He scanned the horizon for Kari, or for any signs of where she might have gone, but there was nothing to be seen. There were no signs of man anywhere, for that matter; there were no buildings or roads, no tracts of cleared land or rising columns of smoke. The world before him was composed solely of mountains and ice. The only living things he could see were the trees; the place even seemed to be devoid of wildlife.
Erling continued on his way, coasting down another decline before climbing Tritjønnan. It wasn’t difficult ascending it, but when he reached its peak, he saw that it fell off sharply on the other side. He looked back behind him, surveying the rugged landscape. He could backtrack and go around, heading south toward the marshy lowlands, or he could head north toward the less-rugged steppe. Either way would cost him a few hours, if not more, and as far as he was concerned, a few hours might be the difference between catching up to Kari and missing her altogether.
After mulling it over for a moment, Erling slowly went forward, descending the slope step by agonizing step. He walked sideways, relying on the makeshift poles for support. The rocky face of the hill was covered with ice, and a few times, he began to slip. He’d pause and steady himself before continuing, carefully raising and lowering each ski.
A few dozen steps into the journey, Erling began to breathe easier, settling into a routine. He found traction along cracks in the ice or in the rock itself, using all of his limbs and picking his way like a spider across a web. Meter by meter, step by step, the bottom of the valley came slowly into view. Glancing behind him, he watched the peak recede into the distance, then looked forward again, concentrating on his descent.
Halfway down the slope, Erling stepped onto a patch of black ice and started to slide. He turned around and tried to find his footing, but instead of regaining his purchase, he felt the rocks give out from underneath him. He began to slide backward down the hill, and as he struggled to turn around, he picked up more speed. He turned his skis inward, trying to stop, but it was no use—the ice was slick and the slope was steep, and he was already going so fast that he was skipping across the surface.
Surrendering to the idea of skiing his way down, Erling lowered into a crouch. He hadn’t downhill skied in years, and his legs felt stiff and uncertain. He leaned and bent his way around rocks and ice in his path, trailing the makeshift poles behind him. As his speed accelerated, he found himself steering less and less and just struggling to remain on his feet.
He soon regained control, keeping his center of gravity as low as possible. He scraped his way down the face of the mountain, remembering to go with gravity and momentum rather than fight against it. For a moment, he almost forgot himself, lost in the speed and the rush of the descent. He felt like he was flying, a feeling he’d loved as a boy when he’d barrel recklessly down Strætasfjellet with his friends.
His short-lived moment of nostalgia ended when he spotted the fast-approaching trees and the icy lake beyond them. He suddenly felt all the air escape him, and he felt his heart begin to thud in his chest. He turned his skis inward again and tried to slow down, but he only picked up more speed as he skipped along the ice. Realizing he wouldn’t be able to stop in time, he threw the bow and arrows toward a snow bank so they wouldn’t break or injure him. Then he sat down and fell onto his back.
Erling skidded down the hill in a clashing of skis and ice. He struggled to keep his legs straight so his skis wouldn’t cross, but it was no use. They tangled up, sending him tumbling toward the tree line. He came down hard on his side, cracking a rib and bruising his kidneys. He stopped trying to use the skis to break his slide and went with the fall, letting go of the poles and allowing his arms to trail behind him. His right ski popped off as he rolled toward the trees, and soon after that, his left ski came off as well.
Erling finally came to a stop just short of the lake, near a snow-covered mound of earth. Dazed and battered, he sucked for air. Once he got his bearings, he examined himself. The rocks and ice had cut his hands and hip, and there were long tears in his pants and coat.
He struggled to his feet. Then he limped back up the hill to gather his things, his bad knee feeling like someone had smashed it with a hammer. He was glad to see that the bow was intact, as were the arrows. The binding on his left ski was gone, however, and the ski itself was snapped in two.
