In the Distance

16.

Fall hardened into winter. Håkan had marched on slowly, taking advantage of the last temperate days to compose himself before the inevitable encounter with travelers and settlers. He was glad that by the time he saw the first sign of civilization, it was cold enough for him to wear his coat. It made him feel safe. With each turn of his body, the lion merged, like a fabulous creature, with a fox, a hare, or a gopher. Around the neck and down the chest, the snake’s silver streak.

Some cows surfaced and sank on the horizon.

It was the first time he saw cattle out on the plains, away from the trail. After a while, however, the herd turned in Håkan’s direction. He stopped. Moos and bells. As he was wondering what to do, the drove changed course again, slouching along the skyline. Some time later, a group of riders, shimmering in the distant gleam, came into view—the first human forms Håkan had seen in many seasons. He knew that the wranglers had spotted him, too. They may have hesitated for a moment, but never halted, and soon they were out of sight.

A few days later, Håkan saw a city.

He was unable to tell at what point the road had appeared under him. By splitting them in half, the dusty stripe abolished the sense that the plains were infinite. There was now this side of the road and that side of the road. And at the end of it lay the city.

Several riders, wagons, and even carriages passed him in both directions. He kept his head low and never greeted anyone back. Even if he fixed his eyes on the dirt, he could feel the turning heads and the staring eyes. Like a froth corroding his organs, terror rose within his body. Each time he was about to turn around and gallop away in fright, he forced himself to think of his squalid shelter in the bushes and the bestial life he had led there. If he did not press on, that would be his only other option.

Chin on chest, Håkan made it into town and proceeded down its main street. He could see the small city dissolve back into the plains a few blocks down. The furtive glances from under his brow revealed buildings not too different from the ones in Clangston—simple wooden boxes of up to three stories high, most of them white or unpainted—except for the fact that here, most houses were older than the people walking around them. A few grander buildings were made out of brick. Håkan realized that those were the first brick constructions he had seen in all his years in America. Another source of surprise was the unreasonable profusion of flags, banners, pennants, and banderoles of all kinds and sizes. Later, he would learn that the white stars on a blue field with the red and white alternating stripes was the ensign of the United States of America.

A block or two down the avenue, something changed. The people who until then had stopped to gawk at him now scurried away at his sight, seeking refuge in shops and taverns. Still, Håkan felt everyone staring from behind the dark windows. Was it that he was filthy and wild? Was it his lion coat? Was it that they saw a murderer? To his surprise, his fear momentarily gave way to indifference. He did not mean to stay there. The town, a mere obstacle on his journey east, was just an opportunity to try himself in society, and it would fall behind him forever in a matter of instants.

A saddlery caught his eye. After so much tanning and stitching, he had developed an interest in leather and was curious to see what could be achieved with better materials and tools. There was a pair of boots in the window. Håkan was practically barefoot—his outgrown moccasins, already unable to prevent numbness and chilblains during the previous winter, had been replaced by precarious canvas and leather wraps. Also, New York could be closer than he thought, and he did not mean to go through that big city and meet his brother shoeless. Although these arguments barely convinced him, he tethered his animals and walked into the store, hoping that the money Lorimer had given him would be enough. The delicate bell on the door startled him. As soon as he walked through the threshold and smelled the perfumed wax, he knew he would not be able to stay. The neatly displayed goods, the polished curves of the counter, the lustrous leather, the general sense of order overwhelmed him. He had never bought anything at a shop in his life. What had made him think that going into a store and conducting a transaction in a currency he was unfamiliar with (and was unable to read) was the best idea for his first exchange after such a long period of solitude? As he was getting ready to leave, a door in the back opened, and through it came the shopkeeper, who stopped at the sight of the stupendously tall man. The smile he had brought from the back room did not match the awe that now widened his eyes. Håkan was about to turn around when he saw his own picture on the wall. Could it really be his face? It seemed to be his portrait, under some bold letters and numbers. The drawing was rudimentary, and he had not seen his own face in a long time, but his main traits were there. Surely, it was a coincidence—it had to be someone else. Still stunned by the resemblance, Håkan turned around and walked out.

The street was now deserted, except for three men with their rifles pointed at him.

