The Birds by Tarjei Vesaas Page B

order into his thoughts – they were in complete confusion. But there came a young lad rushing out from the bushes – and at the very same moment Mattis had his body under control, he jumped forward and picked up the warm bird that was filled with lead, smoothed its ruffled feathers and saw its dark eye.
    The bird was looking at him.
    No, no, don’t think like that. Mustn’t. The bird’s dead.
    Dead, why dead?
    It looked at me first.
    In the meantime the marksman had reached the clearing, he was half running, flushed with joy at his kill. It was the youngster he’d talked to earlier in the day all right, strong and happy.
    Mattis was still standing with the bird in his hand.
    “What a hit!” said the youngster, balancing the gleaming gun in his hand. “I could only just see the bird, he was flying as swift as an arrow, so I just took a potshot.”
    Mattis made no reply.
    “I don’t suppose you understand this kind of thing,” said theyoungster, “but it was a damn good shot. And dead before it hit the ground, I see.”
    Mattis stood there with the bird, looking lost. Silent. The hand with the bird dangled loosely at his side – it looked as if he’d forgotten what he was holding.
    The youngster asked, surprised: “D’you think it’s yours?”
    Mattis said nothing.
    “Give it here. I want to go home and show them what a good shot I am,” he said, winking and nodding at Mattis in a friendly way while he threw the gun over his shoulder and got ready to leave.
    Mattis did not hand over the bird, made no move to obey, looked helplessly at the youngster. The boy took a sudden step backward.
    “Why don’t you say something?” he began again, no longer as happy as he had been when he came rushing up.
    Mattis pulled himself together, he wanted to say something about the dark eyes that had looked at him – but then he noticed they were gone. They were shut. Nothing more to be said about them. He didn’t let go of the bird.
    The youngster stood there, feeling cheated after his masterly shot. Mattis had taken the edge off his joy. He was not completely blind after all. He stood there full of youth and strength and vitality, but this silent simpleton frightened him.
    He asked in a different tone: “What’s the matter, Mattis?”
    No reply.
    The youngster asked almost helplessly:
    “Are you angry with me for this?”
    Again no reply.
    Mattis shook his head in despair. Should have said something.
No
or something. He looked down at the ground, there was a spot of blood on the grass where the bird had come tumbling down. A little blood was still trickling from its beak. Mattis raised his head again and looked at the youngster without a word.
    The youngster made no further attempt at conversation either. And he didn’t take the bird from Mattis by force, despite his strength. He straightened up his gun and walked slowly out of sight, seemed to have come across something he didn’t understand, and wouldn’t easily be able to forget.
    Mattis was left standing with the woodcock. Drops of blood trickled down into the grass from its long beak.
    Alone again, Mattis got back his power of speech; he mumbled in a low voice: “Eyes shut.”
    “No more.”
    “Lead in its wing.”
    He hadn’t really noticed the youngster or what he’d been doing. Had no feeling of having done anything wrong in not handingover the bird. He walked toward the steps, dragging himself slowly through the entrance and into the living room. There he placed the woodcock on the table.
    This was no nightmare he was caught up in, then. It was real.
    The woodcock lay with its eyes shut, full of heavy hidden lead.
    She had looked at him as he picked her up, there was no doubt.
    He thundered on the door of the small room, forgetting how often he got a snappy answer when he arrived at the wrong moment. Hege must have fallen asleep long ago.
    “You must get up … Hege! You must!” he said in a voice that was unrecognizable.
    Hege was awake, she