They were silent.
Simonsen hunted. Slowly, methodically, and with the utmost concentration he searched for his prey by scouring the edge of the forest. The fall colors made it easy to differentiate among the trees. The sun was behind him and its pale light filled his sight with clear red, yellow, orange, and green shades. Here and there were trees that had lost all their leaves and broke the palette with their black branches and naked twigs. Like witches’ fingers. From time to time a cloud obscured the sun and the woods changed character to an inscrutable mass, uniform and compact. But hardly a minute would go by before the sun came out again. He used these pauses to train the binoculars down on the main street or on the freestanding trees of the castle grounds. He did not bother to look at the castle itself.
Not much happened. At one point, a gardener came to a halt on one of the many small white bridges in the garden. He stared out in front of him for almost ten minutes, unmoving, as if he were sucking up groundwater. The man was over fifty and presumably of no interest. Nonetheless, Simonsen drew a sigh of relief when he finally decided to continue with his life and slowly shuffled off down to the village, where he disappeared. Two men appeared, occupied with surveying, but they also disappeared after a while. No other human activity was discernible.
“I hope you’re inside somewhere, Simon.”
It was the Countess and her voice was normal. The head librarian must have left.
“Why? What do you mean?”
“The weather, of course. We’re going to get a real shower in a little while, or what do you think? You are the one who has the better view, unless there’s something I’ve misunderstood.”
There was nothing she had misunderstood but Simonsen had a view only of half the sky. He put the binoculars down, crawled down from his seat, and made his way to the door of the shed.
Out over the water, the sky was covered with leaden thunderclouds and lightning flashed at the horizon. He watched the storm with fascination. Turbulent air flow and currents on the underside of the weather system tore off gray wisps of clouds and hurled them toward the water. Darkness won out and approached. Suddenly there was a waterspout, then another and, a little farther, a third. Curved, thicker at the top and slender at the bottom, the three giant fangs drifted toward the coast in an uncertain dance. But the phenomenon lasted only a short while. Immediately upon reaching land, the three columns were consumed by the earth, while a rumble rolled in over the village like a casual burp. Then the rain started to fall.
A quarter of an hour later the front had passed and the light returned. Simonsen resumed his post. Everything was as before, the same irregular shapes and outlines, the same nuances of decaying green, the same concentrated lack of activity. And yet not. The rain shower had drenched the area and now the sun was reflected in a myriad of drops so that each leaf glittered and each branch gleamed while little creatures carefully ventured forth from the many hiding places of the forest in order to reconquer their wet, reborn world. Even Simonsen was aware of the change and he whispered to himself, “You are there, Climber, and I’m going to nab you. At some point you’re going to make a mistake, a simple little mistake, and then I will get you. I’m at the top of the food chain and I am very, very hungry.”
At that moment Pedersen called in to report some developments: “She just drove past. I’m about one hundred meters behind her.”
A little while later he added, “Nothing new about Steel-Anni. I’ve just gone over the bridge and I’m on her tail. We’re going to reach you in about an hour but I’ve heard some news on the radio. Do you want to know what’s going on?”