The enormous wings are at rest alongside its body. One thinks of its wing span as a resting wind, always ready.
It is the eye that rivets me. I am sure it is asking me certain questions. But mine are probably asking more. My smarting eyes that are sticking out of the moss on stalks.
But I have seen the dance of the cranes, I say to the searching, slightly arrogant eye. What did I not see there? I ask uselessly. The eye is so clear, so clear, and utterly superior. No one saw how it was during the dance.
The crane does not stir. Now the other also approaches stepping high, and pauses beside the first. Both of them equally close to the creature in the moss and the windcheater.
They are equally tall. Each turns one eye towards me, full of light.
But they have no explanation to give me. That was something I invented in my perplexity. They do not help me. They are big and secure and shy. Yet the disquieting dance is within them, ready to be unleashed. The dance that still continues over there on the marsh.
The dance that it was so easy to share.
Their eyes are tranquil lights resting on me, without any message.
Come closer, I beg them once more, from somewhere deep within me. I am lying in the wet marsh. My heart is pounding against the raw tussocks. It is good and painful, both at the same time.
They still seem to think they are close enough, standing in their wonderment or whatever it may be. I do not move a muscle, do not lift my face, am nothing but protruding eyes. They are not afraid, but they are careful to have their wings open ready, just in case. I can’t help wondering if they have a line of communication open to me? I can only hope that it is so. An open channel, where we can search for the mystery we share while we walk in the marshes and on the earth.
The light in the eye is without expression, I now decide. But then I start, for they suddenly take a few paces towards me, and have come so close that I could seize the long, sinewy leg of the bird if I stretched out my arm.
I do not attempt it. There was a hint of unfriendliness in their movements. Again I cannot help thinking that they could easily put an end to me on the spot if they wished. If they were to begin, the entire savage flock would storm in this direction. If these two were to shriek a warning to the others it would be over in a moment.
They must not come closer, for then they would trample on me. They do not. I am lying stock-still as if lifeless.
But I have seen something, seen them in their naked dance—and I manage to stare at them fixedly, trying to keep looking into their eyes. If I were to look down they would perhaps attack, since the change from wonderment to hostility occurred so quickly.
They must not come closer. Nor must they give warning. Their shriek is horrible and can start a chain reaction in the others. And yet—I want them here, even though my body is tortured and freezing. I say behind my closed mouth: Please. Don’t go. Don’t go for a long time. I must see it all. Don’t go. Do something that will frighten me, if you like, but don’t go.
As if in answer to this the second bird makes a leap into the air, is airborne and fans its wings wide. Huge. Buoyant. All is air and movement and freedom. It has been wheeling above rushing rows of countries. It is probably only doing this because it is tired of standing still; it will not take off for good. And it settles at once and becomes as still as before.
The first one stands watching me in the same position. It is becoming a struggle to have that unmoving eye on me, feeling as if I have to answer it the whole time. Soon I shan’t know what to do.
The marsh has a painful grip on me. I am soaking wet and feel heavy as a stone. The thoughts that awoke during our dance—about knots that would unravel and be illuminated—can no longer be sustained. The huge pair of wings that gave their display—they raised my spirits a little, but not enough, not even enough to get my chin up out of the moss. What are they going to do now?
Having shown me what wings and air are, they stand in silent inspection. I can hold out no longer; I must do something, no matter what.
*
And yet I am still wishing, Stay! as I know that this must come to an end.
What am I thinking of? Haven’t I been able to share in far more than I could ever have imagined?
But I can see that we are no longer speaking to each other in any way. They are merely inspecting me with their round bird eyes. Mine are beginning to swim. I cannot hold out. Something must be done at once. There is a long crane’s foot within an arm’s length—they must have edged even closer—and I shoot up out of the moss, becoming more than two eyes, throw out an arm and seize the hard, tall stalk of a leg—and at last I shriek my own shriek at this unyielding enigma.
The shriek must have been lying in my throat all the time; it came of itself.
The effect follows like lightning.
The bird starts on being seized by the leg, and shrieks a reply to my shriek before it has died away—a horrible sound. Like lightning it strikes at me with its giant beak, slashing a strip of fire down my face in its haste.
I lie prone, expecting to be slashed again. The bird does not do it. It makes its departing leap, easily jerking itself away from my half-hearted grip, becomes airborne, fans out all of that sweeping freedom and sails in low flight down to the dancers. Its companion leaps and takes off just as quickly.
The dancing cranes stop instantly on hearing the shriek. All of them take to the air. The sky is a dark seething of crane wings. Soon the whole flock is high in the sky, heading towards another familiar place, another marsh. Until their own has been cleansed.
*
For a while we were moving towards each other in some strange channel.
The blood from the gash in my face trickles down on to my jacket. The blood in my veins prickles and tingles like ants in my numbed body. Unsteadily I lean over a puddle to wash. Elsewhere a particle of shame is smarting because of my behaviour towards those shy creatures.
