The Dog (4 page)

narrows, in the shallow bay, protected from the wind off the

mountains in Norway -- every day brought a shower of new

voices. In the morning, when red and gold still lingered in

the sky like gravel at the bottom of the brook, a shifting,

quavering blanket of bird calls hung over the forest. Throats

with yellow or rust-coloured or plain lava-grey patches were

vibrating. Small bodies were filled with song. Though they

were nothing but a handful of down, a few hollow bones

and a mouthful of blood, their calls rang out. Their song rose

like marsh water in the forest.

Wherever the sun dried and warmed the ground insects

were creeping and crawling. Early in the day the anthills

slowly came to life. When the sun was highest in the sky the

ants were at work repairing holes. If it was too cold in the

morning the colony grew sluggish and didn't go out. The

ants clung to each other, barely alive, so feeble that the

anthill didn't even smell like piss when a paw scratched its

rough surface.

But sunny days dominated. The sun warmed and incubated.

It drew out bodies that had burned stored fat while

sleeping. Hunger awakened in the forest. The voles started

scurrying in the dry grass, looking for seed pods left from the

previous autumn, for frozen lingonberries, cocoons and eggs.

At night the water in pit holes froze in thin sheets, injuring

paws that broke through. The brown grass acquired a

new film of ice. But the light came early. Before the ball of

sun had emerged above the treetops in its haze of red, the

entire forest was suffused with light.

Water and light rose in veins and stalks, in vessels and

nerves and tiny roots. Voices were filled with light and light

filled the warm eggs. It shot like sparks in newly awakened

membranes and muscles filled with blood, pulsating inside

the eggs.

He licked the light, sucked it. The water in the run-offs

retreated. It was no longer the enemy; it was a bright voice

under the stones. His belly was dry and he turned it towards

the sun. He could have been killed in those moments of

trust, lying there as if he'd suckled the sun, snoring in his

puppy sleep. But though many were killed when winter

hunger awakened in the forest, he was not among them.

All those living in dens and lairs around him had their own

ways. From the moment daylight began filtering into their

sleep until darkness fell and they tucked their beaks under

their wings or curled their tails around their paws, each day

was the same. They scurried up the same treetrunks and

crept into the same holes. During the daylight hours they

were constantly busy. Their world was familiar and they were

on guard, for they all knew what was behind the tufts of

grass and above the treetops, and what might be there.

During the long period of privation he'd wandered aimlessly,

his memory patchy, like clouds of damp fog.

Sometimes he had run half-heartedly, without searching in

earnest; sometimes he had fallen asleep by a treetrunk in the

midst of chasing something that rustled or squeaked. Now

he searched eagerly but knew where he was, even when a

snapping twig or a faint rustle in the dry grass woke him

from a nap.

He'd become wary of his old sleeping place on the slope

by the marsh. Now he preferred the large spruces where the

lowest layer of dark, needle-covered branches skirted the

ground. But he never slept many nights in the same spot.

After a while he would become uneasy. Sniffing around the

place he'd slept, he wasn't sure what scents he picked up.

Then he retreated, found another spruce or another pile of

stones to crawl into. But he often returned to the old places

that felt familiar, where he was on guard but not agitated. If

too many indistinct trails of scent surrounded the spot he

became confused, at worst afraid. But fear didn't strike often.

He didn't know what brought it on. Fear stung; fear struck

in the dark.

In the mornings his body was stiff and he had to stretch

his numb legs again and again before the blood got moving

and his joints loosened up. The sharp smells of early morning

made him alert. Whatever had taken place in the grass

and the moss had just happened. There were no lingering

traces of creatures that by now were far away. He always

began by scouring the marsh where he'd first found eggs.

Searching was futile now, but the delicious, flavourful eggs

remained with him. He had to forage in the marsh before he

did anything else.

Every day he roamed the same area. The recent past hung

in the air as wisps and trails. In the present, branches

snapped; there was rustling, squeaking and scraping. But

some things had happened so long ago that their smells had

completely vanished. There were many such things. They

happened once again when he reached the place where the

scent had faded away. But now they happened inside him,

with a jolt that made his muscles tense. He started searching,

his snout rooting, his paws tearing at the ground.

Under the roof of the cabin, against the timbered wall

where the ground was dry, there had been a dead magpie

one morning. He couldn't walk past the cabin without

investigating that strip of dry ground. When he crossed the

pasture and came down to the wooded area on the point

there was a rotting tree trunk that roused his excitement.

This was the place he'd found large cocoons. He scratched at

the reddish wood; it crumbled under his claws. There were

no more cocoons, but that was where it had happened, and

when he came across the trunk it happened again. Each time

it grew fainter until eventually it sank into the ground and

disappeared. Other things happened that made him watchful

and momentarily roused, nose to the ground and ears

pricked. If they brought more than a mouthful to eat, if they

filled his belly, these things, too, would remain with him a

long time.

The birch buds swelled and grew sticky. On the slope down

to the inlet the sallow bushes were in bloom, covered with

pollen and bright in the sunshine. He was alarmed the first

time he saw them, thinking for a moment that they were

large, luminous bodies.

Under the alders, pointed blades of grass, green and with

an intense taste, were pushing up from beneath the grey

brown blanket of last year's leaves. There was a stand of

nettles by the old manure pile at the barn; the air around

them had a sharp smell.

