That couldn’t be phosphorescence, he thinks, noticing the glints of light flickering out there. Nor is it moonlight, because the sky is overcast and rain is pouring down. His hair is soaking wet, and the drops that run down into his mouth taste salty and sour from dirt and sweat. He doesn’t know how long he’s been hiding behind the lifeboat, or how long the voyage has taken, but now they have reached the land where their dreams will become real. Only now does life begin. The deck is gently rocking, just as it has for a very long time. He can hardly remember a life without the rhythmic rocking from the waves; that’s how long they’ve been traveling. The others have now appeared on deck—black-clad figures; women wearing big hats, with the rain dripping from the brims. It looks as if they’ve all put on their best clothes. A little girl is standing right next to him, but she doesn’t notice him as he huddles behind the lifeboat. He peers up at her and sees that she is crying. Maybe she’s afraid because nothing looks familiar. He, on the other hand, feels merely empty, as if everything he once was has been drained away. He has been wrung out and emptied and then sewn back together, but with nothing inside. An empty man. As the rain runs down his face and he surreptitiously watches the little girl who is crying, he notices that something is happening on deck. He doesn’t dare look, for fear of being discovered, but suddenly the girl grabs him by the shoulder and says something. He tries to push her away, but she shouts to the adults, and several men wearing heavy boots come stomping across the deck. They are speaking a language that is not like any he has ever heard before. When they seize his arms and haul him out of his hiding place behind the lifeboat, he tries to talk to them, but not a sound comes out of his mouth. The men drag him across the deck toward the rest of the black-clad group, which has practically merged with the surrounding darkness. Then the men force him to take a position among the others. Seated in front are the women with the youngest children; they smell of fish and urine. Anxiously he looks at the men standing on either side of him; he can barely make out their faces in the rain and darkness. They have long, drooping mustaches. Now a ripple of excitement seems to pass through the group; they straighten up, murmuring to one another as the women adjust their hats. Finally they all fall silent. Everyone is staring straight ahead at an indistinct figure standing next to the railing. A man who doesn’t look as if he belongs to the group. It’s for him that they all straighten their backs. Beside him stands the camera tripod with the dark cloth that photographers always carry. That man must be a photographer from the New World, he thinks. “I’m dreaming,” says a voice right behind him. He turns around but sees only an old, stern-looking man who is staring stiffly at the photographer. At that moment the flash explodes in a white bang! that totally blinds him. For a long time afterward, a dazzling light hovers before his eyes, hiding the darkness. He can still hear the rain falling on the people all around him. Some of the men start shouting, sounding annoyed, and soon he feels strong hands grip his arms to drag him away from the group. As they press him against the rail and force his arms behind his back, he senses everyone else crowding behind him, black-clad and afraid of the land waiting out there in the dark. They know their own stories are no longer important; what matters are the unknown tales they will never fully understand. When he realizes the aftereffects from the flash are gone, he opens his eyes, hoping to catch a glimpse of the new land. And now he sees what all those tiny lights are—the ones he first thought might be phosphorescence. What he sees over there is a glittering town. At that instant men grab him around the waist and by both legs and then lift him over the railing like a black sack.
Slowly he falls through the vast space, his brain taking note of the fact that the night has stayed up there where the black-clad people are probably still standing, waiting for the splash in the dark. He has already forgotten who they are. The big, empty space is filled with a bluish light. Far below, maybe as much as a hundred yards, he sees the bottom. Falling through water is exactly like falling through air, only slower, he thinks, drawing his legs up into a horizontal position. He clasps his hands behind his head and then he is lying there as comfortably as if in a hammock. After a while he looks down to check how far he has gone, and to his surprise he is already passing between the huge blue-shimmering icebergs. The cold settles like a wet blanket over his whole body. He falls precipitously the last few yards, and his chin slams into his knees when he hits bottom. Even before he can get to his feet, he knows that something is seriously wrong. It’s difficult to stay upright because the bottom is nothing but ice. Above him tower the pyramid-shaped icebergs. And above them, in turn, is the vast space through which he has fallen. But there is no way back. He attempts to jump, but gets no higher than he would if standing on dry land. It’s just as impossible to go from here up to the surface as it is to leap from the ground up to the sky. Terror wraps itself like armor around his torso, shutting off his airways. He can’t breathe. He falls onto the shifting ice; he tries to scream in pain, but not a sound comes out. Just as he thinks his body is going to explode from lack of oxygen, the pressure suddenly eases. A series of bubbles issues from his lips, a shiny string of pearls that rises to the surface high above. But then there are no more bubbles. He is no longer hurting, but he’s not breathing either. He is cold all the way through, and without a single breath. “I’m dead,” whispers a voice right behind him. He turns around, but sees only the icy-blue landscape. “I’m dead,” the voice says again, and now he has no idea where it’s coming from. The low whispering seems to fill the whole space around him, as if it has become one with the ice and the cold and the bluish light. He can move, but he is no longer breathing, and he’s colder than any living person can be. If you die in a dream, you also die in reality—he has heard that said many times. This is the realm of the dead, he thinks, and cautiously begins tottering forward, the ground uneven underfoot. There is nothing for him to wake up to. The world he came from is gone. He no longer really remembers it—something about a boat and falling overboard. The cold gnaws at his bones, but it can’t kill him because he’s already dead. Yet freezing is painful. His teeth have started to come loose and fall out. He leaves behind an irregular trail of teeth, spitting them out as he walks. White pearls on a winding string laid out on the grayish-blue icy bottom. For a moment he’s excited about the idea that he could turn around and follow this trail back. Then he realizes that it wouldn’t make any difference if he managed to return to where he’d started. There is no way out of the realm of the dead.
