Only the Dead

by Vidar Sundstøl

  While something gnaws and stabs deep inside me, like bone against bone, I climb on top of the Indian and press my naked skin against his. I feel his blood on my stomach. The warmth starts flowing into me. I spread out my shirt behind me so that my back is not completely exposed to the cold air. I tilt my head back as far as possible so that my face won’t touch his, but that soon grows tiring. I simply have to lay my head down. Rest against him. And that’s what I do. I lay my head on his shoulder, cheek to cheek, my nose pressed against the scarf he’s wearing on his head.

  Something strange happens as I lie here like this. I don’t know what it is, but it feels like a fall, like I’m falling into him. There’s a rushing sound all around me. The whole time I’m falling into the other body that’s lying here, his skin pressed against my skin. I cling to him as I fall into him, or into something that was him only a short time ago, but it’s no longer anyone. The remains of something. I notice that he’s no longer inside his body, which now belongs equally to me, since I was the one who killed him. I crushed his Adam’s apple and his throat. Sat there naked from the waist down, with my naked loins straddling his chest, my manhood erect when I killed him. Now I’m falling into the empty space that is left of him. As I lie here, falling, I can also see myself from far overhead, as if I were once again up there among the stars. I see myself lying on top of a dead man. All around us are the big spruce trees and a vast lake.

  From up here I can see how far I am from home. On one side of the ocean I see Halsnøy, so green and beautiful, with the islands of Fjelberg and Borgundøy very close. On the other side is the huge land that I’ve been traveling deeper and deeper into, past towns that didn’t look like anything I’ve ever seen before, not even in my dreams, with trains moving along the biggest rivers and over the longest bridges, horse-drawn carts passing between trees so enormous that you’d think you were in the Old Testament. Farther and farther away from Halsnøy. Until I arrived here. I can see myself far below, near the big lake, only an hour or two from where my uncle lives. I see his log cabin in the woods. Smoke is coming from the chimney. But that is a place I will never reach. I’m just lying there, clinging to the man I killed. Sucking the warmth out of him. A short distance away from us the cross is casting a shadow on the snow. And the rushing sound of my fall continues into the dead man. Soon I will be completely inside him. Trapped inside the other body. Then I will get up and go, and my own body will be left there in place of his.

  Soon I’ll be able to walk through the woods as an Indian. But then I can’t knock on the door of the cabin where Knut and Nanette live. They would never let a savage inside. I will have to wander around alone in the forest and feel his shit in my pants. Never be warm again, never be able to eat. I lift my face and see that he is standing next to us. He’s lying underneath me and he’s standing next to us. But he doesn’t look fully alive as he stands there. More like something from a dream. Or is that me? Have I already stood up inside his body? Am I the one standing there? He doesn’t look angry. Instead, he looks like he’s about to cry. Then he slowly starts walking toward the woods. I’m afraid that might be me walking away, and I don’t want to lose myself. But I watch as he disappears over there among the spruce trees.

  I open my eyes and look around. It’s so cold. Did I fall asleep? Underneath me is the dead Indian. I no longer feel warm. I try to get up, but my body is so stiff I can hardly move. I’ll just have to stay here and die. The cross is already here, after all. I’m about to give up, but then I remember seeing the world from high overhead. And when I did that, I saw the cabin where Knut and Nanette live. With smoke coming from the chimney. And it’s not very far away. I think I can make it. But first I have to get to my feet. I force my frozen body to move and scream with pain in that white, empty night. Finally I manage to stand up. My legs don’t feel like they belong to me anymore; I can hardly feel them. My body is made of glass. That’s how it feels, as if I’m made of the most delicate glass.

