Only the Dead

by Vidar Sundstøl

  “So you’re the one who needs to watch out,” Lance went on. He pressed his palms against his thighs, trying to hide the fact that his hands were shaking.

  Andy grabbed his backpack and opened the Jeep door. He got out, not hurrying, as if everything were perfectly normal. But he didn’t say a word. Then he proceeded to slip his arms through the straps of his backpack. Lance tried to see his eyes under the Minnesota Twins cap, but he couldn’t. After Andy put on his backpack he closed the door. Not too hard and not too soft, just the same way he always did. Then he walked over to his own vehicle. Lance got out too. He looked at his brother over the roof of the Jeep. Andy took out his Winchester and slung it over his shoulder. Then he closed the red-painted right-hand door of his old white Chevy and started walking across the parking lot.

  “Are we going to keep hunting?” asked Lance, but he wasn’t sure Andy heard him. “Are we going to keep hunting?” he repeated, this time so loudly his brother couldn’t avoid hearing. But Andy didn’t reply. He headed across the parking area and disappeared into the woods.

  Lance exhaled slowly. He wasn’t even aware he’d been holding his breath. In front of him was Lake Superior, which almost merged with the gray sky. On his left was the dense birch forest Andy had just entered. On his right he could see the start of the path that led to Baraga’s Cross. Early one morning in the summer, he’d found a shoe lying there. A white running shoe. Lance had picked it up. That was how it had all started.

  He wondered what he should do now. Andy had headed for the open area along the lakeshore, the spot where he’d said he would wait on post. It was only a couple of hundred yards away, close to the crime scene. Should he try to call Andy on his cell? No, he hadn’t replied when they were talking in person, so why would he answer his phone? Lance decided that, no matter what, it would be best to complete the drive; then at least he would have done his part.

  After he got back in the Jeep and was about to drive off, he hesitated for a moment. Couldn’t he just go home? Send Andy a text to say he didn’t feel like hunting anymore? But that would be a form of retreat, and he couldn’t do that, not after he’d just pushed Andy into a corner. Because that was what he’d done. His brother hadn’t been able to utter a single word. He’d just sat there, gaping, his face gray. Lance couldn’t retreat now.

  Slowly he drove up the narrow Baraga Cross Road and onto Highway 61. It was no more than two miles to the Temperance River. He’d park the Jeep there and then walk through the woods between the road and the lake, back to the parking lot near Baraga’s Cross. He wasn’t counting on riding back with Andy to get his car afterward, but he could easily manage those two miles along Highway 61 on foot. He’d finish the hunt as planned, but then that would be it.

  I dreamed about Jesus waking up the dead. They came walking in a big procession down toward the dock on Toftevågen. Jesus led the way. Behind him came the teacher and the pastor, and behind those two everybody else. A bunch of partially rotted scarecrows. They seemed to be mostly women, since so many had long hair. But Jesus did too. Long, golden hair and a red beard. He was carrying an oar on each shoulder. He was going to row everybody across the ocean to America. And in the middle of the group heading for the dock I caught sight of the Indian. There he was, walking along with those who had been resurrected. I wanted to tell Jesus that there was a heathen in their midst, but he gave me a clout with one of the oars, making my ears ring. You, said Jesus, looking furious as he pointed at me, you are not coming with us to the New World. The heathen will take your place in the boat. But why? I asked. I have always prayed to you and kept your name sacred. Yes, you have, said Jesus, but the savage is so good at rowing. If it weren’t for that, you probably could have come along.

  All I could do was stand there and watch as the teacher and the pastor and the Indian went over to the edge of the dock and then disappeared. Because there was no boat. The whole pack of skeletons dropped over the side of the dock. Jesus did too, carrying those long oars over his shoulders. After everyone had stepped off the edge of the dock and vanished, I went over there and looked down. In my dream it looked completely different. The water was very deep. And then I saw them. Way down in the water they were rowing a handsome ship toward the open sea. Jesus stood in the bow, with his golden hair blowing back like a banner. He had handed over the oars. Now it was the dead who had to row. The Indian was sitting there too. He was going to America, even though I was being left behind at home. That thought frightened me awake.

