In the Distance

by Hernan Diaz

  He was sick of the sun and would often lie on his stomach, drowsy and almost feverish from the stale air under the low-hanging skins and canvases, to avoid its sight. Still, it would pierce through his refuge and bore into his skull, igniting all the past suns that had hunted down and degraded him and everyone else he had met throughout his journey—the sun, deceitful in Portsmouth, implacable over Brennan’s mine, cold-hearted against his Clangston window, shrieking across the salt lake, complicit through a wagon’s bonnet, excessive when unwanted, and far from its creatures when most needed. To distract himself, he looked into the crisscrossed disorder of the brambles. Many insects had dug their homes in the duskier recesses of those mazes. Barely realizing it at first, Håkan started to study the insects’ daily habits, distractedly mapping their itineraries. Slowly, as the days went by, his interest grew, and suddenly he found himself collecting beetles. He caught them under the dome of his hand, held them up for inspection. They remained uniformly frenzied, regardless of what was done to them, until he pierced them through with a suture needle. Håkan believed that the white paste that oozed out of the hole had to be some sort of liquid organ. But this was a fleeting thought. It was not moved by the naturalist’s curiosity that he gathered all those inflexible bodies; he did it because he found them pleasing to the eye. Arranging the iridescent shields in different patterns, but always by color and size, Håkan experienced a sort of pleasure that was entirely new to him. He had never experienced delight in color. The way each shade vibrated with a resonance of its own; how certain sheens seemed to emit light and others to absorb it; what neighboring hues would bring out in one another—these were all novel wonders to him. And he was surprised by the joy he got from organizing the beetles. He was consumed by the work on his designs, an effort with no end other than to stimulate his sense of sight. Sometimes he woke up to discover that a gust of wind had scattered his collection or upset his arrangements, but he was almost grateful to have to start from the beginning. In time, he was walking around camp, looking for new specimens. Unaware of it, he often spent the entire day wandering about, going farther each time. He regained some of his former vitality. He resumed some of his trapping and ate better. New pelts were tanned, and once again he took up work on his coat.

  Still, he had no desire to travel on. He had not decided to stay there, in the bushes. But he had not decided to move forward, either. The mere thought of other people made his heart pound in his throat. And he still had no idea where he was. Was the desert he had last seen going south the same he had walked through in the north? If so, it would be senseless to move through the plains in either direction—he would just go around the world, from grassland to wasteland and back (and meet the emigrant trail in the middle). Proceeding farther west, he would run into prospectors and homesteaders, and he might even stumble upon San Francisco.

  During one of his beetle-hunting expeditions, Håkan was bitten by a snake. Although he was stung on his right heel, he first felt it in his upper left gum. The sting made him jump, and he was lucky enough to land on the snake with the other foot, which allowed him to pin it down and stab it. He had heard that one should cut an X over the bite and rinse the venom out of the wound, and so he did. Back at the camp, he skinned the snake, thinking it would greatly embellish his coat. He made a stew with the flesh. After dinner, when he tried to get up, he noticed that his foot had purpled and swollen. He got colder. Dragging his numbed foot, he replenished the fire and lay down next to it. The snake meat did not seem to agree with him. His stomach felt like the center of a spiral, and his whole body was starting to spin around it. He made himself vomit and after a few attempts got it all out. It did not help, and now, while being colder than ever, he was soaked in sweat from the effort. His mind was shaking, but in the brief segment of quiet in between shivers, he could see that his condition had nothing to do with the food. It was too late for a tourniquet. All he could do was wait and hope that the poison would not be lethal. Keep his eyes on the fire. Try to find friendly faces in the flames. With a jolt, he realized that he had forgotten to breathe. He gasped for air, curled up, and tried to concentrate on the fire. But his body would not breathe. It was only through a colossal exercise of will that he could inhale. His lungs were inert, alien things—completely external devices, bellows he had to pump by hand. He feared he would die if he failed to actively produce the next inhalation. The fire became two fires, beyond which two burros and two horses grazed with indifference. His tongue, putrid and desiccated, tried in vain to push saliva down his crumbling throat. Shivering, he started crawling toward the pond. Although the edge was just a few paces away, the trip felt longer than his entire journey across America. He thought (although those dark ripples in his mind were barely thoughts) that the poison would soon bite into his heart and kill him or that he would die of cold or that wild animals would devour him or that he would faint and drown in the shallows of the pond. The blackness above would take him. Fear had always been loud for him—as soon as the feeling took over, he was deafened by the blood and air rushing through his body. But now, for the first time, terror was suspended in a silent void. Between each distant, laborious breath, Håkan barely felt his heart beat. Every now and then, he heard his animals cropping grass, their molars making the sound of pebbles in the water. There was something almost peaceful about this quiet horror. Then, a sudden gulp of air, and he would clutch a tuft of grass, crawl forward, and lie there, breathless. Whatever little remained of his consciousness was entirely devoted to taking in air and feeling panic; still, he managed to discover one thing—he feared death.

