I picked it up. And then I rowed back.
When I returned, Grandfather was standing on the shore. I saw him from a distance. He looked furious, which always makes his body go rigid and weird, his shoulders drop and he glares directly in front of him. I wasn’t afraid, though. I steered the boat straight for the shore, lifted the oars, picked up the pole and threw it onto the beach.
He looked at it and said, “Where did you find that?”
All I said was, “I’ve got it back.”
I climbed out of the boat and we dragged it out together. Before he had time to tell me off, I said, “And I’m just going to say, I’m not going to search any more. I’m not going to look for Håkan any more. It’s over now.”
He stood in silence, staring at me, as if he couldn’t understand what I was trying to say.
“No,” I said, “it’s over, Grandfather. Now I know.”
I set off up towards the farm, over the meadow. It was September, frost on the grass and brittle underfoot; it crunched where you walked. Grandfather was still standing down there by the boat. And I thought how odd it all is: you get knocked back, but nothing is ever hopeless. Sometimes you just want to die, but when everything seems at its worst, there is still a way out. You get knocked back and it feels bad, but you learn a great deal. And if you didn’t learn, you would never grow up, never understand. I thought about the Flying Dutchman and the story about the Snow Queen and all the other stories I’d heard. And I thought about the man in the boat taking Håkan away from me, and never again would I be ill like I’d been that summer.
I wouldn’t play in the same way as before, not believe the same kinds of tales, not try to avoid things; nothing would be the same as before. It was September: Håkan would have been ten years and one month, if he had lived. I walked up to the farm. Grandfather stayed by the boat. I remember I was crying, but at the same time I felt very peaceful. The air was cold. It was the last time I went out searching. I finally knew who the man in the boat was. I walked home. It was crunching under my feet. It was cold. And that was it, the whole story.
IN A DEER STAND
DORTHE NORS
IT’S A QUESTION OF TIME. Sooner or later, somebody will show up. Even dirt tracks like these can’t stay deserted forever. The farm he walked past when he entered the area must be inhabited. The people who live there must go for walks sometimes, right? And the deer stand is probably the farmer’s, and it’s just a question of time before it starts raining. The vegetation down on the ground is dry. Some twiggy bushes, some heather too. To the right, a thicket; to the left, the start of a tree plantation. The sunken road leads in there for some reason, so it’s just a question of time before someone comes. Take him, for instance; he came this way. Just yesterday, even if it feels longer. The circumstances make it feel longer. It’s likely that his ankle’s broken, though it’s also possible that it’s just a sprain. The pain isn’t constant, but there is some swelling. Now he sits here and he has no phone. She must be in pieces back home. He can imagine it. Walking around with his phone in her hand, out in the utility room. She’s standing there with it in her hand. She stands and curses him for not taking it with. And it’s only a question of time before the police are involved. Maybe they already have been for some time now. It’s probably been on the local radio; that he’s forty-seven, that he drives a bmw, that he left home in a depressed state. He can’t bear the thought of them saying those last words. He isn’t depressed, it’s just that she wasn’t supposed to win every battle.
Last night there was screeching from inside the forest. Some owls, foxes perhaps. There was someone who’d seen wolves out here, and no doubt Lisette has come by the house. She’s probably sitting on the couch with her wide eyes, eating it all up. He’s so tired. His clothes are damp, and last night he froze something terrible. There are some black birds overhead, rooks he thinks, and his wife’s pacing around in the yard, restless. He painted the eaves last spring. It’s a nice house, but now she wants to sell it. He really likes the house, but now she wants something else. When she wants something else, there’s nothing he can do. He’s lost every battle. As recently as the day before yesterday, he had an urge to call his brother, but he’s lost that battle. She doesn’t like his brother, though Lisette’s welcome to visit. Lisette often stands in their kitchen-dining area and calls up her network. Lisette’s got a big network, but mostly she hangs out with his. And in principle, he’s only got the kids left. It’s a long time since his wife stopped taking part in the gatherings on his side of the family. There’s something wrong with both of his parents, she says. Something wrong with his brother’s kids, his brother’s girlfriend and especially his brother. She says that his brother sows discord. That’s because his brother once told him he ought to get divorced. And because he loses all battles, he went straight home and told her: My brother thinks I should get divorced. So this isn’t the first time he’s driven out to some forest. He’s done it a fair amount over the years. Sometimes to call up his folks on the sly, or his brother. He also calls them when he’s down washing the car. He doesn’t dare call from the house. Then she’d find out, or Lisette would, and he’s pretty sure that Lisette tells tales.