3
Spring in Winter
The air was full of wet snowflakes, but that didn’t matter. Everything was just as it should be; it was a beautiful evening.
A cluster of houses stood there, not large enough to be called a town. The houses had been laid out one by one, without any overall plan, and for this reason there were many unexpected alleys and comers.
Over this a snowstorm was sweeping. At the narrow comers the mild snowfall met the strong light from the outdoor lamps, and seemed to turn it whiter than white.
And the whiteness poured down into the comers incessantly. The snow near the lamps was trackless. People were indoors.
*
But not all of them. Out of doors someone was happy on account of the beautiful evening. A short girl was standing close to the wall in the shadow. Or half-shadow, for the mingled snow and lamplight were so strong that the shadows were weakened.
The girl must have been standing there for quite a while; her footprints had been wiped out. She might have tumbled straight out of the night sky.
The girl stood motionless. You could almost believe she was here simply to be snowed under in this lonely place—but she must have had other reasons for coming to stand here glittering.
Snowed under? No, I can’t get snowed under, she thought with a bubble of joy. That dark, hard man of iron over there on his block of stone—he can be snowed under, he probably will be snowed under. I can only get warmer and warmer.
The snow won’t settle on me, she thought, but if it does, that’s all right.
In the meantime the wet flakes fell thickly and heavily on to her shoulders and on to the boyish cap she was wearing on the back of her head, and wherever it found the slightest basis for piling itself up. She already had small drifts of it on her here and there.
Of course the snow is settling on me, she thought when she noticed this. Why shouldn’t it? I mustn’t move, she thought. I want it like this. Not to be snowed under, but I’ll look different, and that’s what I want. Everything’s different this evening.
She stood as motionless as the dark man of iron. He was lonely and deserted. The girl was bubbling inside with joy.
I’ll stand like this till he comes. She thought: He’s no man of iron; he’s a live boy. ‘Is it you?’ he’ll say. ‘Or is all this just snow?’ he’ll say.
Warmer and warmer.
What does the snow matter then?
*
It was the first time they were going to meet like this, by agreement. It felt important. It was more important than the evening and the snow.
She thought:
What shall I find out?
What is he like? I don’t know much about him. I’ve only seen him a couple of times.
There was music in her and she said:
But I know enough. I’ve seen enough.
It could snow as much as it liked; she was thinking about the coming meeting.
What will he do?
She was really thinking only this one thing. What will he do?
He’ll say ‘Good evening’ and take my hand.
Yes, yes, but what will he do?
He could do many things.
Will his hands come close after a while perhaps? They do that, I know. Someone has done that already, but I’m not going to think about it, because it wasn’t as it ought to have been.
Tonight it will be right.
I wonder how much will be right this evening?
This was a dangerous train of thought. She completely forgot her plan about the snow that was going to transform her and make her beautiful. Her thoughts were suddenly as wild as the snowstorm and just as difficult to check. She did not check them until she had taken the measure of all she knew, and it proved to be more than she had expected.
She looked about her and thought: Good thing no one can see what you’re thinking.
She shut it away.
Meanwhile it went on snowing, building her up into towers and spires. She carried it well. She was short and lightly built, and seventeen.
*
He’s no older either, she thought. It won’t be long now before I shall find out something, whatever it may be. It’s almost time. I wanted to be first and stand waiting for a long time.
There he is!
Through the whirling snow she caught sight of something coming towards her, seeing it only as something black.
It is, and here I am with all this snow on me!
It was a man or a boy, and he was approaching quickly. But she started in surprise: it was not the boy she was waiting for. It was someone else, from her own neighbourhood. Someone she knew slightly. The boy she was waiting for didn’t even live here. What does this mean? That he’s passing purely by chance, of course. Don’t move a muscle because of him.
But he stopped right in front of her and gazed at her as she stood in her heavy robes, her eyes glittering deep in the snow.
‘What on earth ...?’ he began, but did not finish it. Sudden astonishment. He stood there and simply looked at her. She couldn’t help it, she looked back at him with that charm she was capable of putting into it; it happened automatically before she had time to feel ashamed. Her eyes were dancing inside the wet snow. It was true that the shadow was not real shadow, after all.
He came close. Suddenly she felt afraid and whispered, ‘What is it?’
He put out his hand as if to touch the snow piled on her, but withdrew the hand again. It seemed an unconscious gesture.
She whispered, ‘What is it?’
No answer. He looked at her, thunderstruck. Walked round her, his eyes fixed on her all the time. She did not revolve with him, but whispered into the air after him, ‘What is it?’
Now he seemed to remember. He gazed into her face. But still he gave no answer to her question. She had stopped glittering at him, even though it was tempting to make use of what she possessed so plentifully.
Suddenly he began talking, fumbling for words.
‘Yes, there is something—you mustn’t be frightened, you see.’
She felt a shaft of ice pass through her. The certainty of what this meant, this thing he had not said, came to her by some mysterious path.
‘Isn’t he coming?’
He simply looked at her.
