what is about to happen just before it happens and I try to shout, pathetically and with whining lungs, ‘Take your boots off!’
He does not take them off, he does not hear me, of course. Now he freezes in the air with his arms stretched out, his head pushed between them – the tautening of a slender figure, like a flexing bow – and then he too is in the water, and I carry on trotting along the sloping bank, clumsy as a hobbled cow. I adjust my route and get off the path, I turn downstream, but it is a mistake because I sink into the snow, right up to my thighs, and so I have no choice but to return to the path. My temples are thumping, my chest is about to burst and my knees threaten to give way, I start scooping air with my hands as I run and suddenly the river is there, I nearly tumble in myself but manage to turn and begin dropping down the embankment downstream. The river is strong, too strong, cunning under its soft skin, from afar I see a hand raised out of the water, but then it, too, vanishes, so death must be certain now, I carry on trotting along the riverside but only to trot towards the end. I feel like throwing myself into the river or collapsing in the snow and sinking into it and asking for forgiveness for all my sins, and roaring out a final prayer before they bury me: a prayer in my own words, one that has been waiting for me all along, dedicated to me.
HENRIK
He is finally mine, I clutch him, and I do not let go, I squeeze his hot flanks with my knees, the wild flying of his mane, his hot breath on my face, I am riding him.
She is finally mine, I clutch her, and I do not let go, I squeeze her hot flanks with my knees, the wild flying of her mane, her hot breath on my face, I am riding her.
We gallop deeper and deeper, towards darkness, together, free, swaying, now.
ERIK
Henrik. Fish fins. I bought Jansson’s horse for you. I cannot give you both of them. I will get down from the tree, Henrik. I will come down.
THE FARMHAND
But just then the dark surface breaks and first one head pushes through, then another. The heads do not look as if they belong to two separate bodies, but to a two-headed creature risen out of the sludge. Erik manages to turn onto his back and tries to get to the bank, frantically splashing about with one arm while using the other to support Henrik’s head. I reach them and begin looking feverishly for something I can stretch out. Among the shadows cast by the insolent moon, I spot a dry branch sticking out of the snow. I snatch it free from the suction of the lumpy snow and fling myself onto my knees by the water to hold it out to Erik.
‘Grab this!’ I shout. My cry sounds like wordless roaring. ‘I’ll pull you out!’
Erik beats the rushing water with his free hand. His head bounces on the surface, while Henrik’s looks immobile, like a stone sticking out of the river. I try to extend my arms and slither over the bank until almost the whole of my upper body is swaying above a void. Erik lets out a yell – desperate or anguished or merely frantic – and rises partially out of the water, springing out of it backwards in an arched leap. Henrik’s head is in his arms like a loaf clutched by a starving man. Erik clasps the stick I am holding out. I tug with all my might, for a moment I worry that their weight will pull me into the river, but now Erik grabs my shoulder and then the embankment, and I use my last ounce of strength to lie back, tucking my feet underneath myself for grip. I reach forward to seize Henrik’s wet shock of hair. He becomes detached from the river like an exhausted fish and collapses face-first on top of me.
I hear their panting through my own puffing. Henrik starts coughing water onto my face, I shift him off me. I hear sounds approaching from further along the bank. I push myself into an upright position, I sway. The brothers lie on the ground next to each other with their chests heaving, so alike. Anna reaches us and throws herself onto
He does not take them off, he does not hear me, of course. Now he freezes in the air with his arms stretched out, his head pushed between them – the tautening of a slender figure, like a flexing bow – and then he too is in the water, and I carry on trotting along the sloping bank, clumsy as a hobbled cow. I adjust my route and get off the path, I turn downstream, but it is a mistake because I sink into the snow, right up to my thighs, and so I have no choice but to return to the path. My temples are thumping, my chest is about to burst and my knees threaten to give way, I start scooping air with my hands as I run and suddenly the river is there, I nearly tumble in myself but manage to turn and begin dropping down the embankment downstream. The river is strong, too strong, cunning under its soft skin, from afar I see a hand raised out of the water, but then it, too, vanishes, so death must be certain now, I carry on trotting along the riverside but only to trot towards the end. I feel like throwing myself into the river or collapsing in the snow and sinking into it and asking for forgiveness for all my sins, and roaring out a final prayer before they bury me: a prayer in my own words, one that has been waiting for me all along, dedicated to me.
HENRIK
He is finally mine, I clutch him, and I do not let go, I squeeze his hot flanks with my knees, the wild flying of his mane, his hot breath on my face, I am riding him.
She is finally mine, I clutch her, and I do not let go, I squeeze her hot flanks with my knees, the wild flying of her mane, her hot breath on my face, I am riding her.
We gallop deeper and deeper, towards darkness, together, free, swaying, now.
ERIK
Henrik. Fish fins. I bought Jansson’s horse for you. I cannot give you both of them. I will get down from the tree, Henrik. I will come down.
THE FARMHAND
But just then the dark surface breaks and first one head pushes through, then another. The heads do not look as if they belong to two separate bodies, but to a two-headed creature risen out of the sludge. Erik manages to turn onto his back and tries to get to the bank, frantically splashing about with one arm while using the other to support Henrik’s head. I reach them and begin looking feverishly for something I can stretch out. Among the shadows cast by the insolent moon, I spot a dry branch sticking out of the snow. I snatch it free from the suction of the lumpy snow and fling myself onto my knees by the water to hold it out to Erik.
‘Grab this!’ I shout. My cry sounds like wordless roaring. ‘I’ll pull you out!’
Erik beats the rushing water with his free hand. His head bounces on the surface, while Henrik’s looks immobile, like a stone sticking out of the river. I try to extend my arms and slither over the bank until almost the whole of my upper body is swaying above a void. Erik lets out a yell – desperate or anguished or merely frantic – and rises partially out of the water, springing out of it backwards in an arched leap. Henrik’s head is in his arms like a loaf clutched by a starving man. Erik clasps the stick I am holding out. I tug with all my might, for a moment I worry that their weight will pull me into the river, but now Erik grabs my shoulder and then the embankment, and I use my last ounce of strength to lie back, tucking my feet underneath myself for grip. I reach forward to seize Henrik’s wet shock of hair. He becomes detached from the river like an exhausted fish and collapses face-first on top of me.
I hear their panting through my own puffing. Henrik starts coughing water onto my face, I shift him off me. I hear sounds approaching from further along the bank. I push myself into an upright position, I sway. The brothers lie on the ground next to each other with their chests heaving, so alike. Anna reaches us and throws herself onto
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