  The sun, burning deep into his neck, woke him up from a nightmare in which he was being beheaded. It was noon. He had never made it to the pond. His foot looked better, and he was breathing normally. He drank some water and looked around his camp. For months, he had led a crawling existence in those bushes, hoping that by staying there, without actually deciding anything, he would return, through a motionless path, to the peace of an inanimate state. Yet, when the gift of death had been presented to him, he had used every single one of his poisoned muscles to push it away. Remaining in his degraded condition after this realization was impossible.

  He struck eastward as summer came to an end.

  16.

  Fall hardened into winter. Håkan had marched on slowly, taking advantage of the last temperate days to compose himself before the inevitable encounter with travelers and settlers. He was glad that by the time he saw the first sign of civilization, it was cold enough for him to wear his coat. It made him feel safe. With each turn of his body, the lion merged, like a fabulous creature, with a fox, a hare, or a gopher. Around the neck and down the chest, the snake’s silver streak.

  Some cows surfaced and sank on the horizon.

  It was the first time he saw cattle out on the plains, away from the trail. After a while, however, the herd turned in Håkan’s direction. He stopped. Moos and bells. As he was wondering what to do, the drove changed course again, slouching along the skyline. Some time later, a group of riders, shimmering in the distant gleam, came into view—the first human forms Håkan had seen in many seasons. He knew that the wranglers had spotted him, too. They may have hesitated for a moment, but never halted, and soon they were out of sight.

  A few days later, Håkan saw a city.

  He was unable to tell at what point the road had appeared under him. By splitting them in half, the dusty stripe abolished the sense that the plains were infinite. There was now this side of the road and that side of the road. And at the end of it lay the city.

  Several riders, wagons, and even carriages passed him in both directions. He kept his head low and never greeted anyone back. Even if he fixed his eyes on the dirt, he could feel the turning heads and the staring eyes. Like a froth corroding his organs, terror rose within his body. Each time he was about to turn around and gallop away in fright, he forced himself to think of his squalid shelter in the bushes and the bestial life he had led there. If he
did not press on, that would be his only other option.

  Chin on chest, Håkan made it into town and proceeded down its main street. He could see the small city dissolve back into the plains a few blocks down. The furtive glances from under his brow revealed buildings not too different from the ones in Clangston—simple wooden boxes of up to three stories high, most of them white or unpainted—except for the fact that here, most houses were older than the people walking around them. A few grander buildings were made out of brick. Håkan realized that those were the first brick constructions he had seen in all his years in America. Another source of surprise was the unreasonable profusion of flags, banners, pennants, and banderoles of all kinds and sizes. Later, he would learn that the white stars on a blue field with the red and white alternating stripes was the ensign of the United States of America.

