Ane Riel - Resin

Dad gazed across the water. He had his pipe in his mouth, and there was a wonderful aroma of smoke and sea in the dinghy. ‘Yes,’ he said solemnly. ‘The flounder also comes back.’

I crawled closer to him and crouched down in the bottom of the dinghy to sit between his feet and smell the tar and hear the wood creak around me. Over the gunwale I could see a blue sky with fluffy clouds that didn’t stir. I couldn’t see the sea, but I could sense it just on the other side of the squeaking boards.

‘As another flounder?’ I wanted to know.

‘Perhaps. Or something else, maybe.’

‘Something else? A plaice?’

‘Yes, why not.’

‘Or a rabbit? Or… what about a human being?’ I looked over my shoulder and tried to catch Dad’s eye somewhere over his beard, but all I could see was a lot of beard and the bowl of his pipe. Maybe he shrugged, I’m not sure, but he certainly said something very strange.

‘Liv, one day someone might tell you about God.’

‘God? Is that the one that looks like a weever?’

‘No, it’s not a fish. It’s… how can I put it? Lots of people believe in this man who is said to live in the sky and decide everything.’

‘In the sky?’ My eyes shifted instantly from his beard to the clouds. ‘What does he look like?’ I asked, and squinted.

‘Oh, I don’t know. They say he has a long white beard.’

Now that would really worry Carl.

‘A long white beard… and he lives in the sky?’ I said, puzzled.

‘Yes, it’s quite tricky to explain. But what I’m trying to tell you is that I’m not sure that they’re right. I don’t believe in God.’

‘Because he lies?’ Even then I knew with absolute certainty that lying was wrong, unless it was necessary.

‘No, I mean that I don’t believe he’s even there.’

‘Well, I’ve never seen anyone up there, so I don’t believe it either,’ I declared firmly. ‘But I believe in that seagull.’

The beard tilted upwards for a moment, only to tip down so that I could see Dad’s eyes. ‘That’s right. We believe in the seagull.’

I smiled. Then I slipped my dagger out of its leather sheath and held it up so the sunlight bounced off it. There was a groove in it, which I liked looking at. We had found it in the bicycle seller’s outhouse, along with some other things we needed. Like tyres. And a torch and a broken parasol and a bag of liquorice.

We sat for a while, waiting.

‘Mum doesn’t believe in that man either, does she?’

I didn’t have time to get an answer because there was another bite on the line, and we got busy landing our second flounder. This time I was allowed to help it die, and I was very good at it, Dad said. When we had caught a few more, he put away the fishing rod – and I was really disappointed.

‘You should never take more from nature than you need,’ he explained. ‘If we catch all the fish, there won’t be any left for next time.’

I understood, and looked at what we had taken. ‘One, two, three… four flounders.’

One for each of us.

Dad smiled. Then he showed me the hook at the end of the fishing line. A long weight and some coloured beads were attached to it. ‘Look at this, Liv. Tomorrow I’ll show you how to make one of these weights in the workshop. I’m sure you’ll be able to do it.’

And I could. And not long afterwards, I also knew how to make my very own club to whack the flounders on their heads so they died right away.

That day in the dinghy is the brightest day I can recall. Later, when I had to sit in the dark corner of the container and be very quiet, I looked back on it sometimes. It was nice to think about bright things in the dark.

It wasn’t long afterwards that Dad let me come with him to set rabbit snares. It was easy to find the rabbit paths on the outskirts of the forest. Dad showed me how to place a small spruce tree across one of them and cut the branches off the tree right where the rabbits pass, making a gateway. Then we made a noose from metal wire and let it dangle from the trunk. When we checked the snare the next morning we found a dead rabbit which had jumped right into the noose. The wire was so tight around its neck you couldn’t even see it for all the fur.

That night Mum made rabbit ragout with cream from the cow and thyme from the common and greens from our vegetable garden. Why spend money in the shops when we have everything we need right here? Dad would always say. He preferred to spend money only on essentials such as feed for the animals. We drove down to Vesterby for that, and most times we managed to bring home a little more than we had paid for. Dad said it was all right. They had so much down in Vesterby, and we were so nice to our animals. It was the same with the grocer’s stock room. There was so much in it and so it didn’t matter that I sneaked inside and helped myself to a few tins while Dad kept the grocer talking about the weather.

Later, I learned to skin and cut up the meat. Rabbits turned out to be really skinny once you remove their fur. However, the most incredible thing was looking at everything hidden inside: the pink lungs and the purple kidneys and the other bits. And the long, crinkly intestines. It crossed my mind that Mum must have a lot of that sort of thing inside her.

That autumn I also started going stag hunting on the main island. Dad knew a place near a big farm where you could often find a stag in the dark, either in the forest or out on the fields. Dad didn’t like putting gunpowder into animals, and I had no idea what gunpowder was, but I decided I wouldn’t like to put it inside them either. He said it was too destructive, it made an unnecessary amount of noise and that it was way too expensive. I knew those were good arguments. We didn’t like hurting animals, making noise or spending money.

So instead we used a bow and arrow. His was enormous and heavy. Mine was an exact copy, but adjusted to my size. He had made it for me in his workshop, and he showed me how to make my own arrows of pinewood and goose feathers. The wood needed to be the right thickness and flexibility to make a good arrow, he explained, and I was allowed to bend it and turn it until I started to understand what he meant. We made the arrowheads of brass from a cracked jug which I found in the pile we had named the baker’s pile. ‘Didn’t I tell you?’ he said whenever I found something in a pile. ‘There’s a use for everything.’

I spent weeks using tins and logs for target practice before Dad let me shoot mice in the twilight. When I finally hit one it squirmed so much that I started to cry. My arrow had gone through its bottom, right above its tail, and whenever the mouse moved the arrow and the goose feather would scrape against the ground in small jerks. Dad soon killed it completely dead with a stick. He said there was no need for me to cry, I should think instead about how pleased the fox would be to get such a meal.

We went stag hunting when the moon was out because then it was dark and light at the same time. It meant that we could see and the stag wouldn’t suffer. The darkness took the pain away.

The first time I came along, the stag stood in a field right below the full moon. It had its side to us and Dad’s arrow went straight into its heart. But the stag didn’t fall to the ground immediately. It turned its head and looked at us and then took a few steps towards us before it knelt down in front of us. It moved slowly and it seemed quite calm. In fact, its death was one of the most peaceful things I’ve ever seen. I’m sure that it looked me right in the eye and that it wasn’t angry.

‘It was an old stag,’ Dad said. ‘Now there’s room for one of the younger stags and we have food for several days. It’s as it should be.’