Ice Trilogy (86 page)

“Are you flying together?”

“Yes, yes! He’s losing consciousness again. Help m
e..
.”

The old man’s hand unfastens my seatbelt. And it doesn’t shake at all.

I open my eyes. I’m in a large room. The windows are shuttered. The ceiling’s high. I’m naked, strung up on the wall. My arms are bound with steel and rubber. My legs are tied. Two people sit across from me. One of them is the old man from the bar. The other is young, muscular. There’s a long metal case in front of them. What’s inside? I can imagine. A chain saw? I’m in for it. Seriously in for it. My head’s empty. I’m calm. I can recall the details. They nabbed me, like a rube. That old goat slipped something in my beer when I was leaning over to pick up the lighter. Very simple. I tense my muscles. Test my strength. The old man stands and approaches. He comes up close. I see his face in front of me. Brave, wrinkled, slightly tanned. His dark blue eyes study me from under swollen eyelids. There’s not a trace of expression on his face.

“How are you, Hugo?” he asks in English.

Whoa! He knows my real name. For everyone else Hugo van Baar died in Croatia and was immediately buried near Vukovar. What else does he know?

“Everything,” the old man said. “We know everything about you. You’re a hit man and you just killed a man in Vienna; then you were going to fly to Stockholm to pick up your money. Twenty thousand Euros. That’s you in the present. We know your past as well. We know, for example, that as a boy you hated your stepfather and once poured sugar into the gas tank of his motorcycle so that he’d crash. Your stepfather didn’t crash, instead he flogged you with a flyswatter. A flyswatter made of gray plastic. We know that you were afraid of hedgehogs. We know the name of your first girl — Elise. It took place in the forest, near the gulf. You were in too much of a hurry. At fifteen, that happens.”

The old man stopped talking and walked away. Who are these people? How do they know all of this? My mother? She died of cancer in 1994, and she didn’t know about Elise. Only Elise and I knew about Elise. Who told them? Elise? She’s been in America for a hundred years. What about my stepfather? Mother couldn’t have told him. Who are they?

“We are your brothers, Hugo,” the old man said. “Soon we will awaken you. And you will become entirely different. Your life will begin again. To make it easier for you to awaken, remember the dream you had as a boy on the Zaelmans’ farm. The dream about the dark blue apple. About the dark bl-lu-luuue apple. Remember, Hugo van Baar.”

And suddenly I remembered. That dream! I’d completely forgotten. For eternity! An incredibly powerful dream — it shook me through and through. I was seven. My mother was still living with my father. One time we went to the Zaelmans’ farm. They had cows and sheep, two dogs — Rex and Whiskey — and two kids named Maria and Hans. We played with the children and dogs all day long. And I was so caught up in one of the games that I got flung chest forward into an old seeding machine that had been left to rust in the burdock and weeds. I fell against it so hard that I almost fainted. The metal slashed my chest and I was bleeding. It was a serious wound, and Zaelman drove Mama and me into Assen so they could bandage it up right. In the clinic they put me on a table, gave me a shot of anesthetic, stitched me up, and bandaged the wound. I dozed off on the way back. And I dreamed that we were returning from the clinic to the Zaelmans’, riding in their old red jeep. Everything was so realistic, so tangible, like I was awake: Zaelman was driving the car, Mama was sitting in the back with me, I put my head on her lap, the wind blew through the windows, and I could smell all the smells. The car suddenly braked — I raised my head and saw that Mama and Zaelman were sleeping a deep sleep. I got out of the car, saw the Zaelmans’ house, went inside, and realized that everyone in the house was asleep, the people and the dogs, and outside the cows and sheep were sleeping, too. Everyone and everything around me was sleeping, sleeping, sleeping. It was dead silent all around and only I was awake, I could walk and look and touch everything; I entered the living room, Maria and Hans were sleeping in the armchairs. Suddenly I saw a blue apple on the table; I walked over, picked it up, and realized that it was ice cold, but it felt
very
good to hold it in my hand, and I held it to my chest, which ached and burned, and it felt
so
good, everything felt so fresh and open that I began to sob in ecstasy, because sometimes things could be
so good
,
so
terribly good
, and I realized that as long as I had the blue apple I would feel good, but I also understood that it was made of ice and it was melting, and that when it melted I would
never
feel so good again. I held the apple, but it was melting and dripping, and with every drop I was losing
the good
, losing it forever, and I sobbed like I’d never sobbed in my life, and I woke up because Mama was afraid I’d make myself sick sobbing in my sleep like that, but I was sobbing because that
marvelous
dream was fading and it would NEVER come again.

