The deadly cold suddenly seemed to be abating. He almost had a feeling of increasing comfort, of warmth, in fact, and he realized he was rapidly coming to the end of his endurance. Many more seconds of the satisfying torpor and he would lose all control and quickly die. One final circuit, he promised himself sleepily, and then came awake with a start, staring into the gloom. Ahead of him, looming out of the darkness, was an obvious wreck, but it was much larger than the small fishing vessel, the Kirsten Christensen. It was only as he approached it that he saw he had come upon the wreckage of two boats, locked together on the rocky bottom. He circled, seeking some identification. The nearest boat had obviously been down for many years; the other was beyond, and he swam about the first, sweeping his lights from side to side. A small case momentarily blocked his path, perched between two rocks, forming a slight barrier. He held it in the beam of his lamp as he swam about it, pushing against it to hold his turn to a minimum. The rotten wooden cover fell away, almost disintegrating, revealing a metal inner shell, rusty but apparently still solid. He swam past it, pushing himself to the other side of the combined wrecks. There, faintly seen in the dimness, was his brother Gustave. The body hung from the shrouds, seemingly relaxed, still in the still waters, as if it had come to terms with its grave beneath the sea and was waiting patiently for Armageddon.
Christensen forgot the strange metal case in an instant. He dragged his knife from his belt, somewhat surprised at the difficulty he had in commanding his fingers to obey even this simple chore. He swam over the crushed gunwale and hooked a leg about the stub of the mast, forcing himself to slash at the ropes above his head, knowing his time was rapidly running out. Still, he refused to even consider surfacing, resting, and then returning to the task. He was here and Gustave was here, and it only required a few more seconds, a little greater effort, to free the body and take it up with him.
The rope seemed to be made of steel; his knife seemed merely to be sawing at it aimlessly, helplessly, uselessly. And then it seemed to Knud as if in slow motion he could see the rope part, see the individual fibers wave slowly in the motion of the sea caused by his frantic thrashing about. Gustave seemed to hesitate a moment as if reluctant to leave the safe harbor of the shrouds, and then the body slowly began to rise. Only the most convulsive thrust of his flippers allowed Knud to catch up with Gustave before he rose out of sight in the dimness of the sea. With a curse Christensen remembered the weights at his waist. Rather than attempt to unloosen them from his belt he flipped the belt buckle, feeling the weight and his knife and all his other gear fall away; and then he was free and rising, his brother’s arm clasped as tightly as possible in his numb hand.
The boat with Jens Krag seemed far away as they broke surface. The waves washing over him seemed unnecessarily rough, and he prayed he could hold onto his senses long enough to attract Krag’s attention. He tried to call out, to shout, but his voice was a mere croak that barely carried to his own ears. At his side Gustave lolled, uninterested. For a moment Knud Christensen felt a touch of panic; not that he might die but that he might fail. Had he come this far only to freeze to death within sight of Krag’s boat? But the old fisherman had been searching the sea for him, or for his frozen and dead body, and he had seen Knud surface with his lifeless cargo. In seconds he had brought the boat to Christensen’s side and was dragging the semi-conscious man aboard. Knud tried to protest, to insist that Gustave be taken aboard first, that Gustave not be abandoned now. And then at last he lost consciousness.
He awakened, sputtering, choking, the warm bite of sharp aquavit in his throat, its wetness dribbling down his chin, aware that he was alive, swathed in blankets, lying on a bunk before a gas fire. Krag’s boat was uncommonly steady, he thought, and then stared through a porthole to realize they were tied at dock. Krag was sitting next to him, a beaker of spirits in his hand, waiting for his response before feeding him more of the potent liquor. Christensen looked around and then tried to sit erect. Krag gently pushed him down.
