Spark

h robsson o

Description

He steps off the train and they're there, watching and waiting, anticipating the moment when his head will turn and their eyes will meet. But there are too many people. The platform's crowded and for ten seconds nothing happens, until suddenly somebody moves, a gap opens up and he sees them off to his right. There's a pause, then they start to run. Eva with the dogs, Kristoffer with his bags, the four of them pushing through and around people, desperate to be together once more. They hold each other tight, breathing each other in. It's been too long. He reaches down to the dogs and she whispers into his ear that everything's fine now, everything's great. He nods his head and picks up his bags. She uses the word four more times before they reach the car. It seems everything's great. Except something's wrong. Enchanting and calming, 'the spark' is o h robsson's classic tale of life and love, set amidst the breath-taking beauty of Norway's west coast. Exclusive to this ebook edition are two behind-the-scenes photo galleries, and an in-depth author interview.

Informations

• Publié par: eBookPartnership.com
• Date de parution: 22 février 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781783010264
• Langue: English

Extrait

the spark
a novel by
o h robsson

Voss, Norway, MMXII.

QED stands for Quality, Excellence and Design. The QED seal of approval shown here verifies that this eBook has passed a rigorous quality assurance process and will render well in most eBook reading platforms.
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formatted by eBook Architects
copyright © o h robsson , 2012
The right of o h robsson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in
accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form,
or by any means electronic, mechanical or photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the
express permission of the publisher and author.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-78301-026-4
cover image © Maja Rokavec
inside cover image © Ganjar Rahayu
4% of the profits of ‘the spark’ go to WVS , a charity dedicated to
helping animal organisations all around the world.
‘the spark’ is a paper-free publication
thanks to so many, for helping so much