“There now, you’ve remembered!” the old man grinned and nodded to the strong fellow. “Go ahead.”

The guy opened the long case. It contained a piece of frost-covered wood that had been fastened to a chunk of ice. An ice hammer. Roaring, I jerked forward with all my might, but the bonds held. The young man picked the hammer up, swung back, and hit me in the chest with all his strength. It hurt. I couldn’t breathe. I stiffened from the terrible pain in my chest. He hit me again and again. Then I lost consciousness. And awoke because my heart
spoke
:

“Noadunop!”

If ye ask
, Mother Earth will sweat secret, ’course she will. She’s kind and good when ye pray right, hush-hush. Ask on the sly: Mama Damp Earth, spread out, open up yer damp. Kiss her like ye was her son, on the Face, on the Chest, on the Shoulders, on the Womb where the essence damp runs. Waitin’ll be needful, snuff up the secret sap. Touch yer forehead to the ground and pray all the way: Mama Earth, open yerself ever and anon. That’ll be yit. And then she’ll start sweatin’ and swellin’ all soft. And that’ll be yit. When the Earth sweat comes seepin’, seepin’, seepin’, seepin’ out middlin’ and fluider, then say yer thanks: Mama Earth, thanks be to ye now and forevermore, on account of ye are, were, and will be till the end of days. That’s whatcha gotta do, ’course ye do. And then slide yer hands into her gentle, don’t go scaring her, don’t force yit, no tricks now, take yer time, don’t press any filthy hurrish, don’t shove that damned upsider smutter. Mother Earth don’t respect that putrid damned hurrish. No she don’t. Just take yit sap slow, peaceful like, and do yit all proper, just right. So that Earth’s hush-hush sweat don’t droll off, the shrivel dry don’t come back. Yer hands is in, then a little pressure, keep yit up so’s yit feels good. And do the first parting teensy little by little, orphanish, like a chillun without a mama. Sorta awkward, seesaw, seesaw, sweaty, timid, that’s what. So her feelings don’t get hurt. So she don’t belch none. So she lets ye in and takes pity on ye, that’s what. So she does yit in secret. Finish the first parting to all the way, good and true. So she can feel yer fresh, soft nature. So she accepts yit with her damp. As soon as she lets ye in — then ye make the second parting, that’s what. Real strong this time, like a grown-up, a thristow. So she c’n size up yer power. Then she’ll letcha in and yit’ll all be finely. Ye can live inside her flybe-like, homelike, in a good warmly big bosom, that’s what. Yit’s better than any house ’cause yit’s a sight warmer and honester, yep. And here ye don’t need nothin’ from upside above even in yer thoughts. The soul’s got peace and the body can rest, yit ain’t hanging up in the air. An’ if ye finish the second opening real good — then dive into the Earth and swim wherever ye need, just swim, like a slippery, greasy sliver of soap. Mama Earth will rub ye down with her inside oils, and off ye go. Down deep if ye want, where there’s nuthin’ but Earth. Upside above if ye like, where there’s big ole roots and stones, when ye need ’em. Or iffen ye fancy — into the empty spaces, into the leftover cracks. When I managed to go far into the Earth, flybe away from the damned, shifty, the liars upside, firstly I respected the deep and did like I should oughta, that’s what. Yit’s easy, whoop and hide from the damned world with the Earth’s fat. The deep shields and protects ye from everthing; yit’ll cover and warm ye, yit’ll give yer soul a good scrubbing, and make yer body so strong yit’ll have peace for the ages and all time to come. The deep is good for most anything: dreams and prayers and them obscene lardious mechanics. But the deep won’t keep yer belly full, no body-food down there. That’s right. So ye cain’t stay in the deep too long, that’s what. The body wants food. And the soul — prayer. Mother Earth gives good food and feeds ye well. But the food is up above, under the rootstocks and grasses and sweet trees, oh so sweet. The food is up there, near that putrid world of filth, the surface. Lie long as ye like and rest up in the deep, gather yer peace and calm — and slither on up there like a flybe just right, that’s what. There’s sweet roots, bulbs, and there’s live critters abiding their time in the Earth. At first I liked to catch blind mice and take my time sucking their blood, sure ’nuf. Them blind mice moles blood’s got power for parting the Earth the way ye ought should. But only if yit’s sucked out sap-slow, hush-hush, just right. Mole blood is powerful. On account of the blind mouse clan’s been swimming just so in the Earth for ages, makin’ little flybes along all the ways. I strangled moles in their burrows, dug up their passages and nurseries. I ruined their secret dens so’s I’d be strong. So’s I could flybe the Earth. So’s I’d know how to behave myself and be right way in the Earth. I pulled worms