  A block or two down the avenue, something changed. The people who until then had stopped to gawk at him now scurried away at his sight, seeking refuge in shops and taverns. Still, Håkan felt everyone staring from behind the dark windows. Was it that he was filthy and wild? Was it his lion coat? Was it that they saw a murderer? To his surprise, his fear momentarily gave way to indifference. He did not mean to stay there. The town, a mere obstacle on his journey east, was just an opportunity to try himself in society, and it would fall behind him forever in a matter of instants.

  A saddlery caught his eye. After so much tanning and stitching, he had developed an interest in leather and was curious to see what could be achieved with better materials and tools. There was a pair of boots in the window. Håkan was practically barefoot—his outgrown moccasins, already unable to prevent numbness and chilblains during the previous winter, had been replaced by precarious canvas and leather wraps. Also, New York could be closer than he thought, and he did not mean to go through that big city and meet his brother shoeless. Although these arguments barely convinced him, he tethered his animals and walked into the store, hoping that the money Lorimer had given him would be enough. The delicate bell on the door startled him. As soon as he walked through the threshold and smelled the perfumed wax, he knew he would not be able to stay. The neatly displayed goods, the polished curves of the counter, the lustrous leather, the general sense of order overwhelmed him. He had never bought anything at a shop in his life. What had made him think that going into a store and conducting a transaction in a currency he was unfamiliar with (and was unable to read) was the best idea for his first exchange after such a long period of solitude? As he was getting ready to leave, a door in the back opened, and through it came the shopkeeper, who stopped at the sight of the stupendously tall man. The smile he had brought from the back room did not match the awe that now widened his eyes. Håkan was about to turn around when he saw his own picture on the wall. Could it really be his face? It seemed to be his portrait, under some bold letters and numbers. The drawing was rudimentary, and he had not seen his own face in a long time, but his main traits were there. Surely, it was a coincidence—it had to be someone else. Still stunned by the resemblance, Håkan turned around and walked out.

  The street was now deserted, except for three men with their rifles pointed at him.

  “Your gun.”

  The man who had spoken held out his hand. His hollow cheeks were pitted with smallpox, and his head seemed to simply rest between his shoulders like a ball on a shelf. No neck. A silver star shone on his narrow chest. His voice reminded Håkan of the squeaky tones Linus sometimes used for imaginary forest people, witches, and twig dolls.

  “No gun,” Håkan said, surprised to find that language worked.

  “Right. And how did you get that lion?”

  “I got it.”

  “You got it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Without a gun?”

  “Yes.”

  “With your bare hands?”

  “Yes.”

  The man sighed, annoyed, and with a nod asked one of his assistants to search Håkan. One of them made the gesture of walking over, but stopped, visibly afraid, before even setting out. The man, now more irritated, patted Håkan down himself.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Hawk.”

  “That’s him all right,” the man told his companions.

  At first the men had been intimidated by Håkan’s height, and now that they knew his name, they seemed even more unwilling to approach him. The man with the star stepped back and all of a sudden hit Håkan in the stomach with the butt of his rifle. He fell in the dirt and was kicked until he no longer moved.

  He woke up clutching a fistful of dirt, which made him think that he was still on the street, but he lay on a wooden floor, and gradually, the narrow space resolved itself into a prison cell. Over the scent of lamp oil, it smelled of tobacco, onions, and dogs. His hands were fettered to a metal rod, which, in turn, was chained to the wall. His feet were cuffed. Boots walked about beyond the bars. When he tried to look up, pain brought his head back to the ground. He feared things had been broken, torn, and punctured inside him. Quite some time must have elapsed since the beating, because the blood on his skin and clothes had coagulated into small desertscapes. Slowly, one by one, he tested his limbs. They hurt but did not seem to be fractured.

  “He’s moving, Sheriff,” someone said.

  More boots came into the room, and they all lined up in front of Håkan’s cell. A jingle of keys, the turning of a lock, someone standing right by his face. Håkan knew it was the neckless man. Someone poked Håkan in the shoulder with the muzzle of a rifle.

  “The Hawk,” said the squeaky voice. “The terrible, the famous Hawk.”

