Only the Dead by Vidar Sundstøl Page A

there.”
    Andy looked like he wanted to say something more. He cleared his throat a few times and seemed about to speak. Instead he turned around, lifted his Minnesota Twins cap, and scratched his scalp. Then he put the cap back on.
    “Not a single deer,” he said with his back turned to Lance.
    “What should we do now?”
    “Keep going,” said Andy.
    “But where?”
    Andy turned back to face him. “Between the highway and the lake. We’re allowed to do that, right?”
    Lance wondered if he should lie, but that would just mean they’d have to go out again next weekend. They might as well be done with it now.
    “Uh-huh. Our licenses include the area along the lake between the Temperance River and the Cross River.”
    “I’m sure there’s gotta be some deer down there,” said Andy.
    “But there’s also a greater risk we’ll run into tourists.”
    “No, the weather’s too lousy. I think we’ll have the woods to ourselves. But first let’s eat. I’m hungry.”
    THEY REACHED THE PARKING LOT near the Cross River without exchanging a word during the half hour it took them to get there. Lance went over to his Jeep and opened the tailgate. While he was wrapping his rifle in the brown blanket, he heard his brother’s voice right behind him.
    “What the hell have you been doing?”
    He tried to turn around, but it was difficult since he was bending forward into the vehicle. Andy reached in next to him and grabbed the wrench. Lance had forgotten it was underneath the blanket.
    “Oh, that,” he said.
    “Did you kill somebody, or what?”
    Lance backed out of the Jeep and straightened up.
    “Yes,” he said.
    Andy laughed nervously.
    “I ran over a cat last night. Had to kill it.”
    “On your way home after hunting?”
    “No, later on. Up near Reservation River. Didn’t even see it before I hit it.”
    “Why were you up there yesterday?”
    “Visiting Willy.”
    “Willy?”
    “Dupree.”
    “Oh.”
    I don’t think he’s a gypsy, this man sitting wrapped up in a blanket and humming over there in the corner. He’s an Indian. In the light from the fire that’s burning between us, I see things no gypsy would travel around with. I can’t even guess what those things might be. One looks like a small snowshoe, no bigger than my hand. Several big feathers are hanging from it. White feathers with black tips. I must have swallowed a lump of ice, and it’s not melting, just spreading cold through my body. I can’t feel the heat from the fire at all. I just see the light. I think I might be dying, but that doesn’t seem to matter anymore. I can’t remember if there was something important I needed to do first. Don’t think so. I wouldn’t mind dying now, if it’s like when I was in the lake. Down there, at least, I wasn’t cold. And there were stars and the moon and blue mountains. The ax went with me into the water and came back up with me again. I can barely feel the handle in my hand, but it’s still there.
    The man over there is moving. I hear something clattering, like a cooking pot. He crawls on his knees over to the door and pushes aside the big piece of birch bark. He wears the round-brimmed black hat indoors too. Underneath the hat he has on a scarf. I can hear him scratching in the snow with something. Oh, I think he’s filling the pot with snow. Then he backs in through the door and closes it up again. He hangs the pot over the fire. Is he making soup? Pea soup with chunks of pork? Not even that would thaw the ice inside me. That’s how cold I am. He sits down in the corner again. Pulls his knees up to his chin, wraps the blanket around himself, and settles down like before. There is some sort of picture on the blanket, but I can’t see what it is. There seem to be strong colors too. Red and white, I think, but there’s not enough light in here for me to be sure.
    Now he’s starting to hum again. Is it some sort of song? He rocks back and forth. I don’t like it. But they don’t eat