Stallo Read Free

slits of light and that is all, it seems.
*
On the ground there is a lot to explore. There are dead things left lying about, a tree that has split open and whose insides are bright red, like meat, and just beyond it a rotted birch trunk that has fallen apart. Scaly shards of bark surround it. He digs the toe of his boot into the birch and presses carefully. It is soft right through.
Another tree trunk is dotted with yellow saucer shapes that look like ears. He tries to count them because there are so very many – how many ears can you actually have? − but he loses count when the mosquitoes fly into his face.
A hollow stump looks like a cauldron among the blueberry branches. A crown of moss surrounds the cavity. He looks down into the stump but there is nothing particularly interesting inside it, only dampness and pine needles stuck together in clumps. He would like to put his hand in and feel down to the bottom – perhaps a mouse is sleeping there – but he does not really dare.
Far, far inside the forest a bird flies soundlessly from one tree to the next, as if drawing a line between the trunks. The boy can see it out of the corner of his eye. He stands up and walks on, singing a little and talking to himself in a soft, jokey voice. His mother has told him there is nothing to fear in the forest, so he is not particularly afraid. No wolves, no bears, nothing that wants to eat him. Apart from the mosquitoes.
Still, when the roots of an overturned tree loom above him his stomach lurches because he almost imagines it is an old man standing there waiting for him. A man who will not move out of the way.
After a while he plucks up enough courage to approach the fallen tree. The underside is a mass of twisted roots, and on the ground is a gaping void, covered in bracken. It is black between the fronds, unpredictable and very deep. Someone lives down there, he is sure. A badger, perhaps. Badgers are underground creatures, piggy-eyed and bad-tempered. They only come out at night to nose around and whisper.
As he stands there, peering down into the bowl below the roots, he hears a crack.
Small furtive footsteps, very close.
Quickly he tugs at his hat so that he can see properly.
His eyes wander between the columns of pines. Someone was there, he is convinced of that.
He takes a little step sideways, at the same time craning his neck to see what is behind the upturned roots. He hardly dares to look.
A movement. A streak of grey fur.
That is what he sees.
And then he runs.
Runs away towards the light where the forest thins out.
Undergrowth and branches whip against his boots.
He follows the forest edge, tripping and stumbling his way forwards.
Not until he has staggered out onto the trail does he dare to stop and look around. He beats at the mosquitoes circling his face. His fear seems to have made them even more excited.
*
His mother is sitting curled up on the sofa with her book, and when he comes in through the doorway she looks up at him with a sharp little crease between her eyes. She has folded the book so that she can hold it in one hand. Around the fingers of the other she is twisting her chain. It digs into the skin of her neck.
She asks where he has been, and when she notices how wet he is she puts the book aside and helps him take off his jacket. His hair is standing on end in damp little tufts and his jumper has ridden up over his stomach in wrinkles, but he hurries to pull it down as he tells her. That he has seen an animal .
‘What kind of animal?’
‘An animal!’
She twists off his boots roughly and finds his socks squashed up, the toes wringing wet. His feet have turned red. ‘Oh, Magnus,’ she sighs.
To get his jeans off he has to lie down while she pulls and tugs at the legs because the wet fabric has glued itself to him. The boy thumps his head against the floor, and that makes them laugh.
‘Let go!’ she shouts.
‘I can’t,’ he giggles.
Finally he has to stand up and stamp the trousers off instead. She