later, Barsfeld pointed out a man in shabby green clothes, who pressed himself against a beech tree and gazed into the undergrowth. Max guessed he was in his midfifties. Gray strands of hair peeked out from under a visor cap, and his full gray beard was unkempt. Coming closer, Max
spotted a twig in it.
“Hello, Niels!” Herr Barsfeld called in a low voice.
The man gave a start and turned around. When he recognized
Herr Barsfeld, he smiled wryly, revealing a row of crooked, yellow
teeth. “Hallo, Herr Barsfeld. How’s it going?” Then he chortled, as if he’d made a good joke.
“I’m fine, Niels. Thanks.” Barsfeld went closer to the man while
Max stayed a few steps behind. The chuckling stopped. “Niels, this is Max Berg. He’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“I don’t know anything.” The man snuffled up mucus and wiped
his nose with the sleeve of his jacket. Now, no more than two arm’s
lengths away from him, Max could smell the unwashed and lonely
odor emanating from the man. His shirt was stained, his green trousers were filthy, and his shoes were threadbare and tied with mismatched
shoelaces.
114
Dead Woods
Max stayed where he was and smiled. His arms hung loosely at
his sides and the palms of his hands were open toward the man. “Herr Barsfeld tells me you know this forest very well.”
Niels Hinrichsen smiled, like a child does when praised. “Yes, I do.
My gramps told me everything about the forest. I know all of the trees and all of the animals.” There was a loud noise behind Niels, and Max was astonished to see a foal trotting through the underbrush of young beech trees. It was running behind its mother, a sturdy mare that was pulling two tree trunks. Niels Hinrichsen had turned around and was
watching the animals, also. He was happy and Max again felt as if he were dealing with a child. “They don’t live here,” the man explained and adjusted his cap. “They’re just here on a visit.”
Max followed the lead. “Quite a lot of people come here for visits,
also, to go for walks.”
Niels Hinrichsen didn’t say anything. He looked at his shoes. Herr
Barsfeld cleared his throat. “Niels doesn’t like it that so many people come here,” he explained. “Especially not when they don’t stay on the paths. Isn’t that so, Niels?”
Niels shook his head without looking at either one of them. “They
destroy everything,” he said quietly.
“But you aren’t allowed to scold them. You know that, don’t you?”
Barsfeld said.
Niels was still looking down and he nodded.
“Herr Barsfeld told me that you’re also here at night,” Max said
gently. Again Niels nodded.
“Did you by chance see a few people recently who . . . were quar-
reling? Three, four men, maybe also a woman? Maybe they weren’t men
but youngsters?”
Niels looked up. His eyes sparkled. “In this wood two men were
once fighting because of a woman.”
“When was that? And where exactly? Did you see it?” Max asked.
115
Maria C. Poets
With surprising agility, Niels took off, straight through the woods, without looking once at the two men again. With a shrug, Max followed him and heard the forest worker wheezing behind him. They
reached the next path very soon. Hinrichsen turned right and after
a few feet disappeared again into the underbrush on the left. Only
fir trees grew there. The ground was covered with moss and was soft
like a carpet. Niels Hinrichsen had stopped in front of a rock that was covered with moss and lichen. Water had carved a deep groove across
the rock, so that it resembled a gigantic bun. When Max and Barsfeld stopped next to Hinrichsen, he looked at them, obviously happy. “Very, very early in the morning, two knights once fought here with swords
because they both wanted to have the same girl. One of them didn’t
aim right and so he hit the rock instead of the head of the other guy.
But he hit it so hard that the stone sent out sparks, like a flame, and so the other one was so scared that he ran away. But the stone got a very deep rut from that blow.”
Max smiled. “That’s a beautiful story,” he said and tried to bring
the conversation to the not-so-distant past. “Have you yourself ever seen men fight with each other? I mean recently.”
Hinrichsen wrinkled his brow and seemed to ponder the question.
His happy smile had disappeared. “Dunno,” he said softly. “Sometimes people shout very loud, but I always run away. And I’ve never seen men with swords here. Only on TV.” He looked at Max as if he hoped he was