I carried on.
If only I could be like it, or become a part of it, I would never ask for anything ever again.
“Jostein!” a voice called out behind me.
Jostein?
That was me.
I was Jostein.
I spun round.
Old Woman was coming down the slope after me.
“Don’t go there, Jostein!” she shouted. “Come back!”
She stopped in front of me and took my arm.
“Come. We’re going back.”
“But it’s so beautiful,” I said. “Can’t you hear it?”
She shook her head.
“How do you know my name?” I said. “I know you, don’t I?”
I was Jostein.
It was as if the name opposed the hum, coming between me and it, and it no longer filled me as before.
She tugged on my arm, and I followed her back to Home.
For a long time, the hum filled the landscape around us with its great, plaintive tone. I did not speak, for I was still immersed in it, even though it no longer held me in its thrall. She too remained silent.
Then, as abruptly as it had arisen, the hum ceased.
“I’m your father’s mother,” she said.
I looked at her. She stared at the ground, prodding the earth absently with a stick.
“Farmor?” I said, and tears welled in my eyes.
“Do you remember me?”
I shook my head.
“Your father died when you were fifteen. I couldn’t bear the grief and succumbed. You were sixteen then. Do you remember now?”
“No,” I said. “But I recognized you.”
We fell silent.
“Where is Father now?” I said. “And is Mother alive?”
“Harald is in the land of the dead. Ellen in the land of the living.”
She looked at me.
“Do you know enough now?”
I wept. I remembered nothing.
She passed her bony hand over my cheek.
“What about Son?” I said.
“I don’t know,” she said. “No one gets over the bridge anymore, they say. I imagine he’s there waiting.”
* * *
—
As soon as day broke, I set out for the bridge. For some hours I followed the line of the forest until I came to the steaming river. I followed it into the forest. It was raining, and the rain was cold, but I froze no longer. She’d said that Son was not reconciled and was therefore confused. He was filled with longing, but knew not for what. Does the hum reconcile? I’d asked her then. Yes, she’d replied. But had you given in to it, you would no longer have been able to help your son.
In front of me, on a sandbank at a bend in the river, was a raft. Above it, two cables were stretched between the banks. I shoved the raft into the water and stepped onto it with caution, gripped one cable and pulled myself slowly to the other side.
Would there be anyone here?
I’d seen no one all day. The landscape had been quite empty.
But there were people here, I knew it.
I looked around.
Nothing but trees and bushes, water and steam, sand and stones.
I stood motionless for a while to see if I might catch any movement in my vicinity.
But no.
I walked as quickly as I could along the river and emerged onto the Heath again. It felt safer there, for I could see so much farther.
The towers on the Heath were barely visible in the mist. If I hadn’t known they were there, I might not have seen them at all, I thought, and continued toward them, glancing back over my shoulder the whole time into the forest. The thought of turning back and returning to Home occurred now with diminishing frequency, and by the time the Heath petered out, funneling into a trough-like dale, it had vanished completely. Now I felt the urge only to push on, toward the bridge and Son.
A road of sorts, more of a track than a road, led into the dale. In the softer, muddier parts, I saw hoofprints and human footprints, and also narrow wheel tracks which looked like those that might be left by old-fashioned carts or wagons.
But not a soul did I see.
Why was there no one here?
It struck me that the road might be perilous, that a person would stand out and be visible, and that this might be the reason it was deserted.
But Son had followed it. And Son needed me, even though he didn’t know it himself.
I carried on through the dale. After a while the road forked, and I went right. But the path I’d chosen led only to a sheer face of the fell, forcing me to double back and try to find a navigable way over the ridge. It was hard going, but I managed to scramble to the top.
The sea.
It was perhaps a hundred meters beneath me. Extending gray and heavy toward the horizon, dotted with a myriad islands, most covered by forest, shrouded in mist.
And there in the distance was the bridge, its shallow slope rising away from the land, dissolving from sight in the vaporous air.
A shiver ran down my spine.
Not just because I was now close to Son. But also because I knew this place like the back of my hand.
It was where I was from.
I lived here.
The names of the fells were on the tip of my tongue.
But no names were forthcoming.
In all its familiarity, everything remained alien. For it was only the contours I knew.
The place I came from didn’t look like that, did it?
But then what did it look like?
I sat down on a rock and got my cigarettes out. I only had eight left, and there wasn’t much chance I’d be able to lay my hands on any more round here. Still, there was no point in saving them, I thought, and lit up.
I closed my eyes and tried to think of what the place had looked like before.
Nothing came to me.
When I opened them again, a boat came gliding round the point below, hugging the coastline. It was big, I counted twelve pairs of oars, all working as one. There was a mast too, but the sail was down.
