Perhaps as a reaction to his shame, for a moment he forgot how recognizable he was and thought that if the blue soldier knew who he was, they must have met at some point. In the fraction of an instant, all the faces he could remember flashed through his mind. None of them matched the blue soldier. Perhaps the soldier had been one of the children on the emigrant trail. Maybe he had been one of the boys who had flung rotten vegetables at him when the sheriff had him on display. But there was an expression on the soldier’s face that Håkan knew well. It was the stare of people who had heard about him but never actually seen him. Briefly, he wondered if those uniforms meant that the newcomers were lawmen.
“The brethren killer, lion skin and all.”
The blue soldier’s explanation was unnecessary. The awestruck, frozen expression of the four remaining men showed that they had realized on their own who Håkan was.
“He’s alive?” asked one of the civilians to no one in particular.
“Abundantly,” said the blue soldier, gesturing to Håkan from head to toe.
Håkan looked around, pausing on the different sections of the burrow. Knowing that he would soon leave it forever, he understood its magnitude for the first time.
The blue soldier had rejoined the others, and they were having a muted discussion. Every now and again, they turned around and, still mesmerized, stared at Håkan.
“Do you have a gun?” someone asked.
“Inside.”
“Quite a place you got here,” a gray soldier said. “Quite a place.”
“How did you do it?” the blue soldier asked, ignoring his friend’s remark.
“I dig,” Håkan responded.
“No, no. How did you do it? All those things. You know, the brethren, escape from the law. Stay away for so long.”
“I walked,” he said, addressing only the last part of the question.
The men laughed.
“He walked,” someone said and giggled like an idiot.
“How long have you been here?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re a legend, you know.”
Again, his feet.
One of the civilians took a swig from a flask and offered it to Håkan, who shook his head.
“Quite a place,” the gray soldier said again.
They dismounted, escorted Håkan to his cell, and, after taking the guns they found there, walked around, inspecting the burrow and claiming different sections for themselves.
Night came. After the men had had a long conversation by a fire removed from Håkan’s quarters, they asked him to join them. The one-handed soldier in blue spoke for all of them.
“We have some business to discuss with you. An offer.” He paused, peering into Håkan’s eyes. “We all admire what you’ve done. Like I said, you’re a legend. Getting those settlers. And then those heathens—those brethren. And then.” He laughed in advance. “And then getting away on the sheriff’s horse! I mean. Hell!”
Talk. This was what Håkan had been running away from. That he was being complimented did not make it better. He wanted no more talk.
“We have our own stories to tell, all of us, from the war. But nothing like you. Anyhow. Ever since peace reigns again,” he said, looking at the gray soldiers with a smirk, “we’ve been riding about, trying to survive. You know. Plenty of opportunities out there.”
Someone kept spitting into the fire. The embers hissed each time.
“So we were thinking. Thought we could use you. You wouldn’t have to do anything. Unless you wanted to, of course. All you do is show up. You just show up in your big lion skin. We walk into the place. Store, tavern, bank, whatever. Then you walk into the place. People see you. They freeze. We take it from there. It would even be your gang. The Hawk Gang or The Hawks or something. Take all the credit. But with your name, reputation, and. And. Well.” Failing to find the right word, he just pointed at Håkan. “With you. With you, no one would stop us.”
Håkan looked straight into his eyes.
“No.”
During the silence that followed his response, Håkan could feel some inner mechanism cock in the men—they did not load their guns, but themselves.
“Right, sure,” the blue soldier said without losing his composure. “I’m not done. Like I said, you could come with us as our. What’s the word here? Leader. You could come with us as our leader, or we could take you back. There’s still a price on your head, you know. A power of money. Not as much as we would make if you came with us but still a handsome amount. Like I said, you’re a legend.”
Although he kept staring into the fire, Håkan knew that the men were ready to spring and strike at the shortest notice.
“Now look here,” the blue soldier said at last. “We like your place. We’re tired. We’ll stay for a few days. You let us know in what direction we all set off when we leave.”
The following day, the men rested, watered their horses, and drank spirits, but always had someone watching Håkan. He walked about the surrounding fields and woods, making sure his guards could see him at all times to dissipate any suspicion. First, he gathered mushrooms, nuts, a few herbs, and some flowers. Then, he started chasing the quail around, hunched over with a blanket. The birds always took off at the last second, only to land a few steps away and stare at him with their heads insolently tilted. The men looked on and laughed, slapping their thighs and holding their bellies. They pretended to sympathize, offering long cries each time he missed and then made fun of him with condescending words of encouragement, most of which referred to the disparity in size between hunter and prey.
The sun was setting when he had finished gathering all the ingredients. He built a fire over the ashes from the night before. While he plucked the quail, he went through the order in which things had to be prepared and cooked. With a stew, order is everything, Asa used to say. It surprised Håkan how well he remembered each detail and how vivid Asa’s image was, guiding him through every step. Once the birds were cleaned, the flowers sorted, the nuts peeled, the lard in place, and the mushrooms chopped, he headed back to his cell, always making sure he was seen. He even caught the eye of one of the civilians and pointed down to the trench to let him know what his intention was. The man, busy with his flask, ignored him.
Once in the square chamber, he took the tin box out of a hole concealed under a pile of firewood. Next to it lay Asa’s spoon. Håkan paused. Then, he opened the box. There, among his medical instruments, was the little bottle with the tincture. After so many years, whatever was left of it had evaporated. All that remained was a caramel cloud darkening the inner walls of the bottle and some crystallized dregs stuck to the bottom. He took Asa’s spoon and hid the bottle in his sleeve. With a loud grunt, to make sure someone would turn toward him, he climbed out of the trench, waved at the guard with the spoon, put the pot on the fire, and started to cook.
It was the first proper meal he had made since Asa’s death. Mushrooms cooking in lard. The scent of herbs and blossoms. The browning quail. Some of the men approached the pot and stuck their noses in it. The civilians were already drunk. Finally, he added some water. All surrounding heads turned to the fragrant steam. As the liquid boiled down and became more viscous, Håkan got the little bottle out of his sleeve and put it into the pot, making sure it sank to the bottom.
The civilians walked over with their tinware. Håkan served them. They sat down by the fire, heavy and stupid with drink. Their initial merriment had turned into a focused form of confusion—knit brows, determined eyes, carefully calculated yet extremely ineffectual movements. They ate with relish and kept drinking between bites.
“Dudley! Fellows! The giant can cook!”
Håkan forever remembered that name, although he never learned whose it was.