Cobo Abe - The Woman in the Dunes

At the same time the alarm bell started to ring. The children were crying… the dogs were barking… and at every sound of the bell his heart jumped a beat. His pores opened, and a thousand prickly little insects, like grains of rice, came crawling out. One of the flashlights seemed to be of a type that had an adjustable focus, and just when he thought the light was dwindling it suddenly pierced him again like a white-hot needle.

Should he try a frontal attack, kicking them aside as hard as he could? If he could just get across there, he would be outside the village. He might regret the tactic later and then again he might not, but all depended on this instant. Come on! Don't hesitate! If he didn't seize the opportunity now, it would be too late. He couldn't count on a second chance.

Even as he was thinking this, the flashlights, poised in a half circle around him, spread out to the left and the right and slowly approached him. He grasped the rope more firmly and knew he must move, but he only stood there with his toes biting into the soft ground, unable to come to any decision. The places between the flashlights were filled with the dark shadows of men. And that obscure shape by the side of the road, which at first looked like a hole, was certainly the three-wheeler. Even if he were successful in getting through, he would be caught from behind. In back of him he could hear the steps of the children, who had stopped crying, running away. Suddenly a magnificent idea occurred to him: he would get the children and use them as a shield. By taking them hostage he could stop the men from coming nearer. But when he turned to pursue them he could see other lights waiting for him. The road behind had been cut off too!

He recoiled and, gathering his strength, ran back along the way he had just come. His decision was a kind of reflex; he hoped to find some place where he could cut across the dune that lay adjacent to the promontory. The men from the village yelled as they ran after him. His knees felt weak, as if his joints had loosened; perhaps he had been in too much of a hurry. But for the time being, at least he seemed to have taken them by surprise, and he was able to keep enough distance between him and them in order to turn around now and then to see where they were.

How far had he come? he wondered. He had already run up and down several dunes. Yet the more he strained, the more he seemed to be running vainly, dreamily, in one place. But this was no time to reflect on efficiency. There was a taste of honey mixed with blood on the back of his tongue. He tried to spit it out, but the substance was too viscid. He put his finger in his mouth and scraped at it.

The alarm was still ringing, but it was already faraway and intermittent. The barking of the dogs, too, had become a peevish, distant chatter. It was his own breathing, like a file on metal, that was the disturbance he was aware of now. The three pursuing lights were still in a line, wavering up and down, and while they did not seem to be coming closer, neither did they seem to be getting any further away. It was just as hard for him to run away as it was for them to run after him. From now on it was a question of endurance. But he could not be very optimistic about that. The strain had perhaps lasted too long. His mind suddenly seemed to buckle; in this moment of weakness he even hoped his strength would give out and he would have done with the whole thing. The symptom was dangerous. Yet it was still well that he realized just how dangerous.

His shoes were full of sand, and his toes began to hurt. Looking around, he perceived that his pursuers had fallen back to seven or eight yards behind him, on the right. Why had they gotten off the track like that? Perhaps they had tried too hard to avoid the slopes and had ended up by bungling the chase. Apparently they were pretty tired too. The pursuer, they often say, tires more quickly than the pursued. He paused and hastily took off his shoes, to run barefoot. He stuck them into his belt, since they would be a bother if he put them into his pocket. Recovering his spirits a little, he ran up a fairly steep slope in a single burst of speed. If things went like this and he had a little luck, he might give them the slip yet.

Although the moon had not risen, the countryside was splotched with faint patches of bright and dark from the starlight, and he could clearly distinguish the distant ridges. He seemed to be heading for the end of the promontory. Again he felt the urge to bear to the left. As he was about to change direction, he was suddenly brought up short. If he changed, he would at once shorten the distance between his pursuers and himself. He was thunderstruck, aware for the first time of their plan.

Their pursuit, which at first had seemed implausible, was in fact very well thought out: they were trying to push him in the direction of the sea. Without knowing it, he had been guided. When he thought about it now, he realized that the flashlights were meant precisely to let him know their positions. The way they kept their distance without coming near was certainly done on purpose.

But it was still too soon to give up. He had heard that there was a way to climb up the cliffs somewhere, and if it turned out to be necessary it would not be impossible to swim over to the back of the promontory. He thought of being caught and taken back; there was no room for hesitation. Abrupt descents followed long, gentle rises; abrupt rises, then long, gentle descents. One foot after another… one step added to the next, like stringing beads… patiently… patiently. Unnoticed, the alarm had ceased. He could no longer distinguish between the sounds of the wind and sea and the ringing in his ears. He ran up a hillock and looked around. The pursuers' lights had disappeared. He waited for a moment, but they did not reappear.

Had he really gotten away? he wondered.

His rising hope made his heart beat faster. If it were true, it was all the more reason he should not relax now… one more dash… on to the next rise!

Suddenly it was hard to run. His legs felt strangely heavy. It was not only the feeling of heaviness: his legs had actually begun to sink. It was like being in snow, he thought, and by then he had sunk to his calves. Astonished, he pulled out one foot and the other sank quickly until he was knee-deep. What was happening? He had heard of sand that swallowed people up. He struggled, trying to extricate himself some way, but the more he struggled, the more deeply he sank. His two legs were already buried up to the thighs.

Ah! So this was the trap! Their target had not been the sea at all, but here! They intended quite simply to liquidate him without even going to the trouble of capturing him. Liquidation indeed! Even a sleight-of-hand artist could not have done it more smoothly with his handkerchief. Another puff of wind and he would be completely gone. Even the best police dog would be helpless. The bastards didn't even have to show their faces any more. They hadn't seen anything or heard anything. A stupid outsider had lost his way by himself and had vanished. They had managed the whole thing without soiling their hands in the slightest.

Sinking… sinking… soon he would be up to his waist… What in God's name could he do? If he could increase the area of contact with the sand, his body weight per square inch would be lighter, and perhaps he would be able to arrest the sinking somewhat. He flopped down, his arms spread out. However, it was already too late. He had intended to lie on his stomach, but the lower half of his body was now fixed vertically in the sand. It was impossible to keep his already exhausted hips at a right angle for any length of time. Unless one were a trained trapeze artist, sooner or later there would be a limit to this position.

How dark it was. The whole world had closed its eyes and stopped its ears. No one would even turn around to look at his death spasms. Fear convulsed his throat and suddenly burst out. His jaw dropped open, and he gave an animal-like cry.