  I turn to look toward the cross and the strip of open water. So close, and yet so far away. I’m going to die now, I tell myself. Either that, or I take the Indian and drag him farther. Then I lean down and grab his arms. It feels like I’m leaning out of myself, that my body remains standing upright, while my will or my mind leans down to grab the Indian. Only after I straighten up and stand there, holding his wrists, do I return to myself. It was as if my immortal soul had leaned out of me. I have no strength left, but something else takes over. There is someone else inside me, someone who drags both me and the Indian. Slowly I approach the cross. Maybe I’m sleepwalking. It keeps getting easier. Now my legs are hovering above the snow. I’m gliding through the air. No, I’m lying on my back and looking up at the cross above me. In this place it’s probably not possible to find anything more Christian than that. The Indian went into the woods. I remember that. Or was I the one who stood up inside his body and left? One of us left. That much I know. One of us is out there somewhere.

  THERE WAS NO SIGN OF LIFE. Not so much as a duck on the water. No Taconite Harbor to the southwest, with white smoke coming from the electrical power plant. No sounds from the road. The rain was coming down harder, the drops pelting his Gore-Tex clothing. Dusk had started seeping into the vast space over the lake. Soon it would be completely dark, and Lance had nothing to help him except the flashlight in his jacket pocket. It would be life-threatening to walk along the rocks, with only the beam from the small bulb. And the flashlight would be of little use inside the woods, where he’d be able to see only a couple of yards ahead of him.

  He’d heard a voice . . . If not for the voice, he would have kept lying on the ground someplace in the birch forest, and that was where he would have stayed. The voice had saved him. But was it a real voice? Or was it just something he’d heard inside his own head?

  He decided not to let the lake out of his sight. The last thing he wanted was to end up in the labyrinth of ice-coated birches again. So he kept to the narrow border area between the woods and those treacherous rocks. Here the ground was mostly heath and grass, also covered with ice, but not in big slippery patches, so it was easier to walk.

  He soon came to a place where the gently sloping rocks gave way to an abrupt cliff nearly ten feet high, with the woods stretching all the way to the base of the rock precipice. He wouldn’t be able to climb along the cliff. To continue on he would have to go back into the woods, just for a short distance, but he wasn’t confident he’d be able to find his way back to the lake if he did.

  The branches of the bowed trees were so intertwined and so laden with icicles that the forest seemed almost impenetrable. Yet he had no choice. This was not a place where he could stay. He looked around. He saw only the gray surface of the water and ice. Darkness was quickly falling.

  It was just a slight twitch of a few branches. Something was moving at the edge of the woods, maybe a hundred yards away. He wasn’t sure what he’d seen. It could have been a deer, but it could also have been a person.

  Lance went over to the wall of ice-coated birch trees. He was still shivering from the cold, and his head ached, yet he had no choice but to force his way through the tangle of branches and leaning tree trunks. As soon as he did, the forest closed behind him and everything looked exactly the same. For a moment he felt panic spreading through him. Then he regained control. He knew the lake was right behind him. Now all he had to do was to veer left in order to come out on the other side of the cliff that had blocked his path along the water. He kept on going, toiling to shove aside the big, dangling icicles, which clinked against each other. The sound of ice striking ice accompanied him as he made his way forward. After a while doubt again crept over him. He should have emerged from the woods by now. Hadn’t he kept far enough to the left? Or had he veered too much, so that he was walking in circles? He couldn’t figure out what had happened. All he could do was keep going, without really believing he would get anywhere. He was starting to think he was back in the same confusing labyrinth where h
e’d been only a short while ago.

  Suddenly he came to a clearing. He could make out the contours of a vehicle beneath a thick layer of ice. On the other side of the clearing there seemed to be a road or a path. A sort of tunnel beneath the bowed and broken birch trees. He realized he was looking at the parking area near Baraga’s Cross. He almost didn’t recognize it. That must be Andy’s Chevy Blazer under all that ice. He took a step forward. His feet instantly slipped out from under him and he crashed to the ground, landing hard on his left elbow. He sat there, moaning with the pain. His rifle lay next to him; the ice coating had cracked when it struck the ground. Now the gun lay there as if brand new, pulled right from the mold. He picked up the rifle and inspected it. There was still a little ice here and there, but it would no longer act like a cold storage unit against his body. And the scope seemed to be intact.

