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The whole forest, when it came to it, is edible, he thought, the foliage, the grass, the heather, bark and berries. He heard a sound in the distance and leapt up to peer towards the trail. It grew louder and he thought it was a motor. A tractor, perhaps, or a car. The sound came and went, and his imagination began to run wild. That never happened when he walked along a road, Theo thought, because cars drove past all the time. He sat down again, putting the branch down. He drove the knife back into its sheath and began to eat. Of course there were others in the forest. There was nothing to worry about. Just then, he heard voices — no doubt some men cycling the trail. He stood to have a look and one of them waved. Theo waved back. Wow, he thought cheerfully, it’s swarming with people.

He sat. With an enormous appetite he devoured the Swiss sausage and salami. His mother had baked the bread, and what he loved most about it was the crust. Though he was sated after the first two slices, he forced himself to eat the third. A hiker needs his calories. Once again he pulled out the knife and resumed whittling the branch. He fashioned a spear to a point, like an awl. He had to take care not to cut his finger, or accidentally drive the knife into his thigh. If something like that happened, he knew he wouldn’t be allowed to go on any more solo hikes. What excited him most was the thought of coming home and reporting to his parents everything that had happened. Well, OK, nothing had happened so far, but there was still a chance that something could. And if it didn’t, he could easily invent some minor story to make it more interesting. Wasn’t there an eagle circling high up in the sky, on the hunt for prey? Wasn’t there a big trout jumping out of the water? He saw the rings quite clearly; they spread slowly and prettily over the water. When it came down to it, anything could happen, Theo thought, and waved the sharp stick. With the stick he stirred the water as you stir a pot. The silence at the water’s edge and the spreading rings put him in a sleepy trance.

He fell out of reality. Into another, dreamlike landscape that seemed familiar to him. Here, too, there was a little forest lake and a trout leaping from the water. But suddenly a man paddled into view on his right. Theo blinked sleepily, disbelieving what he saw.

Wasn’t that Lars Monsen in his green canoe?

Lars pulled his oars into the boat. The canoe continued to glide, soundlessly like a knife, through the water and towards the bank where Theo sat. Lars’s curly hair had grown wild, his eyes narrow slits, the irises sharp and black like flint. The boat rammed the rocks with a little thunk.

‘Well, well, boy. You’re out trekking,’ Lars Monsen said. ‘Have you been out long?’

Theo shook his head. He sat with the willow spear across his knees and gazed devoutly at his hero. ‘I had thought about going to Ravnefjell,’ he said cheerfully. ‘But I ran out of provisions.’ He pointed at the rolled-up wax paper which lay at his side. There were only crumbs left.

‘Bad planning,’ sneered Lars Monsen. His teeth were sharp and white.

Theo nodded. The green canoe had some deep scratches in the bow where it had scraped the rock. His equipment was packed in two leather sacks at the end of the boat. In addition, he had a rifle and a fishing rod.

‘Did you catch any trout?’ Theo asked.

‘Yup. Got two big ones at the tip of the cove early this morning.’

They sat in silence for a while. Lars Monsen had a cap on his head. Now he pulled the brim down so that his eyes remained in shadow.

‘So you’re on your way back?’

‘Yes,’ Theo replied. ‘I figure I’ll be home in an hour. Will take a longer trip tomorrow. I’ll take more provisions then.’

‘Where’s your tent anyway?’ Lars asked. He narrowed his eyes at Theo.

‘Eh, the tent,’ Theo stammered. ‘No, this is just a one-day trip,’ he said, embarrassed. ‘But I’ll get myself a tent, and a canoe,’ he said quickly. ‘One like yours.’

He put his lunch paper in his rucksack. He wasn’t the kind of person who left a mess in the wilderness.

‘I met a teddy bear up here,’ Lars Monsen said and pointed.

Theo opened his mouth in fright. ‘What? A bear?’

‘Yup,’ Lars said. ‘Or rather, three bears. A fat mama bear and her two cubs. Damn, she was a giant, you should have seen her. Shaggy as a bumblebee, heavy as a hippo. There’s fresh bear scat in the whole area.’

Theo’s heart transformed from a small hard muscle into something hot and fluid that flowed through his body.

‘I shouted some swear words at her,’ Lars Monsen laughed. ‘Which was a little too much for Mama Bear. Ladies don’t like it when you’re rude. It was up near Ravnefjell,’ he added. ‘You’re not going that way, are you? You’re going south, to Saga, down through Glenna?’

Theo raised the branch from his lap. He seemed to be on shaky ground. ‘I’ve got a spear,’ he stuttered, ‘and a hunting knife.’

He pulled the knife from its sheath and brandished it, then saw Lars’s rifle lying in the green canoe. That’s what he needed. So he could have blown off the head of the mama bear and her cubs.

Lars Monsen smiled. He threw his curly head back and burst into laughter so booming it rang across the water, making the birds flutter up, and sending squirrels scampering through the heather in fright.

‘So you’ll poke a stick at the mama bear,’ he sniggered. ‘Did you make that spear in woodwork at school? That’s the funniest thing I’ve seen all day. Yes, Mama Bear will be scared, I’ll bet.’

He grasped the oars with both hands and paddled off. The green canoe gained speed. Theo heard his laughter until the canoe was beyond the headland. I’ve got to get home, he thought, confused, and gathered up his things. He put on his socks and trainers, and stuffed everything in his rucksack. I can’t sit here any longer doing nothing. Lars Monsen. How terrific to see him paddling around Snellevann. But still, Theo thought, even if it was one of his silly daydreams, it was lousy of Lars Monsen to frighten him that way. Talking about bears and stuff, when everyone knows there weren’t any bears this far south. Theo put on his rucksack and got back to the trail. He tried to walk calmly, but couldn’t find a rhythm. Then he began to run, and a cold, sudden wind put the woods in motion. He grew agitated and rushed along, gasping, certain that something was about to catch him. Someone on the edge of the trail was observing him, and something terrible waited further ahead.

Hannes Bosch was an optician, as his father Pim had been before him, and he had a sense for light and refraction — everything that was the eye’s delight. He raised his glass of wine up to the sun and admired the deep, red colour through the crystal. Wilma sat with a newspaper on her lap. She glanced at her husband, and noticed that he had put his feet on the table.

‘Your feet,’ she commented, ‘are heavy as rocks.’

‘They may be heavy,’ he said, ‘but I can stand upright, whether the sea is calm or stormy.’ The wine had made him light-headed; he felt good, and happy. ‘When it comes to you and all your attributes, I keep my mouth shut,’ he laughed. ‘I’m not looking for trouble.’

They sat in the hammock. Wilma put her newspaper down, leaned her head against his shoulder and sighed. When the sun was low, as it was now, it was warmest. She could smell Hannes, his fine scent, could hear his heart beating calmly and evenly.

‘You’re never afraid,’ she said and turned her head to look into his mild, grey eyes.