By: Nathan Susnik
(C.W. Abuse & Toxic Masculinity)
I.
Berit’s voice is a beast. Cunning and clever, it runs on sinewy legs. He has only ever glimpsed it once – barely a breath long, not enough time to have raised his bow. He pictures it now in his mind’s eye: sun penetrating the spruce and oak, glinting over its black fur. Its four paws hide long talons as sharp as fishhooks. And in a flash, it is gone, disappearing as silent as lightning.
He hunts it, or it hunts him. Berit is never sure. His stomach turns, exhilarated as a predator, as apprehensive as prey. He and his voice share a connection, an adversarial kinship through which they are drawn together, bound to destroy one another.
Berit stops and crouches to examine the mangled remains of a fully-grown elk. The carcass lies next to a well-worn game trail, its throat torn by canines as long as his little finger. He follows the trail a good way down, searching the branches on either side, looking for ones of the right length, limberness, and strength. When he finds what he searches for, he cuts it off. Then, breaking it in two, he squats in the undergrowth. As he runs his long knife along the branch, wood peels up and away, curls drifting to the ground like autumn leaves. Even though it is a sunny summer morning, it feels like the fall: a season of plenty, a season of change, a season of decay, and of death. He listens to every bird’s song, to every twig snap, to every rustle of every leaf. He must be on his guard. Berit would not be the first boy lost to his own voice.
He fingers the notch he carved, feeling for depth and angle and he winds a cord around it, building a snare. If the snare loops around the beast’s neck, it will hold it. If it loops around a leg, Berit will have to be quick. Even though his mother taught him to weave strong and thin, the cord will not hold out long against the beast’s teeth.
When he is done, Berit collects his wood shavings in a leather pouch. When they dry, they will make good kindling, and he wants to leave no signs of his presence. Then he stands, stretching his back. There is more work to be done this morning. He must succeed and soon. Succeed or die: these are the two honorable choices. All the other village boys Berit’s age have long since found their voices swimming in streams or grazing in fields or nesting high in trees. They have hunted them, and they have feasted. Now they speak as men.
Only Berit is an unvoiced child, a boy who must sign.
II.
Berit fetches water from the well, watching the village men as he walks. Many of them were boys with whom he has grown up. He wrestled Reod, raced Bigir, taught Pella the trap with which he ensnared his voice. Berit sighs. He longs to talk with his childhood friends, but they are in groups speaking loudly, so he signs no greetings. None of them would deign to speak with a boy his age, at least not in front of another man. It would be beneath their honor.
Along the way, Berit sees Dag sitting alone between two houses, eating his midday fill. He is shaded from the sun by low-hanging thatching from a long, steep roof. Dag had been a big, boisterous boy who always greeted Berit with a smile and a ruffle of his hair. It has been years since he has talked with Dag. Berit misses his former friends, misses playing and chatting with them. Most of all, he misses belonging to them and having them belong to him.
Now, Dag is a strong and respected man, proud, because his voice – as big as a wild bison – fed all the village men who came to his feast. Berit sets his pail down and sits with his back against the adjacent wall where he is hidden from public view. A woman walks by, and Dag looks up. He jeers. She lowers her head and speeds her walk. Laughter swims up Dag’s belly, slipping from his lips like a fish. He makes eye contact with Berit and smirks. He is a bull of a man, a head taller than Berit who is not short by any means. Hello, Dag. We have not talked in a while, signs Berit with a smile.
Dag scoffs, looking at the boy with disgust. He checks the area to make sure it is clear before he speaks. “Who do you think you are, boy? Greeting a man?” Berit knows that he should drop his head and walk away. Even signing an apology might further dishonor the man. But he is tired and lonely and, like his mother always tells him, too stubborn for his own good. So instead, he stands, head up, trying to decide if he should explain himself or make a joke to ease the tension. But he has no time to respond, because Dag steps forward and says, “If you have no respect, then I will teach you some.”
He shoves Berit who stumbles, hitting the wall with such force that his head snaps back into the stone. His eyes flash; the world tilts and for the beat of a blackbird’s wings, fills with stars. Though he knows that he is hurt, Berit pops off the wall as if nothing has happened. He smiles as if he is playing pat-a-patch. For the first time, he agrees with his mother: he is too stubborn for his own good. As Berit finds his footing, Dag charges.