“His body’s on deck,” he said quietly, and shook his head in wonderment. “How you ever managed in that water …” He reached out with the beaker. “Crazy …”
Christensen fell back, pushing away the hand with the aquavit. Now, at least, one brother would have a decent burial in the cemetery on the hill next to their mother and father. Now he, Knud Christensen, would be able to sleep a little better, knowing he had done what little he could do to save at least one brother from slowly rotting in the sea. It was, if nothing else, the fulfillment of a promise he had made to himself. It was not much, but it was something. He closed his eyes and drifted into restless sleep.
GEDSER—April
Spring came early and swiftly to the Gedser peninsula and to all of Falster that year. One day it was still winter, with the threat of snow, and with blustery winds whipping in from the west and north, and then, suddenly, the winds swung around to blow softly from the east and south, and the smell and feel of spring was there.
The sleep that Knud Christensen had promised himself would be eased by the discovery and proper burial of his brother’s body, had not materialized as he had hoped. Though he deliberately tired himself out during the day with the many winter chores necessary to prepare for the spring plowing and planting, the nights still brought the incubus of seeing himself standing at the window staring out at the storm, wondering where his brothers were, even though knowing them dead; of seeing again Jens Krag standing in the doorway fumbling with his sou’wester, stumbling through his story, while the wind shook the shutters and slashed at the roof.
And then one night the nightmare did not come, but before he could feel his relief he knew it was going to be worse, much worse. He found himself swimming underwater and was aware of the cold and he knew he was searching for the Kirsten Christensen. In the dim light filtered down through the ninety feet of green sea water he could somehow see the ship clearly, but no matter how desperately he attempted to swim to it, it remained the same fixed distance ahead of him. Gustave could be plainly seen, locked helplessly in the shrouds, staring at him intently, as if pleading with him to hurry, hurry. But a box of some sort seemed to stand in his way, and whenever he tried to swim around it, it seemed to move in some subtle fashion to block him anew. Somehow he knew he would have to remove that damnable metal case if he ever wished to reach Gustave.
He woke feeling a bit dizzy, rubbing his head furiously, trying to recall just what dream he had had that had so disturbed him. A box, a case of some sort. He frowned, suddenly remembering. It was the metal case he had seen, had pushed aside, when he had dived for Gustave’s body, when the wooden cover had almost disintegrated at his touch. Beneath there had been the gleam of a metal case. Well, what of it? What of it was, of course, that the case might contain something of value. Or, equally of course, it might not. Still, someone had gone to a good deal of trouble to encase whatever it held in metal, and nobody went to all that trouble for something that was worthless. Unless it held medicines, or papers, or—he realized the case could hold any number of relatively worthless items. And to dive again in that area, to see again the remains of the Kirsten Christensen and realize it had taken his two brothers to their deaths? Money was important—among other things it would buy the memorial to his brothers he had often thought of but could not afford—but, still … It was a problem!
It was when the nightmare of the metal case blocking his passage to Gustave continued for another week that he awoke one morning knowing he had to bring up the case if only to appease whatever devils were forcing him to picture his youngest brother just beyond his reach night after night. Maybe with the case out of the way the dream would disappear and he could go on with his life in peace, albeit with loneliness.
Still, being the person he was, Knud Christensen considered the matter carefully for several additional days. Jens Krag, he knew, would be glad to take him out in his boat the following Sunday after church, although in that case Knud knew he would be obligated to share in w
hatever he salvaged. And somehow there was the feeling that sharing in the case or its contents would somehow be a little like sharing Gustave, who, after all, had not only led him to the metal box, but had also been its guardian, so to speak, watching over it until his body had been rescued—recovered, that is. No, Knud would bring the case up alone. He would do it at night. There was no need for anyone else to know or to be involved. He could reach the spot easily in his dory and be down, up again, and back home before anyone was even aware he had been out there diving. Relieved at having reached a positive decision, Knud Christensen went to bed that night, and while he had the same dream again, somehow there was less dread in it; he assured the waiting Gustave that he would be back, to rid them both of the nightmare.
