Karl Knausgaard - A Time for Everything

He sat up gingerly again when the boat reached calmer waters, took up the paddle, and leaned carefully over to one side to put it in the water, but not carefully enough, because the boat canted over, the water was suddenly just beneath the gunwale, and in a panicky attempt to right it, he stood up, with the result that the boat keeled to the other side, at the same time as he lost his balance, thrust out his arms, and released his grip on the paddle before he managed to crouch down and clutch the sides again.

“Oh no, no!” he said, following the paddle as it disappeared into the darkness.

Paddling with his hands was futile, the current was too strong for that, so what should he do now?

If he were lucky, the boat would soon glide into a backwater, he thought. Then he realized that the first backwater was after the next rapids, which weren’t as gentle as the previous ones, to put it mildly: in one place at least the water fell vertically, and although the drop wasn’t more than six feet, it was enough to capsize the boat.

But there were some houses along the bank a little farther downstream. If he shouted for help as he passed them, they would be sure to hear him and come out, and after their first amazement had subsided, they’d throw him a rope or save him some other way.

This would make him the principal topic of conversation. Everyone would want to know what he’d done, the circumstances under which he’d been saved, and his shame would be doubled: not only would he have placed himself in a situation in which he was helpless, and for no good reason, but the situation would be comical.

Never would he put himself through that, he thought. Better to go over the waterfall with the boat.

He peered at the shore to try to find out where he was, but the darkness obliterated all landmarks; all he could see was a wall of trees.

He should be getting near the bridge, he thought.

The bridge!

Of course. He could easily grab hold of it when the boat passed underneath, and haul himself up. The fact that the boat would be lost was the price he’d have to pay for his stupidity.

He scanned the darkness in front of him.

There it was.

He sat still until the boat was a few yards from it. Then he stood up, raised his arms in the air, and grabbed the edge of the bridge with his hands. The boat sailed on, pulling his legs under the span. He hung like this for a while gathering his thoughts, then kicked the boat away and let his legs sink into the water.

Just as he was about the lift the upper half of his body onto the edge, he heard footsteps approaching. This was such an unlikely event that he was forced to smile. People almost never crossed that bridge. But now someone was doing just that. Not five years earlier, not five years later, but at precisely this moment in his life when he was suspended under the bridge.

He just hoped the footsteps didn’t belong to the kind of person who always has to stop in the middle of bridges and stare wistfully into the mass of water below. He could manage to hang there for a few minutes.

When the footfalls arrived at the bridge, he lowered himself right down so that only his fingers would be visible to the pedestrian above. The water now reached to his waist. His feet had already lost all sensation, and his fingers on the bridge were numb with effort.

Get on with it! he thought when the feet were right over him. Slowly they moved across, reached the other end at last, and faded away in the dark.

For safety’s sake he hung there a few moments longer. Then he marshaled what felt like his last ounce of strength to drag himself out, stood for a while resting his arms on the railings to catch his breath, the icy water seemed to have pushed his breathing up to a rate that his body obviously wanted to maintain for as long as possible: even though he tried to breathe slowly, his respirations were foreshortened by the many muscles that trembled with cold.

Just then he heard the strange cry again. It was closer now. He raised his head and held his breath to hear it better.

What kind of creature cried out like that? A long, monotonous, almost human lament?

Then it stopped, and he began to flap his arms on the bridge to get a little warmth into his shaking body, but quickly realized that only one thing would do: the stove back at the house.

He started to jog down the path, until it struck him that he would catch up to the person in front of him like that, and reduced speed.

Who could it be anyway?

A man, to judge from the pace of the steps.

It couldn’t be Abel, surely?

When the meadow on the other side of the house opened up before him, he caught sight of the figure again, but it was so dark and umbral that any clue as to identity remained obscure. It stopped at his door and knocked, stood motionless for a moment, knocked again. Cain was just about to shout when it opened the door and went in. Wouldn’t Abel be the only one who’d do that? he wondered, and used the last few yards to the house to think out what he’d say to his brother after all this time, while at once trying to make his face look blank and expressionless, the way he assumed it looked when he was alone, as he didn’t want it to be apparent that he’d followed him without making his presence known. For the same reason he looked down at the floor when he entered and shut the door, tossed his cap nonchalantly onto the chair and began to unbutton his jacket, before as casually as possible looking into the room. The little start of surprise he’d intended to give became a genuine one: the eyes he met were not those of Abel, but of his father. He stood in the middle of the room, his hat drawn down on his forehead and his hands in his pockets.

“Oh, it’s you ,” said Cain, and could have cuffed himself: with his father he was supposed to behave dispassionately, without emotion, a principle the surprise in his voice transgressed. Now he might be imagining all sorts of things. That he was pleased to see him, for example. Or that he hadn’t expected his father to pay such a visit, something that then would give him cause to believe that Cain didn’t know him as well as he thought.

“You’ve made it nice here,” said his father, looking round.

“It’s good enough for me at any rate,” said Cain.

A shiver went through him.

“What’s the matter with you?” his father said. “You’re soaking wet! What on earth have you been doing?”

Cain made no reply, but went up to the loft to change. He heard his father sighing down below but resisted the impulse to hurry, overcompensating by taking extra long until it struck him that the delay only represented a further turn of dependency’s screw, and again made haste.

When he got down again, his father was still standing in the middle of the room.

“Will you have anything to drink?” Cain asked.

His father shook his head.

“I’ve come to fetch you,” he said. “It’s your brother.”

He adjusted his hat in the way he’d always done as long as Cain could remember, by placing the whole of his great hand on the crown and somehow thrusting it back into place.

He’s dead , thought Cain, and stared at his father’s slightly drooping head.

“Is Abel dead?” he asked.

His father looked up quickly.

“Dead? No, why should you think that?”

“You seem so grave.”

“No, good God, no. He’s not dead. But. . well. I don’t quite know how to put it. .”

His father wasn’t used to searching for words, and Cain could see the discomfort working in him. His lips pursed, his eyes moved restlessly, his hand went up to his chin.

“Huh,” he said. “Just come along. I’ll tell you on the way.”

And what if I won’t? thought Cain, but he said nothing. Curiosity was stronger than pride, and a few minutes later he set out into the darkness accompanied by his father.