In the Distance by Hernán Díaz

Author:Hernán Díaz [Díaz, Hernán]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: Contemporary, Fiction
ISBN: 9781566894975
Publisher: Coffee House Press
Published: 2017-10-09T23:00:00+00:00

They were drunk. One song kept coming back, interrupting their boisterous ramblings. Håkan could not make out the words, but for some reason, it made him think of a wedding. They had put a garland on his head and called it a crown. “To the Hawk,” they cried before each drink. Jarvis insisted that he celebrate with them, and Håkan could only make him stop by putting the vile bottle to his lips and pretending to take a gulp. “To the Hawk!” Håkan stared at the fire as if the flames were fueled solely by his gaze.

The land was hard and rocky, and they had buried their dead in shallow graves. Parents and widowed spouses stared at their mounds of dirt. HÃ¥kan placed Helen with her family in a site far away from the rest. He was about to put his lips to her forehead but was sickened to discover that he found it easier to kiss her now that she was dead.

Their enemies were left to rot. The majority had died by Håkan’s hand. Jarvis said the plunderers had retreated once they saw that they stood no chance in hand-to-hand encounters. And that had been thanks to Håkan. He made it too costly for them. Or something like that. Håkan was not sure. “To the Hawk!”

They interrogated the only survivor who had been left behind. Håkan understood most of what the dying man said—he spoke slowly, making long pauses to catch his breath.

“Soldiers of Jehu. The Wrathful Angels. There are more of us,” he said defiantly.

“Where?” asked Jarvis.

“The prophet’s militia. We’ll take you over the rim of the basin yet. You. All the other cursed gentiles. Even your president. Over the rim. The brethren.”

“Where? Where are the other brethren?” insisted Jarvis.

The man smiled.

“Why attack us? We got nothing. We’re poor,” said one of the emigrants.

“Like the prophet said, there are three kinds of poor.” Although exhausted by pain, the man clearly relished in the words he could not yet utter. He coughed and wheezed. “Prophet said: There are three kinds of poor. The Lord’s poor, the Devil’s poor, and the poor devils.” He laughed and coughed.

“This man here can cure you,” Jarvis said, pointing at Håkan. “Speak.”

“Over the rim.”

The man gave a series of muffled coughs, looked at the night sky, sputtered out a blotch of thick black blood, and died.

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