The Willow King Page 4

  Our soul is like a bird

  escaped from the fowler’s snare:

  The snare was broken

  and so we escaped.

  Noting that the Psalm also compared the soul to a bird, Laurentius nodded and read it through to the end, trying not to let any other thoughts distract him. But the stench in his nostrils was constantly reminding him of its presence, like a throbbing pain, which interfered with his concentration and distracted his attention. He stopped reading and rested his head in his hands.

  “Very well,” Laurentius said resignedly.

  With a sigh he opened his case and took out a small bottle containing a dark tincture which was intended only for extreme eventualities. He swigged down half a mouthful and wrinkled his nose. The tincture tasted horribly bitter, but he hoped it would counteract the disgusting smell. He cast a final glance out of the window, and then wrapped himself determinedly in his coat. He had been up for too long; now only sleep could cure him.

  “Bedtime,” Laurentius told himself.

  The birch leaves rustled in his mattress, giving off a barely detectable scent of fresh forest; evidently they had just been replaced. He hadn’t had the chance to sleep on such a decent bed the whole journey; normally all there was for a mattress was a piece of sheeting thrown on top of some trampled, mouldy straw. The last time he slept on a feather mattress had been before setting out on his journey, when he had been awaiting his departure at his godfather’s house. Laurentius curled up in bed, and the events of the past day started to come back to him. The images flashed before his eyes and the fragments of conversation echoed in his ears, mixing with the voices from the public room. As the prattling voices whirled round his head the old man who had grabbed his cage came back to him again and again, and with him came the stench. Even after taking the tincture, it was still wafting into his nostrils. Laurentius closed his eyes tight shut and pressed his face closer to the birch leaves, hoping that their pure scent would drive away the vileness. He tried to imagine a warm summer meadow, a forest glade illuminated by radiant sunshine, with bright, lush greenery all around. He could hear birds twittering and chirping, and bees buzzing. The sky was bright blue, and far above, in the uppermost layers of the humid sphere which was wreathed around the planet, a couple of long flaxen clouds were visible, making the boundless blueness of the heavenly vaults appear even higher. He let himself sink into the rustling grass and lie in wait under the imaginary axis of the azure sphere. He could smell the sweet scent of roses and the powerful woody aroma of thyme. He could almost see the dodecahedral cosmos, ethereal, clear and pure.

  “To sleep, perchance to dream,” Laurentius whispered to himself. But then the ragged old man’s light-blue eyes came back to him.

  The spatter of rain outside started to get louder. Drops of water splashed against the windowpane; the wind roared like a fire in the hearth; there was a clattering and creaking sound coming from somewhere. The lantern hanging above the door outside started swaying violently, its jerky dance casting a trembling opaque light onto the walls of the room.

  Laurentius raised his head in alarm.

  There was a rotten stench flooding in through the wide gap between the window frame and the wall and even the smell of the rustling summer birch leaves couldn’t deflect it from his nose. Laurentius jerked upright and looked angrily outside.

  There was a caped figure standing there. Through the green glass of the windowpane it had a strange, deathly hue, and its hair was stuck to its face and shoulders in dark matted strands.

  Laurentius gazed in horror. The hunched creature was standing at the edge of the circle of lantern light, out in the heavy spattering rain, and it didn’t seem to care that the hem of its cape was floating in a puddle: the water had already soaked into the coarse fibres of the fabric and was moving greedily upwards. Through the rainwater which was flowing down the windowpane the figure’s face was wavy and distorted, preventing Laurentius from catching sight of any expression.

  Without thinking what he was doing, Laurentius jumped up from his bed and rushed through the hubbub of the public room and out through the front door of the inn. But by the time he had got outside into the rain the apparition had gone, and even after splashing about for a while at the perimeter of the lantern light and the darkness, trying to locate the spot where the figure had been standing, he couldn’t see the slightest trace. Nevertheless, he was certain that there had been someone out there, standing and looking longingly in the direction of the guest house, towards the lights.

  “Hey!” someone called out, and the inn door was flung wide open, sending a glaring square of light and warmth flooding out into the muddy yard.

  “Yes?” Laurentius said in response.

  “Have you lost something out there?” the innkeeper’s voice rang out.

  “No, I was just looking out of the window and thought I saw someone standing out here,” Laurentius replied, and started walking back towards the inn door. “Ahh... that will be those locals. It rained all through the summer, and now they’re loitering hungrily outside everyone’s house. The situation is bound to get even worse for them soon.”

  “But what will become of them?” Laurentius asked.

  “What do you mean?” the innkeeper said, seeming not to understand the question.

  But Laurentius just nodded and went back inside. After all, he knew that people starving to death was nothing surprising. It happened everywhere now.

