Not murdered, mind you, but killed, though he doubts Angelo would appreciate such niceties. All at once, the contents of Jacob’s stomach are boiling at the back of his throat. He bends over and empties them onto the ground in one long spasm that sends tears streaming from his eyes, snot spilling from his nose. Angelo, he thinks, I killed Angelo. The words don’t have any of the weight you would expect from so momentous a declaration. They seem impossible, more fantastic than this place in which they’re standing, the beast rising out of the waves. All the same, when he straightens, neither of his surviving companions is near him. Italo and Andrea have withdrawn, to allow Rainer to assess the scene and deliver whatever verdict on it he deems fit. Jacob is weak, feverish the way you are after you’ve vomited. Though some sense of decorum suggests he should keep his gaze fixed straight ahead, he can’t help himself. He stares at Rainer staring down at Angelo. The expression on his bright face is impossible to distinguish, let alone read. The Fisherman’s knife dangles from Rainer’s left hand. Up close, it’s enormous, more a short sword than a knife. The blade is broad, curved, so sharp Jacob doubts you’d feel it cutting your throat. He knows he should be wracked with guilt over Angelo, should be on his knees weeping for mercy, but the only emotion he can manage is fear of a particularly paralyzing nature. When Rainer sighs and looks up at him, all Jacob can think is that he can’t believe he’s going to die for an act he can’t believe he committed. He’ll lie here beside Angelo, and no one will ever know what became of either of them. Rainer shakes his head, and dips first the knife, then his axe, into Angelo’s blood. He nods at Jacob’s axe, angling out of Angelo. “Take it,” he says.
Jacob doesn’t question him. He bends over, takes hold of the axe handle tacky with Angelo’s blood, and pulls up. Angelo’s body starts to rise with it until, with a wet noise, the axe slides free. The corpse falls face-first into its puddled blood.
Waving the bloody knife, Rainer calls Italo and Andrea over. He points at Angelo’s blood. “Dip your axes in it,” he says. The men exchange glances, but follow Rainer’s command.
So it’s to be the three of them, Jacob thinks. He supposes it makes sense. If all three men cut him down, then it’s less likely any one of them will reveal his fate.
Rainer stands, holding the knife out. He opens his mouth to speak, and so prepared is Jacob for him to pronounce his doom that that’s what he hears, Rainer saying, “Jacob Schmidt, for the death of this man, your life is required of you.” Jacob closes his eyes, hoping that, when his companions strike, they’ll be quick and accurate. He hopes that Rainer won’t tell Lottie the truth about what happened to him; he wishes he’d requested that of the man. For a dozen rapid heartbeats, Jacob waits in his self-imposed darkness. When he can bear it no longer, he forces his eyes open, fully expecting to be greeted by the edge of an axe speeding into his face. Instead, Rainer is looking at him quizzically, while Italo and Andrea are watching Rainer. “The blood of the innocent,” Rainer says, “has power. It will help us to finish our work.” He’s talking about the ropes, Jacob realizes. That was what Rainer said to them: “We have to cut the rest of the ropes.”
Jacob’s certain his confusion is written all over his face. “B-b-b-b-but Angelo,” he manages.
“Do you mean to tell me,” Rainer says, “that this was not an accident?”
Jacob shakes his head from side to side, furiously.
“So.” Rainer nods at the ropes in front of them. “It would be best if we were not here much longer. But be careful. You saw what happened to the Fisherman.” The men nod, and set to work.
XXIV
Even though the Fisherman is gone, the ropes still hum with energy. Jacob’s fingers stick to his axe’s handle as he shifts his hold on it. The air above the gap he cut in the rope bends and blurs; the hooks to either side of it pull horizontally, as if buffeted by invisible streams spilling out of it. Trying not to recall the expression that spread across Angelo’s face in the instant before his death overtook him, Jacob raises his axe.
In a blow, the rope is cut. A great crack, the sound of a mountain halving, throws the rope high and shoves Jacob back half a dozen rapid steps. Torn loose by the force, a handful of fishhooks whiz in all directions; a smaller one spears Jacob’s right cheek, just below the eye. He cries out and too late raises his hands in defense.
Around him, a series of booms and crashes breaks the air. The Fisherman’s ropes rear up like living things. Rainer and the others stagger and stumble with the forces unleashed. As if it’s being reeled in, one of the ropes streaks towards the waves. Another falls onto one of the great tree stumps and digs a handful of its hooks into the wood. The third rope flails from side to side like a thing in pain; Italo barely manages to duck its swipe. The fourth rope, Jacob’s, lies flat on the ground, making its slow way to the beach. One last rope remains, off to the left, beside the raging stream. Rainer drops his axe as he approaches it and, taking the Fisherman’s knife in both hands, cleaves it. Jacob flinches at the resulting boom. Cut free, the rope curls and loops amidst the stream’s spray.
His ears ringing, Jacob joins Italo and Andrea to wait for Rainer. Neither man will look at him. As Rainer walks up to the them, Italo gestures with his axe across the stream, where the other set of ropes hooks the titanic beast to the land. “What about them?” he says, speaking too loudly, the way you do when your hearing’s been dulled.
“By all means,” Rainer says with something like good humor. “If you want to swim over there and tend to those ropes, none of us will stop you.”
Italo frowns. It’s clear he has no desire to try the stream and whatever might reside there, but if cutting the ropes on this side of it has been important enough to risk and sacrifice their lives over, then surely the ropes on the other side must be no less significant.
Rainer has returned to Angelo, whose shoulders he has taken hold of in order to ease him up and over onto his back. Angelo’s eyes are open, full of the distance of his death. Rainer closes them, straightens Angelo’s arms at his sides, and pulls his legs out from under him, speaking as he does. “You are right,” he says, “it would be better to take care of those ropes, too. And if we could walk along this shore to the next set of ropes, and the one after that, it would be better still. Oh yes, our friend has been busy. He has spent many years at his labors, many, many years. To undo all he has done would also take a long time. Not as long as it took the Fisherman — always, it is quicker to tear down than it is to build up — but enough time that our children would be old men and women when we were finished.” He shakes his head. “I will not speak for you, but for me, that is too much.”
“But,” Andrea says. He points at the vast gray curve rising out of the dark ocean.
“What we have done is enough,” Rainer says. He considers the Fisherman’s knife. “For that,” he nods at the enormous beast, “to be bound requires a precise distribution of forces. Next to this, planning the dam we are building is child’s play. If those forces are disturbed, then the whole thing comes undone.” Rainer leans forward, raises the knife, and drives it into the ground above Angelo’s head, improvising a cross. “I am sure,” he says, “that our comrade would appreciate some prayers.” He stands, bows his head and clasps his hands, and waits.