  I’m still inside his sod hut. He’s squatting down next to the fire and stirring his brew. When he bends down over the pot, I can see his face, black from smoke and soot, or whatever else might have left streaks like that. His eyes under the brim of his hat look like otter eyes. Now he is sitting down in the corner again. Wrapping the blanket around him. The smell must be coming from what he’s cooking. It smells like . . . I’m not exactly sure what. Like hay? Yes, a bit like hay, but there’s something else too, something I can’t identify. Something sweet and strange. Maybe it’s the steam rising up from his brew that is making me dream like this. Is that where the dreams are coming from? This is not a Christian home, at least. How strange that I should end up here. Thormod Olson from Tofte on Halsnøy. Dear Jesus, am I going to die in this un-Christian lair? No! It’s not far to where my uncle lives. I don’t remember him, because it was so long ago that he set off for America, but we are family. He is my mother’s brother. I can’t die now, not when I’m so close to where I’m headed.

  But the cold floods through me again. It’s coming from a lump of ice. I must have swallowed it when I fell in, and it’s still inside me. Refusing to melt. Lying there, spreading its cold. Now my teeth start to chatter. I’m shaking all over. The Indian is stirring under the blanket over in the corner. He crawls over to me. Gets up on his knees. Under the fur rug I’m still gripping the ax handle in my right hand. With my left I’m holding the rug in place. I don’t want him to see me naked again, or start rubbing me. He’s saying something. I think it’s English, but it’s not the sort of English I’m used to hearing. He’s not as old as I thought. Younger than my father, I think. He puts his hand on my forehead. That warm hand of his. Then he raises his index finger and shakes it, repeating the same word over and over. A warning? I think he’s saying that I should not get up. That I should stay where I am. He stands up and moves the birchbark door aside. Shakes his finger at me one last time. Then he slips out and pulls the sheet of bark in place. I hear the first steps he takes on the packed snow. Then it’s quiet.

  What’s he up to? Going to take a shit, maybe? Or are there others like him nearby? Is he going out to get the neighbors? And here I lie, naked as a newborn babe and shaking so hard I can’t even put on my clothes, much less defend myself. I keep thinking I’m going to die here. I won’t survive this, not as cold as I am. I’m going to die in the savage’s sod hut. And then I won’t be given a Christian burial. Does that mean I’ll go to hell? A boy like me, who believes in God and Jesus Christ. A boy like me, who believes in the Resurrection. But God must know this. He knows everything, after all. But is it necessary to be buried in consecrated ground in order to go to heaven? I don’t know. All I know is that I need to get out of here as soon as possible. Make my way to where my uncle Knut and Nanette live. If I die there, I will be buried as a Christian. This is all about my soul. That’s what is happening here inside this hut. A battle for my eternal soul. “A human being consists of an eternal soul and a mortal body,” said the pastor. Yet if my body dies and my soul lives on, but without reaching paradise, what will happen then? Even if I have to crawl on my belly out of this hut and through the woods, like a snake wriggling along the ground, I refuse to die here. I refuse! How long is he going to be gone? Do I have time to find my clothes? I can’t crawl naked over the snow, but I don’t know if I have the strength to get dressed.

  I let go of the ax and try to roll closer to the fire. I feel a gnawing inside me. That must be the broken rib. The stumps
are gnawing at each other. I lose my hold on the fur rug, and it drops off me. I am naked in the light from the fire. “In the beginning there was no sin in the world, for all that God had created was good, but our first parents allowed the Devil to tempt them into sinning.” I feel a warmth on the surface of my skin. It’s coming from the flames that are right in front of me. It felt so good when he rubbed me with that dried grass. I look down at myself. I feel an urge to find the grass and rub myself with it. But what if he comes back inside and sees me? No, I couldn’t live with that. Anything would be better than that. I crawl a little closer to the fire, but I can’t stop shaking. The pot is hanging from a stick. The witch’s brew is bubbling away. The smell reminds me of long hay racks on an embankment. Drying hay. With something sweet inside, but I can’t tell what it is. My face is wet and blazing hot. Steam is running in big drops down my cheek. What could he have put in that pot? I saw him crumbling something into it. I don’t know. The whole world seems to have turned upside down and is spinning around inside my head. I close my eyes. When I open them again, I see my clothes. They’re lying over there in the darkest corner. I crawl over to them. The homespun cloth is ice-cold and rigid, like old leather. I don’t know whether I can even get the clothes on, they’re so stiff. Why didn’t he put my clothes next to the fire? So I wouldn’t run away?

