Boy on the Edge by Fridrik Erlings Read Free Book Online

rushed outside and ran toward the smithy. There was a playground there with a couple of old tractor tires, a seesaw, and a swing. They were building huts, laughing, chatting happily, fooling around, spending their energy.
    Henry limped as fast as he could toward the cowshed. It was early afternoon and he had nothing to do, but he had to do something. His head was bursting.
    When he reached the cowshed he leaned against the wall, catching his breath.
    To the southeast he could see two huge boulders rising into the air, far away. And right there, only a few feet from where he stood, he noticed the path at the edge of the lava field.
    The path wound itself around rocks and past deep crevasses, never straight but bending this way and that, endlessly. It wasn’t smooth either and it was no broader than a horse would need in order to place one foot in front of the other. Amazing how the hooves of horses had chiseled that groove into the hard rock, age after age.
    Henry had a hard time walking down the path. His clubfoot began to hurt and sometimes it got stuck in a crack or between rocks so he had to pull it free with both hands. And all around him mysterious sounds could be heard, a quacking or rattling or wailing; sometimes just a quick chirp, first close by, then farther away.
    A deep bellowing could be heard where the furious surf crashed on the steep cliff wall. Halfway to the cliffs he paused by the Gallows to catch his breath. The huge boulders leaned together just as Emily had said: like two friends bidding farewell to each other for the last time.
    Finally he reached the sea cliffs, limping along the edge until he came to Shipwreck Bay, where monstrous waves were beating against the remains of the rusty carcass of
Young Hope.
    The wide ocean stretched as far as his eyes could see.
    He stood there for a long time, like a troll turned to stone, his clubfoot stuck between the rocks. The wind was cold and fresh, and the air wove between his fingers; a salty spray gently stroked his face. He looked down into the bay at the backs of thousands of white birds that rose in the air on the strong breeze and circled around him, silent and curious. Then they hurled themselves into the void, screeching and calling, then gliding off into the far distance.
    The stark blue waves rushed against the cliffs below, with white foam on top, exploding so furiously that the rock trembled underneath him. The deep, deep rumble of the waves, the relentless roar of the ocean; full of sadness or regret somehow, then suddenly full of anger and spite. It foamed like soap down in the bay and moved around the rust-burned corpse of the trawler.
    Henry lay down on his stomach, his head over the edge, the cliff underneath him trembling against his heart. He no longer knew where the cliff ended and he took over, where the surf ceased and his heartbeat began. The ocean was so cruel, so overwhelming, so cold and deep, maybe deeper than the height of the sky above him. With a loud roar it banged its fists against the cliffs, snatching the longhaired seaweed with its sharp claws, ripping it from the cliff face, crunching the rocks with its sharp teeth.
    The birds swung in the air below him and above him, so white and clean. They were like the words in his head, the words that flew, screeching around, inches from colliding into one another. Following the birds with his eyes, he suddenly realized his head was finally empty of words. There was nothing there but the overwhelming sound of the roaring ocean, almighty and unconquerable.
    Why had the words of the reverend hurt him so much? Why had he wanted to jump to his feet and scream: No! You’re wrong! You know nothing!
    Before he came to this place Henry had only heard Jesus mentioned when somebody was swearing. He’d known next to nothing about God or the devil. But the reverend’s sermons had taught him that there is a system in the world, and that God was a kind of king in heaven, who had sent his son, Jesus,