Karl Knausgaard - A Time for Everything

He turned and nodded at the bottle in the grass.

“Can I have a swig?”

Cain passed it to him. He put it to his mouth and drank, not a sip as Cain did, but in long drafts, as if it were water.

“Come down if you change your mind,” he said.

It was only when Abel had seated himself with the others that it struck Cain just how his behavior must have seemed to him. Abel had held out a hand to him, and he had rejected it. He’d only wanted to be friendly, share a little of what he had with Cain, bring him into the circle around the fire, This is my brother Cain, he belongs here, too, there is no one I esteem more than him .

Instead of that he was sitting up here, somber and hateful.

He got to his feet. It wasn’t too late, he thought, and took a few paces downhill. But then he realized that this would make things worse. Although he wanted to be happy and friendly, his presence would seem just as dark and spiteful as it had up here, he knew that in advance, and then what would Abel think of his move? That it was some kind of revenge?

He sat down again, just as abruptly as he’d jumped up a few seconds earlier, hoping that no one down there had noticed his strange stirrings.

Cain sat up at the top of the meadow until far into the night. The liquor made him warm in the head and mildly happy: he was basically content where he was. From there he could see everything that went on, and study whomever he liked. But no matter where his eyes wandered, sooner or later they returned to Abel.

What did he think as he sat there immersed in himself?

The boys about him had begun to get drunk, they ran back and forth between the meadow and the dance floor, laughed, shouted and danced, drank and toasted each other, a couple of fights almost started, but these were smothered before angry looks and vicious words had the physical consequences many were hoping for, and the fact that Abel wasn’t a part of this rowdiness, but sat with a kind of half smile on his lips and watched the commotion, was something they simply didn’t notice, Cain realized, because that’s what happens when you’re drunk: the whole world seems to follow you, for the inebriated the thought that everyone doesn’t feel exactly the same way is ungraspable. Abel’s friends considered only his physical figure, which was always present, and needed no more than a look or a smile to believe it was with them now.

But Cain saw. And he wondered. Was it just tonight that the things that surrounded Abel seemed to have no significance for him, or had his behavior been caused by something deeper and more lasting that only now rose to the surface within him? Had he really undergone a change during the three months since Cain had seen him last?

It was possible. He’d been alone for three months in the wild, and who knew what things he’d seen and experienced, what his thoughts had been or the conclusions they’d led him to?

If only he could ask him straight out!

Have you seen something that I haven’t, is that why you’re not interested in all this any longer, or have I just let my imagination run away with me as usual? Or is everything as it was? You’re just a bit tired, you say? Then you must sleep, dear brother, and everything will be back to normal when you wake up .

Cain got up, he had to visit the forest again. To his great surprise he lost his balance and took a couple of tottering sideways steps to regain it, stood upright and swaying for a moment before he was forced to take a couple of steps in the other direction. Fortunately there he found a tree trunk to hold on to. He smiled and glanced down the meadow to see if anyone had noticed him.

If he’d gotten so drunk without realizing it, what state must Abel be in, who’d been drinking so much more?

When he came back he’d sit down next to him. It was thoroughly nonsensical not to be talking on an evening like this! he thought, and changing his mind suddenly, opened his fly and began pissing into the bushes in front of him. Nobody had looked at him all evening so why should they suddenly start now? And if they did, what did it matter? What was his problem anyway that he had to go deep into the forest just to pee, he thought, and made the mistake of buttoning up again before he’d completely finished, but the dark patch on his trousers seemed no more than a minor detail: he dismissed the whole thing with a wave of his hand, as if it had been a fly, and turned to follow his new resolution of talking to his brother, when to his surprise he found Abel no longer seated in his place but on his way to the dance floor. Full of his old energy he wove his way laughing through the throng, followed by his friends, who were every bit as happy, and threw himself into the dance with an abandon that drew everyone’s attention.

While Cain made his way down the meadow, the movements around Abel slowly subsided, people withdrew to the side of the stage, and soon he was dancing quite alone. But something was wrong, Cain saw that right away. His impetuosity wasn’t the result of forces that worked blindly and unbridled within him, on the contrary, it had something contrived about it. He could see it in his eyes, they were cold and seemingly unaffected by the situation he found himself in. It was as if he were playing himself, thought Cain in dismay. There was something degrading about it, and he could hardly bear to look at his brother. And perhaps Abel found it unendurable as well, because shortly afterward, with the music still playing, he stopped and went to the end of the floor, where his friends were gathered. As soon as the fiddler saw that he’d stopped, he ceased to play as well, as if the previous few minutes’ music had been for Abel’s benefit alone, and complete silence fell over the place.

Only then did Cain notice that his brother wasn’t dressed for a party. He was wearing a plain, gray homespun jacket, darkened by several months’ outdoor use, grayish homespun trousers, tied with string at the waist, brown shoes of split leather, and that was all.

He raised his forearm and wiped the sweat from his brow, said a few words to one of his friends, and still breathless, let his gaze wander up the mountainside as the friend answered; his whole torso was rising and falling with his panting.

“A song, Abel,” somebody shouted.

“Yes, a song!”

Ever since he’d been a small boy, he’d sung at their festivals, every single spring equinox, summer solstice, autumn equinox, and winter solstice, and so beautiful was his singing that the features of his listeners seemed to soften, often to the disgruntlement of Cain, who, throughout his entire childhood, had to watch them staring at his brother with their glistening eyes and half-open mouths, suddenly without a care in the world. Obviously he didn’t have this ability to be entranced, all he saw was Abel, and he couldn’t understand what it was about his voice that could transport grown-ups in that way. Only when he himself grew to adulthood did he realize that the singing gave voice to their longings, and by liberating these longings from within, where they were closely bound up with loneliness, and bringing them out and among them, the singing both comforted and uplifted them — and each time set them down in a new place.

“Sing, Abel!” someone called again.

And Abel smiled and took a few steps onto the floor and began to sing. He sang about the trees in the forest, the water in the river, the sun in the sky, the wind that blew, and the rain that fell. He sang about the mountains that towered over them, the fjords opposite, the lights of the boats that came sailing in at night. He sang about the wildness of autumn, the forest that sensed that the end was nigh and decided to use the last of its strength in a sumptuous self-celebration; for a few weeks it reveled in color until, weak and exhausted, it lay its head back and expired: now the snows could come. He sang of the stillness of winter, the dead souls that fell as snow over the fields and covered the lakes in ice; he sang of spring’s lightness, the stream’s song, and the richness of summer. He sang about all the things they had around them, but still yearned for.