contents

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32
special features
kristoffer’s world
o h robsson’s world
quick questions, rambling answers
autumn
one
I can only look out into the world through my own eyes. I can never borrow someone else’s eyes and see what they see. I understand this. I understand that a thousand pairs of eyes may view the same thing and reach a thousand different conclusions. So I’ll do exactly what she asked me to. I’ll be impartial. Objective. Say just what I see and not a thing more.
I can see it’s not even that late, but it already looks like the sun has given up for the day. Slumped low in the sky, it seems tired, as though it’s coming to the end of a long year. Shadows from semi-naked trees are making stripes across the rocky hillside, the vibrant colours of their dead leaves the only bright thing in an otherwise darkening landscape. It seems strange that they should look so much more alive in their death, but for some reason they do.
It’s a beautiful scene, a postcard moment, as though time of day and time of year have conspired to bring out the best in each other. Even the movement of the river dropping from left to right in the background takes nothing away from the feeling of peace and tranquillity that lies in front of me.
And for a few moments it continues like this.
Then suddenly the harmony of the scene is disturbed. A small head pops out from the side of a boulder, maybe ten metres from the riverbank. The face looks dirty, dishevelled. But it’s the eyes that grab my attention. Wide open, darting from side to side, they appear to be searching for something. Seconds later, another head emerges alongside the first. Same appearance, same eyes. There’s a look of raw fear branded across their small faces and I don’t know if it’s their size or their appearance or both, but I’m immediately struck by how vulnerable they seem.
The top of a nearby boulder disintegrates, followed almost instantly by the sound of rifle fire and the reason for their fear becomes suddenly obvious. Two heads become two bodies, and in a rush of movement they begin running in blind terror, side by side. In their panic it looks like they’re making easy targets of themselves. It’s horrible to watch because I can already see what’s going to happen even though it hasn’t happened yet. One of them manages to run for just a few metres before being struck down, a single bullet ripping into its body.
More rifle fire crackles through the air, and the second gains new energy. But it’s not enough. It could never be enough. Even the fastest animal on earth can’t outrun someone with a rifle, and this is not the fastest animal on earth. The second small body is lifted up into the air as a bullet strikes it, dropping back to the ground like a dead weight.
In the distance, three men appear. A rifle is raised. A head is thrown back. A hip flask glints in the dying afternoon light. Three hunters celebrating their kill. The end of a successful hunt.
From somewhere out of sight but somewhere nearby I hear the sound of vomiting. Then nothing. Silence. And slowly, bit by bit, the pieces begin falling into place.
At long last, I finally understand.
spring
two
The petrol warning light flickers on. Then off, then on. Hesitantly, as though it’s not really sure how much petrol I have left. I try to take this as a good sign, but it’s not easy. History is not on my side. It’s not many months since I last ran out of petrol and I can still remember arriving back at my car with a heavy petrol can at my side, only to find that my girlfriend was no longer waiting patiently in the car. Instead, a short note was waiting silently in her place. ‘You’re not right for me. Or me for you. Please don’t call or write. It will be easier to get over you that way. Have a great life, I wish you all the best, Louisa.’ I smile to myself. She was right, and it was a brave way to do it.
Below me, the road twists and turns until it reaches the valley bottom, where it dissolves into a white mist. I know roughly how far it is to the nearest petrol station. It’s roughly a long walk, a walk I really don’t have the energy or enthusiasm for right now after a long day outside. I can’t decide if I should just drive faster so that I can run out of petrol sooner and begin the walk sooner, or if I should drive more slowly and economically and see if I can make the petrol last longer. For now I decide to cut the engine during the descent, and I roll down and around the bends in a smooth silence.
The petrol warning light disappears as the flat valley floor arrives and I begin to wonder if maybe today will be my lucky day after all. I take a moment to glance around at the steep sides of the U-shaped valley that surrounds me. It’s like something out of a school geography book, complete with a lively mountain stream running alongside the road. It’s full to the brim with melted snow and for a while we run side by side, each rushing to get home in our own different ways.
The mist is lying in wait for me. Less than two hundred metres ahead, it’s clinging to the valley sides and swallowing everything beyond, giving the lower part of the valley an eerie, almost supernatural effect. Days like this, it’s all too easy to understand how the legends of trolls thrived for so long in this part of the world, the stories of their sightings passed on from family to family, generation to generation.
I reach the edge of the mist and it’s like going from above water to below water. Within seconds I’ve left behind the big blue sky I’ve spent the day with, and entered a new world of muted greens and pastel shades. A pale grey ceiling of cloud moves above me, the horizon only a few metres away, then moments later it’s a hundred metres away.
I feel like I’m driving through a landscape painting. Even an artist exaggerating the scene couldn’t paint a better picture than the one wrapped around me. I should stop and take some photos. It’s the sort of picture that’s impossible to plan, so when it appears like this before me I should make the most of it, even if I am tired and hungry and running out of petrol. I should at least try to act like a professional.
Suddenly, ahead and to the right, the faint outline of a figure appears. My heart wakes up and begins pounding. I can’t ever remember seeing someone out here in the middle of nowhere. I pass the figure and realise it’s a girl. She could be dark-haired and pretty. Definitely small. For the briefest of moments our eyes meet and she stares straight back without moving.
Then I’m past and off down the road. Before I realise what I’m doing, I notice the car’s slowing down. It comes to a stop and I start reversing back up the road, without even knowing why. It’s not like she’s hitching, or showed any sign that she wanted me to stop. But now that I’ve started going back I have to keep going. I don’t want her to think I’m some crazy person.
Anja has woken up on the seat beside me and she should be barking because she always barks at strangers but this time she’s not. She’s just wagging her tail and looking excited and I find this about as unsettling as my own decision to reverse back.
Twenty metres, ten metres, one metre and we’re level again. I turn to look. She’s still standing in the same place, maybe fifty metres away. Our eyes find each other again and I stare. I ignore everything my parents ever taught me about it being rude, then stare a bit more. And everything seems to slow down a little bit. It’s like being in a film, an American film, and at the back of my mind I wonder if she also thinks it’s strange to be staring at each other like this. Or maybe her parents just never taught her not to.
The moment stretches out. Seconds tick by and awkwardness appears on the horizon. I need to do something. My hand reaches down and I begin to open my window. There’s a pause, then she starts walking towards me, in slow, hesitant steps, until she gets closer, and all of a sudden it hits me, like a slap on the back when you least expect it. This girl is no pretty stranger.
Twelve years ago she was my girlfriend.
I swallow the words I was planning to say and start looking for new ones. By the time she reaches the side of the car I still haven’t found what I’m looking for and I’m just glad she looks as startled on the outside as I feel on the inside. Half-smiling, I ask her what a nice girl like her is doing in a nice place like this. She lets a small silence hang in the air between us, then grins back. “More wrinkles, shorter hair, slightly fancier car, but the same old lines. You haven’t changed in twelve years,” she tells me. She too remembers it’s twelve years.
My brain is moving eve