Excerpt of He Who Fears The Wolf by Karin Fossum
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A dazzling ray of light slanted in through the trees.
The shock brought him up short. He wasn't ready. He got out of bed, made his way
slowly through the dark house, still half-asleep, and came out onto the front
steps. And there he encountered the sun.
It struck his eyes like an awl. He raised his hands to his eyes, but the light
kept coming, penetrating cartilage and bone, all the way into the dark of his
skull. Everything turned blindingly white inside. His thoughts fled in all
directions, shattered into atoms. He wanted to scream, but he never screamed
because to do so was beneath his dignity. Instead he clenched his teeth and
stood as still as he could on the steps. Something was happening. The skin on
his head began to tighten; a tingling sensation that was getting stronger.
Trembling, he stood with his hands on his face. He felt his eyes being pulled
apart as his nostrils flared, growing as big as keyholes. He whimpered faintly
and tried to resist, but he couldn't stop the violent force. Bit by bit his
features were erased. All that remained was a naked skull covered with
translucent, white skin.
He struggled frantically, moaning as he tried to feel his face, to be sure it
was still there. His nose had turned soft and disgusting. He took his hand
away-he had ruined what little was left, could feel it sliding off, losing its
shape like a rotten plum.
And then it released him. Anxiously he took a breath, and then he felt his face
slip back into place. He blinked several times, and opened and shut his mouth.
But as he was about to move forward he felt a deep pain in his chest, the sharp
claws of an invisible monster. He doubled over, wrapping his arms around his
torso to restrain the force that was yanking the skin of his breast tighter and
tighter. His nipples vanished into his armpits. The skin on his bare chest grew
thinner, the veins stood out like knotty cables, pulsing with black blood. He
was bent nearly double, and knew that he was no longer able to resist it.
Suddenly he split open like a troll in the sunlight. His guts and intestines
poured out. He tried to keep everything in by seizing hold of the edges of the
wound and pulling them together, but it seeped out and ran through his fingers,
collecting at his feet like the entrails of a slaughtered animal. His heart was
still beating, trapped behind his ribs, terrified, pounding. He stood like that
for a long time, bent double and gasping. He opened one eye and cast an anxious
glance down his body. His abdominal cavity was empty. The outpour had stopped.
He clumsily began to gather up what had come out, stuffing it back in with one
hand while he held on to his skin with the other, to prevent it from sliding out
again. Nothing was in the right place; there were strange bulges everywhere, but
if he could get the wound closed, no one would know. He wasn't made like other
people, though this wasn't plain to see. He held on to the skin with his left
hand, continuing to shove with his right. At last he got most of it inside
again. Only a small spattering of blood was left on the steps. He pressed hard
on the wound and felt it starting to close up, breathing cautiously so it would
not open again. The sun was still shining through the trees, its white beams as
sharp as swords. But he was whole again. Everything had happened too fast. He
shouldn't have gone straight from bed out into the sunlight. He had always moved
in a different space, seeing the world through a murky veil that took the sting
out of the light and the sounds coming from outside. He held the veil in place
by concentrating hard. A moment ago he had slipped up, had run out into the new
day without taking stock, like a child.
His punishment seemed unreasonably harsh. Because as he slept on the dark bed,
he had dreamed about something that made him sit bolt upright and then rush
outside without thinking. He closed his eyes and recalled some images. He was
looking at his mother at the bottom of the stairs. Out of her mouth gushed warm
red blood. Fat and round, wearing a white apron with big flowers, she reminded
him of a toppled jug, emptying red gravy. He remembered her voice, always
accompanied by a dark velvety tone.
Copyright © J. W. Cappelens Forlag, A. S. English translation copyright © Felicity David 2003.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced
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