Erling stepped into his remaining ski and pulled the binding tight. He then set off again, teetering upon the one remaining ski, his left foot raised and tucked like a crane’s. He soon heard a buzzing sound in the distance; at first, it sounded like another plane, but he quickly realized it was the sound of an approaching ground vehicle. He struggled his way over to a stand of thick pines, hiding beneath their drooping boughs.
Then he watched as a Waffen-SS half-track approached in the distance, barreling toward the Swedish border.
The lakes turned silver in the waning daylight, and the ice that covered them made cracking noises as the temperature fell. Overhead, dull clouds hung low and thick, splitting against the distant mountaintops. They buried the emergent moon underneath a thick cataract of grey.
Kari and Lance continued their way eastward through the highlands. They’d ridden all day without stopping, and neither had said a word since they’d set out. Kari sat in front, loosely holding the reins; Lance sat behind her, his hands on her hips. The only sound aside from the shifting ice was the steady crunching of Torden’s footfalls beneath them.
They rode over a series of low hills and into a shallow valley. On a few occasions, Kari had wanted to break the silence, but every time the urge came over her, she grew nervous and queasy, unable to think of anything that wouldn’t sound naïve or immature. After cresting another ridge, she spotted Steinfjellet and Litlkluken, and just beyond them, she saw the peaks of Blåhammarfjället and Snasahögarna, on the other side of the border. Though somewhat relieved, she also felt her heart sinking, knowing that their journey was coming to a close.
Kari thought back to the first time she’d been to Sweden, as a girl. She had vague memories of riding there with her parents, nestled next to her mother on the narrow seat of their horse-drawn cart. She couldn’t remember much about the trip, but she could recall the soft feeling of her mother’s worn cotton dress, and the fragrant smell of soap on her mother’s skin. She could also remember the songs her mother sang on the way, “Å blei d’a dei (din blei)?,” “Det Er Min Egen Lille Hemmelighet,” and others by Lalla Carlsen. Then she thought about the last time she’d been there, the previous summer. While her father had been selling their wool, she’d met a boy named Mats, who was a child compared to Lance, but he’d had a certain charm. He’d wanted her to come to a fair with him, but her father had forbidden it, wanting to leave after he’d finished his business. She was so angry that she didn’t speak to Erling the entire ride back, cursing God for taking her mother instead of him. The thought suddenly occurred to her that her father needed to bury himself in work in order to get past his grief. She began to finally understand him, and for a moment, she even started to feel sorry for him. Then she quickly pushed the thoughts from her mind, unwilling to let them alter her course.
They rode onward, crossing a frozen creek. Torden’s hooves broke through the thin ice atop its surface, revealing the shallow water beneath. They soon entered a stretch of bare hardwoods. After the trees began to thin out, they clambered their way up another ridge, and when they reached the top, Kari spotted a few lights in the distance. Before long, Lance spotted them as well.
“Is that Sweden?” he asked.
She nodded. They continued on in silence, and a light snow began to fall, fine as sifted meal and nearly invisible in the fading light. They could hardly even feel it, melting as soon as it landed on their faces and hands.
They made their way up another low ridge and descended toward a flat valley. A handful of bare trees rose from the ground, thin as bones, and as they crossed the frozen wasteland, their shadows lengthened before them, becoming indistinct and fanning apart.
They soon climbed again, up another low ridge hemmed with evergreen scrub. After reaching the crest, Kari heard a buzzing noise somewhere behind them, faint as a mosquito. She instinctively looked back toward the sky, but there was nothing there, other than a few darkening storm clouds.
“What is it?” asked Lance.
“I don’t know,” she said.
They scanned the horizon, looking for the origin of the sound. The buzzing noise grew louder and louder, and it sounded faster, too, and more like a car or truck engine than an aircraft. Torden grew nervous and tried to go back down the ridge, but Kari sawed at the reins and swung him around. Then she turned and looked behind them again and spotted an approaching half-track in the distance, barreling toward them. Lance’s eyes widened when he saw it, too.
“Go,” he said.
