Inga Abele - High Tide

The bus is warm, narrow, and dark. A strip of tiny blue lights lines the sides of the aisle. Aksels isn’t able to find an empty seat that would let him painlessly position his bad leg. He sits on the raised floor at the back of the bus; rather, he lies down on it and leans on his elbow. The other passengers stare at first, but quickly forget their surprise and doze off. Not a whole lot can be seen in the dark. Ieva crouches down next to him.

“Even the tiniest bumps are like earthquakes,” Aksels says.

Ieva touches her lips to his forehead, which is damp from the pain.

Another hundred and twenty-four kilometers.

When they get off at the stop for Zari, at the intersection of four roads, Andrejs is already waiting for them. The car is thumping with music, and when Ieva sees his face through the window she grows annoyed. Aksels stands with his body twisted sideways and breathes in the night air.

“Greetings, kids,” Andrejs says. “Hop in!”

There are two gypsy hitchhikers already in the car.

The kitchen at the Zari house is warm when they get there. The rest of the rooms are unkempt and cold. Andrejs and the gypsies drink champagne and talk about the forest. Where they can get wood, and how much money they could make sawing lumber.

Andrejs says:

“I want to go back. I’m sick of that city. Ieva, what d’you say we move back out here, to the countryside?”

Ieva sits next to the stove warming her hands, seething. She drinks a glass of champagne and waits for the gypsies to get out. Aksels sits at the end of the table and drinks nothing. Just answers if someone asks him a question.

“You’re alright, guy, just kinda quiet!” one of the gypsies says and claps Aksels on the shoulder. Aksels breaks into a sweat from the pain.

“What’s that face for — you disrespecting me?”

Aksels shouts back:

“You shit!”

They both jump to their feet and stand face to face, each with an arm raised back and ready to strike. Andrejs gets up and pushes them apart.

He says:

“Enough! There’ll be no fights in this house!”

After midnight, after the gypsies have left and Aksels is asleep on the mattress set up on the floor by the big window, Andrejs and Ieva sit and talk quietly by the last of the dying embers in the open mouth of the stove.

Ieva pleads:

“Give me your gun and teach me how to shoot it.”

Andrejs gets his gun and while Ieva’s inspecting it, asks:

“What’re you guys up to?”

“He’s dying.”

“He looks fine to me.”

“He only looks it. We have to call tomorrow for the test results.”

Aksels’s voice comes from the direction of the big window:

“We don’t have to call anyone. I know what the results are.”

A thousand giant stars shimmer in the window when Ieva finally takes off her top layer of clothes and curls up next to Aksels.

Aksels whispers into her ear:

“Why’d you bring him into this? He’ll turn you in.”

“Him?”

Ieva even laughs:

“He’d never.”

The full moon is shining on the other side of the house. But it can’t be seen from the kitchen. Andrejs sleeps on a cot next to the stove.

The morning of January 15th arrives.

A brilliant sunny morning. The blue of the sky, the green of the fir trees, the snow, and the coastal sand join to form a braid. Aksels has been listening to the tendrils of wind knocking against the windowpanes since midnight. It’s a new day second by second.

Ieva and Andrejs wake up. Andrejs lights the stove and makes tea. Ieva gives Aksels a shot of diazepam so he can get up. She also gives him painkillers and a glass of water, but talks with Andrejs over her shoulder:

“Give me the gun and then leave us alone.”

Once Aksels has gotten dressed and had some tea, Andrejs gives Ieva the gun and walks out of the house.

Aksels asks:

“Where’d he go?”

Ieva says:

“Don’t know. Away.”

There’s an awkward silence. The forgotten teakettle whistles on the stovetop, a sharp line of steam shooting toward the ceiling. Aksels looks helplessly at the teakettle.

“Well then — be good!”

“I’ll try.”

Again, silence.

“Don’t cut your hair short — it looks bad on you.”

Then he starts to tease her:

“You’re totally going to get fat once you turn thirty.”

Ieva scoffs:

“No I won’t!”

“Let’s bet on it!”

“Forget it, I’ll never get fat!”

“Let’s bet a fur coat. A great, big, shiny fur coat you can hide in. I’ll send you that coat from the other side when you’re a big fatty.”

With that his energy is spent. Silence.

“It’s hot in here,” he complains, once again sweating from the pain. “Let’s go.”

They find the birch trees at the far end of the pasture. The blinding ice crystals of snow are melting under the sun. Aksels limps over to the thickest birch and puts his hands on it. Looks up at its slender branches. Then looks at the ground.

He stands under the birch. Looks to Ieva, his eyes squinted.

“Well,” he says. “I’m ready!”

Ieva says:

“I’m not. Haven’t kissed you yet.”

She goes up to him and looks him right in the eyes, searching for his like a falcon hunts a swallow.

She asks:

“You really want me to do it?”

And then in an instant she’s embarrassed because she sees that her doubt cuts him deeply. She kisses him quickly on the lips and steps back from the tree, fifteen paces.

Andrejs comes out from the cover of the pines.

“Don’t drag the barrel on the ground!”

“Ignore him,” Aksels warns.

Andrejs says:

“Think about what he’s making you do! It’s ridiculous!”

“Ignore him, shoot!” Aksels shouts.

Ieva lifts the shotgun to her shoulder to take aim and keeps backing up.

“Wait for me! Wait for me there!” she shouts and can’t shoot. Aksels stands with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his coat and watches her. She looks at Aksels down there at the tip of the barrel, he’s no bigger than a bird. Ieva stumbles as she keeps backing up and backing up, Aksels waits, watches her intently, starts to panic. Ieva can’t shoot.

A great force steals the shotgun from Ieva and swings it hard back at Aksels. Ieva knows what’s coming and turns to run, her hands pressing hard against her ears. She runs and screams. Doesn’t even know herself if it’s out loud or internal.

Then — externally, or who knows, internally — there’s a mighty crack. A cry.

Ieva trips, falls to the ground, her hands grab at the snow. She hears absolutely nothing; then a distant hum in the sky. She looks up — an airplane.

Andrejs comes over to her with the shotgun. He offers her his hand, then pulls her to her feet. He’s stunned.

“I’ll go get a shovel.”

Ieva staggers after him. They get to the kitchen and sit down at the table. Andrejs pulls a bottle of brandy from a cupboard and pours two glasses. Ieva drinks. Andrejs drinks.

For a moment Ieva gets dizzy, as if someone has clubbed her over the head. She screams:

“You shot him? Aksels? You?”

Andrejs goes to the shed to get a shovel. He says:

“Bring the green blanket with you when you come back out.”

Ieva follows after him in slow disbelief. Andrejs has been digging hard and is already up to his waist in the ground.

Aksels is lying by the birch. Slumped over onto his once painful side. A small, red mark has formed in the white wool of his sweater, right on the chest.

Ieva looks at his face and screams in horror — it’s not Aksels anymore. Strangely limp, shrunken, small. A thing. An object. Aksels isn’t here anymore.

Ieva hands Andrejs the blanket. He wraps Aksels up in it and says: