WINTER 1943.

The alarm is raised at the air-monitoring station at Eel Point the day after the great blizzard has pa.s.sed by-a sixteen-year-old girl is missing. at the air-monitoring station at Eel Point the day after the great blizzard has pa.s.sed by-a sixteen-year-old girl is missing.

"Lost in the blizzard," says the director of the station, Stovey, when the seven men gather in the kitchen in the morning, wearing the gray uniform of the crown. Stovey's real name is Bengtsson, but he has acquired his new name because he prefers to sit indoors next to the iron stove when there's a cold wind outside. And there is almost always a cold wind outside in the winter at Eel Point.

"I shouldn't think there's much hope," he goes on. "But we'd better search anyway."

Stovey himself stays inside to coordinate the search-everyone else sets off in the snow. Eskil Nilsson and Ludvig Rucker, who is nineteen years old and the youngest at the station, are sent off to the west to search in the area around the peat bog, Offermossen.

It is only fifteen degrees below zero and there is just a light breeze today-considerably milder than previous winters during the war, when the thermometer has sometimes dropped to somewhere between minus thirty and minus forty.

Apart from the blizzard the previous night, it has been a quiet winter at Eel Point. The German Messerschmitts have more or less stopped appearing along the coast, and after Stalingrad it is the Soviet Union's supremacy over the Baltic that Sweden fears most.

One of Eskil's older brothers has been sent over to Gotland to live in a tent all the year round. Eel Point is in radio contact with southern Gotland-if the Soviet fleet attacks, they will be the first to know.

Ludvig quickly lights a cigarette when they get outside, and starts plowing through the snowdrifts in his boots. Ludvig smokes like a chimney, but never offers anyone else a cigarette. Eskil wonders where he gets hold of all his supplies.

Most things have been rationed at the manor for a long time. They can get fish from the sea and milk from the two cows at the manor, but there is a severe shortage of fuel, eggs, potatoes, cloth, and real coffee. Worst of all is the tobacco rationing, which is now down to three cigarettes a day.

But Ludvig seems able to get hold of tobacco with no problem, either in the mail or from someone in the villages around Eel Point. How can he afford it? The conscripts' pay is just one krona per day.

When they have gone a few hundred yards, Eskil stops and looks for the main highway. He can't see it-the blizzard has made it magically disappear. Bundles of fir branches had been pushed into the ground to mark out the route for the sledge teams, but they must have blown away during the night.

"I wonder where she came from?" says Eskil, clambering over a snowdrift.

"She came from Malmtorp, outside Rorby," says Ludvig.

"Are you sure?"

"I know her name too," says Ludvig. "Greta Friberg."

"Greta? How do you know that?"

Ludvig merely smiles and takes out a fresh cigarette.

Now Eskil can see the western watchtower. A rope has been fixed up to lead the way there from the highway. The tower is built of wood, insulated with pine branches and camouflaged with gray-green sheets of fabric. The snow has been driven up into an almost vertical wall against the eastern side by the blizzard.

The other air-monitoring watchtower at Eel Point is the southern lighthouse, which was converted to electricity just before the war broke out; it has heating and is a very comfortable place to sit and watch for foreign aircraft. But he knows that Ludvig prefers to be alone here out on the peat bog.

Of course Eskil suspects that he is not always alone in the watchtower. The Rorby boys hate Ludvig, and Eskil thinks he knows why. The girls from Rorby like him too much.

Ludvig goes over to the tower. He sweeps the snow from the steps with his glove, climbs up, and disappears for a minute or so. Then he comes back down again.

"Here," he says, handing over a bottle to Eskil.

It's schnapps. The alcohol content is high; it hasn't frozen, and Eskil unscrews the cork and takes a warming gulp. Then he looks at the bottle, which is less than half full.

"Were you drinking in the tower yesterday?" he asks.

"Last night," says Ludvig.

"So you walked home in the blizzard?"

Ludvig nods. "More like crawling, really. You couldn't see your hand in front of your face ... good job the rope was there."

He puts the bottle back in the tower, then they plow on northward through the snow, toward Rorby.

Fifteen minutes later they find the girl's body. they find the girl's body.

In the middle of a vast expanse of snow north of Offermossen, something that could be the slender stump of a birch tree is sticking up. Eskil peers at it and moves closer.