outta the tilled land upside there, what feeds all the whores. I dug up wood lice and snails outta the forest rot, sidled up and caught ’em, bugs and beetles, that’s what. Yanked the roots of sweet grasses down, gnawed on ’em. No hurry, I chewed them roots and bulbs cud slow, praying and thanking the Earth good and well for my food. Grass roots have energy and important juices, mighty, pure-bred, skin-tight. Yit’s energy for the parting, for the breach, the swim-through sailing slice, the ice breaking, and the grass roots have whoa, that much and more. Just the right strength. Roots are friends with them worms and blind mice, they give ’em their strength with milk and blood, that’s their willful, why not. They feed ’em in secret, peeling off the layers. And me, I’m friends with all of ’em, strong friends, good friends, with all of ’em that feed my flesh in secret, steep and popping, who make my armbones hard and strong as rock, who keep the goddamn above upside away from me so the vermin of the bright light cain’t find me. Everone who helps me flybe burily is my friend. And everone who boulders is my enemy. Right away the Earth’s deep togged me real good, no let up, needy. I dived right down into the deep for an age, snorted and sniffed, dug my heels in yit. I snuffled about hush secret, from the innards side. I did the spreading coredeep. The earth there is strong, lardy, thick. At first I scrambled together the power in the deep to keep yit, I sucked with my nose, I shuddered, drew in the Earth’s juice, strengthened the might of my spirit and flesh all out. I rested in the deep, and Mother Earth’s lard scrappled all the disgusting blasted mold the brightlight vermin left on me, cleaned me off squeaky. I cursed the bloody world upperside, that’s what. I understood the essence of the World cowlly, by the eternal graten need. The essence of the Earth that holds the Sky and Stars and the Upper World, and the two-legged, four-legged, six-legged, and the multi-legged. And that’s how yit oughta be, an eternal support, a cubic. Mother Earth supports and holds. I recognized growinged, and my guts learned the good rules of life in Mother Earth, the powerful, the stronged. But I didn’t ken right off that not just to dive into the sweet Earth but to think long and gravenlyish about the good Secret. Ye need to search for a resting shelter. An onlyed lone one. Broke off from everthing else. I crawled and slithered, snifflying under the plowed fields and the forests. I flybered into places where the ground is crumbly, and that’s how I skirted those bloody cities, stone upfaces, secret boulderal deepths. I strengthened my flesh-might with the worm, the mole, in the furrow grooves, taking my time. I did the breaches and the inrushes in ferocious cloutings, with the right moan, the fatty one. Then I moved the under stones, raked the roots earthfast, with a thrust not a grab. I excreted the digested gifts of the Earth with gratitude, with hush-hush, with innard prayer, and then I flybered farther, farther, farther, that’s what. Not down the deep, but just under the roots, upwardly. Juicy and simple, the lardly way! Sometimes I heard the noise of the bloody world, filthy and brightlight. And the steps of two-legged vipers disturbed and troubled my spirit, wombed yit inside. Their voices, their vexations and knocks drilled into my body. From upperside fear and spirit rot yowled and descended, drippled furious from the nastified upper cities, then flowed down to the bottom dwellers in a wide fan of perdition, that’s what. And there the two-leggerds writhed, strained, dangerously and brightly. They controlled false, dubious worlds for evil, pecked, grouged, and chiseled. The bright foul pests worked themselves bone naked and seduced their others endlessly, tirelessly, and juicily with lies. They shook clattered and built in preessing, destroyed in stench and devoured greedily. They sucked the strength from one another through generations, detachingly, with brutal mercilessness, hurrily, that’s what. And a bloody damn tremor seeped outta the breached cities. Under the roots my nonmetallic body trembled, so there ye have yit. I could just feel the herding masses of two-leggerds bright bloody, they scattered the Countenance of Mother Earth with their foul hooved legs. I felt how they tortured her in scamper, tore at her with their sickly, hammered into her, and how she shuddered secretly and openly. How they wailed with rage of their damn entrails. How they built the bloody upside world. I skirted the cities. Swam around the villages. Laid a path down around the filthy nastily multitudes. I flybered furrowed just a little at a time, under the roots. In tears I entreated Mother Earth and prayed to her for the supple yielding. And she parted for me, sweating secret, for me alone, her beloved, her hush-hush. She let me pass through the underground marshes and between