She questioned him harshly the second time, and about worse things, knowing it already.
‘Has he gone?’
The boy scarcely nodded. This one was a young boy too. His eyes were bewitched now. He simply nodded.
She did not start trembling so that the snow fell off her. She just stood. It was because of his eyes. But she felt as if the snow slid off like an avalanche. There seemed to be a roaring as when an avalanche falls. A cold wind blowing. No, she noticed then that not a flake had fallen off.
‘Did he get you to come here and tell me this?’
He would not discuss it. Had probably said enough by nodding. Stand steady, said a voice inside her.
The messenger said something quite different.
‘Don’t move. You have no idea what you look like.’
He didn’t manage to say what he wanted. He had taken on himself too powerful a message.
But she knew in her innermost being what she looked like. He could think what he liked. Nor was she in complete control of herself: sudden tears welled up in her eyes, quickly and briefly. Then it was as if the weather turned milder, and no more came. The young man stood watching.
‘That’s good,’ he said when her tears stopped just as suddenly as they had come.
She did not understand. She only asked, ‘Did he say why?’
He did not answer her. Instead he said something that made her start in surprise.
‘I’ll unpack you.’
Again she heard her thoughts. Without waiting for her permission he did as he wished. He took off the worn pair of gloves he was wearing, and used his bare hands to lift off the snow crown that had built up on the boyish cap.
‘Won’t be fun any more now,’ he said. ‘Think it’s stopped snowing.’
Yes, it had stopped. She had not noticed before. It was silent and the air was mild. He shook her cap free of snow and put it on again. She was the short girl once more. He unpacked her out of the snow piled on her shoulders. She was confused by his manner of doing all this.
Unpack you,’ he said. Over and over again. Fistful by fistful. He took his time.
He unpacked her out of the little snowdrift on her breast. She saw that his fingers were uncertain. And so cold, she thought.
What will he do?
She held her breath, but all he did was go on unpacking her. Bit by bit she turned into an ordinary girl.
‘That’s that,’ he said, and had finished at last. But he did not go.
What will he do now?
Again she held her breath. She saw he was trying to say something, and he was so strange to look at in everything he did that evening. He said unexpectedly, ‘You cried.’
She had no answer to make. No use denying it.
‘I said you cried.’
‘Maybe I had reason to.’
He said, ‘Maybe. I don’t know.’
She snapped, ‘No, you certainly don’t know everything!’
‘I’m not sorry about it,’ he said, ignoring the interruption. ‘But that’s another matter,’ he added.
‘Why are you standing like that?’ she asked.
‘Can’t I look at you? I feel as if I’ve never seen you before. It’s so strange,’ he added. He sounded quite helpless.
She replied, ‘Yes, I suppose it is.’
Then he said something: ‘My fingers are cold from unpacking you out of the snowdrifts all this time.’
Something in her responded. ‘Are they?’
There was more to be said. Both of them knew it. So he said it.
‘Maybe I should warm you.’
‘No,’ she said quickly.
‘All right,’ he said.
All she said was, �
�That’s good.’
He stood looking at her. Everything seemed to be standing on its head. And it was so incredibly mild.
‘The snow’s quite wet,’ she said confused.
‘Oh yes,’ he answered, almost as an aside.
But would he go now? She had been a little abrupt with him. So he would probably go.
She stammered, ‘Are you going?’
He muttered something and there was an embarrassed silence. He mustn’t go. She stammered again, ‘What about those cold fingers of yours?’
He brightened a little and asked, ‘What about them?’
‘Nothing.’
‘If they really are so cold,’ she said again.
‘Oh no. They’re not so cold really. They’ve been colder.’
‘Yes, I expect they have.’
Everything was standing on its head.
‘Why don’t you feel them?’ he asked.
It was incredibly mild. She let the hands come. The hands, cold as ice, held her close. They made her burning hot. Neither of them could feel cold now.
He said softly: ‘Awfully good to hold in your hands.’
‘Yes,’ she replied, in scarcely a whisper.
4
Daybreak with Shining Horses
We met unexpectedly, at daybreak one morning. Two young men. The other was called Per. We were acquainted, but not close friends. Now we met on the grass one warm, fine summer morning, before anyone else was up.
Was there something different about Per? As soon as I saw his face, I thought: What is it?
I saw he thought: What is it? when he saw me.
Then one of us said aloud: ‘What is it!’
It was Per who said it. As if it had nothing to do with him. Perhaps that’s how it was. Perhaps my impression of him was distorted.
In any case I could not answer his question. But why was he out of bed at such an unusual time if nothing was the matter?
Neither of us asked again.
*
For my part I had got up for reasons that I cannot explain. I had simply done so—as one does when desperately waiting for something.
We looked about us. A warm summer morning. Early, early! was the feeling inside us; it’s the only way to describe it. We knew in advance that something was going to happen; it came to us the moment we met and thought we looked alike. Then we felt this early, early! that there was no other name for.
The Boat in the Evening Page 4