The Storyteller

She felt the person following her coming closer; she felt it clearly. And something in her longed to drop in the snow and wait. Her breath became more ragged; it felt as if she were breathing snowflakes, in and out, along with the sharp and icy wind.

“Abel,” she whispered. “If that’s you, hurry. Come here. End all this. I’ve had enough.”

But suddenly, she knew it wasn’t Abel. It was someone else. She didn’t know how she could tell—she just could. That wasn’t much use, she thought.

And she understood that she wasn’t only fighting the snowstorm, she was also fighting herself and her capacity to forgive. If the absolutely impossible was possible … the snowflakes the wind hurled at her were wet with the blood of the night in the boathouse, the icy storm that took her breath away felt like a hand covering her mouth. Could she leave this behind? Find something beyond?

She moved through a snowstorm made from the tiny white pieces of torn envelopes. And she was alone in this storm. She realized she longed for Abel’s presence, the Abel he had been before the night in the boathouse, the Abel she had kissed on a su

“I will die,” she whispered, almost soundlessly, as she stumbled on. “I will die, and I know what will happen. They will make him responsible for my death. They’ll think it was him, that he killed me out here … the real killer will make them believe that. It all makes sense. But who …” Who knew that she’d come out to Ludwigsburg? Only Knaake. She began to feel colder. What if she’d confided in the wrong person? The murderer’s island, she thought, is empty; the murderer is among us … what about the lighthouse keeper’s glasses, the glasses he’d supposedly forgotten on the ship? The little queen had returned to search for them, and she’d run directly into the arms of the red hunter … and why had the lighthouse keeper made them take down the sails in the storm? It had sounded sensible, but still, the little queen’s green ship lost speed, allowing the black ship to close in … but wasn’t that just a fairy tale?

She could see the figure clearly now; she whirled around—nothing. It was a broken tree. And then, she made out the long silhouette of the café. Soon, she was struggling to unlock her bicycle. The lock was covered in ice … finally, thankfully, it gave way. But the storm was too strong for her to ride. So she just pushed the bike along the road, against the storm.

There were three cars in the parking lot next to the café, all three of them covered with snow. She didn’t remember if there’d been any cars when she’d arrived. Maybe. Maybe their owners were out walking like she was, or maybe they’d left their cars here weeks ago. She pushed her bike on against the storm, along an endless, narrow lane; at some point, the path would lead onto Wolgaster Street, but that wouldn’t be for another mile. A mile more of white, icy nothingness—a mile along which no one could help her. A grave a mile long.

She lowered her head again and clutched the bike. Could she use it to defend herself somehow? To push it toward the person following her—to shove it in his face and run? It’s no use, she told herself. Where would you run to? But she didn’t let go of the bike.

It was her last comfort.

She didn’t turn around again. She knew her pursuer was still there. Turning around wouldn’t help; he could choose any moment to catch her. Maybe he liked chasing her, making her afraid; maybe he liked it when she turned; maybe he was secretly laughing. She wouldn’t do him any more favors.

She tried to recall her dream of the warm summer day. If this snowstorm was to be the last thing she saw, she wanted to picture something pleasant in the meantime. But the cold wind blew the nice pictures and thoughts right out of her head; all it let stay was the fear.

It was begi

She let the bike drop into the snow. She let herself drop into the snow. Somebody jumped out of the car, came toward her, grabbed her, and pulled her up.

“My God, are you mad?” said Bertil. “What are you doing here?”

Ten minutes later, she was sitting in the passenger seat of an old Volvo, still crying. She couldn’t stop. Bertil had put her bike in the backseat next to his dog. The car had gotten stuck in a snowdrift when he’d stopped, and he had to drive backward and forward several times before it pulled free. Warm air from the heater was starting to fill the car.

“It’s going to get warmer in a minute,” Bertil said. “I’ve been looking for you. I just had to find a place where I could turn the car …”

“A place … to turn the car?”

“Yes. I passed you once already, a few minutes ago. But I could only turn in front of the café. Don’t say you didn’t see the car. I flashed the lights at you so you’d see me and know I was coming back for you …”

“I was walking with my head down,” A

When she said this, he stopped the car, reached over, and pulled her into his arms; and she didn’t fight it. He smelled different from Abel. He smelled of snow and peppermints and dog.

He was warm and alive. He was there. He’d been looking for her.

“Gitta saw you ride out here,” he explained. “She told me. She said that if you were going in this direction, you were probably heading out to Ludwigsburg … she knows you … I waited for a while. In case you came back. But then I thought it might be a good idea to go and have a look just in case.”

“Yeah,” she replied between the sobs she still wasn’t able to control. “Yeah, that was a good idea. Bertil, I … I thought someone …” She stopped.

“You’re ice-cold,” he said and turned the heat up. “Why did you come out here? Didn’t you hear the storm warning? Or have you just gone crazy? I don’t even know if we can make it back in the car. The roads are a mess.”

“Yeah,” was all she said. “Yeah.” She held onto him, onto the warmth of a living being. She didn’t want to go anywhere; she just wanted to sit here in the car and hold onto someone. No matter who it was. At some point, he let go of her and started driving again. In the back, the silver greyhound was panting. A

The windshield wipers were racing. Bertil drove along in second gear, avoiding the snowdrifts. In some places, he had to pick up speed to get over one, and then he’d stretch out his arm in front of A

She swallowed the last sobs. “Nothing.”

“Are you kidding me? Of course something happened. And that’s the reason you rode out here in spite of the storm warning, isn’t it? Did he harm you?”

She looked away. More than I could find the words for, she thought. But I am not going to tell you. The pain is mine alone.

“If he did,” said Bertil as he maneuvered the Volvo around another snowdrift, “if he harmed you, I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him.”

A