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hold of him (he literally experienced center and depth) and at the same time reached out beyond him; it warmed the palms of his hands (and his gently spreading fingers), arched the balls of his feet, made him conscious of his teeth, and transformed the whole of him into a body which became a radically extroverted organ of all the senses. Seeing himself in strips of darkness, he was overpowered by the calm of a savage—which could be expressed only in the one word “beautiful.”
    Not merely turning his head, but nimbly twisting his shoulders and hips on their axis, he recognized in the
darkness that his life would inevitably become dangerous. He did not see the dangers; he had an intimation of them; he could not go looking for them, they were necessity itself; he had an intimation of necessary solitude and continued remoteness; and all these intimations crowding in on him, but forming no clear prophecy, added up to a feeling of adventure, as if he had just gone away from all his dear ones with no possibility of return; and, his head whirling with the intoxication of being forever alone, he rejoiced out loud: “No one knows where I am. No one knows where I am!” (For a moment the moon appeared, and he hissed at it.)
    And then he heard a whimpering beside him in the darkness, as of an abandoned child. Or was it the breathing of some large animal?
    But it was only a human, standing beyond reach but fairly near him, clearing his throat to show no harm was intended. And between these two, who could not see each other, the following words were said: “Hi, stranger. How are you feeling this evening?” Sorger: “Fine, thank you. How are you?” The speaker: “Short autumn. Run out of fuel.” Sorger: “Isn’t there a woodpile down by the river?” The speaker: “Good river. Fine summer. Long winter. Could you spare a quarter, mister?” (A hand, warm like Sorger’s own, took the coin.) The speaker: “God bless you, man. Green northern lights, yellow around the edges. Where you from?” Sorger: “Europe.” The speaker: “I’m going to tell you something. Never look at the snow too long. It can make you blind. That’s what happened to me. Want me to tell you something else?” Sorger: “No, thank you.” “You’re welcome, friend. Don’t eat too much fish. Enjoy the rest of your stay here. Take care. Have a good time. Pleasant trip. Touch home soon.”

    Sorger heard the speaker—whether Indian or white, man or woman, he couldn’t be sure—moving off in the darkness, and sure of the way, sure of his direction and his body, he ran back to the village and the gabled house. The other two were standing at the window but didn’t turn their heads in his direction, as though they hadn’t even noticed his absence, or as if he had already been so forgotten that he would have to breathe at them. Over the Indian woman’s shoulder, two glassy fox eyes stared at him.
    No more talk; for a last time the smooth woman drew him to her with both her hands, pushed him away with a little laugh, and grazed him with a look of astonishment in which her whole face seemed to expand, though no part of it moved; but Sorger had thrown his arms around his friend, who had taken his place beside her in the goodbye line; and in the end gone dutifully (“the mail plane and all that”) to bed in the next room, which was suddenly (but not for very long) freezing cold.
    In his sleep, Sorger kept waiting for someone who didn’t come. Once he woke up and saw the cat crouching in the corner of the room. “Monumental little beast.” Quietly addressing the cat, he coaxed it to him. It came and laid its head on his knees. The cat wanted to live: and Sorger wanted to be forgotten by his best friends and perish. Unthinkingly he addressed the cat as “child,” loved it (his arms grew strong with love), and named his