Karin Fossum - He Who Fears The Wolf

He made up his mind. He drew back from the window and opened his door. In the distance he could hear Margunn's voice and the sound of running water. That might mean she was washing clothes and that Simon was with her, chattering away as he always did. If so, she was down in the laundry room, which was on the first floor, next to the showers. Her office, where she had locked up his bow, was at the other end of the building. Kannick was fat, but that didn't mean he was sluggish. He slipped out and sneaked downstairs, taking the outside staircase, which was actually an emergency exit and was always left open, as required by law. They had already had two fires, because Jaffa was so enamoured of the firemen's uniforms. The steps creaked. With the utmost caution, Kannick distributed his considerable weight on the narrow boards of the stairs. He made his way to the door of her office, wondering if she might have locked that too. But it was one of Margunn's beliefs that the boys shouldn't find themselves standing in front of locked doors. Kannick slipped inside and stared at the cabinet, pulled out the drawers one by one and found the box of keys. He tried to work fast without making too much noise. He unfastened the little padlock. There was the case. His own Centra, deep red with black limbs, his pride and joy, was inside. With his heart pounding, he pulled out the case, locked the cabinet, put the key back, and left the office. From the corridor he made his way through the basement and out by the back door. No-one could see him from the courtyard. Off in the distance, he could hear Inga laughing.

He knew the woods well, and he very soon found the path that he had taken hundreds of times before. His footsteps, which were heavier now that no-one could hear him, made the birds stop singing, as if they sensed the terrible weapon that he carried. Kannick stayed on the path that led west of Halldis's farm. He didn't want to get too close. The thought of the dead woman bothered him too much, and he knew that if he caught sight of the house again and its front door and steps, everything would come rushing back to him with all its horror. And that wasn't where the arrows were. It Was the arrows he wanted to find. After he found them, he'd try to shoot a crow or two before he went home. Maybe he'd even have time to put the bow back so that Margunn would never know it had been missing. He'd done it before. Kannick was amused by people like Margunn who always thought the best of others. It was like a religion with her, something about which she felt a moral obligation. Like the time he exchanged a 1,000-kroner note in the cash box with 500 kroner, and she couldn't let herself believe that any of them would do such a thing. So she blamed her own faulty memory, saying that "all the notes look alike these days".

Kannick trudged on. Although he was fat, he was reasonably fit, but even so he was breathing harder, and he was sweating. As he walked he could feel himself steadily drifting into his favourite fantasy. A secret space that no-one knew about, where he almost forgot time and place, and the trees around him changed shape and became an exotic forest with a rushing river far in the distance. He was Chief Geronimo from the mountains of Arizona. His mission was to find 16 horses so as to win the beautiful Alope as his bride. He shut his eyes, opening them only for brief intervals so as not to stumble.

The wind whispers Nimo, Nimo. In his bed he had 500 white scalps. He caressed the case with his hand and thought, as the great chief had thought, everything has power. Touch it, and it will touch you.

Once very far away he heard a dog barking. Otherwise the woods were at peace.

Morgan could feel the sweat starting to pour down his forehead. The muzzle of a gun was wavering in front of him. Perhaps he wasn't wide awake. Maybe the infection that was spreading through his body was giving him these surreal visions. Fevered hallucinations.

He looked at Errki and thought what hell it must be for him to constantly see visions like this, threats of death and destruction and punishment, insane terrors, year after year.

"I'm sick," he moaned. "I think I'm going to throw up."

He had slept for a long time. The light outside had changed, and the shadows had grown longer.

Errki noticed that Morgan's skin had taken on a yellowish tinge. He lowered the pistol.

"Go ahead and be sick," he said. "The floor in here is filthy enough, it won't make a difference."

"Where the hell did you get that gun? I saw you chuck it in the water!" Morgan struggled to sit up and take a closer look. "You had it all along, didn't you?"

He curled up in a ball to make himself less of a target. "Why didn't you use it on the old woman? They said on the radio that you beat her to death!"

Errki felt anger begin to boil in his cheeks. He raised the pistol again.

Morgan screamed, "Go ahead and shoot. I don't give a damn!" It surprised him, but he realised that he meant it, that he just didn't care any more.

"You'll have to go to the doctor," Errki said.

The gun shook. If Errki fired now, he was going to be hit he was that close.

"Since when did you start worrying about my health? Do you think I'm going to believe that? Do you think anyone would bother to listen to what a lunatic has to say? Ha! I don't have the strength to go back down to the road. I'm too ill. I feel faint. Cold sweats, that's a sign of shock, isn't it?"

He lay back down and closed his eyes. The lunatic might very well shoot him. He lay there motionless, waiting for the shot. He'd read somewhere that it didn't hurt much to be shot, it just felt like a big jolt in your body, and then it was over.

Errki stared at Morgan's nose. It had swollen up and taken on a hideous blue colour. He ran his tongue over his teeth. He could still remember the taste of skin and fat in his mouth, and then the sickening taste of blood.

Morgan was still waiting. No shot came.

"Goddamn it," he groaned. "You've really made a mess of things. I'm going to die of blood poisoning."

Errki let his arms fall to his sides. "I'll shed a tear for you."

"Go to hell!"

"You're nothing but an egg in the hands of a child."

"Cut out that crazy bullshit!"

Morgan was caught up in some kind of farce, he was sure of it. Not a single thing about this day seemed real.

"Can't you see that it's infected? I'm shaking with cold, man."

"Go ahead and call for your mama," Errki said. "I won't tell anyone."

Morgan snorted miserably. "Call for your own mama."

"She's dead."

"I'm not surprised. You probably killed her too."

Errki wanted to reply. The words were on the tip of his tongue, ready to spill out. He stopped himself.

"Can I borrow your jacket?" Morgan mumbled. "I'm freezing." He glanced at Errki. "What's wrong with you? You look so weird."

"She stumbled on the stairs."

Errki tensed all his muscles and clutched the gun hard. It was so easy, they were just words, but they had betrayed him, had spilled out on their own, without letting him think. Suddenly he dropped to the floor. The gun slid over to the wall, and he heard the little crash as it hit. He bent nearly double, as if convulsing, trying to hold everything in with his hands. It poured out of him. He could sense the smell of his own insides, spoiled meat, waste products, venom and bile. Little, shiny blisters that burst, the gurgling sound of slimy organs being squeezed together and spraying out, air and gas that made the strangest noises. He squirmed around on the floor, wallowing in his own misery.

"Are you going to get sick now, too?" Morgan said in horror. "You can't. You have to go for help! I'd rather sit in jail for a while than die of tetanus in this shithouse. You know the way, so go and get somebody, damn it, and we can get out of here!"