A path is barely visible, climbing the slope between the blocks of ice. Did animals or people go up there? He bends down, trying to discern any tracks, but there’s not enough light. No matter what, the path must lead somewhere, so he continues upward. Soon he finds himself in a narrow cleft, no more than a couple of yards wide, between two bare mountain slopes. The cleft appears to be a dead end with not a hint of light up ahead; the dark merely intensifies. But something has to be there, since the path has led him this way. Soon the cleft shrinks to a hole the size of a man. He lies down and peers into the hole, but it’s pitch dark inside. Then he begins wriggling his way forward as he feels an ever-growing sense of panic threatening to tear him apart from the inside. He is completely encapsulated in the mountain, like a fossil. Now he can feel both shoulders scraping the sides of the tunnel, and it’s almost impossible to move. Yet he can glimpse a faint light straight ahead. Maybe this could be a way out. And now he sees that he’s looking at stars. A corner of the night sky.
HE FEELS like he has crossed an entire continent to reach this particular spot. That’s how worn out he is as he stands there, looking at the distant lake, which sparkles like a huge gemstone. Surrounded by darkness, it looks as if it’s floating freely in space. Now the terrain gets steeper; great waterfalls drape like bridal veils down the mountainside. Suddenly he hears muted voices. He crouches down behind a bush and peers through the branches. There they come, three men clad in buckskin, wearing colorful caps and scarves around their necks. Each man car
ries on his back a big pack held in place by a strap around his forehead. The language they’re speaking is not one he knows. One of the men laughs quietly—a warm sound—as they pass the bush that he’s sitting behind. Only when he can no longer hear their voices does he get up and continue along the stream, heading in the same direction as the three men. Now he is certain that something is down there, but he doesn’t know what it is. The wind has a deserted smell to it, as if there are hardly any people on the entire continent, only a handful here and there, small groups like the one that just passed by. Everything seems so muted, subdued. The noise of the world has not yet been activated; the switch to turn it on has not been touched. Someday all that he now sees—the dark woodland and the huge lake shining in the distance—will echo with the roar of people. But not yet. The night is still quiet. The forest changes the lower he goes. Oaks and maples, with the wind rushing through their crowns. Occasionally he enters a clearing with a view and is able to see the expansive nighttime landscape. Then he knows morning will never come, no matter how long he waits. He glimpses figures going in and out of the circle of light from the campfire, and voices drift toward him on the night breeze. Without fear and without memory he wanders among the tents and makeshift cabins. No one cries out or points at him. It’s as if nobody sees him, and soon he realizes it’s true. They can’t see him. And someone who’s invisible can do whatever he likes. That person has power, he thinks. But in reality it’s merely frightening. He walks around looking at the men in their colorful garb and the hats with the long feathers. He squats down in front of them and looks into their faces. Studies every wrinkle radiating from the corners of the eyes in an old man’s face, looks at the yellow teeth in mouths filled with tobacco spittle, sees their knives, their rifles with the long barrels. He can look at everything and yet not be seen, but this frightens him. He feels as if he’s dead, while these men are alive. There are many tents and cabins, many campfires with men seated around them, but everything is so calm. At a campfire a short distance away a man stands up and starts toward him, moving slowly, tentatively, as if trying to take his bearings from a smell or a faint sound. The man wears a small round hat and a pince-nez. When he gets close, he stops. It’s clear that the man can’t see him, although he seems to know that someone is there. “Ah, you spirit who wanders about in the dark,” he says with a French accent that would seem more appropriate on a music-hall stage than out here in the woods. “How do you like our little encampment? Attractive, isn’t it? Come. Let me show you what has always been waiting for you.” He blindly stretches out his hand toward the man who is invisible, toward the spirit wandering in the dark. Then he heads for the lake, taking a muddy path. Soon they are standing on the shore of a small bay, next to a birchbark canoe. The man with the bowler hat turns around and smiles at the air. “Each man has his own canoe!” he says enthusiastically. “Your canoe has been waiting for you. Now it will take you safely to the other side. Don’t be afraid of storms or monsters; in the realm of the dead no one dies. Bon voyage!” He bows deeply, making a sweeping gesture with his hat.