  He got up and cautiously made his way over to the Chevy. He couldn’t see in the windows. Maybe Andy’s sitting inside, he thought. No, why would he be doing that? But he obviously hadn’t gone home, so he must be around here somewhere. Lance thought about the branches he’d noticed moving a while ago. Maybe that was Andy. If so, he had to be nearby. But did he realize Lance was standing next to his vehicle?

  Lance now reacted quickly. He crossed the mirror-smooth parking lot as fast as he dared and forced himself to go back into the woods. If he could manage to walk straight ahead, he should soon reach the Cross River right above Baraga’s Cross. Andy wouldn’t be expecting him to come from that direction.

  After a few minutes he saw the river through the tree branches, and he was soon standing on the bank. Broken, icy trees hung out over the river on both sides. The rocks sticking up out of the water had strange domes of ice on top. Something moved at the very edge of his peripheral vision. He turned at once and caught sight of a man disappearing into the woods. This time he wouldn’t get away.

  Lance started walking along the river, but he’d gone no more than a few yards when the man came back out of the woods a little farther down, near the cross. Lance took a step back and stood partially hidden behind a bowed birch. Then he raised his rifle, which was now released from its heavy burden of ice, and placed the buttstock against his shoulder. Through the scope he could see the man clearly.

  It was Andy.

  Lance stood as still as if he were stalking a deer. His brother was about twenty yards away from Baraga’s Cross, just about where the expanse of rocks began. It took an effort to stand there so long with the rifle in firing position, and Lance could feel the strain in his arms and shoulders. But many times he’d stood even longer without starting to shake. He had Andy in the crosshairs. Right between the shoulder blades. Soon it would be impossible to see him at all in the rapidly growing darkness. A triumphant feeling surged inside Lance. He tried to release the safety with his thumb, but it refused to budge. There must still be some ice in the mechanism. He tried again, but he couldn’t flick off the safety. Annoyed, he pressed on the trigger, but of course it wouldn’t move as long as the safety was on. He squeezed harder. The whole time he kept the crosshairs fixed on the same spot between his brother’s shoulders. Nothing happened. The telescopic scope was a dark tunnel, in which nothing existed except for him and Andy. Lance’s eye at one end, his brother’s back at the other. And beyond his brother stood Baraga’s Cross, on the verge of being erased by the darkness settling over the lake. He could just make out the long, rough icicles hanging from the two arms of the cross.

  Andy turned around and looked straight at him. Through the powerful lenses Lance saw something click into place on his brother’s face. Then Andy set off running toward the protective wall of the ice-covered forest. The last Lance saw of him, he had pulled his rifle from his shoulder and was running with the gun in his hand, like a soldier in battle. A couple of icy branches swayed slightly at the spot where he disappeared into the woods. Then once again everything was still.

  The situation had been turned on its head. Now it was Lance who stood exposed, and he felt drained of all strength. He’d lain too long on the ground, and the cold had penetrated so deeply into him that it couldn’t be driven out. It had settled on the inside of his skull. But the cold was no longer the greatest threat. Nor was the darkness, which was fast becoming impermeable among the trees. It was his brother he feared. He was somewhere very close. Lance’s rifle was unusable, but Andy didn’t know that. He had turned around and looked up along the river, and there he had seen Lance taking aim at him.

  As Lance made his way through the dense, icy underbrush, it got so dark he could hardly see a thing anymore. He could barely even make out his hand when he waved it a foot or so in front of his face. And he couldn’t use the flashlight as long as Andy was searching for him. He had no idea where his brother was in relation to his own position; he heard only the rustle of his own Gore-Tex clothing and the icicles striking each other as he shoved them aside. Andy was a thin and agile man, with a unique ability to sneak up on his prey. He would have no difficulty coming upon Lance unawares in the dense woods. With all the ice covering the trees, the sound of a shot wouldn’t travel far, and besides it was unlikely anyone was around to hear it.

