Lars Sveen - Children of God

Our mornings together do me good. Something’s loosened. When the words get stuck in my mouth, I try to let it happen, not to change it, not to fight against it. I tell him about my father, about our journeys. I tell him about the time when Naomi and I met the one-eyed man, and when I was lured into the cave. I no longer dream at night. I close my eyes when I go to bed, and when I open them, it’s daylight.

One morning, Cato and I join a boat going out onto the water. The whole world moves, the lake is heavy and alive, like something lethargic pushing us out. We help to draw up the nets, and the fish look as if they’re all joined together like a glittering, shimmering blanket.

When Cato falls ill, and Naomi and I take turns sitting by his side, he often talks about that morning. About the lake, about the boat, about the fish. One evening, when he’s hot and sweating, he says that he’d like to be wrapped up in a blanket like that, a glittering, shimmering one.

Cato gets better, but it takes him a long time. He looks even older, and his skin is pale in the sunlight. I hold him as we walk down to the harbor, but he usually just wants to sit peacefully. There’s a large tree by the house where we live. I’ve made a small, simple bench there for Cato to sit or lie on during the day, in the shade of the branches.

Naomi and I have decided to travel onward. It feels like I’m ready again. If I get stuck, I’ll try to leave it. I won’t fight against it. Maybe the people we’ll meet will find something reassuring and genuine in what we are: a woman with a battered face, and a man who stutters and stammers when he talks. We’re still equal in the eyes of the Lord, we’re still embraced by his love.

The evening before we go, Cato falls ill again. I tell him to sit still and try to drink more of the water we’ve boiled for him.

“Listen to you,” he whispers. “Keep talking to me, Jacob.”

So I talk to him, about the Sea of Galilee and the waves that suddenly rise up and then can suddenly disappear. About the first time he came to us, about the evening when we sat there, wrapped up in blankets, talking to each other.

“It’s a good story,” he whispers. “Isn’t it? I’ve saved something now. Not everything was lost.”

One time, long ago, there was a little girl called Martha. She was often out working in the field. She was the eldest, and until her brothers were big and strong, she had to go along to help her father. Now they’ve been working all day, and her father’s hands and feet are dirty. Martha’s dirty too. Her fingers hurt. But it’s evening now, and they’ll go home soon. Then her mother will tell her a brand-new story.

Martha likes evenings very much. She likes evenings better than mornings. When darkness falls and everything’s hidden in the black of night. When her brothers and sisters are crawling around her, and everybody’s warm and cozy. When her mother sits down and starts telling a story.

Martha knows several of the stories by heart. Sometimes, when they’re all out in the field, Martha tells stories. Again and again for her brothers and sisters. There are six of them: Jehoahaz, Joseph, Jacob, Jehu, and Omri. And Martha.

“Tell us one of Mother’s stories,” says Joseph. And Martha tells them.

She tells them about the time the sun and the moon swapped places. She tells them about the hyrax that wandered all the way from the sea into the desert and back again just to find its baby that had got lost. She tells them about the bear that lives in a cave up in the mountains. She tells them about the snake and the lizard, always arguing about who’s smartest. And when Martha tells these stories, she can hear her mother’s voice inside her.

One evening, it’s been a long day and Martha’s so tired. She and her father are out in the field until darkness creeps in. Martha’s been cutting and harvesting flax stalks. Her fingers hurt so much. Her father says it all has to be finished before the autumn rain comes. Martha misses helping her mother mill the grain.

While she’s standing there, she sees a group of people over on the road. They’re wrapped in filthy clothes and are walking so strangely, as if on tiptoe. Suddenly, one of the group turns toward Martha. His nose has gone, his teeth shine white from a large, red gash. It looks as if he’s smiling at her. Martha screams, and the man turns away. Martha’s father comes over to her and lifts her up.

“They’re ill,” he says. “They’re not dangerous. We’ve had people like them in our home.”

Martha’s father holds her and kisses her hair, and the group vanishes into the night.

Her father takes her home, where her mother and siblings are waiting. It’s dark now. The light from the oil lamp falls around them like a soft blanket. Martha’s mother puts her on her lap and starts telling a story. It’s a beautiful story about a grasshopper who tries to play music even though one of its wings is broken. Martha closes her eyes, trying to forget the face with the white teeth. She feels her mother’s warm fingers around her.

The next day, the sun comes up, tearing apart the darkness. Martha’s father tells her to stay with her brothers and sisters this morning. Joseph asks if they can play hide-and-seek; all the others shout “yes” and look at Martha. Martha smiles, and off they run.

Jehoahaz sits down behind a rock, and Joseph lies down flat by a bush. Jehu has almost finished counting, and Martha runs over to the pile of rocks by the field. Her father’s standing some distance away, he waves to her, and Martha waves back. The stones are still cool from the night before. She sits down to hide, stroking her fingers over the cold stones. She doesn’t notice that nobody’s shouting or laughing. The stones are almost soft. Everything’s fallen silent.

Then she hears Joseph crying. Martha runs out from behind the stones. All her brothers and sisters are sitting over by the thicket behind the well. It looks like they’re talking to someone. But their father’s out in the field, and their mother’s gone down to the stream. And why is Joseph crying?

When Martha gets over to them, she sees a man sitting in the thicket. He’s old, his eyes are a grayish white, pale. He smiles, and says, “I’m blind, and yet I see many things. I’m what stays in the shadows while the light falls elsewhere. You must be Martha. Big sister Martha.”

“Why’s Joseph crying?” Martha asks him.

The man is still smiling as he turns toward Joseph.

“I told Joseph a little story,” he says, “but I don’t think he liked it.”

Martha puts her arms around Joseph and strokes his hair.

“Joseph told me that you like telling stories too,” the man says.

Martha looks for her father, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

“Listen to me when I’m talking to you,” the man says, and something in his voice makes Martha feel cold. She looks at him.

“Have you got a story to tell me?” the man asks.

Martha shakes her head.

“Well, I’ve got another story,” the man says, “and since you’re all gathered here, you can all hear it.”

“We don’t want to hear your story,” says Martha.

She puts her arms around Joseph and signals all her other siblings to leave.

“Your mother and father aren’t here,” the man says. “I could take one of you and leave, never to return.”