The Boat in the Evening Read Online Free PDF Page B

of its wing span as a resting wind, always ready.
    It is the eye that rivets me. I am sure it is asking me certain questions. But mine are probably asking more. My smarting eyes that are sticking out of the moss on stalks.
    But I have seen the dance of the cranes, I say to the searching, slightly arrogant eye. What did I not see there? I ask uselessly. The eye is so clear, so clear, and utterly superior. No one saw how it was during the dance.
    The crane does not stir. Now the other also approaches stepping high, and pauses beside the first. Both of them equally close to the creature in the moss and the windcheater.
    They are equally tall. Each turns one eye towards me, full of light.
    But they have no explanation to give me. That was something I invented in my perplexity. They do not help me. They are big and secure and shy. Yet the disquieting dance is within them, ready to be unleashed. The dance that still continues over there on the marsh.
    The dance that it was so easy to share.
    Their eyes are tranquil lights resting on me, without any message.
    Come closer, I beg them once more, from somewhere deep within me. I am lying in the wet marsh. My heart is pounding against the raw tussocks. It is good and painful, both at the same time.
    They still seem to think they are close enough, standing in their wonderment or whatever it may be. I do not move a muscle, do not lift my face, am nothing but protruding eyes. They are not afraid, but they are careful to have their wings open ready, just in case. I can’t help wondering if they have a line of communication open to me? I can only hope that it is so. An open channel, where we can search for the mystery we share while we walk in the marshes and on the earth.
    The light in the eye is without expression, I now decide. But then I start, for they suddenly take a few paces towards me, and have come so close that I could seize the long, sinewy leg of the bird if I stretched out my arm.
    I do not attempt it. There was a hint of unfriendliness in their movements. Again I cannot help thinking that they could easily put an end to me on the spot if they wished. If they were to begin, the entire savage flock would storm in this direction. If these two were to shriek a warning to the others it would be over in a moment.
    They must not come closer, for then they would trample on me. They do not. I am lying stock-still as if lifeless.
    But I have seen something, seen them in their naked dance—and I manage to stare at them fixedly, trying to keep looking into their eyes. If I were to look down they would perhaps attack, since the change from wonderment to hostility occurred so quickly.
    They must not come closer. Nor must they give warning. Their shriek is horrible and can start a chain reaction in the others. And yet—I want them here, even though my body is tortured and freezing. I say behind my closed mouth: Please. Don’t go. Don’t go for a long time. I must see it all. Don’t go. Do something that will frighten me, if you like, but don’t go.
    As if in answer to this the second bird makes a leap into the air, is airborne and fans its wings wide. Huge. Buoyant. All is air and movement and freedom. It has been wheeling above rushing rows of countries. It is probably only doing this because it is tired of standing still; it will not take off for good. And it settles at once and becomes as still as before.
    The first one stands watching me in the same position. It is becoming a struggle to have that unmoving eye on me, feeling as if I have to answer it the whole time. Soon I shan’t know what to do.
    The marsh has a painful grip on me. I am soaking wet and feel heavy as a stone. The thoughts that awoke during our dance—about knots that would unravel and be illuminated—can no longer be sustained. The huge pair of wings that gave their display—they raised my spirits a little, but not enough, not even enough to get my chin up out of the moss. What