Berit understands the fighting better than anyone he knows. This is not a conscious understanding; it is a reflexive one, instinctive and automatic, ingrained in his bones from thousands of hours of play with the other boys and practice with his father. He sees subtle movements, feels minuscule shifts in weight, and his body interprets them instinctually. His body understands that fighting is not a struggle; it is a dance – more effective when you move with your partner, anticipating their next steps, leading them where you want them to go. As Dag swings, Berit moves almost synchronously, leaning slightly back, shifting his feet, moving his head, feeling Dag’s knuckles brush his cheek as gently as a kiss. Knowing Dag’s weight will carry him forward, Berit shifts his hips, draws power up from the ground through his hips, and releases it from his left hand. It collides with Dag’s bottom rib. A puff of breath erupts from Dag’s lungs: a cat’s hiss, involuntarily, angry and unsure. Dag sinks forward. Berit shifts his hips back and drives the heel of his right hand into and through the bridge of Dag’s nose. The motions are too easy, too fluid, too perfect. It is the release of a bowstring knowing even before the arrow even flies that it will hit the mid-flight swallow.
Dag’s head snaps to the side, his knees buckle, his eyes roll, and he slumps forward hitting Berit’s shoulder, dropping to his side and landing in the dirt without breaking his fall. Then Dag rolls, his hands go to his face. When he takes them away, they are covered in red. He looks puzzled as if he wants to ask Berit how he ended up where he is. Until today, Berit had always held back in fights, sometimes choosing to let overenthusiastic boys win rather than hurt them. But today, whether out of fear or excitement or spite, restraint had left him. Now that the dance has ended, he feels awkward, a boy with too-long arms and shaky legs. Realization is a fresh pale of well water dumped over his head. Dag is hurt. Boys do not hurt men. This is trouble.
Berit puts his hands to his face, and his cheeks are wet. He is crying. He has been crying, but for how long? He is going to be sick. Berit has never hurt another person before and never been in trouble. Not real trouble, at least. And he does not know what to do. Dag moans. Berit drops to his knees signing big, emphatic gestures: I am sorry, I am sorry. I did not mean… But through the blood and the dust kicked up by scuffling feel, Dag cannot see him. So, Berit reaches out and touches him. Dag slaps his hand away.
“Go, boy. Go away. Leave!” he yells.
I am sorry, Berit signs. I did not... Dag sees the signs and closes his eyes.
“Go you stupid boy,” he says. “I do not want to see you again. Ever.”
Berit’s tears turn dirt to mud. Autumn rain in the summer. He stays frozen, gasping for what feels like forever. “Go!” he hears. And suddenly, he is turning, standing, legs moving, carrying him away.
III.
Berit runs through the village, hands over his face. He hopes that no one is around, that no one has seen the fight, that no one will recognize him. If he is quick enough, perhaps no one will. He sprints blindly over the paths, tears and fingers blurring his vision, letting his legs carry him to safety. He is sickened, ashamed of disgracing Dag, and embarrassed that he is crying about it like a little boy. It is right, he thinks, right that he has not caught his voice. He is not ready for manhood.
His legs burn. He gasps irregular breaths, but still, his feet keep moving until the dry dirt turns to moist leaves underfoot. His shoulders cool and the blurry blotches in front of him turn brown and green. He has made it. He has crossed the small field and entered the forest. He slows his pace, stops, drops his hands to his thighs, and vomits in between gasps. When he looks up, he sees a sea of high ferns covering the forest floor. Dizziness overtakes him. It feels as if world tips slightly and rights itself. Then, Berit drops to the ground and rests.
But his respite does not last. He is beginning to come back to his senses. Goose bumps form on his arms. There is something wrong with this place. Silence. That is it – deathly silence. Nothing moves. No birds call.
He feels something watching him. He stands and looks in front of him. The slightest rustle in the undercover catches his attention. About thirty steps distant, ferns shift, a clear pattern, a current, as if the plants are green water and a large fish glides just below the surface. There is no doubt in his mind. It is his voice.
Berit’s heart is already racing. His fingers tingle and his legs are weak. Berit knows that he is in no state for a fight. If the beast attacks, he will die. But he will not run. He cannot run. He has learned this about himself today. Berit will stand and fight, even if it is the wrong thing to do. When he reaches the underworld, he thinks, he will pay the ferryman with the beast’s blood. Berit reaches slowly for the handle of the knife strapped around his body, curls his fingers, adjusts his footing, and then “Berit?”
