Louis Hannibal Nez
A heavyset old man goes for a walk, as he does every night before bed, along the shore of a murky lake. Odin, his faithful Cimarrón dog, accompanies him. The fog, solid as a wall, keeps him from seeing much of the lake's surroundings, a landscape he already knows very well. But this time is different; instinct tells him so. He feels as though he were walking for the first time through the countryside where he has lived all his life.
He walks slowly, taking in everything around him. He crosses the dense fog and reaches the lakeshore, where the water can barely be heard in its nocturnal whispers. Then he feels the urgency of a bodily need. He stops and lowers his zipper, intending to relieve himself. At that instant, only a few yards away, he hears Odin barking furiously at something. The old man looks up: someone lies naked and facedown on the ground, his legs still submerged to the knees.
The old man awkwardly straightens himself and hurries toward Odin and the body. Alarmed, he fears he has found a corpse. When he reaches it, he kneels beside the young man and turns him over with both hands. The skin is still warm to the touch. He leaves him lying on his back. The pallor is almost deathly.
"What's wrong, Odin? What did you find? Who is this?" he murmurs.
The dog looks at him, whines, and barks at the body again. Then he turns toward the lake and barks once more, his pitch sharper now, almost desperate.
The old man takes the young man's wrists and searches for a pulse. He can barely remember how; his hands tremble, and the silence becomes unbearable. At last he feels it: a faint, irregular heartbeat, but a living one. Despite the cold night, the young man is naked. That troubles the old man. He knows everyone who lives in the area and has never seen this face before.
He leans closer for a better look. The skin is torn in several places: deep furrows, as though something had tugged at it with great force. In places, the flesh lies exposed, wet and still oozing. His first thought is that some large animal attacked him. He can imagine no other explanation for a body in such a state.
He rises, grips the young man beneath the arms, and drags him out of the murky water. His bruised feet hang lifelessly. There is a pulse, but it is weak. It could fade at any moment. He must act quickly.
With painful effort, he hoists the body onto his shoulders. He is still a large man, but his strength is not what it once was. Every step is a struggle. Even so, he manages to move forward, leaving the shore and entering the fog toward the yellow porch lights of his cabin.
Odin remains behind at the water's edge, barking desperately at the black surface. Then something moves in the lake—a wet, sluggish sound, like a deep suction rising from below.
The dog falls silent at once. He cowers, lets out a high-pitched whine, and runs after his master without looking back.
Once inside the house, the old man lays the young man's pale, limp body on a dark brown leather sofa. He covers him with two blankets, stokes the fire, and looks at him again. The young man remains unconscious, his pulse faint. The old man picks up the landline and makes a brief call, then returns to the living room. Nothing has changed.
He hurries to the kitchen. He warms some milk, places sweet and savory crackers on a plate, and arranges everything on a tray. When he returns, the scene has changed completely: the young man is standing with his back to him, wrapped in a blanket and trembling uncontrollably.
Odin stays close, his fur standing on end, growling low without taking his eyes off him.
"Where am I?" the young man asks in a broken whisper, slowly turning toward the old man.
The old man watches him and approaches cautiously. He sets the tray on the table in front of the sofa. He notices the young man's trembling but tries not to show concern. The young man's eyes are large, far too dark, with deep circles that shadow his face. His skin is so pale it seems almost translucent; his hair, only a few millimeters long, stands out like a shadow.
"Hello... I thought you'd still be unconscious. I'm glad to see you on your feet," the old man says quietly.
"Where am I?" the young man insists, anxious.
"Easy," he replies. "You're in my house. You're safe. I'm Oscar. I found you beside the lake. What's your name?"
The young man regards him distrustfully.
"Lake? What lake?" he whispers. "Prove you're not one of them. Prove this is real."
Oscar draws his head back as though something invisible were nearing his face—not from fear, but surprise.
"Son... you were unconscious on the shore of the lake. You're in my house," he says calmly.
The young man stares without blinking, showing no surprise. His gaze travels slowly around the room as though he recognizes nothing. At one side, Odin keeps growling under his breath, breathing hard. Then the young man fixes his eyes on the old man's. A long silence stretches between them. A tear falls from his left eye, then another, larger one, from his right.
"My name is Olivo Olivera," he whispers. "Have you seen her? Have you seen her? Tell me you have... please." His voice breaks. "What year is it?" he asks, disoriented, the trembling still gripping his body.
Oscar loses his breath. The words do not come at once; he was not expecting questions like these.
"Listen, Olivo... take it easy. You're safe. Come sit down. There's something to eat here. You must be hungry."
The young man looks at the crackers without reaching for them.
"Olivo..." Oscar murmurs, trying to reconnect with him.
"Ivo. No one calls me Olivo."
"All right... Ivo. Please, sit down."
The young man wraps the blanket more tightly around himself and sits in the armchair. Odin approaches slowly; he no longer growls, merely watches.
"Eat something," Oscar says gently. "Do you remember what happened? How did you get to the lake?"
"That doesn't matter," Ivo replies without looking at him. "Tell me the year. Now."
Oscar swallows.
"The year is 2025."
He pauses.
"Is that... is that the right year for you?"
Ivo jerks his head up. His eyes are glassy and tense.
"No," he whispers. "It isn't the right year."
The blanket trembles in his hands.
"It was 2003."
After the young man's words, only the crackling fire can be heard. The silence weighs upon them. Odin barely moves his muzzle, sniffing the stranger without coming closer or retreating.
"Ivo... I don't know how to explain this," Oscar says at last. "The year 2003 was a long time ago. Back then, I was only a little older than you are. It's November now... 2025 is almost over."
Ivo raises both hands to his head and runs them again and again over his shorn hair.
"It can't be," he murmurs. "Twenty years can't have passed. No..."
Oscar moves closer and sits beside him without touching him, an arm's length away. The cabin is silent except for the fire and the distant murmur of fog against the windows.
"Listen," Oscar says quietly. "I've called an ambulance. They're coming to treat you. Some of your wounds look serious. Eat something, even if it's only a little."
He pauses briefly.
"If you want to—only if you want to—tell me who they are."
Ivo closes his eyes. More tears fall.
"No one can help me," he whispers.
"Don't say that," Oscar whispers. "You mentioned a girl. Tell me about her. If you're looking for her, she must matter to you. Who is she?"
Ivo looks up. His eyes, sunken in shadow, seem darker still in the firelight.
"If I tell you this... they'll lock me away. They'll think I'm insane. I have to find her. I have to find Uda."
"No one's going to lock you away," Oscar replies, his voice firm but gentle. "Just tell me. From the beginning. It will do you good. Who is Uda?"
Ivo shakes his head several times, rubbing his wounded scalp. The tremors will not subside.
"It all began on a trip," he murmurs. "Inauda Ubaud... Uda... my girlfriend... and me. We went to the Blue Pools in the hills."
Oscar brings the tray closer. Ivo takes the warm milk in both hands and drinks, then eats quickly, with the hunger of someone who cannot remember the last time he did. The living room remains silent except for the fire as he eats.
Oscar listens. As the words begin to emerge, fragmented and trembling, he understands that what he dragged from the lake was not merely a lost young man.
It is the return of something that perhaps should never have come back.