He’s sitting in a deer stand, his ankle is definitely sprained, and something’s happened to the light. A mist is rising. It creeps towards him across the crowberry bushes. Which means that evening is closing in on the deer stand again. Perhaps he should try to crawl down, but she wins every battle. He no longer calls his brother, for instance. The distance between them has become permanent, and when he drove off, he deliberately didn’t bring his phone with him. He wanted to be alone, so that’s what he is now. He stepped on a tussock wrong, in the strip between the wheel ruts, some seventy metres from the deer stand. First the pain, then off with the sock; he was pretty sure he could already see it starting to swell. Did he shout for someone? Well, he shouted a bit the first hour, then darkness began to descend and he set about reaching the deer stand. Now he’s inside, and from up here he can see the plantation, some undergrowth and withered heather, mist.
He tots up the distances between towns. It must be about seventy-nine miles home. That’s how far he is from the utility room, where she’s standing and staring at his phone, though no doubt Lisette’s there. Lisette’s playing the role of comforter, co-conspirator and slave, yes, Lisette’s her slave too, but a slave with privileges. While he sits somewhere deep inside a West Jutland tree plantation. He heard something shrieking in the forest last night. Probably a fox, but wolves have been sighted here too. The hunters set up game cameras to get a glimpse of the animals they hope to shoot. Or else it’s farmers wanting photos of whoever’s eating their turnips, usually red deer, he supposes. Then one morning this wolf is standing there, staring straight into the camera. He’s seen it in the newspaper, but wolves can’t climb, and he managed to haul himself up into the deer stand last night before darkness fell. The pain isn’t too bad, and it’s just a question of time before she sits down next to the washing machine. Her hands cupped over her knees, and he hasn’t seen her cry in years. She didn’t cry when her mother died. Her face can clap shut over a feeling like the lid of a freezer over stick insects. He had some in eighth grade, stick insects, in a terrarium. They weren’t much fun, and then his biology teacher said that putting them in the freezer would kill them. He peered at the insects for a long time before he placed them in the freezer. They stood there rocking, looking stalk-like. When he took the terrarium out the next day, they stood there stiff. They didn’t suffer, he supposed, they just stiffened in position. Thinking back on them now, they looked like someone who’s achieved complete control over their own stage illusion—and she’s been successful that way too. Maybe she doesn’t have any feelings at all. She’s got lots of hobbies, but it isn’t clear that she has feelings. She’s got Lisette, but she has no feelings, at least not for him. She hates his brother and the rest of his family, but even though hatred’s a kind of feeling, it doesn’t count. He told her one time that he missed his brother. He shouldn’t have said that, and he’ll never say it again; he’s lost all his battles, he knows that. He also knows that this is retreat. He has the clear sense, for instance, that Lisette’s standing in the kitchen area at this very moment. Lisette’s become more and more a constant presence—driving their daughter to handball, joining them during the holidays and attending the kids’ graduations; sitting in the bedroom on the edge of the bed. Lisette’s her representative, a subject like himself, but with privileges. Lisette’s got short legs and a driver’s licence, and by now the police must have been brought in. He’s right here, of course, half lying, half sitting. It’s been more than a day since he drove off. In a depressed state of mind, though that’s not true. He just wanted the feeling of winning, and now he has a view of a landscape at dusk. His trousers are green from moss and something else, extending high up his legs. The boards he’s sitting on have been attacked by algae. If she saw this sort of algae on the patio, she’d have him fetch the poison. What hasn’t he done on that house? And now she wants to sell. She wants to move into something smaller, though it’d be good to have an extra room. An extra room? he asked. For Lisette, she replied, and then he took the car and left his phone behind. His family’s grown used to his absence, and besides, he isn’t the same any more. Actually, he’s sensed that for a long time. How something has clapped shut over him. First she won all the battles, then he positioned himself squarely on her side. In that way, he stopped losing, and she tired of scrutinizing him. That was the logic behind it, but now he’s sitting here. In a deer stand, deep in the forest. A mist has risen, the night will be cold, and a wolf has been sighted.