The following night, once the lights of the village began to go off one by one, Knud Christensen took his compressed-air gear and the hundred feet of rope he had prepared and carried them down to the dory. He quickly spliced the extra rope to the forty or more feet of rope the dory anchor normally carried, and then returned to the house. There would be no Jens Krag waiting for him this time, and he would be in no position to search for a drifting dory. In the darkened house he put on his wet suit, attached the new belt he had since purchased together with new knives. He would not require weights this trip, the anchor would serve that purpose. He picked up his lamp and flippers and walked quickly down to the dock.
He paused, looking about. Above him and to one side the searchlight atop the lighthouse tower revolved impersonally, lighting a swath of sea in its glow, its principal beam reflecting back from a bank of lowering clouds. A bit of rain might come later, but there was ample time for his mission beforehand. He climbed into his dory, untied it, and reached for the oars.
When he judged he was close enough to the spot where he had located the Kirsten Christensen and Gustave’s body, he paused and looked about. The tower light still rotated evenly, but there was no indication he was being watched. Not that it really made any difference, he said to himself, and pulled on his compressed-air gear and his flippers. Then he tucked his mouthpiece in place, clipped his lamp to his belt, picked up the ánchor, and leaned backwards over the gunwale, falling silently into the water.
The water was still cold, and although nowhere near as cold as it had been in January, he knew he could not stay down for very long. For one thing his determination to recover the case was not the same driving force that had willed him to recover Gustave’s body. He came down in total blackness, not wanting to use his lamp until he was sure the glow of light beneath the water could not be seen from the surface or from the lighthouse walkway. When he struck it was with a painful jolt against the sharp rocks, the anchor pinned against his chest, and for a moment he feared he might have pierced his wet suit, but a swift check proved this fear unfounded. He settled the anchor firmly in the rocks, hooked the slack rope into his belt to be sure not to lose the line that led to the surface and the waiting dory, and began his search. His lamp pierced the darkness of the sea for only a few feet, and he wondered if he should have waited for daylight to make his search. But that might have brought curious neighbors. Besides, the difference in light at that depth was negligible. He felt a tug; he had reached the limit of the rope. With a muttered curse he pulled himself back to the anchor, raised it, swam ahead for a few minutes, and then replaced it in the rocks, taking up the search again.
He was about to move the anchor for a second time when he saw the tangled wreckage of the two boats ahead of him. He nodded in satisfaction and swept the sea floor with his lamp. He had come upon the object of his search in time. A few more minutes and he would have had to surface and try another night. But where was the case? He frowned and then realized he had come upon the two boats from the side of the Kirsten Christensen. He swam to the right, skirting the wreckage, his lamp moving furiously from side to side, almost afraid to look up for fear of seeing Gustave tangled in the ropes. The feeling made him realize he was running out of time. Where was the case? For a moment he feared someone had been down there before him, had stolen the case from him—the case, he now felt, was his by rights—and an unreasonable anger swept him. And then, just as he was about to concede failure this first night of his search, he saw the glint of light from metal, and knew he had found it.
In the light of his electric lamp, now held close to his strange discovery, he saw that the last of the wooden casing had rotted away during the hard winter, and only a few bits of board were held clamped between the steel case beneath and metal straps that had been wrapped around the case. He locked the anchor rope to his belt, set down his lamp, and put both hands to the task of shifting the box. Even though its weight was greatly reduced under water, it was heavy, and Knud paused, thinking. Then he came to a conclusion. He cut the anchor loose and thrust the free end of the rope through the metal straps, drawing the rope tight, making a sturdy knot that held the case firmly. Then with one last look at the box he gave a firm thrust with his flippers, grasped the rope, and swiftly drew himself up through the chill waters to his dory.