  NIGHT

  I’M STARVING HUNGRY; I’ve got pains all over; my head is throbbing. I lean back against a spruce tree to rest. The thin lower branches prod into me, but at least the thick boughs above catch most of the rain. My clothes are soaking wet; I should make a fire, but where in this weather? Thankfully it’s not far to go now. They say that everyone gets given something to eat in Dorpat. A lot of people have already gone that way—just yesterday I met two girls on the road, rushing there almost merrily. Just as if they had set off a-wooing. They didn’t want to take an old granddad like me with them, of course. And right they were too: I wouldn’t take me as company. My legs are completely worn out. I’m old enough not to believe those stories about free food any more. But there might just be a grain of truth in them this time. Maybe I will get given something to eat there? And anyway, there is more hope of surviving in town than out here in the forest. They haven’t got the better of me yet, ha! I’m a Ugandi man—you don’t get the better of us Ugandi men as easy as that! That’s right, I’ll have a little rest, then onwards.

  In the summer and early autumn, when the berries were ripe, I could just about get by, but since the weather’s turned colder, it’s become completely impossible. The forests are empty; I get sent packing wherever I go; I hardly ever get so much as a drop of spirit to drink.

  I can hear the branches rustling in the gusts of wind; the rainwater is trickling down my collar; there’s no shelter to be had here. There’s a barn over there on that hill, but I don’t dare go up there. During the war the soldiers filled it up with people and set it alight; the onlookers said that evil spirits started flitting about in the flames, taking people’s souls to hell. The soldiers fired at the spirits, but they couldn’t harm them. Hah, everyone knows that only a silver bullet can get them. But ever since, folk have heard cackling and chortling coming from that barn; they say that witches go up there to dance their dances and take people’s souls to the Devil. I’m not afraid of those old hags and codgers; there aren’t really any devils up there. Although best to keep a safe distance just in case. I know they’re just stories, probably just lies, but there might be a grain of truth there somewhere. Even if you never know exactly where, you just can’t put your finger on it.

  My lips are dry; I spit; the mucus catches on my beard and hangs there.

  I hear the trample of hooves, someone whoaing horses, and then a crashing sound. I stand there in the twilight, watching as the carriage slowly tips onto its side, and the bags fall onto the ground...

  I wipe my ch
in with the back of my hand. When you’ve been hungry for a long time you start to see all sorts of odd things—I’ve heard about that. They say you mustn’t believe any of it, that it’s sent by the Devil. But who knows? I’ve seen all sorts. People walking around with dogs’ heads, and whatever you fancy. You see them when you’re hungry. But that carriage over there looks grand: bright colours, big wheels. Who knows for sure if it’s real, or if it just seems to be there?

  My head is hurting; there’s bags lying about all over the place. Right there in front of me there’s some sort of wire cage. There’s an odd-looking coloured bird inside it, small and skinny. I haven’t eaten anything for days, and that bird would be enough for a mouthful. What’s to lose? Let’s give it a try. I force the cage door open.

  Some frightened-looking chap in a hat approaches and whispers something. But I can hardly hear what he says.

  “What do you want?” I snap back in response.

  He whispers something in his soft voice, and it sounds like some kind of witchery. He grabs me by the shoulders; his eyes are dark as dirt, glimmering like coals, and he looks straight at me. I want to look away, but I can’t: there are clouds of fog and shadows in his gaze, and I’m trapped there, helpless like a glow-worm. I can feel him drawing my soul from me, as if he were sucking it out through a straw. Just like I drank birch sap as a child. My head is hurting; I struggle. But then he lets me go.

  “Ai!” I shout out, and I start to run.

  I don’t notice that the cage, the prison woven from wire, is still in my hand. I run, but my legs are heavy; my feet sink into the wet ground and slip about on the grass. I run, but then I trip on some logs, twist my leg, and fall onto the ground, straight on top of something. I’m too frightened to make a move; the wind is roaring, rainwater is dripping onto me, and the ground is cold and damp. I’m lying under the eaves of the barn; there’s a rotten wall right behind me, blackened joists and beams are bristling either side, smearing their blackness onto me. I don’t dare go inside, I’ll be fine here where I am. It’s damp, but at least I have some shelter from the wind. I wait and listen out for footsteps. I can hear grass scrunching and rustling, and some voices whispering faintly. It sounds as if someone is breathing very close by, just the other side of the wall. I wait. I can hear some mumbling and sobbing from inside the barn. Is that witches?

  Some time passes, and nothing happens. I don’t dare to show myself or move about too much, so I start plucking the feathers off the bird right there and then. It’s a small bird, no bigger than a sparrow, but it will be enough for a mouthful, that’s for sure. Its flesh is soft; its bones are fragile—they crunch under my teeth.

  I carefully poke my head round the corner, and it looks like the carriage has disappeared. Was it really there? I feel a churning in my stomach, followed by a sharp pain. Damn, maybe that bird was rotten. Maybe it had already been dead too long. The meat tasted good, sweet; there was no sickly taste of decay. But now I can taste some sort of sourness and bitterness, rising up from my stomach. Like wormwood.

