The Boat in the Evening by Tarjei Vesaas Page A

alive and work on him with all their might. They suck him to them. He understands better and better that this is where he is to go. Now. The picture dissolves, then rearranges itself. There is no way past the water-mirrors. They increase in strength and fascination as they throw inverted images up from the depths. He is ensnared by them, and believes blindly in what they tell him.
    Leaning over more. Still he does not slide down. Staring at the picture which is supposed to be himself. Soon he has forgotten that he is looking at his own reflection. Nor could he have recognized any part of it. The eye is no longer a human eye. It is transformed; it calls and says come, and the mirrors charm capriciously between. They have such drawing power because this is happening on the outermost edge of the abyss.
    Tossing forwards and backwards the whole time. The brief time; this will not last long.
    Yet—the flashing of mirrors that do not exist, with colours in polished mirror edges that promise better things. The exhausted man on the rock has no real resistance to offer. The outcome must be decided already.
    They lure him on. Come.
    Not quite ready. His feet still seem to be caught in what he has trampled on.
    Come now.
    He cannot distinguish one thing from another, what is down or what is up. The mirrors have done this to him. But he does not let himself slide yet. Come down, he hears, kindly and insistently. He leans over lower and farther.
    Come, he hears, and he could not possibly hear anything more beautiful.
    The features down below are about to lose their normal shape, worn away by the hard struggle. Only the eyes and what is saying Come. In all the confusion something is repeating, as evenly as a clock: Come. There is a tempo in it that is a part of the attack on him.
    He does not know that it is his own power of allurement and seduction that is facing him from the head in the water. He watches it like a stranger, or a distant, kind friend.
    The most beautiful word in existence approaches him from two directions. It is double, and the distance between up and down is continually shortening. In reality the gap gets deeper, in reality it is sinking a little all the time; something important is being snuffed out.
    But what is important and not important when one’s own features have disintegrated? The tired man on the brink of the river can find no reasonable explanation for this.
    The most beautiful word joins itself from above and below, and then everything is ready for action. He does not see the sharp boundary he is crossing. His feet begin to slide out of their foothold without a signal from any central place.
    He is not even aware that it is he who is falling at this moment. Because it feels just as much up as down.
    But he is setting out on his journey down. Hold after hold up here must release him. He slides down as quietly as a shadow can glide into deep water. There was no height; he was just above the surface. No ripples result. A little agitation in the mirror, that is all. It happens gently, and at first up and down do not change places.
    He has let go of the last hold.
    His thoughts are twisted into a hopeless tangle. He lets himself slide down in shock because his face broke up as he was watching. It had become natural to slide into it. He had already become the other, the one who was calling.
    He scarcely notices the transition. A little jerk of cold from somewhere. The eye that compelled this journey is not with him, nor the thoughts about what led him here. Now explosions of newness are crashing over him.
    *
    His mirror was smashed and vanished, but only in the instant when the eye struck against its own averted surface. As he sinks he manages to open his eyes again, confused beneath the surface of the water, and sees mirrors or mirror images in improbable patterns. They reflect and flash with improbable objects, while he moves downwards and the shortage of air begins to throttle him. Very soon this becomes