He climbed aboard, slipped off his gear, and sat down, resting a bit. The only problem now, as he saw it, was whether the straps would hold the weight, or if he had abandoned a good anchor for nothing, and would have to repeat his search another time. He began hauling slowly on the rope, bringing the case from the bottom. Beneath his feet the dory dipped dangerously. Maybe he should have brought Jens Krag into the picture, he thought. With the winch on Krag’s boat it would have been no job at all to handle the heavy case. But no! The case and its contents were his by right of discovery and by every other right! He would not share. He would get it ashore by himself. He pulled on the rope steadily, the case moving with greater ease as it came up from the bottom.
Christensen knew, as he slowly pulled the steel case toward him, that he would never be able to bring the case into the dory without capsizing, but that was not what he had in mind. When the side of the box bumped gently against the bottom of the dory, he looped the rope tightly around one of the dory’s bollards and bent to the oars. It was hard rowing, and occasionally Knud could feel a slight bump as the heavy case swung against the dory at the end of its tether, but he was getting closer and closer to the dock. As he rowed he kept a steady look over his shoulder, judging his position constantly should the straps or the rope break and drop the case to the bottom again, requiring another dive, but it was still with him when he nudged the dory against the dock.
Christensen climbed out, secured the boat, and then waded out to his prize. He reached down with his knife and cut the rope, leaving enough slack to wind about his thick arm and allow him to drag the case to land. He paused, panting. One thing was sure; the case was heavy. Another thing was equally sure; he could not and would not ask for any help. With a deep breath and the assurance to himself that if there was anything of value in the box it would go toward a memorial to his brothers, he bent and with all the strength of his large body brought the case to his arms and staggered toward the house.
He dragged the heavy box across the sill and closed the door behind him, allowing himself to fall in near exhaustion to the floor beside it, catching his breath, feeling the strain in his muscles from the arduous job. Then he came to his feet, closed the shutters and drew the curtains before lighting a lamp. In its light he made his way to the kitchen and poured himself a large glass of aquavit. He downed it as if it were water, shuddered a moment, and then went back to the living room, staring down at the case. Whatever was in it, he certainly hoped it had been worth the effort, not to mention the cost of a new anchor for the dory, because he knew he would never dive in that area again, for his lost anchor or for anything else. How long had the box been at the bottom of the sea? There was no way of knowing. He could not recall any ship sinking in that area in his lifetime. Possibly if he were to ask Jens Krag or the lighthouse keeper, who were far older than he, one of them might remember—but that would be stupid. If he was going to keep his discovery a secret,
the last thing to do would be to go around asking questions.
He went through the house and out to the barn, keeping the lantern in his hand shuttered. Inside, in the lantern’s light, he found the tools he was seeking and returned to the house. With a cold chisel and a mall he carefully cut through the steel, making sure to make his entry large enough to bring out whatever was inside without cutting himself, or the contents, on the ragged edges. When he had removed a large enough panel he tried to see inside by the light of the lantern, but it was unsatisfactory. He reached in and felt around, and eventually brought out four wrapped packages.
He spread them on the floor at his side and began opening them, one by one. Each of the packages was wrapped in some type of suede leather, and inside, wrapped with equal care in tissue paper, were a huge number of beads and buttons and little circlets of wire, as well as oddly carved larger pieces made of some sort of metal he didn’t recognize. Knud sat and stared at his find, wondering what on earth it was supposed to be, or why it had been so carefully packaged in a steel box. He picked up one of the larger pieces, which seemed to be a childish attempt at a mask, stared at it a few moments and then put it down again. Like the other larger pieces it seemed to be flimsy, amateurish, and while Knud recognized that he was no expert he did know what he liked, and he didn’t particularly like any of the pieces. It seemed to him extremely doubtful that the things he had found could possibly have enough value to compensate him for his effort, or his lost anchor, or to leave enough for the most modest of memorials for his brothers. Most likely the stuff had a sentimental value for someone, to account for the care that had gone into wrapping and encasing the stuff. Still, they had gone to that trouble, so it seemed a bit early to give up all hope of eventually realizing at least a little value from his find.
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