Someone is calling from behind him. His eyes flash away from the ferns in front of him, and when he looks back, the presence is gone. There is nothing in the undergrowth. His voice has left, as silent and as quick as lightning.
IV.
“Berit!” calls the voice again. Berit knows to whom it belongs without turning to look at its speaker. It is high-pitched and well-worn, a voice as comfortable to Berit’s ears as a fine rabbit pelt is to his cheek. He turns and is surprised by his surroundings. Just beyond the thick bed of ferns at the forest’s mouth, stands a forge, and in front of which is his Uncle Voto, a thick pack of thatching on his shoulder. Berit’s legs have carried him to the one house that lies on the edge of the forest. It is short and squat, with a busy forge and connected stalls for livestock. Dropping to his knees, Berit releases the knife handle.
“What is wrong? What happened?” calls his uncle, throwing the thatching to the side and moving toward Berit. “Sahsin,” he calls. “Come quick. Something has happened to your nephew.”
Voto is shorter than Berit, but more broadly built with a shaven head, a braided beard, and a big belly. He is in all ways the opposite of the tools and weapons that he creates in his forge – gentle, quiet, and not spoken of well in the village. Although people of the village rarely speak his Uncle Voto’s and Aunt Sahsin’s names, there is a well-worn path to their distant house. Voto leads Berit by the elbow. Occasional glints of sunshine reflect from the beautifully crafted hard iron and silver on his wrists and neck, blinding the stunned boy.
The house is lit by the glow of embers in the cooking place. Bright feathers of rare birds hang from the ceiling. Decorations as extravagant as these are usually only seen in the houses of the wealthy or the houses of great hunters. Voto leads Berit to a small wooden bed tucked under the sloping roof. “Go Nanna, get out of here”, he says, shooing a cat from the fine furs and pelts piled there. Berit sits, feeling the warmth of the place. Voto sits down beside him. Then, without asking permission, he pulls Berit’s long knife from the sheath, examining the blade.
“This is dull,” he says. “Why do you disrespect such a gorgeous example of my work?” Berit takes good care of the gift from his Aunt Sahsin. It is sharper than that of any man’s around his age. He looks up in protest, but he sees Voto’s big, yellow teeth showing. Voto laughs. “It is not bad, and you take fine care of it,” he says. And then, almost as an afterthought he adds, “Must you still shave?”
Berit knows the implication. It is a subtle and clever way of asking the question but Berit answers it directly.
I have yet to catch my voice, he signs. Voto nods.
“This blade is sharp. But I would apply my skill to it, with your permission. We can make it more dangerous than the beak of an eagle,” he says.
Please, signs Berit. He sees Sahsin in the room, her steps made no sound to Berit’s keen ears. The two look at one another with friendly eyes, but they do not touch. In this way, they are different from the wives and husbands of the village. Berit has never seen them kiss.
“So, what is wrong?” asks Voto. Berit does not want to answer, so he shrugs.
“Look,” says Voto. “I will tell you a secret if you tell me a secret. Is that alright?”
Berit shrugs again.
Voto glances to Sahsin and sighs. “There is something bothering you, and I see it clearly. If you do not want to talk, it is fine. I will tell you a secret, and you will not have to tell me anything.” he says and pauses as if readying himself. Then he continues. “I will tell you the story of my voice.” Berit’s eyes widen. Most men brag about how they catch their voices. They sit around the fire, drinking sweet mead, telling the stories, embellishing the details. But Voto does not go to town often. He does not drink the mead. And he does not tell the story of his voice, a story that only he has the right to tell.
“I caught my voice when I was seventeen,” he says. “I know,” he laughs. “But I was also already more than a man in most respects. I was stronger than my poor father. My work in the forge was superior to my master’s. But damned be a voice that is tiny as a mouse. It is hard to see and even harder to hear. It breaks no branch and leaves few prints. It escapes from right under your nose. And it was smart, too. It would not allow itself to be caught no matter how many times I tried, no matter how cleverly I constructed the traps. Even the mechanisms of my father were not keen enough to hold my voice.” Voto pauses and looks away as if he is deep in memory. Berit has never heard of such a small voice.
Then how did you get it? he signs.
Voto stands up, crosses the room, and picks up the cat. “Nanna’s father caught it for me,” he says. “Paltar. He was a great animal. I brought him everywhere I went, and when I finally found it again, I let Paltar fish it out for me.”
