Harbor by John Lindqvist (classic novels for teens txt) 📕

said Henrik. ‘Wait.’ The corners of his mouth twitched. ‘Chill out and wait.’

Anders sat still and tried to summon up an expression of friendly interest as Henrik rested the blade against the left side of his neck. He looked into Henrik’s eyes, but could read nothing through the thin, gelatinous film covering Henrik’s iris and pupil. The cold metal was resting on Anders’ skin just a few centimetres below his chin, on the carotid artery.

‘I can see your face,’ said Henrik. ‘And it’s kind, in a desperate way. But that thing in the back of your mind…what is that?’

A pulse of black emotion came from Henrik, and Anders realised that he had lost, that perhaps he had never had any chance of winning. The pulse passed into his body like a spasm, a command to his muscles to flee, but before he had time to leap up or hurl himself to one side, Henrik had made the cut.

A burning thread seared Anders’ skin and before he had time to react, his blood began pumping out of his body. The blood came pouring out in a series of powerful spurts, splashing over Henrik’s face and hands, the steps and Anders’ legs. An artery had been sliced open and as he instinctively pressed his left hand to the wound, he realised he was beyond help.

His lifeblood was forced out in time with the rhythm of his heartbeat, squeezing out beneath his fingers with an incomprehensible force. Only now, when his heart was working against him, could he feel its full power. He could feel every beat beneath the palm of his hand like a blow, as fresh blood found its way out of the circulatory system. It ran down under his jacket and soaked his top in a matter of seconds.

His eyelids fluttered and he was vaguely aware of Henrik getting up and positioning himself in front of the steps as if he were about to give a speech. Björn and the dying Anders were to be his audience.

‘So, the end of the world. Night time?’ asked Henrik, and Björn replied, ‘I really don’t know.’

‘Day time then?’

‘I really don’t know.’

Anders slipped to one side and his right hand landed on top of his jacket pocket. He felt the hard box through the fabric, and just as Henrik said, ‘And what about having children? Any point?’ Anders pushed his hand into his pocket and took hold of the box. His fingers were stiff and cold as if they were frozen, and his nails scrabbled helplessly over the smooth surface. The blood from his throat was coming in weaker pulses now, but they were still powerful enough for a faintcascade to splash up into his eyes. And he saw the water, saw the water in the blood plasma leaving him, but he didn’t have the strength to do anything about it. Then he felt a tickling movement against his skin as the box opened by itself and Spiritus crawled into the palm of his hand, as Henrik said, ‘So…no debate. Just chill out and wait.’

It’s flowing. The water is flowing.

He asked it to stop. The prayer shot up from his hand and spread throughout the tree that was his veins and arteries. When it reached the cut the prayer stopped, drawing towards itself everything in the flowing blood that was water, until only solid, coagulated elements remained around the wound. In order to compensate for the loss of fluid, the artery on the right hand side of his neck began to throb so strongly that it could be felt as spasms beneath the skin.

Anders closed his hand carefully around Spiritus, and through a veil of red he could see that Björn was now sitting right in front of him, with his back towards him. Henrik was searching for a suitable final comment. His face lit up as he found it. He flung his arms wide and he was about to start declaiming, but at that moment Anders jumped on Björn from behind and wrapped his arms around him.

Water.

He could see it. A cucumber. It is somehow incomprehensible that a cucumber can consist almost entirely of water and yet still have a solid form, and that’s exactly how it was with Björn. His blood, his internal organs, his skeleton were all made up of water in varying degrees of inertia, and Anders had this water in his hands.

Björn tried to stand up and shake himself free, but Anders asked for heat. He asked for all the heat that could be summoned, he asked the water in his arms to boil.

Boil, you bastard!

Björn fell back on the steps as a wave of heat washed through him. Within a couple of seconds he was transformed into a mass of boiling water, scalding Anders on the arms and chest. Henrik ran towards the steps, and just as he got there Björn opened his mouth to scream.

No scream came, but out of his mouth spurted a fountain ofbubbling, boiling water which hit Henrik in the face and chest, so that he staggered backwards and fell over in a cloud of steam. Björn collapsed on the steps and vomited one last shower of boiling water over Henrik before he fell headfirst to the ground and rapidly shrank. In just a few moments he was reduced to a pile of wet, steaming clothes.

Henrik writhed around on the grass, rolling back and forth as if to try and extinguish his burning body. Then his movements slowed and he lay still.

Anders leaned forward and tried to stand up. It was impossible. His legs had lost all their strength when the blood left him. He was a wrung-out rag, and like a rag he allowed himself to tumble helplessly down the steps, only just managing to put out his hands to save himself as he landed.

He crawled forwards. The steam from Björn’s clothes rose up and evaporated into the night sky, and as Anders crawled past them he could feel the heat from inside