Hernán Díaz - In the Distance

Insults, hisses, boos. Someone threw a rock. Covering his head with his arms, the sheriff leaped off his crate and got between Håkan and the crowd.

“His face, boys! Don’t let them get his face!” he said to his deputies, who made Håkan duck. “No stones, ladies and gentlemen. Trash only. Remember, we are all with sin. So no stones.”

With a gentle and firm hand, Asa kept Håkan down as long as possible.

“That’s right,” the sheriff went on, dragging Håkan back up by his hair. “The brethren slaughterer! The beast! And just look! Isn’t he truly a beast?”

The sheriff pulled up the lion’s head from Håkan’s back and fitted it on his head, like a hood. His face vanished in the dark.

Gasps and a sudden silence.

“That’s right. Step right up, ladies and gentlemen! Take a look! The very beast that roamed our fields and killed our brethren.” A pause. “All partakers of glory at the time.” He looked at the sky, mournfully, and then, with renewed energy, pointed at Håkan. “But this beast from the underworld! Behold the predacious lion that butchered our flock! He’s not a criminal. He’s an animal! The unhung brute can barely talk. Look at him!”

The crowd stood in silent awe.

“It was I who conquered this Amorite, whose height, as you can see, is like the height of the cedars, and whose strength, you can believe me, is like the strength of the oaks. Now, I, after hunting this malefactor down, will take him to the brethren in Illinois, where he will face the awful majesty of the law.”

Isolated mumbles of approval.

“There, this son of Belial will be tried in a court of law and hanged to death. Now, this bucket here is for donations for the brethren’s gallows. Who’d like to give? Contributions? Here is the hawk that preyed upon our doves. Let us wring its neck. Donations for the brethren’s scaffold? Help cast this unrighteous freak out into the outer darkness, where there’s only wailing and gnashing of teeth. Don’t be shy now!”

One by one, farmhands, homemakers, shopkeepers, school children, and other townspeople approached the bucket and deposited the money inside—never tossing it in, but always placing it carefully at the bottom, as if it could break. Some, mostly women, paused and gave Håkan a furtive glance, but most quickened their step after making their donation without daring to look up at the prisoner.

“Thank you. Thank you all,” the sheriff said as the crowd started to disperse. “Thank you in the name of the brethren.”

He got the money out of the pail, counted it, and secured it in his pocket.

Håkan had not seen his burro since his capture, but they put him on the same horse. It turned out that the stallion that Håkan had taken was dear to one of the victim’s relatives, and there was an additional reward for bringing the fugitive with it—dead, alive, with horse, in increasing amounts.

“You boys can split the horse in half,” the sheriff had said to convince his two assistants to escort him across the state border to deliver the prisoner.

Because Håkan had his hands tied to the pommel and was barely conscious, he was loosely guarded. In the endless expanse, there was nowhere to run, so for the most part, Håkan, too weak and wretched to attempt anything anyway, was left alone. Sometimes, seldom, something like a thought pulsated in the blackness within him. Mostly, he hoped—if those muted throbs in the dark ever amounted to something like hope—that Linus would think that he, Håkan, had returned to Sweden after they had been separated. Or that he thought him dead. These vague illusions aside, Håkan had only a dim awareness of the pain in his chest and of being, again, in the convex plains. But the plunge into senselessness was not solely the result of his maimed mind and his battered body. Every night, at great risk for both, Asa gave him a couple drops of the tincture. It was the greatest kindness anyone had ever done him.

Time had frozen within him, but somehow external reality seemed to move, shred, and disintegrate into nothing at great speed, like fast-sailing clouds. There was only a tenuous connection between his inner vacuum and the rags of reality flapping intermittently around him—flickers of understanding (this was his body, that was not his body, this hand could touch that hand, this hand could not touch the sun).

Most of what happened during those days was told to him later.

They reached a town. Håkan was paraded down its main street.

“Come and see!” the sheriff announced. “The brethren killer! Come and see the beast! Caught it myself! Like the valiant Benaiah, who struck down both a giant and a lion. Step right up, ladies and gentlemen! Just look! He must be five cubits tall, just like the Egyptian giant. And he is fierce, just like the lion in the snowy pit.”

They stopped in front of a tavern. The sheriff put up the same placard Håkan had seen at the saddler’s.

“That’s right! Spotted him over Winthrop’s Creek. Snuck up on him. Shots were fired. We emptied our guns. He had a knife, but I threw some dirt in his eyes and disarmed him. Then I overmanned him in single combat. Look at him! A beast, verily! I almost got myself killed, but if he’s big, I’m cunning. Like the king of Israel against the giant Philistine! But unlike David, I couldn’t take this Goliath’s head because the brethren want it. Yes, we’re taking him to Illinois, where he’ll get a fair trial and hang. Now, this bucket here is for donations for the brethren’s gallows. Who’d like to give? Help send this sinner down into the lake that burns with quenchless fire and brimstone. Contributions? Let’s feed him to the undying worm. Let’s make sure this monster does no more violence to the earth we tread upon, to the air we breathe, and to the heavens that shelter us. For the brethren’s scaffold? Come on, don’t be shy!”

He pocketed the money, rolled up the placard, and led his men and the prisoner out of town.

Back in the wilderness, there was little talk. When Håkan refused to eat, the sheriff said that he would be blasted if their food went to waste on an animal that surely preferred scraps and trash anyway. Håkan simply sat there, abstracted and slightly wide-eyed, as the garbage after every meal was dumped upon his lap, to Josiah’s always fresh amusement.

After a few days’ travel, as another small town started piling up on the horizon, the sheriff had his party dismount and asked his assistants to hold Håkan tight—an unnecessary precaution, given his soft inertness. He weighed a few pebbles in his hand and finally found one around which he could wrap his fist firmly. Then he spat, looked up at Håkan, and swung with all his might. Håkan’s cheekbone burst open like a plum. The blood hesitated briefly in the gash before pouring out.

“But what? Hey!” was all that Asa could utter as he recoiled with surprise and disgust.

“What?” the sheriff asked icily.

They mounted, rode on, and got to the town, where the sheriff, once again, displayed Håkan and told everyone how he, single-handedly, had captured that most wicked of Nephilim, even though the demon had charged at him like a ravening and roaring lion. This time, Håkan had a fresh scar to show for his captor’s valor and strength. The sheriff made sure to point at it as he asked for donations.

As they were leaving, on the last block of the short road, a small shop arrested the sheriff’s attention. The window glistened with gems of every color and pearls of all sizes set in gold and silver necklaces, watches, rings, brooches, lockets, pocket guns, tie pins, wristbands, and cigarette cases. Because it was so small, the store looked like a jewel box—a dazzling little world that could only be looked at but never entered. Nonetheless, the sheriff ordered everyone to stop, dismounted, straightened his clothes while discreetly looking around for bystanders, and walked into the jewelry shop.