“Your gun.”

The man who had spoken held out his hand. His hollow cheeks were pitted with smallpox, and his head seemed to simply rest between his shoulders like a ball on a shelf. No neck. A silver star shone on his narrow chest. His voice reminded Håkan of the squeaky tones Linus sometimes used for imaginary forest people, witches, and twig dolls.

“No gun,” Håkan said, surprised to find that language worked.

“Right. And how did you get that lion?”

“I got it.”

“You got it?”

“Yes.”

“Without a gun?”

“Yes.”

“With your bare hands?”

“Yes.”

The man sighed, annoyed, and with a nod asked one of his assistants to search Håkan. One of them made the gesture of walking over, but stopped, visibly afraid, before even setting out. The man, now more irritated, patted Håkan down himself.

“What’s your name?”

“Hawk.”

“That’s him all right,” the man told his companions.

At first the men had been intimidated by Håkan’s height, and now that they knew his name, they seemed even more unwilling to approach him. The man with the star stepped back and all of a sudden hit Håkan in the stomach with the butt of his rifle. He fell in the dirt and was kicked until he no longer moved.

He woke up clutching a fistful of dirt, which made him think that he was still on the street, but he lay on a wooden floor, and gradually, the narrow space resolved itself into a prison cell. Over the scent of lamp oil, it smelled of tobacco, onions, and dogs. His hands were fettered to a metal rod, which, in turn, was chained to the wall. His feet were cuffed. Boots walked about beyond the bars. When he tried to look up, pain brought his head back to the ground. He feared things had been broken, torn, and punctured inside him. Quite some time must have elapsed since the beating, because the blood on his skin and clothes had coagulated into small desertscapes. Slowly, one by one, he tested his limbs. They hurt but did not seem to be fractured.

“He’s moving, Sheriff,” someone said.

More boots came into the room, and they all lined up in front of Håkan’s cell. A jingle of keys, the turning of a lock, someone standing right by his face. Håkan knew it was the neckless man. Someone poked Håkan in the shoulder with the muzzle of a rifle.

“The Hawk,” said the squeaky voice. “The terrible, the famous Hawk.”

After a pause, he added something that Håkan did not understand. Someone laughed.

“So it’s true,” the sheriff resumed. “Your English is bad. Or is your brain soft? Hello? Hello? Hello? Hello?”

Chuckles.

“Tell me. Why did you kill them all?”

Håkan was sucked into an airless abyss. They knew. Everyone knew. Maybe even Linus knew by then.

“No. Wait,” the sheriff burst out, interrupting himself. “Why is not the question. How. How did you kill them all? The brethren, those emigrants, those women, those boys, those girls?”

Håkan heard this from some distant place within himself. He never knew it was so vast and desolate in there.

“You even enjoyed some of them. And still managed to slaughter everyone and flee unharmed. I suppose only a giant, right?”

Snort.

“Another thing I don’t get. Why did you ever leave the territory? No one could get you there. The brethren tried, of course. But where to start? And there’s no law. No law, no crime. Now here. Here we have laws. The laws of the United States. They’re in the Constitution. And you’ve broken most of them. Not to mention the divine laws. You’ll be destroyed and cursed. To come into the States. Ha! It must be your soft brain. You’re going to hang. Upon my soul, I would put you to death myself and burn your beastly bones. But the brethren want you. More money alive. That’s the only reason I haven’t spoiled your features. So they can see it’s you. I even have this tin box here to prove you’re the doctor they say you’re meant to be. The doctor! The giant killer doctor! By Cain’s curse.”

Sniggers.

“Slaughtering good men of God,” the suddenly somber sheriff said. “I can abide an honest murderer. But this? Brethren spreading the good word.” He paused, considering the immensity of the crime. “They sure want you in Illinois. Good men of God.”

Håkan finally managed to turn around and look at the head deposited on the shoulders. It looked down at him with disdain.

“Hello? Hello? Hello? Hello?” the sheriff suddenly croaked in rapid succession.

Laughs.

