Karin Fossum - The Caller

Theo stopped at St Olav’s Spring.

The water glinted, and was almost silver fresh.

The spring was marked with a small sign that outlined its brief history. His father had read it to him many times. He stood there for a while paying respect, because the water in the source was holy, and to him the water had its own special shine. St Olav was a holy man, Theo thought, and his spring was too. So if I drink from it I’ll also be holy. He drank big gulps of the fresh water, and he thought it tasted good. Some believed the water had healing powers, and he felt it too — that his energies were renewed.

He pushed on. The holy water had given him new powers, he was certain. He used his eyes and ears, but everything seemed quiet and sleepy. Nature seemed to have settled down, and took no notice of the little boy with big feet who walked the path. Sheep manure and cow dung dotted the trail, and he had to be careful not to step in it. He walked in a zigzag, hummed a song. Wondered whether he should call his father, but decided against it. There’s got to be a limit, he thought. When Lars Monsen’s out in the wild he doesn’t make calls all the time. Ha! he thought, and quickened his pace. One two, one two, one boot and one shoe. Let the snakes come, I’m wearing good shoes.

When he had found a rhythm, he kept it, marching the trail at a good clip. The rhythm stuck with him and gave him speed and strength, and his thoughts focused on one thing: reaching the water. It’s actually quite easy being a man of the wilderness, he thought, once you’ve made up your mind. And you have to have the right equipment. He felt for the hunting knife to make sure it was still on his belt. When a bird fluttered up from the brush, he started. His heart jumped, but his nerves quickly settled.

The final few metres he walked barefoot.

Over the rocks down to the water. He found a fine place to sit, approaching close enough to the edge that his white toes reached the water.

That water is bloody cold, he thought. That’s what his father would have said, if he sat at his side with his toes in the water. His trainers stood neatly beside him with his socks stuffed inside, like two balls of white cotton. He shrugged off his rucksack and opened it, set his lunch with the three slices of bread next to his shoes. On the other side he put his Thermos with blackcurrant squash, and finally Optimus Prime. Because he’d run the last bit, he was out of breath.

I’m in the wilderness, he thought, and I’m really tough.

On his way up he had carried a strong willow branch. Now he snatched the hunting knife from his belt. He struggled slightly getting it out of the sheath. How quiet everything was. Even the tiniest sound was clear, a mosquito humming over the water, rustling leaves and heather. There probably aren’t any snakes, he thought, looking around. His toes were a tempting offering, perhaps, round and a little like marzipan such as they were. But nothing disturbed him as he sat at the water’s edge. Everything was beautiful and silent. He whittled and whittled on the willow branch. The wood smelled so good.

The whole forest, when it came to it, is edible, he thought, the foliage, the grass, the heather, bark and berries. He heard a sound in the distance and leapt up to peer towards the trail. It grew louder and he thought it was a motor. A tractor, perhaps, or a car. The sound came and went, and his imagination began to run wild. That never happened when he walked along a road, Theo thought, because cars drove past all the time. He sat down again, putting the branch down. He drove the knife back into its sheath and began to eat. Of course there were others in the forest. There was nothing to worry about. Just then, he heard voices — no doubt some men cycling the trail. He stood to have a look and one of them waved. Theo waved back. Wow, he thought cheerfully, it’s swarming with people.

He sat. With an enormous appetite he devoured the Swiss sausage and salami. His mother had baked the bread, and what he loved most about it was the crust. Though he was sated after the first two slices, he forced himself to eat the third. A hiker needs his calories. Once again he pulled out the knife and resumed whittling the branch. He fashioned a spear to a point, like an awl. He had to take care not to cut his finger, or accidentally drive the knife into his thigh. If something like that happened, he knew he wouldn’t be allowed to go on any more solo hikes. What excited him most was the thought of coming home and reporting to his parents everything that had happened. Well, OK, nothing had happened so far, but there was still a chance that something could . And if it didn’t, he could easily invent some minor story to make it more interesting. Wasn’t there an eagle circling high up in the sky, on the hunt for prey? Wasn’t there a big trout jumping out of the water? He saw the rings quite clearly; they spread slowly and prettily over the water. When it came down to it, anything could happen, Theo thought, and waved the sharp stick. With the stick he stirred the water as you stir a pot. The silence at the water’s edge and the spreading rings put him in a sleepy trance.

He fell out of reality. Into another, dreamlike landscape that seemed familiar to him. Here, too, there was a little forest lake and a trout leaping from the water. But suddenly a man paddled into view on his right. Theo blinked sleepily, disbelieving what he saw.

Wasn’t that Lars Monsen in his green canoe?

Lars pulled his oars into the boat. The canoe continued to glide, soundlessly like a knife, through the water and towards the bank where Theo sat. Lars’s curly hair had grown wild, his eyes narrow slits, the irises sharp and black like flint. The boat rammed the rocks with a little thunk.

‘Well, well, boy. You’re out trekking,’ Lars Monsen said. ‘Have you been out long?’

Theo shook his head. He sat with the willow spear across his knees and gazed devoutly at his hero. ‘I had thought about going to Ravnefjell,’ he said cheerfully. ‘But I ran out of provisions.’ He pointed at the rolled-up wax paper which lay at his side. There were only crumbs left.

‘Bad planning,’ sneered Lars Monsen. His teeth were sharp and white.

Theo nodded. The green canoe had some deep scratches in the bow where it had scraped the rock. His equipment was packed in two leather sacks at the end of the boat. In addition, he had a rifle and a fishing rod.

‘Did you catch any trout?’ Theo asked.

‘Yup. Got two big ones at the tip of the cove early this morning.’

They sat in silence for a while. Lars Monsen had a cap on his head. Now he pulled the brim down so that his eyes remained in shadow.

‘So you’re on your way back?’

‘Yes,’ Theo replied. ‘I figure I’ll be home in an hour. Will take a longer trip tomorrow. I’ll take more provisions then.’

‘Where’s your tent anyway?’ Lars asked. He narrowed his eyes at Theo.

‘Eh, the tent,’ Theo stammered. ‘No, this is just a one-day trip,’ he said, embarrassed. ‘But I’ll get myself a tent, and a canoe,’ he said quickly. ‘One like yours.’

He put his lunch paper in his rucksack. He wasn’t the kind of person who left a mess in the wilderness.

‘I met a teddy bear up here,’ Lars Monsen said and pointed.

Theo opened his mouth in fright. ‘What? A bear?’

‘Yup,’ Lars said. ‘Or rather, three bears. A fat mama bear and her two cubs. Damn, she was a giant, you should have seen her. Shaggy as a bumblebee, heavy as a hippo. There’s fresh bear scat in the whole area.’

Theo’s heart transformed from a small hard muscle into something hot and fluid that flowed through his body.

‘I shouted some swear words at her,’ Lars Monsen laughed. ‘Which was a little too much for Mama Bear. Ladies don’t like it when you’re rude. It was up near Ravnefjell,’ he added. ‘You’re not going that way, are you? You’re going south, to Saga, down through Glenna?’