“Is that it?” Lars-Goren thought. But the thought was half sleeping, half waking, and now when he tried to think what it was that had dawned on him, the thought would not come clear. “I must make the world safe for Erik,” he thought. He grimaced. “Now there’s an illusion for you,” he thought bitterly. “How can anyone make the world safe for his son?” Nevertheless, he was seeing his family in his mind’s eye, and rational or not, he was thinking he must make the world safe for them.
In his house, the magician closed his eyes, stopped drumming, and smiled. On the drumhead, the white stone had moved nearer to the line and was in danger of falling over. With one finger, the child moved the white stone back where it belonged. Now, though the sun was no higher than before, it was morning.
Bishop Brask said: “I had the strangest dream. I dreamed the Devil came to me and said, ‘Why should you kill me? Think, my dear Bishop! What am I but love, poetry, religion? Call them evil if you like — but don’t deny that they lead in the end to disappointment. But of what earthly value is this mortal life without them? You, you pride yourself on reason. As a child, you loved books but you came to understand that they were tricks and illusions. They told you love stories, but you looked at the world and you saw no such love — on the contrary, you saw people struggling to find the kind of love they’d seen in books, and you saw the illusion destroying marriages. Very well, you said to yourself, I’ll be fooled no longer! And what was the result? Despair! The inability to act! Books, religions, the idea of love — they’re all lies, I admit it, though I’m the father of such lies. But they give goals, shape quests: they give point to your brutal mortal striving. No doubt you’d disbelieve me if I told you God himself is a Devil’s lie. You’d suspect me of interest. Very well then, I won’t say it. But this much you’ll agree with, I’m sure: God is Truth. And what is the truth about this paltry existence and its ending?’ So he spoke, in my dream, and a great deal more in the same vein. But what’s interesting is this: at some point he made a mistake, and I knew I had him. I felt a shock as if lightning had struck me, but that instant I woke up, and whatever the insight was, it was gone.”
“I too had a dream,” Lars-Goren said. He slowly rubbed his hands against the cold and told the bishop his dream.
In Stockholm, King Gustav signed his name with a flourish and folded the parchment, then sealed it with wax. He struck the bell to call his messenger, then rose and paced. “When I was young,” he thought, but then the thought escaped him. He stopped, lips clamped tight, staring out his window at the snow.
In her house, Liv Bergquist stopped suddenly, alarmed by a voice. What it said she could not make out, though she knew. “Erik!” she called. When her son came to her, she said, “See who’s at the gate.”
The headman of the Lapps said, “Very well, we will take you to the Devil.” He shrugged, as if the mission seemed foolish to him. He had a small, wrinkled face and, on his hood, reindeer horns. All around him, the Lapps stood rhythmically nodding. In the endless snowfall, one could not tell which of them were men which of them were women, which of them reindeer. The Lapps called their reindeer “the people of six eyes.” It was a reference to their queer alertness, their attunement with the wind and snow. The Lapps did not really think the reindeer were people, for only in a limited way could the reindeer think. Between them, the Lapps and the reindeer divided all knowledge; so the Lapps believed. Lars-Goren and the bishop took their seats in the sledge, their horses tied behind. Gently, carefully, the Lapps covered the two men with skins. An old woman kissed Lars-Goren on the forehead, making a warm place that remained with him. When the reindeer started up — no one gave a signal, or so it seemed to Lars-Goren — it was as if they’d been running all along.
The Devil sat enclosed in his wings, baffled. Even with his hands over his eyes he was blinded by the brightness. “This is a very foolish thing you’re doing,” he said to himself. He spoke in a child’s voice, exactly like a child playing house. “Foolish, is it?” he said. “Yes, foolish.” He shuddered, but he could not seem to stop himself. “Why foolish?” he asked. “I’ll tell you why foolish.” “Yes, tell me.” “Very well.” “No, don’t tell me!” “No, I’d like to.” “You’re a fool! Go away!” “A fool, you think?” “A fool! A fool!” He felt forms around him. With a part of his mind he struggled to awaken, but the voices were still running, childish, idiotic, blocking out the world. “Pay attention!” cried one. “I am paying attention!” “No, fooling around! That’s all you ever do — fooling around.” He shuddered again. The line was not right. “That’s all you ever do — fool around.” But the rhythm was wrong. Now the forms were closer, minuscule disturbances around his hooves. He struggled to wake himself. “Despair, then? You, the inventor of despair, you’re caught in it?” “Nonsense!” His cheeks were freezing cold. It dawned on him that he was weeping, the tears turning to ice. “Suicide?” cried one of his voices. “Has it come to that?” With a violent effort, he opened his terrible eyes.
The magician’s fingertips drummed softly, but the sound was like thunder. The child watched in silence. The three stones moved toward the line, mighty forces in near balance.
“We call them ’six-eyes,’” a young, smiling Lapp said, his hand on the reindeer’s flank. He did not know or care that they’d been told already. He smiled as if that were enough, simply saying it; no more need be said. He too, Lars-Goren thought, was a creature of six eyes: in tune with the wind and snow, the heartbeat of the reindeer, the mind of God. It was true of course, as his son had said, it was not possible to be like the Lapps. Yet also it was true that it was good to know that Lapps existed, not dreams or illusions, real people, living at the extreme.
They had come to the foot of a great, dark mountain. The horses shook with cold as Lars-Goren and the bishop mounted. All the Lapps stood looking up. They seemed to look at nothing and everything at once, at the mountain, the blinding white sky, the reindeer, each other. It was a look he had seen before somewhere — but he had no time to think where. In the windy silence he seemed to hear his wife’s voice, distinct, right beside him: Erik, see who’s at the gate. The mountain had two foothills. Lars-Goren’s blood froze. The foothills were enormous cloven hooves.
He spurred his horse and started up. Bishop Brask was beside him, wincing with pain. “Why does he put up with it?” Lars-Goren wondered. The instant he asked it, he seemed to see deep into the bishop’s mind, as if he’d remembered the secret of the Lapps. But the insight had no words. “Very well,” he thought, “there are truths that have no words.” In his belt Lars-Goren carried a knife made of reindeer bone. Here steel was of no use. Ice would dull it, the cold make it snap on impact. He wore, today, no iron gloves, only skins; nor was he dressed in his armor. He looked like a man from the world’s first age, indistinguishable from a furry beast. In the terrible cold he found it difficult to think. He kept his mouth closed tight, lest the cold shatter his teeth. When it had begun he could not tell, but now the wind was howling. The bishop had to shout to make Lars-Goren hear “Suppose we succeed,” he yelled, “what will be changed?”