Space kept swelling within Håkan. He was now an unlit universe. How could he ever have thought the world an enormous place? It was nothing compared to his expanding emptiness. Details that once would have concerned him disappeared into the void. Did the sheriff say he was in a new country? Then where had he been before? Who had fabricated that story about those evil deeds he had not committed? Who were those brethren? All these questions faded behind Helen’s image. She had once touched his hand. Linus looked at him from afar. But these last pictures were shredded into hazy tatters and vanished in the blackness.

“So, the tin box. What do we have here? Little pliers, little knives, little bottles. Funny needles. Thread. You’ve healed so many people. Maybe I can heal you now. Because you’re sick, you know. You have a bad heart. You have a bad heart, and I will fix it.”

Håkan was turned on his back. He realized that he could see only out of one eye. Through a watery veil, he made out the sheriff threading one of his needles with suture.

“I’m no doctor, but I’ll cure your sick heart,” the sheriff resumed after getting the thread through. “Jesus is gone from your heart. That’s why you’re sick. But I’ll stitch him right back there. Grab him, boys.”

The sheriff kneeled over him and stuck the needle into Håkan’s chest, right above his heart. For a moment, the pain obliterated his consciousness, his shame, and his sorrow. But they all came back with his howl. The needle surfaced on the other side, and he could feel the thread burning as it ran through his flesh.

“I know, I know,” the squeaky voice said. “But you’ll feel better.”

Another stitch; another scream.

“You’ll be healed. Purified from the dross of depravity. Cured.”

Another stitch; another scream.

“Dang! That was a rib, right? Say, Doc, should I sew over or under it? Let’s see. Darn it! No. I’ll just have to go over. Hope that’ll do. Just one.” Stitch. “Two.” Stitch. “And.” Stitch. “There. Now we just need to go across.”

Gasping, Håkan stared at a stain on the ceiling that looked like a cloud that looked like a troll. The astonishing pain. The sheriff was the one holding the needle, but the pain was his own. How could his body be doing this to itself?

“Josiah, pour some water here. I can’t see what I’m doing under the slime. All right. We’ll stitch him right back on there.”

This was eternity—this pain, this now with nothing behind and nothing ahead.

“There. Anyone can be saved. You just need to let Jesus back into your heart.”

Before fainting, Håkan managed to lift up his head and see a coarse, irregular cross stitched onto his chest, right over his heart.

A cold, soothing cloth on his forehead woke him up in the middle of the night. One of his captors was gently wiping his brow. He put his finger tips to Håkan’s lips and shushed. They looked into each other’s eyes. There was something imploring and at the same time giving in the man’s gaze. He wiped Håkan’s face and then his chest. Although shorter than Håkan, he was still tall and, judging from the firm hand with which he propped him up, strong. His clearly traced features inspired confidence, as if that orderly and proportional face had been carefully designed by the mind behind it according to its own image.

“I brought your box,” he whispered. “Can you cure yourself?”

Håkan pointed to a salve and with gestures instructed the man to daub it on the stitches. Then he asked him to take the tincture.

“Two drops,” Håkan murmured, opening his mouth.

The bitterness was already a relief.

“I killed those men,” Håkan managed to say under his breath.

“Quiet,” the man said softly.

“But not the girl. Not the friends. Just those men. Nobody else.”

“I know.”

“But I did kill those men.”

He fell asleep in the man’s arms.

The clanging and the pain in his chest woke him at the same time. The sheriff was hitting the bars with a cudgel. Everything was tingly from the drug, as if reality were a limb that had fallen asleep.

“Up! Up! Up! Up! The circus is in town! Up! Up! Up! Up!”

One of his captors, Josiah, giggled. The other one, his benefactor, looked on from a dark corner. The sheriff walked into the cell and unchained Håkan while the giggling man pointed a gun at his head.

“You’ll need your costume,” the sheriff said, tossing Håkan his coat, which landed on his face. “Good Lord, this reeks,” he added as he wiped his hands on the back of Josiah’s shirt.

They dragged Håkan up.

“Asa!” yelled the sheriff. “What the blazes are you doing there? Come over here! The half-wit is a giant, in case you forgot.”

Asa came out of his shadowy corner and helped get Håkan on his feet. They tied his hands with rope, led him, stumbling, down a staircase, and pushed him into the deafening morning light.