  I feel a pinching pain down there, like cramp. I jump up and grip hold of my stomach. Have I been without food so long that my guts can no longer cope? A couple of days ago I got a crust of bread and a swig of spirit from some inn, so things shouldn’t be so bad. But the cramps don’t seem to be stopping: I’m bent double from pain. I try to hold it back, but something bitter like bile starts seething up my throat. I vomit onto the ground near my feet, and then the bright-coloured bird pops out of my mouth, flaps its wings, and flies off.

  Damn, I’ve been bewitched.

  That man back there bewitched me and my soul just flew out through my mouth. What sort of cage is this? Maybe it’s meant for collecting souls—the souls are locked up inside it. I should probably take it straight back to where it came from. But if that man was the Devil himself, how will I find him now? The carriage is nowhere to be seen, and it’s going to be dark soon. I have to get moving.

  I hear the door creak open, and the voices get shriller.

  I shake my head but everything is still muddled. I shake my fist at the barn, run back down the hill, and start walking along the road. The ruts are deep and full of cold water. No problem if they headed for Dorpat—I can go there too. I was planning to go there anyway—all the more reason if I can get my soul back. That bird is sure to follow him. Although maybe it was someone else’s soul that I just let out of the cage, maybe someone else’s soul just flew off?

  I look round. There are no crows to be seen, no magpies either, not a single bird keeping watch for my soul. What happened just now? My head is aching and throbbing; I’ve got cramp in my stomach. I stumble onwards; the road leads downhill and then turns, passes through some forest and comes to a meadow. A river is visible through the rain, twisting and turning past clumps of bushes; there are sinewy willows with drooping branches on either bank. The dusk is growing thicker; it’s hard to make out the shapes of things; everything has started melting into one. Over yonder, between the trees, I can see a dark shape. It looks like a house, long and low like a coffin. Is that where they went? There’s not a single sign of human life around it, no dogs or horses. Not a single light flickering through the windows. But Dorpat must be close by. I have to push on.

  Is that their carriage in front of the house? It looks like it might be; maybe they stopped there after all. It could just be that I can’t see the light in the windows from where I’m standing. It’s true that if they were delayed they would have set down at the first guest house they came to—what else could they do? Let’s have a closer look what’s down there.

  I carry on down the muddy road; the wind is whistling and whispering through the bars of the cage. Or maybe that sound is coming from somewhere else? I look round, there are trees, willows dripping with rainwater dotted here and there. But it feels as if someone is watching me from behind. I look round again, and think I can make out a crown and a cape over there. Pallid faces, deathly pale, starving lips slightly parted as if trying to utter some kind of warning.

  But no, I can’t let myself believe everything I see. It’s just the hunger, visions—you mustn’t pay attention, they say. Otherwise you end up going mad, hearing voices, running about in rings and biting people. I’ve seen people like that before—people who couldn’t bear the hunger any longer and just gave in.

  No, we’re Ugandi men: you won’t get the better of us that easily. I have to keep going.

  TUESDAY

  LAURENTIUS OPENED HIS EYES and lay there, staring blankly at the ceiling. The beams had been stained dark brown, almost black, by the peat smoke from the fireplace. A carriage drove past outside, and the windowpanes rattled. He could hear the rainwater dripping from the eaves, and the occasional voice hollering something in unfamiliar Estonian. It was morning.

  He pushed himself into a sitting position and groped in his breast pocket for his watch—its single hand was between five and six. Stretched out next to him was a man with long, greasy hair, wrapped tightly in his coat, and smelling of stale beer. Maybe that was what had woken him?

  “Hmm...” Laurentius mumbled to himself.

  The sun had not yet risen and the hazy pre-dawn light was glimmering through the green windowpane. Laurentius never normally got up so early: someone usually had to come and wake him, and even then he would try his best to carry on sleeping. He could never manage to go to bed at the right time, and he was often plagued by insomnia, but once he had finally dropped off he never had any problem sleeping right through to midday. So far in his life he had not developed the discipline needed to get up at the same time every day—it would always depend on circumstances. And those circumstances tended to change quite frequently.

  Annoyed that he had lost at least an hour of sleep, Laurentius closed his eyes and sank back into the rustling mattress. The man next to him carried on snoring luxuriantly.

  “Hopeless.” He already felt completely alert, fully rested. He took out his pocket watch and purposefully started
to wind it up.

  “Why did I wake up so early?” he asked himself.

  He started to feel more and more anxious. Scraps of dreams started seeping back into his lucid morning consciousness. He had the vague feeling that he had woken up because of something which he had dreamt about, but he couldn’t remember what it had been. It had not been a slow, gradual awakening; it had felt more like someone roughly shaking him awake, like being robbed in the middle of the street. Unidentified and unexpected.

  “Now then,” he mumbled, still deep in thought.

  In that brief period when he was no longer sleeping but was still not properly awake, a silhouette of what he had seen must have impinged itself on his memory. Just a blurred recollection, but still recognizable. Through the confused fog he could see one clear image: a river and trees.