THE DARK is almost impenetrable, but Lance forces himself to keep going between the tree trunks, which are as big and smooth as marble pillars. Fear is hovering just below the surface, ready to catch him in its net. Finally the forest opens up, and he is looking at the enormous lake. The moon has spread a wide stripe across the water, reaching all the way over to the canoe pulled halfway up onto the shore. An old-fashioned birchbark canoe. He also notices the smell of smoke. Not far away someone has a campfire going. Following his nose, he heads toward the fire until he’s so close he can see the sparks swiftly rising into the air and vanishing in the dark. He thinks this is where he’s supposed to be, even though he doesn’t know why. This is the place, he thinks. After a moment he starts walking toward the flames, but he stops when he discovers the dark, hunched figure sitting with his back turned, looking as if he has been there a long time. Should he step forward and make his presence known?
Then the man at the campfire raises his hand and calmly motions for him to approach, though without casting even a glance over his shoulder. Lance musters his courage and goes over to him. The man peers up from under the brim of his big, round hat. His face is shiny with grease, or whatever it might be; his eyes are as black as an otter’s. “So, it’s you,” he says, as if he’s been waiting for him. “The spirit who wanders in the dark?” It occurs to Lance that he has reached Swamper Caribou’s encampment. “Why are you haunting me?” he asks, but the medicine man does not reply. His face is impassive, but his black eyes gleam in the light from the fire. Now Lance notices that Swamper is holding something in his hands, something that is partially hidden in the shadows on his lap. Now and then the flames cast a flickering light over the object, but he still can’t see what it is. Suddenly this object commands all his attention. He even manages to overcome his fear of the medicine man to go over and squat down beside him. Up close he sees that Swamper has several cuts on the bridge of his nose. The strands of hair sticking out from under his hat are wet, and water is dripping from the brim. Lance reaches his hand toward the object, but Swamper Caribou hugs it closer, holding it in a tight grip. “You can’t have it,” he says sternly. “It can’t be taken up to the surface.” Ashamed, Lance withdraws his hand. The Indian raises the object up to the light from the fire. “This is what you are looking for,” he says. At first Lance can’t tell what it is, but then he realizes that it’s a wooden figure of two people holding hands. Again he reaches for the figure, but cautiously this time, respectfully. As he touches it, the medicine man repeats the words: “This is what you are looking for.”
36
IT TOOK ONLY A FEW SECONDS after Lance woke up for him to realize he’d been dreaming. He climbed out of bed and went into the home office, where he found a pen and paper and proceeded to write down everything he could remember, all the way up to Swamper Caribou’s last words: This is what you are looking for.
His throat felt better, so he went into the kitchen to cook bacon and eggs. The smell caused him to produce an excessive amount of saliva that came pouring out of his mouth. He leaned over the sink, spitting, while he did his best to wield the spatula. A couple of times his legs started to buckle. It was now almost three days since he’d had anything to eat.
Lance Hansen’s big, hollow-feeling stomach turned somersaults of joy when the food entered his system. His guts rumbled and growled and whined as if about to develop their own language. After washing down the food with a strong cup of coffee, he felt almost human again. He groaned and happily patted his stomach, but the sudden sensation of being full also brought on an acute weariness, even though he’d just gotten up. He went into the living room and stretched out on the sofa, where he instantly fell asleep. When he woke up only twenty minutes later, he was so soaked in sweat that he got up to take a shower.
The Ravens (Minnesota Trilogy) Page 19