The rotten vegetables and eggs hit him before the screams did. Through his single eye, he saw a vociferous mob standing at a prudent distance but close enough to reach him with the garbage they had brought, seemingly for the sole purpose of hurling it at him.

“That’s right!” proclaimed the sheriff, standing on a crate. “That’s him! The giant sinner! Like I said, caught him myself! The giant murderer!”

Insults, hisses, boos. Someone threw a rock. Covering his head with his arms, the sheriff leaped off his crate and got between Håkan and the crowd.

“His face, boys! Don’t let them get his face!” he said to his deputies, who made Håkan duck. “No stones, ladies and gentlemen. Trash only. Remember, we are all with sin. So no stones.”

With a gentle and firm hand, Asa kept Håkan down as long as possible.

“That’s right,” the sheriff went on, dragging Håkan back up by his hair. “The brethren slaughterer! The beast! And just look! Isn’t he truly a beast?”

The sheriff pulled up the lion’s head from Håkan’s back and fitted it on his head, like a hood. His face vanished in the dark.

Gasps and a sudden silence.

“That’s right. Step right up, ladies and gentlemen! Take a look! The very beast that roamed our fields and killed our brethren.” A pause. “All partakers of glory at the time.” He looked at the sky, mournfully, and then, with renewed energy, pointed at Håkan. “But this beast from the underworld! Behold the predacious lion that butchered our flock! He’s not a criminal. He’s an animal! The unhung brute can barely talk. Look at him!”

The crowd stood in silent awe.

“It was I who conquered this Amorite, whose height, as you can see, is like the height of the cedars, and whose strength, you can believe me, is like the strength of the oaks. Now, I, after hunting this malefactor down, will take him to the brethren in Illinois, where he will face the awful majesty of the law.”

Isolated mumbles of approval.

“There, this son of Belial will be tried in a court of law and hanged to death. Now, this bucket here is for donations for the brethren’s gallows. Who’d like to give? Contributions? Here is the hawk that preyed upon our doves. Let us wring its neck. Donations for the brethren’s scaffold? Help cast this unrighteous freak out into the outer darkness, where there’s only wailing and gnashing of teeth. Don’t be shy now!”

One by one, farmhands, homemakers, shopkeepers, school children, and other townspeople approached the bucket and deposited the money inside—never tossing it in, but always placing it carefully at the bottom, as if it could break. Some, mostly women, paused and gave Håkan a furtive glance, but most quickened their step after making their donation without daring to look up at the prisoner.

“Thank you. Thank you all,” the sheriff said as the crowd started to disperse. “Thank you in the name of the brethren.”

He got the money out of the pail, counted it, and secured it in his pocket.

Håkan had not seen his burro since his capture, but they put him on the same horse. It turned out that the stallion that Håkan had taken was dear to one of the victim’s relatives, and there was an additional reward for bringing the fugitive with it—dead, alive, with horse, in increasing amounts.

“You boys can split the horse in half,” the sheriff had said to convince his two assistants to escort him across the state border to deliver the prisoner.

Because Håkan had his hands tied to the pommel and was barely conscious, he was loosely guarded. In the endless expanse, there was nowhere to run, so for the most part, Håkan, too weak and wretched to attempt anything anyway, was left alone. Sometimes, seldom, something like a thought pulsated in the blackness within him. Mostly, he hoped—if those muted throbs in the dark ever amounted to something like hope—that Linus would think that he, Håkan, had returned to Sweden after they had been separated. Or that he thought him dead. These vague illusions aside, Håkan had only a dim awareness of the pain in his chest and of being, again, in the convex plains. But the plunge into senselessness was not solely the result of his maimed mind and his battered body. Every night, at great risk for both, Asa gave him a couple drops of the tincture. It was the greatest kindness anyone had ever done him.

Time had frozen within him, but somehow external reality seemed to move, shred, and disintegrate into nothing at great speed, like fast-sailing clouds. There was only a tenuous connection between his inner vacuum and the rags of reality flapping intermittently around him—flickers of understanding (this was his body, that was not his body, this hand could touch that hand, this hand could not touch the sun).

Most of what happened during those days was told to him later.