stones. My arms strengthened with this. My arms acquired eternal might. There were no hindrances, no hurdles. The oak roots cracked, the stones slid from their places, natural springs collapsed, the Earth slid yits stress. Mother Earth helped me acquire solitary, find a secret place for peace and prayer, that’s right. She sweated and her flesh parted, letting me through without obstacles, rushing me through, me her grousling. I felt the fertile flesh of Mother Earth. I licked her secret underground sweat with a trembling tongue, sobbed from the languor of destroying hindrances, I scribbled and morrumbled, bled the underground lard. With a wombish moan I thanked her for her suppleness, wailed inside her from joyous belonging. I inhaled through my nostrils. Bellowed wombly without wicked words. I believed Mother Earth. Loved her stronger than myself. Relied on her fiercity. I directed the parting sweaty. I steamed on the underground of the filthy uppersiderds. Where they live and make their secret works, terrifying works to a quiet, solitary nature. I skirted those underish places, kept to the side, turned back. I flybered farther and farther around the Earth. I swam in deep and shallow. I flybered into the place where the filthy ones bury their dead. I made a parting and flybered between the bodies lying in the Earth’s Flesh. Their bodies exhaled foul decay. Putrefaction and stench poured out of ’em, foul pus drippled. Mother Earth she withstood everthing, swallowed everthing humbly, lying down, what else? Fear turned me from touching the bloody remains. Foul upsider life slept in these bodies, burbled and ailed, remembered the horror of abominable affairs and the creations of the upsiders. I howled a howl, too, kissed my beloved clods, squiggled ‘n’ squirmed deeper down, salted myself cautiously and sniffed morcably. I looked for my own. I steamed in the bloody underground depths where they carried out their secret orrites. Where they manufactured and bulldrilled their killing machines to kill each other. Fear and trembling goosebumped me, I had to salter down and sweat, what else? I only rubbeled myself down with Mother Earth’s lard, very careful, yes I did! The foul ditches breathed pain, rumbawled, desired. But I round-flybered the loathsome wanting, swam to my own, to the good. I swam and swam across the Earth. And sweatingly flybered a proper path. And came to the enormous, empty edgels. That’s where the filthy upsider crawlers pulled what they needed out of Mother Earth. They broke and bruised and gouged for a long time, and took away and rottled, and tore Mother Earth to pieces in a hurry, foully. They pulled out Mother’s cover, sucked out her prosperous entrails, an’ did everthing foully, glumily. Then they left and left the emptinesses. I entered those Mothery hollows, stood up straight, that’s what I knew was needed and what wasn’t. And I found myself a secret place, an earned place. I set myself a quiet shelter there. I figured those hollow emptinesses that filth suckled out I’d fill with prayer to Mother Earth, that’s what. In the hollows yit’s easier for me to make the Great Prayer, and in earthly flesh, a Lesser Prayer, that’s what. Because if ye want a Great Prayer ye hafta separate yerself from the earth, but a Lesser can be sternally and steenly make do with a snovel, straight off. I didn’t flybe in the emptinesses, I just prayed and leaned motionless, cumbersome. I knew what I was doing. I understood the ambush, the salimnity. I rolled up in a little ring flybe so’s I could feel and touch the Earth’s body, so to pray with all my meat, yellatedly, that’s what. I took the Earth in to the very end. And I was happy innardly and flybely. I could have lived like that in the forevermore ages to the very edge of Mother Damp, but the Earth parted. The upside whores penetrated. They crashed the calm. Blinded with upper light. Caught with a net. They tied and hauled, sucratly, furiously. I fought with ’em, with my arms, powerful from flybering. I wounded the whores and teared the nets. But they swathe me in foul metal. They bustled stubbornly, stickyly. They jump on me dense. I roared and teared at ’em. I prayed to Mother Earth. But no help came — they torn me away from the under lard, took me away from the innards, from the damp. They stretched me out with cruel steel to still me. They stole my moving craftily, foul. They speak among themselves in a verminous language I don’t understand anymore. They shatter the edges of the Earth with disgusting sounds. They surround with the cunning of force, that’s what. They ready tricky, terrible, unintelligible deeds. I pray and tense with all my strength. They take a hammer a tiny little iceslick out of a steel box whorishly made. They beat me with the iceslick in the chest and I’m stretched out and popping. They beat me hard and winnding. They beat me hard and swift. And my heart
speaks
to ’em.