Two great birds soared above it. They seemed clearly to belong to the boat in some way, accompanying the vessel like an escort toward the cove in between the fells.
* * *
—
On my way down into the dale I caught sight of a figure on the other side, or what I took to be a figure, a glimpse of blue was all I saw. Above, the sky had darkened, and for a moment I thought I might have imagined it. But when I got to the bottom and set out along the track that led in the direction of the cove, I saw several figures, of these there was no doubt, for some appeared only a few meters from where I walked.
None of them looked at me, and none looked at each other.
And then they were everywhere, in the forest and on the fellsides.
But one, an old man with sunken cheeks, a big, fleshy nose, large ears and watery eyes, looked at me as I passed him, and when in the same instant I realized this and turned toward him, he raised his hand and pointed at me. His mouth opened, but not a sound came over his lips. Shortly afterward, my eyes met the gaze of a woman, she too decrepit with age, her head shaking slightly, but her eyes, her eyes were open wide.
There seemed to be nothing frightening about them. They moved slowly and rather heavily, as if the force of gravity were too great. Nevertheless, I walked on as quickly as I could, and sought to avoid further contact.
Presently, the dale opened out in front of me, and there, at the end, the bridge rose, almost invisible now in the dusk.
A short distance away, bonfires were burning.
There were people everywhere, on the area below the abutment. Most stood without moving, as if they were waiting for something. Yet their faces revealed no expectati
on, their eyes and bodies signaled only apathy. The few who were moving around were met with irritation by those who were not. I gave them as wide a berth as possible, not wishing to draw any attention to myself, but the very fact that I was walking, rather than simply standing or shuffling about in little circles, made me conspicuous. Moreover, I was forced to scrutinize them in my search for Son, and they did not care for my attentions at all. In some cases, hatred flared in their eyes, while others showed merely puzzlement. The darkness grew closer and soon they would become but shadows among shadows, I told myself, as I too would become but a shadow to them.
“Son!” I called out softly.
Sighs and groans went up at once.
“Son!” I shouted.
“Shut up!” a voice growled back.
It was hopeless. I was never going to find him like that, certainly not in the dark.
He might even have crossed the bridge already.
Farmor had said it was closed, yet nothing I could see as I approached suggested this was true. There were no barriers, the structure just projected away from the land before rising to melt into the darkness. As far as I could see, though, there wasn’t anyone on it, either standing or walking.
Maybe it was closed off farther along? Or on the other side?
Around me, people stood so close together that I could no longer pass through them without resorting to force.
“Son!” I shouted again.
“AAAHH!” someone cried.
Many lifted their hands slowly to their heads and pressed them to their ears.
My need to find Son was so compelling now that I didn’t care what happened around me. I forged my way forward, forcing a path through the bodies, causing sighs and groans and little cries in my wake, while hands sought helplessly to cling to me as I passed.
And then I was away from the throng and standing before the bridge.
Had he crossed over?
I went toward it. If he hadn’t crossed over, he would at least be able to see me clearly up there.
No! I thought, halting in my tracks.
What was I doing?
I couldn’t go up there.
I had to stay here.
Sensing relief, I turned and went the short way back. Not into the crowd, but skirting its edge, as if I were an officer inspecting his troops.
“Son!” I called out as I went, studying every face.
Again and again I called.
But from Son came no reply.
When the crowd thinned, I stopped.
What was I supposed to do now?
I looked around. It was then I noticed the boat now moored at the other side of the cove, perhaps a hundred meters away.
Something was happening there.
Three bonfires were burning on the shore, and a number of figures seemed to be wandering back and forth in the flickering light.
Was Son there?
I circumvented the crowd and approached. There were people gathered there too, though none appeared to be interested in what was going on.
The figures moving on the shore were different, their faces of crude and brutal appearance, their heads shaved, as big as the heads of oxen, though with long pigtails dangling down between their shoulder blades from the rear of their scalps. Their movements were singular and lurching, slack and stiff at the same time. Some held in their hands a trough-like wooden vessel from which they occasionally drank. To the left of this scene, in the half-light, stood a number of tents where people went in and out.
It was as if they were all waiting for something.
I ventured closer. At one point, I accidentally bumped into someone, a woman whose eyes flashed with anger and whose mouth opened as if to speak. But not a sound did she emit, and a second later her alarm subsided and she became impassive once more.
To the rear of the bonfires, barely visible behind the flames, a kind of scaffolding had been erected. With a litter of some sort, supported by four long poles. On it, a figure lay.
After a short time, two of the Ox-heads emerged from one of the tents, carrying a human between them. It was a woman. Her arms were stretched above her head and bound together at the wrists, as her legs were bound at the ankles. She was naked. From another tent, a second woman was borne, likewise bound. Not a sound did they make, yet they were alive, I saw their mouths open and close.