They reached a town. Håkan was paraded down its main street.

“Come and see!” the sheriff announced. “The brethren killer! Come and see the beast! Caught it myself! Like the valiant Benaiah, who struck down both a giant and a lion. Step right up, ladies and gentlemen! Just look! He must be five cubits tall, just like the Egyptian giant. And he is fierce, just like the lion in the snowy pit.”

They stopped in front of a tavern. The sheriff put up the same placard Håkan had seen at the saddler’s.

“That’s right! Spotted him over Winthrop’s Creek. Snuck up on him. Shots were fired. We emptied our guns. He had a knife, but I threw some dirt in his eyes and disarmed him. Then I overmanned him in single combat. Look at him! A beast, verily! I almost got myself killed, but if he’s big, I’m cunning. Like the king of Israel against the giant Philistine! But unlike David, I couldn’t take this Goliath’s head because the brethren want it. Yes, we’re taking him to Illinois, where he’ll get a fair trial and hang. Now, this bucket here is for donations for the brethren’s gallows. Who’d like to give? Help send this sinner down into the lake that burns with quenchless fire and brimstone. Contributions? Let’s feed him to the undying worm. Let’s make sure this monster does no more violence to the earth we tread upon, to the air we breathe, and to the heavens that shelter us. For the brethren’s scaffold? Come on, don’t be shy!”

He pocketed the money, rolled up the placard, and led his men and the prisoner out of town.

Back in the wilderness, there was little talk. When Håkan refused to eat, the sheriff said that he would be blasted if their food went to waste on an animal that surely preferred scraps and trash anyway. Håkan simply sat there, abstracted and slightly wide-eyed, as the garbage after every meal was dumped upon his lap, to Josiah’s always fresh amusement.

After a few days’ travel, as another small town started piling up on the horizon, the sheriff had his party dismount and asked his assistants to hold Håkan tight—an unnecessary precaution, given his soft inertness. He weighed a few pebbles in his hand and finally found one around which he could wrap his fist firmly. Then he spat, looked up at Håkan, and swung with all his might. Håkan’s cheekbone burst open like a plum. The blood hesitated briefly in the gash before pouring out.

“But what? Hey!” was all that Asa could utter as he recoiled with surprise and disgust.

“What?” the sheriff asked icily.

They mounted, rode on, and got to the town, where the sheriff, once again, displayed Håkan and told everyone how he, single-handedly, had captured that most wicked of Nephilim, even though the demon had charged at him like a ravening and roaring lion. This time, Håkan had a fresh scar to show for his captor’s valor and strength. The sheriff made sure to point at it as he asked for donations.

As they were leaving, on the last block of the short road, a small shop arrested the sheriff’s attention. The window glistened with gems of every color and pearls of all sizes set in gold and silver necklaces, watches, rings, brooches, lockets, pocket guns, tie pins, wristbands, and cigarette cases. Because it was so small, the store looked like a jewel box—a dazzling little world that could only be looked at but never entered. Nonetheless, the sheriff ordered everyone to stop, dismounted, straightened his clothes while discreetly looking around for bystanders, and walked into the jewelry shop.

His men waited under the sun for a good while.

Finally, he emerged from the shop wearing a smug smile and a gold watch chain that dangled from one of the buttonholes in his waistcoat before diving into the fob pocket.

Back out in the plains, the sheriff took some of the money from a pouch hidden deep under his clothes and called his men.

“Here, boys. A little taste before the reward.”

Josiah took the money with meek greediness, giving profuse thanks. Asa rejected it with a polite but almost invisible gesture and turned around before the sheriff had time to release the wrath gathering in his face. After this incident, Asa and the sheriff barely exchanged a word for days. Meanwhile, Josiah and his boss grew closer, the former showing the most abject and sycophantic submission to the latter.

They continued their journey over the plains. Håkan still refused to eat and, despite Asa’s gentle entreaties, consented only to having some water. After a few days, they arrived at another town, where the sheriff, once again, put Håkan on display next to the placard and gave a detailed account of the capture. This time, the sheriff, through his tremendous heroism, had managed to defeat not only the Behemoth but also several laws of nature in the process. People gave generously.

