11
At this distance she seems no older than ten or twelve. Forcing myself to move forward, I see as I get closer that the girl at the side of the road must be in her early teens. But she has a slender body, as thin as a much younger child’s. And she’s very pale, even though we’re at the end of a long and unusually sunny summer. She’s wearing a loose-fitting shirt and long pants. Both garments are black, without any pattern or trim. Her hair hangs down her back, and I can’t help thinking that it would have been beautiful if only she hadn’t dyed it a lifeless black. She looks anxious and keeps glancing over her shoulder.
I stare at her as if bewitched. I realize that she’s the first living creature, other than Tirith, that I’ve met since Alex and Smilla disappeared. I’m very close to her now, and I’m just about to say hello when I see a group of people a few yards away in the woods, near the shoreline. A couple of them are moving back and forth, looking down at the water and then out across the lake, as if searching for something. The others are facing each other, speaking in low voices. The cloud cover lifts, and the sun appears in the sky. The rays strike the shiny, sharp object one person is holding. A flash of light. I flinch and step back.
I must have made a sound, a gasp, or maybe even a stifled shriek, because at that precise moment they all turn around. Pale, angular faces swivel toward me, five or six pairs of eyes stare in my direction. Teenage boys. That’s what I manage to think before, as if on cue, they start coming toward me through the trees. Something inside of me, some basic instinct, tells me to flee, to run away as fast as I can. But my legs feel suddenly heavy and wobbly, and my feet seem glued to the ground. The boys are not in a hurry. They move slowly but deliberately. Finally they reach the gravel road and spread out around me. One of them circles halfway around and stops behind my back.
The last one to reach the road is the boy holding the knife. He moves with obvious self-confidence, ignoring me pointedly. He stops next to the girl.
“You were supposed to keep watch.”
His hair is the same dull black as hers, but close cropped, with some sort of shaved pattern on the sides.
“Sorry.”
The girl leans forward and rests her head on his shoulder in a gesture that looks more submissive than affectionate. He wraps his hand around her head. He moves his other hand across the back of her neck, the whole time keeping a tight grip on the knife. Maybe it was meant to be a tender caress, but it looks like something else entirely.
He turns around and takes a few steps forward so we end up facing each other. He’s older than the others. That much is clear. His face is rougher, broader. Instead of a few sparse whiskers around his mouth, he sports a scraggly dark goatee. He has braided the strands and fastened the ends with a row of tiny white rubber bands. But what stands out the most about him are his eyes. It occurs to me that those eyes of his have seen terrible things. And yet he can’t be more than twentysomething.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?”
His tone of voice indicates that he’s used to being obeyed. I shift my gaze to the girl. She’s standing behind him, her shoulders hunched. Maybe it’s his voice, or maybe it’s the way she is stooped forward. But something gets into me, making me stand up straight.
“And who are you?”
Without hesitation, he raises his hand, pointing the knife at me. I automatically step back, but bump into a gaunt, hard body. I turn and see cold, narrowed eyes. I turn my head the other way and find a jutting chin and lips pulled into a scornful sneer. My gaze flits away. Downy chins and bright-red zits. T-shirts with stretched-out necklines, worn jeans with rips in the knees. Kids, I think. They’re just kids. Bored kids in a place where nothing much ever happens. They’re just trying to scare me. That’s all. But I’m not really convinced. Nor does the thought calm me down.
“What are you so fucking scared of? I just need a little manicure.”
The young man with the goatee has lowered the knife and is using the point to clean the dirt from under his fingernails. He’s rewarded with scattered jeers from the boys standing around me. Then his expression changes again.
“Let’s try one more time. Who are you, and what are you doing here?”
He raises his head to look at me. His dark eyes are now impassive. As if he’s not seeing another human being in front of him. As if I’m an inanimate object.
“I asked you a question. So answer me.”
A sharp jab to my shoulder makes me stagger. The boys move closer. Suddenly, I hear my mother’s voice in my head. Dehumanization, she says in that annoying professional tone of hers. There’s a profound connection between dehumanization and violent crime. It’s easier to harm someone when you don’t perceive them as human, when you can’t empathize with the person. So I decide that the opposite argument must also hold true.
I start telling them who I am. I explain that I’m here on vacation. But I don’t stop there. I also describe the approximate location of the cabin. And I tell them about Alex and Smilla, that the three of us came here together. I say that they’re waiting for me now. That they’re going to be worried if I’m not back soon. Then the words stick in my throat and I stop talking. And wait.
Goatee Guy doesn’t look concerned. He scratches his arm and glances at his watch. Has he even heard a word I said?
“You haven’t taken something that belongs to us, have you?”
At first I think I must have misheard him. What does he mean? I frown and shake my head. Hoping, believing, that he’ll see I’m genuinely puzzled. Goatee Guy gives me a long look. Then he takes a step closer.
“Are you sure?”
Before I have time to answer, the girl slips next to him, stands on tiptoe, and whispers something in his ear. He listens impatiently, then pushes her away. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice how the other boys are rocking back and forth, casting inquiring glances at Goatee Guy. What’s going on? The seconds fly by. The only sound is birds chirping. My mouth is dry, and my body is tensed like a taut bowstring.
At last, Goatee Guy makes a nearly imperceptible motion with his hand and turns his back on me. He moves a short distance away. Time stops for a few moments. Then, slowly, I feel the iron ring surrounding me begin to loosen. I’d like to think there’s a certain relief in the boys’ retreat. But maybe it’s mostly disappointment that emanates from their frustrated bodies. Disappointment at having to release their captive. Apparently Goatee Guy notices it too and understands the group’s need for one last show of force. I’ve hardly relaxed my tensed shoulders when he spins around and strides over to me again. In one swift movement, he raises the knife and places the tip under my chin. He doesn’t press hard, but the blade is sharp, and terror sinks its claws into me.
“If I find out you’re lying…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. Instead, he shoves me backward after one last meaningful look. Then he turns around, crosses the ditch, and heads for the shore without looking back. His underlings grin and take a few harmless swipes at me before they follow. I hear their laughter echoing off the trees and see them giving each other high fives. The girl and I are alone on the gravel road. Our eyes meet. Then I turn around and leave.