Suddenly he sees that it is a little hand.

Greta Friberg had almost reached Rorby when the snow caught her. Her rigid face is staring up at the sky when they sc.r.a.pe away the snow, and even her eyes are covered in ice crystals.

Eskil can't stop looking at her. He falls to his knees in silence.

Ludvig stands behind him, smoking.

"Is this her?" says Eskil quietly.

Ludvig knocks the ash off his cigarette and leans over for a quick look.

"Yes, that's Greta."

"She was with you, wasn't she?" says Eskil. "Yesterday, up in the tower."

"Maybe," says Ludvig, and adds, "I'd better varnish the truth a bit for Stovey about all this."

Eskil gets to his feet. "Don't lie to me, Ludvig," he says.

Ludvig shrugs his shoulders and stubs out his cigarette. "She wanted to go home. She was freezing cold, and she was terrified of getting stuck in the tower with me all night. So she went her way in the blizzard and I went mine."

Eskil looks at him, then at the body in the snow. "We have to fetch help. She can't stay here."

"We'll use the tow sled," says Ludvig. "We can put her on that. We'll go and fetch it."

He turns and heads toward Eel Point. Eskil walks slowly backward so that he won't be turning his back on the dead girl too quickly, then catches up with Ludvig.

They plow along silently in the snow, side by side.

"Are you going to carve her name up in the barn?" he asks. "Like we did with Werner?"

Werner was a seventeen-year-old who had been called up for military service; he fell into the water from a boat and drowned off the point in the summer of 1942. Greta's name should be carved next to his up in the hayloft, in Eskil's opinion. But Ludvig shakes his head.

"I hardly knew her."

"But ..."

"It was her own fault," says Ludvig. "She should have stayed with me in the tower. I'd have warmed her up."

Eskil says nothing.

"But there are plenty of girls in the villages," Ludvig goes on, looking across the far side of Offermossen. "That's the best thing about girls, they never run out."

Eskil nods, but he can't think about girls right now. He can only think of the dead.