Smart, signs Berit, who never thought of using the help of an animal to catch his voice.
Voto sighs. “That is what I thought too, using a cat like the falconer uses a falcon, like the farmer uses the oxen before the plow,” he steps closer to Berit. “But no one came to my feast. They called it shameful. Seventeen, they said. And not even good enough to catch it himself.”
The three of them sit in silence, while Berit reflects on the story. Voto had shown great ingenuity, solving the problem with the same type of elegance he brings to his smithing work. Yet, there was no honor in his actions. Berit now knows, at least in part, why his uncle and aunt live where they do.
When he finishes contemplating, he is ready to tell his story about the day's event.
At the end, his aunt laughs. “Dag, that bull of a man, finally got what he deserved,” she says. “I would have done it myself, had he ever given me the chance. But that little head of his was at least smart enough to stay away from me.”
She expects her nephew to smile at this, but he does not. So she says: “Are you worried that he will tell the elders’ council? Because he will not. He will be too embarrassed. If anyone saw the fight, he will deny it. If anyone asks him about his face, he will probably say that he fell on his plow.”
Berit sighs, I do not care if he tells.
“Then what is wrong? Tell your auntie.”
I did not mean to hurt him. I did not want to hurt him.
“That is how men act when they want something. They hurt each other,” says Sahsin. “It is the way of things. And I recommend that you get used to it.”
“I do not hurt anyone,” says Voto.
Sahsin looks at him and smiles. “That is because I hurt them for you,” she laughs. She looks back to Berit and pushes his shoulder. “Hey, you probably just broke his nose. It will heal; his pride will not.”
Berit smiles a little.
“It is good to see you smile,” she says. “Now tell me, how is your little sister? It has been an eternity since I have seen her. Does Yarvia miss her Auntie Sahsin?”
V.
The sun is far past the day’s zenith by the time Berit recovers his pail and makes it to the well. He replays the fight in his head, trying to picture if there was any opportunity to stop it without hurting Dag when he hears Yarvia. Berit still thinks of her as his little sister, but she has grown faster than a hops plant in the last year and is now taller than many and even some men.
“Where have you been?” she says. “Mother sent me to find you. Have you gone off and got lost in the hunt?”
Berit wraps an arm around the pail, pressing it against his chest so that he has one arm free. No, he signs.
“Building traps?”
No.
“Fine,” she says. “Be a riddle. That is why the girls like you.” Berit blushes. This is not the first time that he has heard this and from more reliable people than his sister. She smiles. It is her sly smile, the one she uses to make fun of him.
“Have you seen Dag?” she asks. “One of his bulls charged him and made a mess out of his face.”
Berit shakes his head. No. I have not. Is his alright? Then he uses the cord by the well to draw a pail of water. It is a fine strong cord, and yet soft on his hand. Berit knows it can only be the work of his mother.
“You know what some people say?” his sister asks. She pauses for Berit to react or respond, but his hands are busy. So, he shakes his head. “Some say he was fighting.”
Berit pulls the well bucket toward him and sets it on the stone. I do not really care about Dag, he signs as nonchalantly as possible.
“Some say he was fighting a human bull. The strongest man in town.”
Berit transfers the water into his pail and drops the bucket back down into the well. We should go home, he signs. Mother is waiting.
“Was it you, brother?” she asks. “I heard things, you know.” Berit ignores her. But she skips ahead of him, pressing her hands to the sides of her head and pointing her fingers upwards as if they were horns. “Are you the bull?” She kicks up dust and grunts. Berit stops and sets the pail down.
No, he signs. Stop it.
“Alright,” she says. “I will. And I will also not ask you about the bump on the back of your head that is as big as a hill.”
Berit feels his head. With everything that had happened, he had not noticed the painful swelling or the matt of hair clotted with blood.
Hunting, he signs. I was hunting and fell out of a tree. He dips his hand in the water and attempts to clean his head.
Yarvia smiles. “Yes. I knew it. You were hunting the whole day and fell out of a tree. That is what I shall tell everyone, and next time you go, you will take me with. Perhaps I too shall fall out of a tree.”
No. Berit signs, his movements quick and ridged. I will not. Father will not allow it.
“Father will not allow anything,” she says. “But you will take me with all the same or I might find it awfully hard to hold my tongue about the wild bull living in my house.”