  After a pause, he added something that Håkan did not understand. Someone laughed.

  “So it’s true,” the sheriff resumed. “Your English is bad. Or is your brain soft? Hello? Hello? Hello? Hello?”

  Chuckles.

  “Tell me. Why did you kill them all?”

  Håkan was sucked into an airless abyss. They knew. Everyone knew. Maybe even Linus knew by then.

  “No. Wait,” the sheriff burst out, interrupting himself. “Why is not the question. How. How did you kill them all? The brethren, those emigrants, those women, those boys, those girls?”

  Håkan heard this from some distant place within himself. He never knew it was so vast and desolate in there.

  “You even enjoyed some of them. And still managed to slaughter everyone and flee unharmed. I suppose only a giant, right?”

  Snort.

  “Another thing I don’t get. Why did you ever leave the territory? No one could get you there. The brethren tried, of course. But where to start? And there’s no law. No law, no crime. Now here. Here we have laws. The laws of the United States. They’re in the Constitution. And you’ve broken most of them. Not to mention the divine laws. You’ll be destroyed and cursed. To come into the States. Ha! It must be your soft brain. You’re going to hang. Upon my soul, I would put you to death myself and burn your beastly bones. But the brethren want you. More money alive. That’s the only reason I haven’t spoiled your features. So they can see it’s you. I even have this tin box here to prove you’re the doctor they say you’re meant to be. The doctor! The giant killer doctor! By Cain’s curse.”

  Sniggers.

  “Slaughtering good men of God,” the suddenly somber sheriff said. “I can abide an honest murderer. But this? Brethren spreading the good word.” He paused, considering the immensity of the crime. “They sure want you in Illinois. Good men of God.”

  Håkan finally managed to turn around and look at the head deposited on the shoulders. It looked down at him with disdain.

  “Hello? Hello? Hello? Hello?” the sheriff suddenly croaked in rapid succession.

  Laughs.

  Space kept swelling within Håkan. He was now an unlit universe. How could he ever have thought the world an enormous place? It was nothing compared to his expanding emptiness. Details that once would have concerned him disappeared into the void. Did the sheriff say he was in a ne
w country? Then where had he been before? Who had fabricated that story about those evil deeds he had not committed? Who were those brethren? All these questions faded behind Helen’s image. She had once touched his hand. Linus looked at him from afar. But these last pictures were shredded into hazy tatters and vanished in the blackness.

  “So, the tin box. What do we have here? Little pliers, little knives, little bottles. Funny needles. Thread. You’ve healed so many people. Maybe I can heal you now. Because you’re sick, you know. You have a bad heart. You have a bad heart, and I will fix it.”

  Håkan was turned on his back. He realized that he could see only out of one eye. Through a watery veil, he made out the sheriff threading one of his needles with suture.

  “I’m no doctor, but I’ll cure your sick heart,” the sheriff resumed after getting the thread through. “Jesus is gone from your heart. That’s why you’re sick. But I’ll stitch him right back there. Grab him, boys.”

  The sheriff kneeled over him and stuck the needle into Håkan’s chest, right above his heart. For a moment, the pain obliterated his consciousness, his shame, and his sorrow. But they all came back with his howl. The needle surfaced on the other side, and he could feel the thread burning as it ran through his flesh.

  “I know, I know,” the squeaky voice said. “But you’ll feel better.”

  Another stitch; another scream.

  “You’ll be healed. Purified from the dross of depravity. Cured.”

  Another stitch; another scream.

  “Dang! That was a rib, right? Say, Doc, should I sew over or under it? Let’s see. Darn it! No. I’ll just have to go over. Hope that’ll do. Just one.” Stitch. “Two.” Stitch. “And.” Stitch. “There. Now we just need to go across.”

  Gasping, Håkan stared at a stain on the ceiling that looked like a cloud that looked like a troll. The astonishing pain. The sheriff was the one holding the needle, but the pain was his own. How could his body be doing this to itself?