Kari yanked on the reins and dug her heels into Torden’s ribs, and the horse struggled his way up and over the steep pitch of rock. He clambered over the broken ridge and down the other side, trotting downhill toward a treeless meadow. Halfway across the meadow, Kari glanced back over her shoulder. She saw the half-track hammering down the hill, shredding the distance between them.
Kari dug her heels into Torden’s side again and yanked on the reins, and he broke into a gallop. There was no cover out in the meadow, but there was a steep ridge a hundred meters to the south. She wheeled the horse around and charged for the ridge, hazing Torden on as the half-track gained on them. After they reached the ridge, Torden fought his way up the rocks. Kari urged him onward, slapping him across the side, and Lance spun around and drew his pistol, but before he could find a shot, Torden stumbled on the ice and lost his footing. Kari fell backward against Lance, knocking the pistol loose and sending it clattering down the ridge.
The half-track pulled so close that they could see the rank insignia on the shoulder straps of Moltke’s uniform and the Totenkopf on his hatband. Kari whacked Torden again and again, but the hill was too steep and the ground was too icy. Torden soon lost his footing, and Kari and Lance were thrown from the horse. She landed in a snowdrift, and Lance went down hard on his side.
They struggled to their feet and continued on as the half-track drew near, and when the half-track could go no further, Moltke skidded it to a halt and jumped out, chasing them on foot. Without breaking stride, Kari glanced back over her shoulder. She saw Moltke, brandishing a pistol. Sverre followed, struggling to keep up.
“Stehen bleiben!” shouted Moltke.
Kari and Lance ignored him, and he fired a shot over their heads.
“Stop!” he shouted. “Stehen bleiben!”
They continued to ignore him, running as fast as they could across the highlands. After cresting a hill, Kari spotted a tree line on the other side of a meadow, and she and Lance changed direction and bolted for the trees. Halfway across the meadow, Kari twisted her ankle in a rut and went down hard against her side, losing her wind. Lance stopped and looked back toward the approaching men, then looked toward Kari, on the ground.
“Sorry,” he said.
Before she could reply, he turned and continued on. Kari struggled to scream, her panic turning to fury, but all she could manage was a weak groan. She watched as Lance ran off, part of her in shock, and another, larger part of her enraged. Before she could get back to her feet, though, Moltke and Sverre reached her, and Moltke grabbed her by the arm and shoved her toward Sverre.
“Stay here,” he said.
Kari tried to pull free, but Sverre spun her around and hugged her tight, refusing to let go. She watched as Moltke closed the distance on Lance, firing another warning just above Lance’s head. Lance ducked and slipped, and Moltke gained on him.
He caught up to Lance at the bottom of a ridge. Then he tackled him to the ground and smashed him in the head with his pistol.
CHAPTER 23
They trudged through the snow back in the direction of the half-track. Lance walked out front, blood leaking from his nostrils and split lip; Kari trailed nearby, staying as far away from Lance as their captors would allow. Both were bound at the wrists with coarse rope, and Moltke had tied it so tightly that their wrists bled.
Kari turned to face Sverre.
“You don’t have to do this,” she said, addressing him in Norwegian.
Moltke responded in German before Sverre could reply.
“Shut up,” he said.
Kari continued, ignoring him.
“You should be helping us—”
Before she could finish, Moltke stepped forward and smashed her in the back of her head with his pistol. She stumbled and took a knee, dazed.
“I said shut up,” said Moltke.
Lance took a step toward Moltke, but when Moltke pointed the pistol at him, Lance froze, his bound hands leaping up to his face like the hands of a fevered supplicant.
“You want to be a hero?” said Moltke, in English.
“No,” said Lance, cowering.
“Get her up.”
Lance bent down to help Kari, but she swatted his hands away, standing on her own. Moltke shoved her.
“Move,” he said.
They slogged onward. Lance continued to look over toward Kari, but she refused to meet his gaze. She scanned their surroundings for options, but there were none to be found. They were in the middle of a barren meadow; there was nowhere to run or hide, and nothing that could be used as a weapon, other than rocks buried in ice or the occasional stick.
