The Marsh Angel, Hagai Dagan [free e reader .TXT] 📗

I think you’re like your father, Binder, Ronen said maliciously.

What about my father? He genuinely didn’t understand.

Your father’s a pussy, Ronen Schwartz said. He didn’t serve in the army, and he was in the holocaust before that. He’s a zero.

At that moment, something strange happened. Tamir felt as if the depth of this soul, or the depth of his body, or perhaps the depth of his memory, was filled by nothing but mud. Just mud. But something was stirring in that mud. Materializing. Coalescing. Like peat, like coal. The coal was unearthed, and started heating up. It was as if mysterious streams of heat were jetting up from the belly of the earth and fanning the forgotten, dead coal. He raised his head and looked directly into Ronen Schwartz’s ridiculing eyes. His lips quivered feverishly. He yearned for the comfort of his mother’s presence, her warm body, the protective darkness of her bedroom, but he was standing alone in the fallow field with Ronen Schwartz. In the depths of his inner cellars— suddenly, there were cellars— the coal was burning.

Why’re you shaking like a girl, Binder?

You… The words left his mouth laboriously but uncontrollably, as if it wasn’t him who was speaking: You’re a piece of shit, Schwartz.

The slap must have been powerful, because before he knew what hit him, Tamir found himself on the ground, crumpled in a heap among the trampled weeds. Ronen towered above him menacingly, lingering for a moment, perhaps deliberating whether to pound him some more. Tamir looked up and stared directly into his eyes. Ronen Schwartz kicked a loose rock, sounded some sort of snarl, and carried on running towards the circle and the flag.

Tamir lay there for a long time. He didn’t know for how long. He noticed it was getting cooler outside. The sun was setting. Herons flew above his head. He knew that the herons patrol the edges of the fish ponds during the day, only to fly back at twilight to sleep in the tamarisk thicket. He got up and started walking aimlessly, paying no attention to where he was going. Dust clouds were whisked up by the evening breeze, and his eyes watered. He coughed. His senses were stirred, as if awakened from a dream. He suddenly realized that he was very thirsty. His face stung, from his cheek up to his ear. He had a bitter taste in his mouth. His legs dragged heavily through thorns and stones. He stopped. The tamarisk thicket was spread before him, tangled and dusty, seemingly endless. A sudden, compelling urge to go into the thicket gripped him, to find respite and peace, to be engulfed, to turn his back on the Ronen Schwartzes of the world, never to see any of them ever again. He had never been into the thicket before. He was told that it’s dangerous, especially during the summer, that there were snakes in there.

Tamir took one step in, and then another. It was difficult. He brushed away branches with his hands. Something scraped his neck. Thorns protruded from the tangled, coiled branches. Tamir listened. He could hear sounds of blowing and chirping in the thicket. Something was moving restlessly. The thicket itself is alive, he thought to himself. He continued moving forward. Suddenly, something flew off from inside, something black and large, and smacked into Tamir with a loud clap. What was that? An ibis? It took him a moment to realize what had just happened and to become frightened. He knew that there was a large colony of black ibises in the thicket. He figured he was walking by their nests and chicks, and disturbing their peace. Something else spread its wings in front of him. The whole thicket awoke. A deafening shriek of birds erupted around him. Tamir protected his face and tried to move forward. More and more thorns scraped his face. A darkness enveloped him; he couldn’t see a thing. He collapsed in the thicket. He crawled over thorns and broken branches. He wept silently.

The irritated ibises flew angrily above him, creating an impenetrable dark canopy with their black wings. He didn’t know whether they were attacking him or protecting him. He fell asleep there for a while, on the ground beneath the thicket. He dreamt of water, of darkness. His thirst was relentless, and disturbed his slumber. He got up, fumbled around in the dark, and forced his way through a screen of thorns and branches. His shirt was torn, his palms were bloody. Finally, he made it to the end of the thicket. He looked around him and saw lights flashing on the mountains of the Western Galilee. The earthy smell of nighttime pervaded his nostrils.

Where’s the kibbutz?

Dogs were barking in the distance. He started walking towards the sound, but stumbled over something, fell, and hit something else— something hard. Chain, rock, he realized too late. He felt a warm trickle running down his face. Blood. The sound of dogs barking grew louder. They were standing right beside him, but did not pounce. He smiled to them and reached out his palm. His vision was blurring. Suddenly, he thought he saw Polnochi descending down from the heavens, soaring above the mountains of the Western Galilee. Her eyes shimmered in the dark. Her arms were spread like dark, velvety wings. Siberian snow and starlight were weaved in her hair, fluttering like a canopy of night. My god, he thought to himself, she’s beautiful. She’s saying something. What is she saying?

Are you alright?

He looked up. Dallal?

How do you know who I am?

We were here once, the schoolchildren…

The kids from the kibbutz?

Yes.

And you remember me from back then?

Yes.

She laughed in wonder. She towered above him, as tall as a dream. What happened to you? How did you get here now? Did you come out of the thicket?

He didn’t answer, looking at her in silence. Her eyes were darker than the night, and yet gleamed incandescent in the starlight, like a promise, like a