up and holds fast, slowly it acquires strength from an incredible variety of sources, and holds.

  The shining water and its carrying. It seems so easy. What is difficult to obscure, and shyness forbids further questioning.

  This is not exposure to the ravens.

  It is high water after gales and heavy rain. Slender birch saplings growing on the banks have not regained their strength after the storm: they stand arched over, dipping their crowns in the water, looking like young girls, gentle, anxious and full of expectancy. The traveller speeds past.

  * * *

  —

  A JOURNEY TO THE OCEAN can scarcely be ordered more fittingly. Gentleness has no part in this. Gentleness is left behind with the pliant birches.

  It is difficult to go on?

  Not now.

  Nothing can be grasped, nothing can be set aside to sink to the bottom. These soundless thunderclaps that are part of the process come first, the mirror of water comes oozing after, obstructed by so many hindrances. Hindrances in the stone walls and the earth banks, in leaning trees, even in bent straws. Imperceptibly it all melts away, it releases the tight little hold it has had. Everything is taken care of, all the grips and holds and hindrances loosen.

  Not to be halted by a couple of bent straws.

  Not to be halted by a memory.

  To have a shining fairway to be carried upon. Now it moves straight on. The surfaces filter through the newest buds the whole time.

  It is difficult to go on?

  Not now. There’s only the final message to be sent out. A slight pause while it becomes clear that we are going to the ocean. But what does that mean?

  The answer comes: The ocean is the ocean.

  Was that answer good enough? Why did that answer come? Does it perhaps not matter so much any more?

  What does good enough mean?

  What does matter mean?

  No one has said that it does not matter. Have we not heard the thunderclap that this stillness creates? Then it matters enough. Perhaps it did not answer properly after all. It gets more and more difficult to detect an answer. What is it one has not known?

  The shining, tranquil water glides out of the landscape, bearing what has no resting place.

  Beyond One’s Grasp

  SCENT OF THE FIRST RAIN on a light dress, over warm flesh.

  What of it?

  Or on my own light shirt.

  Fleeting, precious moments.

  A scent that is gone as one turns round and stops speaking. Things that can’t last smell like that, things unaware of their existence. Quietly hidden on the tongue behind words of love.

  Beyond one’s grasp – like the things one would like to have close when one ought not to wish for more.

  * * *

  —

  THE FIRST DROP on a linen shirt.

  One stops short on the road and lifts one’s face, perceiving something: yet another loss.

  A message from a loss, strangely vivid, with no name.

  This loss is the final thing of importance, the thing that incites, that strikes, and that creates.

  The anticipation is important, but the loss comes last. The road becomes difficult across deep clefts, the side tracks get entangled in their own knots, and the meeting places become invisible.

  * * *

  —

  BUT TO EXPLAIN what is beyond words about the scent of the first rain. There is a truth behind it, a truth one turns away from perhaps.

  Again a truth, behind the words of love.

  There are layers upon layers. It is wrong to come forward and pretend that one knows.

  We sense it as a message, but the signals and the truths conceal themselves behind countless veils. We do not want to know; we accept the scent hastily, before the truth lies naked and near.

  Veils. We cover it up quickly. One must keep a sense of wonder – like the longing that rises up between us on warm days, in the first drops in a shower of rain.

  * * *

  —

  THUD, GOES SOMETHING beneath my foot on the ascent,
beneath my boot. The flat stone on the path taps gently against the rock when I step on it; it is not lying steady, it can tilt over.

  Thud, says the stone.

  Not unexpected.

  The stone on the path and I are good friends. It has been a reticent friendship for a long time now. Mysterious in its extreme simplicity.

  Never disappointing.

  A thud today as usual.

  Or is it different this year? Once more, slightly new and different?

  Why should that be?

  Stuff and nonsense, I say, but perhaps I really wished it to be so.

  Thud, at any rate, in affirmation, sealing the compact, tilting and tapping on the rock. A signal far within saying that it is now. That it simply is.

  What is now? That is not explained. But it speaks to my heart and I understand the language. It speaks softly as if to someone poor and shy.

  All’s well, it means.

  I say nothing about my affairs; it is a soliloquy about our long friendship. All’s well.

  Thud, about you and me and the summer, the brief summer, our happiness, evenings – and then that subtle signal from within. One imagines that it is being passed along far, far inside in the heavy rock chambers. And there the message is clear.

  * * *

  —

  IT WILL CONTINUE on the steep ascent.

  All’s well.

  The stone with its gentle welcome.

  The stone that is there to stay.

  The stone will greet each new wanderer on the ascent in its reticent language. Throughout all ages and throughout all ages. The restless wanderer will find peace and yet more peace.

  And you?

  Shyly you came to the path and asked. Shyly you came to know and understand.

  Just Walking Up to Fetch the Churn