After cresting a low hill, Kari spotted the half-track in the distance. She knew their time was running out; as soon as they reached the vehicle, their few options would all but disappear. She figured she was already living on borrowed time, anyway; the only one of any interest to the Nazis was Lance, and whether she was brought back alive, dead, or even at all seemed to be of little consequence.
She considered her options one last time. Making a run for it seemed like suicide; even if she somehow made it to the trees, she was bound and without a weapon, not to mention in the middle of nowhere. Going along with it and hoping for clemency only seemed like a slower journey to the same result, as they executed people or sent them to work camps for far lesser violations. The only solution as she saw it was to fight; if she somehow managed to overpower Moltke and take his weapon, she could surely take care of Sverre, who would likely cow to whoever was in control of the situation. If Lance helped her, great, but if not, as long as he stayed out of her way, she figured she had a chance. It was better than hoping or waiting for a miracle, which to her seemed like having no chance at all.
Her heart began to flutter and swell. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to still her nerves. She thought about praying, but what would she pray for, and to whom or to what would she pray? She didn’t believe in anything, and she couldn’t remember the prayers she’d learned in Sunday school as a girl, before her mother had died and her father had stopped bringing her to church.
She thought about her mother for a moment. She believed in something, even in her final, dying days, but what did it get her? Kari wondered. Maybe that wasn’t the point of belief, she suddenly realized; maybe the point was that it gave one the strength to endure things rather than to change or escape them. She felt a sense of calmness wash over her, and felt her hammering heart begin to slow. I’m with you now, she could imagine her mother saying, in her calm and steady voice. I always have been, and I always will be.
Kari took one more deep breath and slowly let it out. Then, after steeling herself, she spun around and lunged toward Moltke, tackling him at the waist. They went tumbling to the ground, wrestling for control of the pistol. Sverre moved to help Moltke, but Lance shoved him to the snow.
Kari and Moltke struggled for the pistol as Lance blocked Sverre. Moltke dominated Kari, using his weight to overpower her. She caught him with his guard down and kneed him in the groin, and he rolled off her, sucking for air. Then she wrestled the gun free, but before she could use it, Moltke head-butted her in the face and flipped her onto her ba
ck. He grabbed the pistol and scrambled back to his feet, pointing it at Lance.
“Stay back!” shouted Moltke.
Lance moved away, cowering. Moltke turned back toward Kari and kicked her in the ribs. Lance watched helplessly as Moltke kicked her again and again. Then Moltke pointed the pistol at her, but before he could pull the trigger, Sverre grabbed him by the arm.
“Wait—”
Before Sverre could finish, Moltke pointed the pistol at him.
“I said stay back!” Moltke shouted.
Sverre backed away, and Moltke turned back toward Kari, who lay motionless in the snow. He pointed the pistol at her again and cocked its hammer, but before he could shoot, the head of an arrow burst through the center of his chest. Moltke slowly raised his free hand and touched the sharp point of the arrowhead, dumbfounded at the sight of the bright red blood. The others turned and looked in the direction the arrow had come from, spotting Erling atop a ridge, holding a bow and nocking another arrow. Kari shouted when she saw him.
“Dad!”
Lance looked toward Kari, confused, then back to Erling, watching as Erling loosed the arrow. It pierced Moltke near the base of his spine, and Moltke pitched forward to the snow, falling like a puppet whose strings had just been cut.
“Get the gun,” shouted Erling.
Kari lunged for the pistol and reached it first, but before she could point it at Sverre, he tackled her, and they hit the ground in a heap. Kari looked to Lance.
“Don’t just stand there,” she said.
Lance lunged for Sverre, but before he could reach him, Sverre wrested the pistol from Kari and pointed it at Lance’s head.
“That’s far enough,” he said.
Lance backed away as Sverre yanked Kari to her feet. Sverre then spun Kari around toward Erling, using her as a shield.
“Lower the bow,” said Sverre.
Land of Hidden Fires Page 12