If you do, perhaps you will fall out of a tree, Berit signs.
“You would not,” Yarvia says. She pauses and looks at him. “I want to learn to hunt. I want to be as clever with a bow as Aunt Sahsin. I want to be strong like you.”
I am not strong, Berit signs. I am the oldest boy in the village.
Yarvia laughs, high and uncontrolled, as if Berit has made a joke. Then she looks at him and sees that he is serious. “You are a boy worth any three men your age, a boy worth any two of the older men. I hear the men talk, you know. They respect you, even though you have yet to catch your voice.”
Berit feels tears in his eyes again. So, he bends down, picks up the pail, and shoves it into Yarvia’s chest. The cold water sloshes off the sides and splashes them both. Yarvia automatically puts her arms around it. Berit lets go.
“What are you doing? I do not want to carry this,” she says. “It is heavy.”
Do you want to be strong? signs Berit.
“Yes,” says Yarvia.
Then carry the pail. Besides, how am I supposed to answer your questions about hunting with a pail in my arms?
“Fine,” she says and starts walking.
VI.
Berit lies awake watching the flashes of light at the entrance to his and Yarvia’s room. It is lightening, heat lighting – the cool night clashing with the heat of the day. Berit knows that somewhere, terrible rumbles of thunder accompany the flashes.
He hears his father enter their home — step, step, stumble, step — the gait of a man who has again been drinking sweet mead with the elders’ council. Berit prays that this will not be like the other nights his father has gone to drink mead. But he hears the familiar mumbling and shuffling, shouts and yells. His father’s tongue is still as sharp as the talons his voice once had.
“You are worthless, and you have raised a worthless son,” he says to Berit’s mother. “He is fifteen and not caught his voice. Do you want him to be like Voto?”
His father is not always like this. Sometimes he is funny. He is always clever, even when he is drunk and angry. He taught Berit to hunt, to set snares and pitfalls, to walk silently through the forest, to make and string a strong bow. “I was eleven and brought my great bird down with a sling,” he hears his father say. “A sling! Do you know how difficult that is?”
When Berit was younger, he would wonder why his mother did not leave, why she did not ask for help. He would wonder why this woman, a master weaver, as strong and soft as the cord she makes would remain here, silent like a boy. He does not wonder anymore. He is old enough to know that the elders’ council would not decide against a man, against one of their own. He is old enough to know that although girls and women can speak with a voice, the action is useless if it falls on closed ears.
“And the girl is even worse. If we are not careful, she will end up like your sister,” says his father. “It is your blood. That is why they are like this. The children of my brother do not act in such a way. Why do you do nothing against it?” There is silence. And then Berit hears the sound of a slap and his mother cry in pain. “Why do you not answer me?” Berit looks to Yarvia, who is now awake, hands over ears. She is not crying. It has been a long time since Berit has seen his little sister cry.
“Stop him,” she whispers.
Berit is stronger and taller than his father, and he thinks that he is a better fighter. He could stop him, he thinks, but he is only a boy, voiceless until he catches his beast. How would he defend himself before the elders’ council? How would he feel if he hurt his father as badly as he hurt Dag, or worse in his rage? He cannot explain this to his sister. And even if he could, his hands are shadows in the darkness. So, he goes to his sister’s bed and wraps his arms around her. When he has his voice, he begins to think but stops. For now, they gently rock back and forth, listening to their father’s thunder and watching the silent lightening until they fall asleep.
VII
Berit awakes to a sound piercing the night-time air. It is thunder but not thunder. A roar in the darkness. His voice. Nothing else is that powerful. He slips from bed, and creeps through the darkness, sliding one hand along the wall until he finds his knife. He ties the straps securely around his body and steps outside. He does not take his bow. Finding it would risk waking his sister or his father.
On the edge of the forest, lightning crawls across the sky, splitting into a million branches. He breathes deeply and enters. Moving on silent feet, Berit checks his traps one by one. The pitfall is still intact. Two snares remain untouched, and one, set a week ago, has been sullied by the wind or an animal even larger than his voice, a bear perhaps. He cannot see well enough to determine which. There is only one trap left, the snare that he set this morning, the farthest one out. He must make it before his voice breaks free.