December

18

It was a new month, the month of Christmas, and it was Friday afternoon. Joakim had returned to the hayloft in the ice-cold barn, and was standing in front of the wall with the names of the dead carved in it. In his hands he held a hammer and a newly sharpened chisel.He had gone up into the loft an hour or so before he was due to pick up Livia and Gabriel, just as the sun was going down and the shadows were gathering in the inner courtyard. It was a kind of reward that he allowed himself if the renovation work had gone well.Sitting up here in the loft felt quiet and restful, despite the cold, and he liked studying the names on the wall. He read Katrine's name over and over again, of course, like a mantra.As he began to learn many of the names by heart, so the wall itself, with its knotholes and the convoluted rings in the wood, was becoming familiar to him. On the left, in the corner, a deeper split ran along one of the middle planks, and in the end it tempted Joakim to go and take a closer look.The plank had split along one of the rings, showing the age of the original tree. The crack had then widened downward in a diagonal line, and when he pressed his hand against it the wood cracked and gave way.That was when Joakim had gone to fetch his tools.He pushed the chisel into the crack, hit it with the hammer, and the sharp metal went straight through the wood.All it took was a dozen or so hard blows with the hammer to loosen the end of the plank. It fell inward, and the dull thud when it landed proved that the wooden floor continued on the other side of the wall. But it was impossible to see what was in there.When Joakim bent down to look through the hole, just a couple of inches wide, a definite smell struck him. It rushed toward his face, making him close his eyes and lean against the wall.It was Katrine's smell.He got down on his knees and pushed his left hand into the opening. First his fingers, then his wrist, and finally the whole of his forearm. He groped about, but could feel nothing.But when he lowered his fingers, they touched something in there, something soft.It felt like coa.r.s.e fabric-like someone's pants or jacket.Joakim quickly withdrew his hand.The next moment he heard a dull rumbling on the track outside, and a beam of light illuminated the windows of the barn, white with frost. A car was driving into the courtyard.Joakim cast a final glance at the opening in the wall, then went over to the steps leading down from the loft.In the courtyard he was dazzled by the headlights of a car. A door slammed."Hi there, Joakim."It was a brisk voice that he recognized. Marianne, the head of the preschool."Has something happened?" she asked.He stared at her in confusion, then pulled up his sleeve and looked at his watch. In the beam of the headlights he could see that it was already half past five.The school closed at five. He had forgotten to pick up Gabriel and Livia."I missed ... I forgot what time it was.""It's okay," said Marianne. "I was just so worried that something might have happened. I tried to call, but there was no reply.""No, I've been ... out in the barn doing a bit of carpentry.""It's easy to forget the time," said Marianne with a smile."Thanks," said Joakim. "Thanks for bringing them home.""No problem, I live in Rorby anyway." Marianne waved and went back to her car. "See you Monday."When she had reversed out of the courtyard, Joakim went inside, feeling ashamed of himself. He could hear voices from the kitchen.Livia and Gabriel had already taken off their boots and outdoor clothes and thrown them down in two separate heaps. They were sitting at the kitchen table sharing a clementine."Daddy, you forgot to come and get us," said Livia as he walked in."I know," he said quietly."Marianne had to drive us home."She didn't sound cross, more surprised at the deviation from the normal routine."I know," he said. "I didn't mean for that to happen."Gabriel was eating his clementine segments, apparently unconcerned, but Livia gave her father a long look."I'll make us something to eat," said Joakim, and went quickly over to the larder.Pasta with tuna sauce was a favorite, and he boiled some water for the pasta and warmed the sauce. Several times he glanced out of the window.The barn loomed up on the far side of the courtyard like a black castle.It had secrets. A hidden room without a door.A room that, for a moment, had been filled with the scent of Katrine. Joakim was sure he had felt her presence; the smell of her had poured out through the hole in the wall, and he had been unable to defend himself.He wanted to get into that room, but the only way seemed to be to attack the thick planks of wood with a saw or crowbar. But then the carved names would be destroyed, and Joakim could never do that. He had too much respect for the dead.When the temperature dropped below freezing, the cold began to creep into the house as well. Joakim relied on radiators and tiled stoves on the ground floor, but there were strips of coldness along the floor and around some of the windows. On windy days he searched for drafts along the floor and walls, then blocked the gaps by loosening sections of the outer paneling and pushing flax fiber in between the timbers. below freezing, the cold began to creep into the house as well. Joakim relied on radiators and tiled stoves on the ground floor, but there were strips of coldness along the floor and around some of the windows. On windy days he searched for drafts along the floor and walls, then blocked the gaps by loosening sections of the outer paneling and pushing flax fiber in between the timbers.The first weekend in December the thermometer hovered around minus five when the sun was shining, but dropped down to minus ten in the evening.On Sunday morning Joakim looked out of the kitchen window and discovered that there was a layer of black ice out at sea. The open water was now several hundred yards away. The ice must have formed by the sh.o.r.e during the night, then slowly crept around the headland and out toward the horizon."We'll soon be able to walk across the water to Gotland," he said to the children as they sat at the breakfast table."What's Gotland?" said Gabriel."It's a big island further out in the Baltic.""Can we walk