The ground, too, was always changing. The pattern of

wet areas and grass, of sounds and smells, shifted beneath

him. Down by the shore the ground ended: no grass or

tracks, just stones and the murmuring and lapping of the

water. When the wind blew hard, pieces of wood washed

up, scrubbed and polished by the smooth stones. The wood

was shiny, pale and strange. The strip between the deep, constantly

churning water and the wet ground where grass had

taken root was a dangerous, rewarding borderland where

creatures were left behind, with straggly, drenched feathers or

soggy fur.

He always stayed as far as possible from the water's edge,

stretching his neck towards the smells and setting his paws

down cautiously. Along the shore there were no bushes.

Though this made him uneasy, he often took the risk of letting

himself be seen. Down there he always found something

to eat.

If he went far out on the point he came very close to the

other world. He could see the opposite shore and sometimes

he heard dogs barking. He didn't dare go to the very tip. He

was afraid of the other side. When he heard barking he

wanted to howl, but fear stopped him. He crouched low in

clumps of brush on the bank, squinting in the wind, catching

scents from the dangerous side.

From the shore that was usually sheltered from the wind

he could hear the loud roar of the rapids. He couldn't see

them and didn't know what they were. The water danced in

eddies down towards the noise. It was dangerous out on the

point. The surging of the water made him deaf. He couldn't

hear sounds from the forest. He kept to the wetlands and

took small, cautious steps on decaying logs. Only rarely did

curiosity lure him out into the roar of the rapids.

Once he saw the silhouette of a long, arched back on the

rocks in the narrows. It slid into the water and emerged on

the opposite side. He saw the back lengthen into a tail, saw

the undulating movement of the otter's leap to its den on the

bank, but with his poor vision he lost track of the movement

among the crowberry brush, and when he didn't pick up a

scent he forgot about it.

On the shore by the inlet, beavers had felled birches and

aspens, stripping bark and twigs from the trunks. The logs

plunged into the water, naked and pale. He became familiar

with the scent of beaver although he never caught sight

of them. The ground was muddy and rough where the

beavers had been at work so he kept to the woods. He

didn't like mud sticking to his fur. He didn't like unnecessary

trouble. Climbing tired him out and made him forget

to listen and stay on guard. He was no longer a pup who

acted carelessly, without considering. He'd become deliberate and cautious.

The path from the boat landing was overgrown; young

spruce trees and birch saplings were so close together that he

had a hard time making his way through. There was a

murmur of bird sounds in there, rustling wings, shadows,

blinking eyes. He never paid any attention to the little ones.

They fluttered up on tiny, quick wings and vanished into the

darkness of the enormous spruces. When he found one of

them on the ground with ruffled feathers and limp neck he

didn't connect it with the ones who fluttered and chirped.

They were nothing to him when they were in the air; they

were too quick. But the ones with heavy bodies that had a

hard time taking flight, the flapping and squawking ones,

those interested him. Where he picked up their scent he

might find eggs.

The old summer pasture had a dense layer of last year's

vegetation, brown and compacted by the snow. Now green

blades of grass were lifting it up. From the warm space

between the ground and the tip of the blades came the

rustling of quick paws. He made his way slowly up the slope,

his muzzle in the warm, fragrant mat, eating insects methodically

while continuing to listen for the rustling. Down there

he could smell vole.

Around the barn were stands of nettles. Those he avoided.

To reach the marsh he had to cross an overgrown hollow

bisected by a black, muddy ditch, where there was often a

strong scent of moose.

He was quite familiar with the little marsh and its sparse,

waterlogged pines. There, and along the shore, were his best

fields. A narrow, wooded ridge extended into the grassy area

of the marsh. His first sleeping place had been up there but

he went no farther than the top of the ridge, where there

was a sharp plunge towards an area he hadn't explored. On

the incline the enormous spruces were so old and so dense

that the ground under them was brown with needles.

Nothing grew there.

In the cleared area above the cabin were the hares. He

didn't go very far in that direction either. That was the end

of the world as he knew it, the border between the clearing

and the marsh. Whenever he ventured into the unknown he

was very much on edge.

The ragged cover of grass and compressed leaves was in

motion, lifted from below, bursting with new growth. From

the space beneath the roof of grass came the buzzing and

whirring of insects, but there were voles down there as well.

He often stood still, head lowered, ears cocked, listening.

One morning he heard a faint peeping. It sounded like

birds under the grass. Following it with his ears, he found it

was louder by the large rock near the cabin steps. The scent

grew more intense in the clumps of grass. When he clawed

at them the muffled peeping stopped. He clawed again and

found hairless bodies, the smell of blood. He didn't look, just

gobbled.

The vole nest was full of young. He didn't chew until he

got to the last one. The nest -- tangled tufts of grass -- lay

between his paws. He put his cheek to the warm ground, his

jaws crunching. The blood, the warmth, the spasms spurred

him, making him eat faster than he ever had before. Only

later did he feel the warmth and the pleasure, coursing in

indolent waves through his hard, sinewy body.

He found a dry spot on the slope and stretched his legs

and paws. His belly made swishing and gurgling noises as it

digested. Lying with eyes half closed, he felt shivers of satisfaction,

pleasure and warmth. His paws twitched in his sleep

and his upper lip drew back from his teeth. He was hunting.

The sun hatched many eggs on long stems. They swayed in