Lars Sveen - Children of God

It’s evening, the daylight is fading, and something closes up above them where they’re sitting to eat. They light oil lamps, it turns colder, but Peter stays outside, sitting on the ground, leaning against the wall, not saying anything. When Andrew and Anna put out bread and dried fish for him, he won’t eat it. His hands are pale, and the others try to get him to taste the food, to get up, to say something. But only when it’s time to go to bed for the night does Peter get up and say, “I’m going out to fish.”

The water’s black, but it glimmers. The sky sparkles. The slight rocking and the sound of the water lapping against the boat. As they set out from land, Andrew murmured next to him, “All we have is the water, it never changes.”

They draw up the net, cast it back out, and draw it up again. Peter tries to move his fingers, but they’re wet and cold, he can’t feel them, so he leaves it. Every time the warmth comes back to his fingers, he draws in the net and casts it out.

They sit there the whole night, nobody saying anything, and they don’t catch anything either.

Day breaks, and they start to row back to shore. Peter is sitting astern. He can’t feel his fingers anymore, they’re not dirty or white, they’ve taken on another color, and when he knocks his hand against the side of the boat, a soft thud is all that can be heard. He leans out over the water, he closes and opens his eyes, but nothing happens. The others turn toward him. Andrew opens his mouth to say something, but Peter can’t hear him. He sees Andrew’s open mouth, the eyes of the others, dark and white in the pale light of the morning. He follows their eyes and looks down at his hands. His fingers shine out at him. They shine as they crawl up his stomach, across his chest, and up his neck, resting on his mouth. Peter feels an immense warmth on his lips, on his teeth, on his tongue. The fingers caress his face; a cold fire spreads across his body.

The others in the boat speak out loud now, and their voices reach him.

“He’s glowing,” says one of them. “He’s burning.”

“Forgive me, Lord,” Peter whispers. “I have a story, if you want to hear it.” His fingers cut him off, covering his lips again. “No, Lord,” says Peter. “I have a story, I have several, Master, don’t you want to hear them?” He feels the tears running down his cheeks and into his beard, and there’s something cold tearing itself out of him. “We’re alone,” says Peter, but his fingers carry on, stroking him before they lock together to lie in his lap like a warm jar of embers. “No more,” Peter prays. “No more will you be with us. You are with us, we are alone, no more, you are with us.”

The others in the boat begin saying it together, they hear Peter’s words, they see how he glows, and they repeat after him: “You are with us, no more, we are alone. No more, you are with us, no more. You are with us, no more, we are alone.”

Come to me and listen. I’m blind, and yet I see many things. I’m what stays in the shadows while the light falls elsewhere. Don’t come with your prayers, not here. You pray for good, but good and evil are nothing to pray about. You should pray for a story to belong to, one you can believe in, one you can doubt.

Nadab is among you. You don’t trust him. You don’t know what’s wrong with him. You don’t know what he’s doing, but listen to me, and I’ll tell you Nadab’s story.

He was hungry, he stole a loaf of bread, he was a thief.

He wouldn’t admit guilt, he put up a fight, he was a rebel.

He fled, he went out into the night, he was nothing.

“Catch that thief, punish that damned rebel,” they yelled. But the guards looking for him said they couldn’t see anything, it was too dark. Nadab was already far, far away. And even though they didn’t catch him, Nadab sighed, as he was alone once again.

He’s been alone all his life, distant, always on his way to somewhere else.

There are those who say that an honest and upright man is a law-abiding man. But who decides which laws are right? Who writes the laws? You people sitting there, you know what it’s like to fight for your rights. You know what it means to fight for your daily bread, for a place to sleep. Everybody says “forgive us our trespasses,” but who wants to forgive those who trespass against us? Temptations will come, good won’t deliver anybody from evil, you can only do that by yourselves. For yours is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, for ever and ever. You choose for yourselves which story you want to belong to. Some call you bandits, but I prefer to call you freedom fighters. You free yourselves from this mean and empty life that others sink into.

In that way, Nadab’s like you.

When you met him, you didn’t think he was up to much, but he has mighty powers. I can hear you wondering if this young man’s too soft, if he’s made of different stuff from you.

You mustn’t doubt Nadab! He won’t hesitate, he won’t beg for mercy. He’s tough, he belongs here. There are times when he might be weak too, like you can be weak. Perhaps when he’s working together with others, on a farm or in a limestone quarry, perhaps he might then think about a mother, a father, and a brother, about a family. Perhaps he might wish to be bound to others with ties that the eye can’t see.

But that’s what you’ll give him. That’s how you’ll keep him tied to you. No more nights alone in the wilderness, no more days spent creeping around like a four-legged animal with a tail, scratching for something to put in his mouth. Nadab dreams of what you have to offer: being with somebody. Being a part of something bigger than himself. Being one among many.

So welcome Nadab. He’ll be loyal to you, he’ll give everything. I’ve led him here, I’ve given him a place in the story.

But know that there is something inside him, something I can’t catch hold of, a glimmer of light. I don’t know everything, I don’t control everything. How did it get inside him? Who put it in there?

With you, he’ll become what he is, what he was made to be. I think you can take care of him, I think you can teach him about darkness and toughness, as you’re tough, you believe in what you’re doing. Nadab will be safe with you, that little light will be put out here.

Now! He’s coming, I can hear him approaching!

You won’t remember me, but everything that’s been said here will lie hidden in your hearts.

Good-bye, my thieves, farewell. Take care of Nadab.

They sat there waiting for me. I said hello, but none of them answered. They seemed tired. Jehoram muttered beneath his breath, something about putting out a light, or was it flames? I couldn’t hear. He looked at me strangely. Jehoash got up and told the others to do the same.

“Have you been sleeping?” I asked.

Reuben sniffed. “I don’t sleep when it’s dark,” he said.

Jehoram grinned. “All that anger, Reuben,” he said. “You should cool down, take a bath, you stink of anger.”

Reuben shook his head and spat. “Damn you, Jehoram,” he said. “Listen to your brother and get up.”

“Nadab,” said Jehoash, “it’s decided, you’ll be joining us.” I nodded and looked over at Reuben, but he didn’t say anything.

Jehoram reached out his hands. I took them and thanked him. “You belong here now,” he said.

Jehoash said the same: “You belong here with us now. What we do, you do. What you do, we do.”