We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [223]
"What the hell do you think you're doing, boy?" he shouted, threatening Anton and the rest of us with his clenched fist. "Have you been shooting at the stork?"
But Anton seemed not to have heard. He was staring at the gun in his hand with a look of intense hatred—a look we fervently hoped he'd never direct at one of us. We wanted to scamper, but we didn't feel we could desert him, so we just backed off a few steps. Which left Anton alone on the pavement when Bjørn Karlsen crossed the street with a couple of giant bounds and grabbed him by the neck. He lifted him up by his shirt collar so that his feet dangled in the air, as if he were nothing but a little kid. And perhaps, to a furious, six-foot-five rigger, that's all he was. To us Anton was anything but that. Yet now we began to realize that there were several ways to see Anton. Bjørn Karlsen dragged Anton down Markgade, bawling him out.
"Is this gun yours?" he demanded, and Anton replied that it was. He couldn't be bothered to explain that it was really his cousin's: it was irrelevant now anyway.
"Let me show you what happens to the likes of you," the rigger said.
He crossed Market Square still holding firmly on to Anton. We followed at a safe distance. We couldn't understand why he didn't say anything. No one ever impressed him, and we'd never met an adult the fast-talking Anton couldn't get the better of. Now he seemed indifferent. As for us, a strange, passive curiosity kept our mouths shut. We could have yelled words of encouragement or hurled abuse at Bjørn Karlsen, but we said nothing.
Bjørn Karlsen continued down Prinsegade and along Havnegade and all the way out onto Dampskibsbroen. We met no one on the way. The town was deserted, like a stage waiting for an important and sad event. Perhaps this would be the day we'd witness the fall of Anton.
The rigger stopped at the very edge of the wharf.
"Here's all that this damn gun's good for," he said. Grabbing Shooter from Anton, he slammed it hard against the side of the wharf, splintering the wooden handle. Anton said nothing but continued to stare into the distance. Then Bjørn Karlsen hurled the broken gun out into the water of the harbor, and with a small splash it disappeared below the surface. Karlsen was still holding Anton by his collar; now a he grabbed hold of his trousers too, and with a forceful swing he sent Anton hurtling the same way as Shooter.
When Anton climbed back onto the wharf, he pretended nothing had happened, even though he was soaking wet. He looked at us through narrowed eyes.
"Good riddance to that shitty gun," he said.
There was something he wanted to prove, perhaps to us, but mainly to himself. It had to do with the accuracy of his shot. None of us could fathom how Anton, who'd always been capable of hitting a sparrow from a great distance or a hare running in panic, could miss a stationary stork. So the problem had to be Shooter.
As long as it was Shooter that had missed, and not Anton, his honor was intact. We could follow this line of thought, but we could see no farther.
Next, Anton came up with the idea of shooting an apple off someone's head. He'd do it with a bow and arrow, like William Tell. Obviously, it would have to be done on a windless day. An arrow wouldn't let him down. Bows and arrows were ancient weapons and their accuracy depended on the skill of the archer and not, as in the case of the shitty gun that now lay at the bottom of the sea where it belonged, on some random technical issue. Kristian Stærk would provide the head that the apple would sit on. Who else? It wasn't Anton's style to command his gang members to risk their lives unless he too was in the danger zone. But he and Kristian Stærk were equals. All he had to do was drop the hint, and Kristian would volunteer. He was right. Kristian's ears rocked, as they always did when he was scared, but he didn't hesitate.