  I try to put on my shirt. It still bears the cold from the lake, but I force myself to put it on. It feels like being covered with ice. But it’s impossible to put on my underwear. I can’t bend down far enough. I see how awful it is that I’m naked. With everything in full view. Now that I’ve put on my shirt, I see that so clearly. My hand touches something soft. It’s the bunch of dried grass that he used to rub warmth into my body. I throw the grass into the flames. It catches fire instantly and burns up. So that sin is now gone. No matter whether I sit or stand, it’s impossible for me to pull my pants over my feet because of my broken rib. I can’t do it. Here I am, on my knees, naked from the waist down. I can’t allow anyone to see me like this. But what’s that over in the corner, next to the blanket the savage left? It’s dark, so I creep over there on all fours, like an animal. I reach out one hand to touch the blanket. It’s still warm from his body. But what’s that lying on the ground next to my other hand? I touch it. Yes, just what I thought. A rifle. Cautiously I pick it up. Weigh it in my hands.

  LANCE TURNED OFF THE ENGINE, pulled up his hood, and got out. By now he’d waited fifteen minutes, as they’d agreed. He left his backpack on the passenger seat, since there was no more food inside anyway, but he did take out the small flashlight he always kept in the Jeep and stuck it in his jacket pocket. Then he opened the tailgate and took out his rifle, which was wrapped in the brown blanket. The wrench lay in the same place it had landed when Andy tossed it back inside. There was something so unreal about the bloody tuft of white fur, as if it couldn’t possibly belong in his life. He slammed the tailgate shut and then crossed the asphalt parking lot, taking long, determined strides. When he reached the edge of the woods, he stopped and took several deep breaths. Then he entered the forest.

  Right below him was the lake. The rocks were slippery and treacherous in rainy weather; he needed to avoid them. If he fell in the water, who knew how it would end? Behind him was the Temperance River. It was black and deep as it flowed between two rock walls, as if through a doorway, and out to the lake.

  There were often deer down here, so maybe they’d get one after all. But what are we going to do afterward? Lance wondered. If he shot a deer now, could he really call Andy on his cell and ask him to join him? Could he phone Andy for any reason at all? He would have to do that in order to complete the drive. The driver always had to contact the man on post to let him know he was approaching. That was an inviolable rule. But were the rules still valid after what had happened? Was it even possible to talk about things like rules anymore? Lance had broken the most important rule of all, which said that specific subjects were simply not to be discussed. Not under any circumstances. The world he knew was a world that was held together by keeping silent about certain things. These things were not clearly defined, but everybody who lived in the same world as Lance recognized them at once whenever they cropped up. As long as no one broke the rule, this world would continue to exist. It had already endured for a very long time. But now Lance had talked. He had opened his mouth and declared that the most important rule of all was no longer valid. And so he couldn’t expect that other rules were still valid either.

  He paused near a birch tree and leaned against the trunk, causing a shower of drops to fall from the branches and pour down over him, but he hardly noticed. Should he turn around and go back to the parking lot? Drive home? There was no rule, after all, that said he had to complete the drive. He could call it quits and head home. But he didn’t because it wouldn’t change anything. No matter what, Andy knew that he knew. It made no difference whether Lance was here or at home in his own living room. He’ll find me if he wants to, he thought. The only chance Lance had was to disappear entirely from the world they both knew. Outside that world, there was no certainty Andy would be able to find him.