Håkan, now too weak to stay in his saddle, had to be tied to the horse. He would not take any food. They had even given up teasing him with the scraps and the garbage. Had the sheriff not made those detours to stop at the last two towns, they would already have reached the brethren in Illinois. When the sheriff announced that they were headed for a city that took them in the opposite direction, Asa finally spoke up.

“It would be a sin to have this thing executed without making an example out of it,” the sheriff explained. “Before we take him in, I intend to edify everyone in every town between us and the brethren.”

“And make good coin while at it.”

“Watch that tongue of yours, you rascal.”

“He’ll die.”

“Of course.”

“Before we get there.”

“I’ll guard him.”

“No. Of hunger.”

“Bah!”

“He’ll never make it. Look at him.”

The sheriff was not a man to take orders from anyone, so it was despite himself that he turned to the heap collapsed on the ground. And it was also probably against his will that Asa’s words sank in. He grabbed Håkan, propped him up, and then shoved a spoonful of leftover grits into his face.

“Get up, you stinking sack of sins! Eat!” he squealed, prying Håkan’s mouth open and stuffing in the food, which just lay there, unswallowed. “Eat, you reeky, hell-hated reprobate!”

Håkan, covered in food, did not seem to feel the hand that slapped him back and forth across the face.

“Stop,” Asa commanded.

The sheriff did not deign to respond. Instead, he pointed at Asa’s chest with a firm finger and glared at him sternly. Josiah, dumbfounded, took a few steps back and looked on. Muttering to himself, the sheriff walked over to his horse, rummaged through one of his saddlebags, and returned with Håkan’s tin box, from which he produced a scalpel. He leaned over Håkan with the spoon in one hand and the scalpel in the other.

“A notch in your flesh for each uneaten spoonful.”

Again they tried to feed him; again the food dribbled down his chin and onto his chest. The sheriff pushed up Håkan’s sleeve and carved a deep line into his forearm.

“One.”

The pale white of fat and bone was visible for a moment, but soon the gash filled and overflowed with blood.

“Here comes two,” the sheriff squeaked, sticking the spoon into Håkan’s mouth.

“Sheriff!” Josiah cried.

The sheriff turned around to find Asa pointing a gun to his head, which, twisted back, looked more than ever like a shapeless ball on a trunk. They stared at each other in silence.

“Asa, Asa, you’ll hang.”

“Stand back, Sheriff.”

“Oh, Asa, Asa,” he said with ostentatious calm, but his wrath was as solid as a body.

“I’m taking him away.”

“Oh, Asa. When the brethren hear about this.”

“Yes, when the brethren hear about this. And they’ll hear it from me. I’ll take this man to them directly and tell them how you’ve profited in their name. I’ll tell my uncle. The elders will listen to me.”

“Here’s my money. All of it. Please take it,” Josiah said. Stunned with fear, he threw the money on the ground, as if it had suddenly turned into a snake or a spider.

“You must be moon-hit,” the sheriff hissed, eyeing Asa narrowly.

“Lord knows plenty of people saw you take that money,” Asa continued, ignoring the sheriff’s interruption. “They gave it to you in the first place. You will claim you took it in good faith, on behalf of the elders. I will send them to that watchmaker of yours.”

“You mean to keep the whole reward to yourself, don’t you? You covetous misbegotten hound.”

“Plattsville’s the closest town. Five days on foot? By the time you get there, I’ll have told the elders everything.”

“I will dismember you, feed your limbs to the pigs, and piss on their excrement.”

“No, you won’t. You’ll run. They’ll come after you. You’ll hide.”

For a moment, the sheriff’s features, contracted and twisted by anger, revealed that he knew Asa was right.

Asa covered the sheriff’s and the assistant’s heads with sacks and then helped Håkan mount. Dulled by the burlap, Josiah’s incoherent implorations were a soft, wet mumble. The sheriff, his sharp voice cutting through the sack, told him to shut his mouth. Once ready, Asa rode off with Håkan by his side and the two other horses in tow. The sheriff took his hood off and hurled insults at the riders, but they were already so far away that his shrill imprecations seemed to be addressed only to the plains. Josiah still had the sack on his head when they vanished from sight.