  He felt like he was inside a cold, dark sack in which there was no longer any air to breathe. Lance was about to give up and lie down on the ground when he glimpsed something up ahead. He took a few more steps and saw that he had reached the edge of the parking area. Here a glimmer of light still remained. No more than a trace of gray in the darkness, but enough for him to discern the outline of the frost-covered vehicle. If he followed the perimeter of the parking lot to the left, he would soon reach Baraga Cross Road, which led up to Highway 61. He had no idea what good that would do, yet it felt like his only option. Maybe it was simply because the road connected all the places that were important to him in this small world of his—from Duluth to Grand Portage.

  He started walking along the edge of the parking lot. Twice he slipped and fell, but finally he saw an open area under the broken trees. That had to be Baraga Cross Road. He stooped and went in. Now it was obvious he’d found the road, but he had a hard time making his way along the ice-covered asphalt, and he fell again and again. Finally he was so exhausted he couldn’t get himself to stand up anymore; he simply rolled over onto his back. His rifle lay across his chest. He gripped it with both hands, keeping his right index finger curled around the frozen trigger.

  Then he clearly heard the sound of ice against ice very close by. Someone was coming, and it couldn’t be anyone but Andy. Would his brother find him in the dark? Lance’s only chance was to lie still as a mouse and then maybe Andy would walk right past. Or trip over him. There was no doubt that he was here. Lance could even hear him breathing. But all the ice was distorting the sound so much that he couldn’t tell where it was coming from. It seemed to be coming from every direction at once. All he could do was lie still in the dark and wait.

  He happened to think about the white cat. How it had lain there in the beam from his flashlight, unable to move. He took a tighter grip on his rifle, pressed his finger harder on the trigger. All around him in the dark he heard his brother breathing—it was a sound that had always been present, although Lance hadn’t given it much thought. In the darkness of the room they’d shared as kids, before they each had their own room. Next to him in the backseat of the car; sometimes against his shoulder, with drool seeping out of Andy’s mouth. And on a September day in the school yard, with a baseball bat in his hand and an expression that was the loneliest sight Lance had ever seen. Always that same breathing.

  And now he could hear it coming from every direction in the dark all around him. He tightened his grip on the rifle. At the same time there was something restrained about it, as if his brother were doing everything he could not to be heard. He was keeping his breaths as short and subdued as Lance was doing. And yet his breathing resounded inside Lance’s head.

  Andy had seen him standing there, taking aim. Now Lance was the one being
hunted. A sense of lightness was growing inside him. It began to swell, and the sound of Andy’s breathing swelled with it, getting steadily louder as it spread, as if it might soon be the only thing that existed.

  That was when something occurred to Lance: Could it be my own breathing I’m hearing? He held his breath and listened. A moment later Andy’s breathing stopped too. Or was it his own that had stopped? He released it with a slight whistle, scared his brother would hear. Then he listened. Yes, it was still there. The same breathing. Again Lance held his breath. The same thing happened. A few seconds passed, and then the other breathing stopped too. And when he allowed himself to breathe once again, he heard the other person start breathing too. If it was Andy he heard, it must mean that Andy could also hear him. Was his brother standing right next to him in the dark, hearing the very same thing he heard? Was he also surrounded by his brother’s breathing? Maybe that was why nothing happened—because Andy didn’t know where Lance was in the darkness all around them. Maybe he was standing there, waiting for Lance to give away his location.

  He held his breath again. This time the other person also stopped breathing a couple of seconds later.

  Suddenly Andy’s voice pierced the silence.

  “Lance?” the voice whispered.

  He was just about to answer, but realized at the last moment that it was a trap. If he replied, he would reveal where he was. He didn’t even dare breathe, just held his rifle in a tight grip.

  “You’re a dead man, Lance,” Andy whispered.

  He felt the trigger give way, but he couldn’t stop it. The bang struck his eardrums like a hammer against an anvil. The darkness exploded in yellow and orange. A brief cry sounded right near him. Then he heard the body topple over with icicles clinking all around.