But on this day the magic lay in what we were doing, not where we were.
Start a fire, start a fire.
We walked over to a spruce tree a few meters away. The branches hanging just above the ground were gray and bare and looked extremely old. I broke off a bit between my thumb and first finger. It was brittle and crumbled easily. Grass grew sparsely on the small mound where the tree stood, between a patch of dry soil and a mass of desiccated, orangey spruce needles. I knelt down, drew the red match head across the black abrasive surface, and put the flame into the grass, which immediately caught fire. At first the flame was invisible, no more than a quiver of air above the blades of grass, which soon curled and crumpled. But then the tuft caught fire, and from there the flame spread, both quickly and slowly, like a swarm of frightened ants fleeing quickly if you see them as individuals, slowly if you view them as a group. All of a sudden the flames were up to my waist.
“Put it out! Put it out!” I shouted to Geir.
He shook the bottle over the fire, which hissed and shrank, while I beat the low flames in the grass at the edge with my hand.
“Phew!” I said a minute later, when the fire was out.
“That was close!” Geir laughed. “It really got a hold there!”
I stood up.
“Do you think anyone could see it? Shall we go to the cliff edge and see if anyone’s looking up here?”
Without waiting for an answer I rushed across the soft moss and heather-covered forest floor between the trees. The sudden fear seemed to contract my insides, and whenever my thoughts turned to what had happened it was as if a ravine opened in me. It was bottomless. Oh, what would happen now? What would happen now?
At the cliff edge I stopped and put a hand to my brow to shield my eyes. Dad’s car was in the drive. He was nowhere to be seen. But he could have been outside and gone in. Gustavsen was walking across the grass. He could have seen and told Dad. Or would tell him later.
The very thought of Dad, the fact that he existed, caused fear to pump through my body.
I turned to Geir, who sauntered over with my plastic bag dangling from one hand. Down below, a child resembling Geir Håkon’s little brother was playing in the sand by the concrete barriers between our road and Elgstien. A car came up the hill, encased in itself like an insect, the black windshield its expressionless eye, turned left, and disappeared from view.
“We can’t go straight down anyway,” I said. “If someone’s seen the smoke they’ll put two and two together.”
Why had we done it? Why, oh why?
“They can see us here, too,” I said. “Come on!”
We descended the tree-clad slope beneath us. When we were at the bottom we stumbled homeward through the forest, which was perhaps ten meters from the road. We stopped by the big spruce beside the wide, shallow, turbid stream where all the colors were green and murky, its bark stained with sticky resin, not unlike burned sugar in color, with the pungent smell of juniper. Between the slender trunks of the nearby rowan trees you could see our house. I glanced at my hands to see if there was any soot on them. Nothing. But there was a faint burned smell, so I plunged them in the water and rubbed them dry on my trousers.
“What shall we do with the box of matches?” I said.
Geir shrugged.
“Hide it, I s’pose.”
“If they find it, don’t say anything about me,” I said. “About what we did.”
“Course not,” Geir said. “Here’s the bag, by the way.”
We started to walk up to the road.
“Are you going to set fire to anything else today?” I said.
“I don’t think so,” he said.
“Not even with Leif Tore?”
“Maybe tomorrow,” he said. And his face brightened. “Should I take the matches to school with me, what do you think?”
“Are you out of your mind?!”
He laughed. We reached the road, and crossed it.
“See you!” he said, running up the hill.
I passed Mom’s VW, parked on a patch of scorched yellow grass just outside the fence, beside the gray garbage can, and stepped onto the gravel. I felt the fear rising in me again. Dad’s red car gleamed in the fierce sunshine. I looked down, unwilling to meet the gaze that might await me in the kitchen window. The mere thought of it sent waves of despair shooting through me. When I reached the front doorstep and couldn’t be seen from the windows on the first floor I clasped my hands together and closed my eyes.
Almighty God, I uttered silently. Let me get through this and I promise I’ll never do anything wrong again. Never ever. I promise by all that is holy. Amen.
I opened the door and went in.
It was cooler in the hall than outside, and after the bright sunshine, almost completely dark. The smell of stew lay heavy in the air. I bent down and untied my shoelaces, carefully placed my shoes by the wall, slunk upstairs, trying to make my face appear normal, and stopped on the landing in a quandary. What would I normally do, go up to my room right away or go into the kitchen to see if dinner was ready?
Voices, the clinking of cutlery on plates.
Was I late?
Had they already started eating?
Oh no, oh no.
What should I do?
The notion of turning on my heel, calmly walking outside, up the hill and into the forest, never to return, came as a joyful clarion call amid all the tension.
Then they would be sorry.
“Is that you, Karl Ove?” Dad shouted from the other side of the door.
I swallowed, shook my head, blinked a few times, and took a deep breath.
“Yes,” I said.
“We’re eating!” he shouted. “Come on in!”
God had heard my prayer and done as I asked. Dad was in a good mood, I could see that as soon as I entered, he was leaning back in the chair with his legs stretched out, his arms wide apart, and his eyes glinting with mischief.
“What was so good that you lost track of time?” he said.
I sat down next to Yngve. Dad was sitting at the end to the right, Mom at the end to the left. The Formica table with a gray-and-white marble pattern and gray edging, shiny legs, and gray rubber feet was set: brown dinner plates, green glasses with Duralex written on the bottom, a basket of crispbread, a big pot from which protruded a wooden ladle.
“Been out with Geir,” I said, leaning forward to check if there was a piece of meat in the ladle I lifted out a moment later.
“Where did you go then?” Dad asked, lifting his fork to his mouth. Something pale yellow, perhaps onion, was lodged in his beard, on his chin.