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The woods are so quiet, benevolent and fragrant. In a high
tree top a bird sharpens its beak against the tree bark. A
deer races past and a snake slithers by. White cobwebs
criss-cross between the pine and fir trunks.
Like the wounded in a mine field, Naģe drags herself along
the ground. She has to get to the marsh. Among the
mounds of cranberries and marsh tea. To lie down in the
white, damp moss, to fall asleep and force herself never to
get up. And wait, perhaps wait for a long time, until he
arrives and takes her. Death, deliverance... How good that it
is now, how good that it was not then. Now she has
something to give.
In her head there is a wonderful emptiness.
It does not hurt, humiliate, despise or denigrate.
Naģe’s bag remains on the forest road. Inside it are
sandwiches with smoked meat and her home-made pickles.
They could have eaten them together.
_____