Lars Sveen - Children of God

“What are you going to do?” I ask.

“If you give me his name, I’ll help him,” he says.

“Let go, it hurts,” I tell him. “You’re evil.”

“Evil?” he says, and I sense something in front of my face. A hand, I see a hand, and out of the hand comes a light, so strong. It shines on the ground beneath us, on a beetle, then on a spider, then on the beetle.

“Evil, good,” he says. “It depends where the light falls, and on whom. The whole world up there, the one you can barely hear, lives for stories. Some of them are mine. I tell the stories they want. They need my doubting ways. Faith and doubt. Good and evil. People always need to correct the balance. I’m not like your lover. I don’t collect dead things. But maybe your son, maybe he needs help from me.”

“You must promise not to hurt him,” I reply.

“I’ll give him a story. I can free your son from the mark your lover has put on him,” he says.

“A story?” I ask.

“A place where he can belong, who knows what I can give him?” he says.

“Do you promise to free him?” I ask.

“His name,” he says.

And I tell him: “Jacob, Jacob.” He lets me go and whatever was stabbing my side vanishes.

“Do you know my lover?” I ask, trying to stand up, but it still hurts, even though the sharp object has gone. Whoever the man is, he sniffles again and wanders off.

“Your lover needs dry land. Go to the sea,” his voice says softly. “Give him water.” Then I hear laughter drifting away.

“Hello?” I say. “Are you there? It hurts. What do you mean dry land? Go to the sea, give him water?”

There’s nobody there.

“My name’s Sarah,” I say, and at that same moment I hear my beloved. It’s not my name he’s saying. He seems tired. Rows of small, dry twigs have formed. I close my eyes. The darkness is honey but, with my eyes closed, it turns into water. I float toward my beloved. Not there, but not here either.

“My beloved,” I say softly. “My dear, it’s me, Sarah.” And then I hear him say my name. I’m so close to him.

“Sarah,” he says. “What should I do? I’m alone with him. If only you were here, Sarah. You would have known.”

“My beloved,” I say. “My dearest, I’m here. I’m back.”

“I have nobody,” he says. “I don’t even have Jacob. I can’t stand him. The sound of him, at night and during the day. I give him away. Can you believe it, my dear? I give him away to others all the time. If you’d seen the women here now, Sarah, you would have scratched off my face. None of them are like you, but they take care of Jacob.”

“My dear,” I say. “My darling. I’m here, reach out your arms! Feel me! It’s me, Sarah!”

“Every time I see Jacob, I see you,” he says. “You’re there, right next to him. You’re crawling around there in the darkness, all black and decayed. I can hardly recognize you.”

“My dear,” I say. “Don’t talk like that. I’m yours. I’m here. It’s me, Sarah.”

“You’ve gone,” he says, his voice becoming weak, cracking like dry flower stalks. “You are no more. What should I do? Should I go to your grave and dig you up? Should I lie down there myself? Should I take Jacob with me?”

“No,” I scream, and I see my beloved. He’s there, right in front of me, with his back turned. Oh, how he’s changed and how he’s shrunk. Time has taken its toll on him. I’ve been with my lover.

“Sarah,” he says.

He kneels down. I try to walk across to him. Words feel like gravel in my mouth.

“My dear,” I say, and he gets up, turning toward me.

“Sarah,” he says, staring at me.

“My dear,” I say.

He takes several steps toward me and then walks right through me. Something warm and cold at the same time, and then my beloved is gone. I turn around. There he is, holding an oil lamp.

“I thought you were there,” he says, blowing out the light.

The darkness is honey.

“My dear,” I say.

Now he’s gone.

But there’s something else. Scratching. And teeth, hard and cold.

“Sahah, Sahah.”

I shout, I scream, and I see the cold light.

Into the cold light I’m dragged.

I lift up one of my feet. The other foot is tied down. My lover’s roots.

If I lie down, I’ll hear the scratching. My lover’s gone. He was angry. He bit and tore at me and was ash and charcoal.

Darkness and sounds are out there.

I close my eyes, but I can still see. My lover has fixed my eyelids. He cut them off, and they were gone. I lift up soil and sand and rub it in, but I can still see. My vision is stained and speckled.

I can see something crawling. It comes into the cold light. Here it comes.

“Hello,” I say.

It’s a spider. Legs upon legs, see how it crawls.

“Hello,” I say.

But it’s no spider. It’s a maggot.

“Hello,” I say. “Maggot.” It starts digging. I reach out to it, but then it’s gone. I shout out.

“Hello,” I shout. And something scratches at my hair.

“Hello,” I shout, pulling at my hair, and there’s the maggot in my hand. Small bugs have been taking strands of my hair. There it lies in my hand, twisting about. Twist and wind, in the light to find. Come here, come here, into the dark disappear.

“You will fly,” I say.

The maggot gets up. It has wings now. I gave my hair, it grew wings. And it flies away. I hear it, I hear it, such a beautiful buzzing.

“Farewell,” I say.

Twist and wind, in the light to find.

Come here, come here, into the dark disappear.

My lover approaches. I can hear scratching. I hear his voice there in the darkness. “Sahah, Sahah.” He’s coming. Teeth so black. Teeth as hard and cold as rocks in water.

“Sahah, I’mm backk, I’mm yourss, Sahah, you’re minne.”

“Sahah, Sahah.”

I pull at my foot, but my foot is stuck, I’m stuck.

And then there’s a hum, buzzing. His voice, the scratching, and a long, deep sound. My lover’s getting faster. He doesn’t speak to me anymore. My lover’s words are something else now, like scratching in his mouth.

Something moves in the darkness. My lover’s coming. But into the cold light comes a great, dark cloud. Part of the darkness has been torn away.

They’re flies.

They come to me. They swarm around the roots, their wings beating and cutting, cutting, cutting. My foot’s free, and then the flies are all around, everywhere. The cold light becomes gray, and the sounds of my lover are far, far away. I lift up my hands and wave them in the swarm, and then I’m stuck. My hands are stretched up and out to the sides.

Twist and wind, in the light to find.

They lift me up.

Come here, come here, into the dark disappear.

My lover’s voice is an animal, growling and snarling. But I’m in the air. The flies take me with them. They fly into the thick, thick darkness, to the sound of voices and soft, short thumps. Everything has its own sound, but oh, what a beautiful sound the living make. I can make such sounds too. Sometimes, when I’m alone, I try. I talk and beat my hands on my chest. Come, come to me, I’m waiting, waiting. And the flies came. The flies took me back.

But then there’s nothing there anymore, just the darkness and me falling. When I hit the ground, there’s a snapping noise. I don’t feel anything, but my foot is loose.

I get up, close my eyes, try to walk. There’s the voice of a child, whispering a prayer. I follow. But then it’s gone. Another voice, a lady’s. She speaks softly at first, but then louder and louder. Oh, she’s furious! But she vanishes too. My foot is loose. I’m not fast, I’m no fly. I’m a beetle, I scratch away. My foot, my foot.