The Brothers

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I have barely caught the crunch of snow and I know who is coming. Henrik treads heavily and unhurriedly, as is his wont, grinding his feet into the earth. The brothers are so different. Erik walks fast, with light steps; he is always in a hurry, here then gone.

The steps pass my cabin and cease. I stand up, go to the door, push it cautiously open. Henrik stands treelike in the middle of the yard. He takes his time, stares at the house. The windows glimmer with light, muffled by the thick curtains. The house looks bigger than it really is, silhouetted against the forest, magnified by the dark. He knows its precise size, of course, and how much grief and disappointment it holds.

If I were in Henrik’s shoes, I would not wish to go in, either; I would not dare. Mind you, hasn’t he been given more courage than is good for a man? He has never been able to control himself, not since he was a child. He is like a crazy horse that needs reining in. But even the most reckless of men will not do some things unless forced, not if the time is not right. Or only if they are cursed with extreme stupidity. But Henrik is no fool. On the move again, he heads for the stable.

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