We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [188]
He was staring at the town that spread panoramically along the coast, searching for a solution to the dilemma that tormented him, when he suddenly realized that he was stuck. He'd strayed from the sandy spit and into the shallow water by the shore of one of the little rush-covered islands.
The muddy ground tugged at him. He pulled back, first one leg, then the other, so hard he nearly lost his balance, but he got nowhere. He felt the icy water seep into his boots. He stared down in disbelief. Then he laughed out loud, a brash artificial laughter, to mock his own folly. He tightened the muscles of his right leg and tried again. With the shift of weight, his left leg suddenly sank deeper. This wasn't quicksand. He wasn't about to be sucked down. He was just stuck. It was nothing. He had to try again. He bent to haul himself up by his boots and nearly toppled over. He was a big man in a heavy winter coat, and he'd lost his suppleness long ago. He was aware that he was growing increasingly desperate, but he still refused to accept that he was in a risky situation. Ridiculous, yes, but not dangerous. What if he was to throw himself forward into the rushes? Would he find solid ground there and be able to drag his feet after him? But he didn't know what lay beneath their dense growth. Perhaps they were rooted in water and the same muddy ground he was now stuck in, in which case he'd only make matters worse for himself.
The sun was approaching the horizon, and with the dark would come the frost. The thought didn't fill him with panic. He just felt like a fool who'd carelessly landed himself in a tight spot. Soon it would be no more than an embarrassing memory. The highest price he'd have to pay for his stupidity would be a cold. Then he felt the icy chill creep up from his feet to his legs. He shuddered for a moment, then slapped at his body to warm it up, but he was soon exhausted. Stopping, he let his arms hang limp by his sides. He couldn't stay here. He had to think of something. He tensed his leg muscles again, but it was no use. The mud wouldn't give.
Everything was casting long shadows now. The mast tops and the riggings threw a spider's web across the rushes. The church tower stretched over the sandy spit and reached the water behind him, and his own shadow seemed to straddle the rooftops. Then the sun disappeared behind a house, and the dark shape of the town swallowed him. Marstal was nearby, but it might as well have been on another planet.
It struck him that for many years he'd observed the breakwater from within the harbor, where it lay like a protective wall. This was the first time he'd actually considered it from the outside. It no longer protected him. It was shutting him out.
He looked around. The darkness seemed to rise from the ground and the sea itself, and he thought of Homer's description of the twilight land of the dead, where all joy is frozen, and realized that this was where he was. He felt the frost as a sharpness against his skin. Soon it would reach all his limbs. For the first time it struck him that he might be about to die.
The stars appeared, and the mud froze between his feet until he was standing in a concrete block of cold. He looked up and saw the North Star, and he thought about Klara Friis. In the last moments before old age closed in on him, he'd reached for youth. But youth was as unreachable to an old man as the North Star on a winter's night. Now he was certain. It was over. His life was about to end as unexpectedly as a ship wrecked in a freak storm.
Numb with cold, he stood motionless in the mud. It was as if he was planning to die on his feet. He thought about Knud Erik, and a sense of warmth filled him. That