Berit moves through the wood, flying on fluid feet. This is a different type of running movement than yesterday. Berit is water moving down a rock, effortlessly finding a path through the moonlit darkness of the familiar forest until he arrives at his destination. In flashes of lightning, Berit sees his voice clearly for the first time. It is as big as a wolf, moving back and forth as smoothly as a fish through water. His heart pounds. He reaches for his knife handle. The beast’s motion stops as one of its front legs jerks back. It snarls and raises the leg to its mouth, chewing on the cord. If he does not stop it, he will lose his chance. Drawing his blade, Berit steps fully into the open, foot on a twig. It snaps as loud as a hawk’s call. His voice freezes, looks up, every muscle in its body tense and ready to fight. It stares at Berit, eyes flashing with hatred in the distant lightning. Berit’s knife shines, long and curved. His voice roars, a sound like a waterfall, louder than all the village men together. It hits Berit’s chest like a club, and he forgets where he is, forgets who he is. There is a second sound, one just as powerful as his voice. And Berit realizes that it is him. He is roaring with it, a torrent of breath moving through his throat, vibrations tearing his vocal cords and eardrums, a sound to drown out all other sounds. He is powerful; he is dominant; his voice is greater than that of all other men, and for the first time in his life, Berit feels truly alive. When the last wisp of breath leaves their throats, the forest is silent. Not even crickets sing.
As swift as soundlessness, Berit charges.
When he reaches the beast, he thrusts the knife forward and the beast springs to the side, bearing the claws on its paws not entangled by the snare. Berit sees that the beast’s trajectory will carry it just beyond the tip of his knife. It will land and attack before Berit has the chance to recover. He tries to turn, to do anything to save himself, but it is too late. Berit knows that when the beast pounces, its claws will have his throat. But the beast’s momentum stops with a sudden, unnatural jerk. The snare has drawn taught. The thin, strong cord woven by his mother holds the beast’s paw. It lashes out, but its movements are still off-balance, and the claws come down across Berit’s cheek. A blow, but not a fatal one. At the same time, he feels the tip of his knife scrape across the beast's side not deep enough to do any real damage. Berit finds his footing, grips his knife with a supple hand, and moves swiftly past the beast. When he is out of the beast’s range, he turns to face it again, feeling his cheek – four superficial slices that he will carry as scars.
The beast bares its teeth, digs its claws into the ground, and growls. Berit sets his feet, staring back at his voice, breathing hard, blood dripping from his chin. He is angry, angrier than he has ever been in his life. He is angry at the day and himself. He is angry at his voice for being so cunning, so strong, for escaping him for so long. He is angry at the lightning and the trees themselves. He is angry at Dag. He is angry at the village. He is angry at his father. And in his anger, he now knows what to do.
Berit charges, raising the blade high above his head. Except this time, the attack is a feign. When the beast lunges, Berit drops to the ground sideways – quicker than the cat – rolling and bringing the blade down hard. Feeling it cut, he snaps his feet under him, rights himself, and plants his feet ready for an attack. But no attack comes. His voice looks to the ground. It sees the severed cord. It tests its freedom by turning slowly. It moves from side to side, effortless and fluid but never towards Berit. He admires the beauty in his voice’s movements. He wonders why he would ever want to kill such an animal, why anyone would want to kill such an animal. He wonders why he ever wanted to be like the other boys with their voices, like Dag, like his father, like the elders’ council. And then, in a single low bound, the beast slips into the darkness and is gone. Berit breathes deeply, feeling the blood still dripping from his chin. He knows that the beast is no longer his voice, that he can now speak aloud. It is not the killing and consumption that earns a man his voice, not the violence but the struggle. Berit will go now, back to the village. He will be a man, a man like Voto, but also a man unlike Voto. He will live in the village, and he will talk freely with his mouth and his hands. There is power in using a voice, but there is also just as much power in not using one, in listening, in understanding. He looks to the spot where the beast left. He clears his throat. The words feel awkward on his lips, but natural in the movement of his hands.
For the first time, Berit hears himself speak, “Farewell,” he says. “I wish you peace.”
© Copyright 2024 Nathan Susnik
About the Author
Nathan Susnik has been a pole vaulter, a steamboat deckhand, and a biology re-searcher. He is currently living with his family near Hanover, Germany. His fiction and poetry have been published by Strange Horizons, Escape Pod, Short Édition, and more. Follow him on Twitter at @NathanSusnik or visit his website: www.nathansusnik.wordpress.com