  His cell phone vibrated against his thigh. Lance’s hand shook as he took it out. Mary’s number was on the display. She seldom called, and if she did, it was always about some practical matter having to do with picking up or dropping off their son, Jimmy. But Lance wasn’t supposed to have the boy until next weekend, so it was more likely that Jimmy was the one calling him now.

  Lance and Andy had agreed not to take calls from anyone else. Not under any circumstance. But the rules probably didn’t count anymore. For all Lance knew, his brother wasn’t even on post. So of course he would take his son’s call. He was just about to answer when he hesitated. He wasn’t really sure why. It had nothing to do with the hunt or the rules. There was just something that stopped him from answering. In his mind he pictured his seven-year-old son. Each time the phone vibrated in his hand, he thought about the sound in the boy’s ear. Finally it stopped. He put the phone back in his pocket. He felt bad, but not as bad as he’d expected.

  I’m out here hunting, he told himself. That was his way of trying to preserve some small trace of normality. Hunting was something he’d mastered. At this moment it was the only thing he felt he’d mastered. He was a good marksman. And right now that was something he still counted on. He started walking again. Soon he found fresh deer scat. It wasn’t possible to see any tracks since the forest floor was too hard for that, but he thought he could see a clearing in the woods a short way up ahead. In such places it was common to encounter deer. That was where they grazed. And if they weren’t grazing, they would still be hidden by the tall grass.

  Cautiously Lance approached the clearing, ready to raise his rifle and shoot at a moment’s notice. Before taking each step, he studied the forest floor carefully so as not to tread on a dry twig or get his boot caught on something that would cause him to fall. Then he would again raise his head, lift his foot from the ground, and slowly move it forward while he kept an eye on the gaps between the trees. At any time a deer might leap up from where it was lying in the grass and stand there with all its senses on high alert. When that happened he had to raise the rifle to his shoulder, find the animal in the scope, and fire off a lethal shot—all in the space of a few seconds, without vacillating or hesitating. The way he was proceeding made for a minimum of sound. His movements were also so slow as to be almost invisible. After each step he would stand motionless for up to a minute at a time, and for that reason it took him several minutes to cover only a few yards. It was approximately fifty yards to the clearing, which he could partially make out between the tree trunks. If he were to continue forward at this pace, it would take him over half an hour, but he wasn’t going to do that. In front of him was an invisible borderline. If nothing happened before he reached that spot, it was unlikely any deer would appear.

  He crossed the invisible border and started walking at a more normal pace
, but still moving cautiously and holding his rifle so he’d be ready to shoot. Over by the clearing, which was bigger than he’d at first thought, he immediately found the hollowed-out places where three deer had been lying in the grass. He crouched down to study them. They seemed fresh; a few rough hairs had been left behind. It was impossible to tell in which direction the deer had gone. It would probably be best for Lance to go down to the lake where the forest was not as dense so he could get a better overview.

  He started walking and soon reached the bare rocks, but there was nothing to see. The rain had stopped. He pushed back his hood. The sky was still low and gray. From here it was normally possible to see smoke pouring from the chimneys of the coal-fired power plant in Taconite Harbor, a few miles farther along the shore. But today Lance saw only the expanse of black, wet rocks right in front of him and the gray surface of the water. He sat down at the edge of the rocks. Far off in the distance there was a spot where the water was 1,332 feet deep. That was in the southeastern part of the lake, as he seemed to recall, off the coast of Michigan. Far from here, at any rate.

  He wondered whether anyone had ever actually gone down there. In a diving bell, for instance. Or had that happened only once, in a dream? And who was it that had stood down there back then? A white American or an Ojibwe? Who was he really when he stood there, about to freeze into a pillar of ice? That dream was so different from any he’d ever had before. Presumably it was those kinds of dreams that the Ojibwe turned into important elements in their lives. Big, far-reaching dreams that clearly had some meaning for a person. Was that why he no longer dreamed at all? Because he’d allowed the big dream in his life to go unused?