Lars Sveen - Children of God

Martha feels like she’s freezing now, and something’s pressing right at the top of her stomach. Joseph won’t stop sniffling.

“Or we could make a deal,” the man continues. “I’ll tell you a story, and then you can tell a story, Martha. If I make you cry, then I win. But if you can get your brothers and sisters to stop crying and to smile, then you win.”

Martha nods.

“Good,” says the man. “I’ve got a story I’ve been saving for you.”

“Far, far away from here, there’s a lake so black, so black. And out in the middle of that lake is an island. Every summer, children went out to that island. Their parents rowed them across the water and waved good-bye when they left. The children taught each other songs, they made each other food. And when the summer was over, their parents came to get them. Nobody knew exactly what it was, but the children used to be different when they came back from the island. It was as if they’d been filled with a strange light.”

“But what’s light without darkness? What’s the morning sun without the black carpet of night?

“One day, a father went out to the island. He wanted to check if everything was all right out there. What he didn’t know was that there was a snake in the boat. A very bad snake. When the father’s boat came alongside the island, the snake bit him, and the father fell down dead. The children who came to see what had happened were also bitten. The snake went across the island and bit everyone it found. Nobody really knows how long the snake went on like this. But when the first adults went back out to the island, it was totally silent. There was only the sound of the waves, and the wind in the trees. They found none of the children alive.”

“The grown-ups couldn’t understand it. Then they found the snake. The snake told them everything. How he’d sneaked onto the boat. How he’d bitten all the children. How he’d writhed and slithered.

“‘But I’m a snake,’ he said. ‘I’m doing what snakes are supposed to do.’

“And the adults agreed. A snake is a snake. So they threw him away, and then they went home, without their children.”

The man starts smiling, raising his hands up in the air. He looks at Joseph, at Jehoahaz, at Jacob, at Jehu, at Omri, and then back at Joseph. Joseph is crying, and Jehoahaz is reaching his arms out toward Martha, saying, “Mommy, Mommy.” Jacob tries to look away, while Jehu and Omri stare down at the ground.

“Right, Martha,” says the man. “Now it’s your turn.”

Martha closes her eyes. She can hear the man smacking his lips, she can hear him breathing. Martha closes her eyes even tighter, and then she can hear her mother’s voice. She can hear the giggling of her brothers and sisters as they crawl and roll around her in the evening.

“Come on,” says the man. “I want to hear my story.”

Martha opens her eyes.

“It’s not your story,” she says. “It’s ours.”

And then Martha begins.

“Far away from here, there’s a lake so blue, so blue. And in the middle of that lake is an island. Every summer, children went out to that island, with flowers in their eyes. Their parents gave them a hug, let them go, gave them another hug, then let them go again. ‘Take care of each other!’ they told them. ‘We’ll come and pick you up in a few days!’”

“The children waved back, trying not to smile too much. As they were so excited. They were looking forward to hearing their own soft voices soaring like birdsong between the trees. They were looking forward to teaching each other songs and holding each other’s hands. Those days on the island were like a summer breeze. Warm and light, soft and good.”

“But a snake made its way out to the island. One day, there he was, flourishing his tongue.

“‘Ssss,’ he went. ‘Ssss, ssss.’

“The children could see that this was a poisonous snake.

“‘Dear snake,’ one of the children said, ‘what are you doing here?’

“‘Ssss, I’m here to warn you,’ said the snake. ‘You must be careful of the wolf.’

“‘Wolf? What wolf?’ the children asked him.

“‘Ssss, you must be careful of the bear,’ said the snake.

“‘Bear? What bear?’ the children asked him.

“‘Ssss, you must be careful of the snake,’ said the snake.

“And then he slithered straight toward them.”

“The children ran off. Some of them hid among the trees. Some hid in a little cabin. Some tried to swim away in the water, but they had to give up and turn around. And there, at the water’s edge, the snake was waiting for them.

“‘Ssss,’ said the snake. ‘Come to me.’

“But just then, out from the woods behind the snake came a soldier called Cato. He was carrying a sword, and with one blow he cut the snake in two.

“‘Come ashore,’ Cato shouted to the children out in the water. ‘Come out, come out,’ he shouted to the other children hiding among the trees and in the cabin.

“And the children came flocking to Cato, they put their arms around him, and he put his arms around them.”

“‘Dear children,’ said Cato, ‘I heard your screams all the way from where I was, so I stole a boat I found at the water’s edge to come out here.’

“‘But you’re from the army of darkness,’ said one of the children. ‘Why are you saving children like us?’

“‘I’ve been waiting to do some good,’ said Cato. ‘I’ve done so many bad things.’

“‘Why have you done so many bad things?’ the children asked him.

“Cato didn’t answer. But they all saw a tear run down one side of his face. Cato dried the tear and said, ‘I don’t know, I heard a story, a bad story, and I believed it. It was so long ago.’

“The children took him by the hand and said, ‘Come with us and tell a good story, stay with us.’

“So the children and Cato went across the island, and their voices soared like birdsong between the trees.”

“No,” says the man. “That’s impossible.”

Martha’s holding on to Joseph, and Joseph’s holding on to Jehoahaz, and Jehoahaz’s holding on to Jehu, and Jehu’s holding on to Jacob, and Jacob’s holding on to Omri. None of them are crying anymore. They stand there with their eyes open, smiling at each other.

“How?” says the man.

“We’re going home now,” says Martha.

“No,” says the man. “Stay here.”

Martha leads her brothers and sisters toward the house.

“Stay here,” the man shouts behind them, but his voice is faint, so faint. They walk away from him.

Martha doesn’t turn around; she just says, “Go, go.” And suddenly their father appears. He lifts up Joseph and Jehoahaz and asks Martha what’s happened. Martha turns around to point at the man, but there’s nobody there anymore.

That evening, Martha can’t get to sleep. She lies awake until after her mother’s told her stories and put the light out. She lies awake until all her brothers and sisters are breathing calmly and softly. It’s not evening anymore, it’s night. And Martha can feel that she doesn’t like evenings best anymore. Everything gets so dark. What if the light never comes back?

Over forty years have passed, there’s been an uprising in our land, and rumors are spreading that Roman troops are heading toward Jerusalem. Over forty years, all that time, and I can still see Nadab in my mind’s eye. His red hair and his beard. His whispering voice that last night, the way he said my name, “Jehoash, Jehoash,” the way he fell out of the darkness. Sometimes he turns up in my dreams, covered in fire. Other times we’re all there, the whole band of us. Like we were before everybody was taken away. Like I was before I was caught.