They were laid out on a bench.
From between the tents, two horses were led to the open area in front of the boat.
The Ox-head who led them placed his hands on their necks and whispered in their ears as if to calm them.
Yet they were unsettled, snorting and stamping.
Two more Ox-heads stepped forward, each with an ax.
The others gathered around them.
They raised their axes and at once brought them down on the necks of the horses. The beasts fell to their knees, their legs scrambling as if to find foothold, one letting out a cry, only for the axes to fall again, separating the heads from the bodies, which after a few seconds became still and heavy. Steam rose from the blood as it ran out onto the ground.
The bodies of the horses were dragged to the boat and manhandled on board. One of the Ox-heads approached the two women with a sickle in his hand and cut the ropes by which they were bound. Another held one of the trough-like vessels to their mouths in turn, and they drank.
The women were led back into one of the tents, whereafter the Ox-heads went in one after another.
When again they were led out, they were lifted into the air three times, on each occasion uttering words in a language that was unknown to me, their voices wild and shrill.
None of those in whose midst I stood paid the slightest attention to any of this, and if their eyes happened to be directed toward it, they looked on only with indifference.
The women were bound again, and were given more to drink, and as the Ox-heads gathered in a semicircle around them, all now bearing swords and shields, an old woman emerged from one of the tents. The Ox-heads began to beat their swords against their shields, and the old woman now approached the two younger women. Pausing a moment, she then raised a knife high in the air, as if in triumph, before bringing it down and seamlessly slitting their throats as if they were fish. An Ox-head collected the gushing blood in a trough, smearing it over the now lifeless bodies.
Presently, they were placed on the raised litter, on either side of the figure that had lain there during the entire proceedings, and were carried on board the boat.
One of the Ox-heads then stepped up to the boat with a burning torch in his hand. He spoke, though again the language was strange to me.
Því at hánum fylgja
tvær ambáttir
Því at hánum fylgja
tveir hestar
With that, he boarded the boat and set it alight. When he stepped away from it again, the moorings were cut and the burning vessel launched into the darkness. Gradually, the flames caught, lighting up the gloom as the boat drifted from the shore. I stared at the scene and at the Ox-heads in turn as they continued to go in and out of the tents and to drink from their troughs.
I was dead.
Son was dead.
I was here to help him.
But he didn’t want to be helped.
Why did Son not want to be helped?
An explosion came from the boat. The flames hissed and diminished as the vessel slowly keeled over and sank. It was as if the darkness intensified, as if a pitch-black wave rose up and extinguished the light, and I was there, in that darkness. And I was that darkness. And I was no one. And I was nowhere.
Yet suddenly, out of nowhere, I was somewhere.
And I was someone.
I was here.
Below me a room.
I was plummeting toward it.
Som
eone squeezed my hand, several times in succession.
I opened my eyes.
Light flooded in.
I blinked.
“He’s waking up,” a voice said.
Her face, blurred and trembling, as if the air were unstable. Wife?
I struggled to form the question.
“Wife?” I said, though not a sound emerged.
“Can you hear me?” a male voice said. “Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.”
A rough hand, bigger, heavier than the first, took mine.
Everything I knew, everything I was, dislodged and was released from my brain.
“All right, no need to fucking hold hands,” I said. My voice was weak, but it was my voice.
And then I could see again.
A doctor was leaning over me, a nurse hovering behind him.
The room was small, a single. They’d had that much sense, at least.
I coughed and raised myself onto my elbows.
“Was it a heart attack?” I said.
The doctor smiled and straightened up. He actually looked like he was glad to see me awake.
“No,” he said. “You’ve been in a coma. We don’t know why. All we know is that it wasn’t your heart.”
“How long have I been out?” I said.
“Thirteen days to the hour.”
“Where’s Turid?” I said.
He glanced at the nurse.
Wimp.
“Where’s Turid?” I said again.
“She’s . . . with your son,” he said.
“Ole?”
Oh, Christ. He’d shot himself, the idiot.
“Is he alive?”
“He’s alive, yes. But not yet in a stable condition. It’s touch and go, I’m afraid. We can’t really say at the moment.”
“Can you fetch her?”
“Of course,” said the nurse, and went out.
“How are you feeling?” said the doctor.
“Fit as a fiddle,” I said. “I’ve got to get back to work. This won’t do.”
“We’d like to keep you in for another day, to be on the safe side. And to run some tests.”
“I’m a reporter,” I said. “I’m the one who wrote about the three lads who were murdered out at Svartediket. It was my story. What’s happened, do you know? Have they got whoever did it?”
The Morning Star Page 62