there?" asked Livia."No, I was just joking," said Joakim quickly. "It's too far away.""But I want to."It was impossible to joke with a six-year-old-she took everything literally. Joakim looked out of the kitchen window and an image came into his mind of Livia and Gabriel walking out onto the black ice, going further and further out. Then suddenly it cracked, a black hole opened up, and they were pulled down ...He turned to Livia."You and Gabriel must never go out onto the ice. Not under any circ.u.mstances. You can never be sure it will hold."That night Joakim called his former neighbors in Stockholm, Lisa and Michael Hesslin. He hadn't heard a word from them since the night they left Eel Point. his former neighbors in Stockholm, Lisa and Michael Hesslin. He hadn't heard a word from them since the night they left Eel Point."Hi, Joakim," said Michael. "Are you in Stockholm?""No, we're still on oland. How are things?""Fine. Good to hear from you."And yet Joakim thought Michael sounded wary. Perhaps he was embarra.s.sed over what had happened the last time they met."You're feeling okay?" said Joakim. "And what about work?""Everything's going really well," said Michael. "Lots of exciting projects. Things are a bit hectic right now, coming up to Christmas.""Good ... I just wanted to check up, make sure everything was okay. I mean, it was a bit of a hasty departure last time you came down here.""Yes," said Michael, and hesitated before going on: "Sorry about that. I don't know what it was ...I woke up in the middle of the night and couldn't get back to sleep ..."He fell silent."Lisa thought you'd had a nightmare," said Joakim. "That you dreamed someone was standing by the bed.""Did she say that? I don't remember.""You don't remember who you saw?""No.""I've never seen anything strange around here," said Joakim, "but I've felt things sometimes. And out in the barn I've found a wall in the hayloft where people-""So what about the renovation?" Michael interrupted him. "How's all that going?""What?""Have you finished the wallpapering?""No ... not quite."Joakim was confused, until he realized that Michael had no desire whatsoever to discuss unusual experiences or bad dreams. Whatever had happened to him that night, he had closed and locked the door on the memory."What are you doing at Christmas?" Joakim asked instead. "Will you be celebrating at home?""We'll probably go to the cottage," said Michael. "But we're intending to be at home for New Year.""Maybe we can get together, then."The conversation didn't last much longer. When Joakim had hung up, he looked out of the kitchen window, toward the film of ice on the sea and the empty sh.o.r.e. The frozen desolation almost made him miss the crowded streets of Stockholm."There's a hidden room here," said Joakim to Mirja Rambe. "A room without a door." said Joakim to Mirja Rambe. "A room without a door.""Really? Where?""Up in the hayloft. It's big ... I've paced out the barn, and the floor of the loft stops almost four yards before the outside wall." He looked at Mirja. "You didn't know?"She shook her head."The wall with all those names on it is enough for me. That's all the excitement I need."Mirja leaned forward on the big sofa and poured Joakim a steaming cup of coffee. Then she picked up a bottle of vodka and asked, "A drop in your coffee?""No thank you. I don't drink spirits and-"Mirja gave a short laugh. "Then I'll have your ration," she said, pouring the vodka for herself.Mirja lived in a s.p.a.cious apartment close to the cathedral in Kalmar, and had invited the family over for dinner this evening.Livia and Gabriel finally got to meet their maternal grandmother. Both were quiet and wary when they walked in, and Livia looked suspiciously at a white marble statue of the upper half of a man's body, standing in one corner. It was a while before she started talking. She had brought Foreman and two teddy bears with her, and introduced all three to her grandmother. Mirja took the family into her studio, where finished and unfinished paintings of oland lined the walls. They all showed a flat, blossoming green landscape beneath a cloudless sky.For someone who had hardly bothered about her grandchildren up to now, Mirja was remarkably interested in them. When they had eaten their meat-filled dumplings, she worked hard to get Gabriel to come and sit on her knee, and finally succeeded. But he only stayed put for a few minutes before running off into the TV room to watch children's programs with Livia."So it's just the two of us," said Mirja, sitting down on the sofa in the main room."Fine," said Joakim.Mirja had none of her own paintings on the walls, but two of her mother Torun's pictures of the blizzard hung in the main room. Both depicted the snowstorm approaching the coast, like a black curtain about to fall on the twin lighthouses. Just like the picture at Eel Point, these were winter paintings that exuded hidden menace and the premonition of evil.Joakim looked in vain for traces of Katrine in the apartment. She had always loved bright, clean lines, but her mother had decorated the rooms with dark, flowery wallpaper and curtains, Persian rugs, and black leather sofas and chairs.Mirja had no photographs of her dead daughter or her half siblings. She did, however, have several large and small pictures of herself and a young man, perhaps twenty years her junior, with a blond goatee beard and spiky hair.She saw Joakim staring at the pictures and nodded toward the man."Ulf," she said. "He's off playing indoor hockey, otherwise you could have met him.""So you're a couple ..." said Joakim, "you and the hockey player?"A stupid question. Mirja smiled."Does that bother you?"Joakim shook his head."Good, because it bothers a lot of other people," said Mirja. "Katrine, certainly, even if she never said anything ... Older women aren't supposed to have a s.e.x life. But Ulf doesn't seem to be complaining, and I'm certainly not.""On the contrary, you seem proud of it," said Joakim.Mirja laughed. "Love is blind, or so they say."She drank her coffee and lit a cigarette."One of the police officers in Marnas wants to carry on with the investigation," said Joakim after a while. "She's called me a couple of times."He didn't need to explain which investigation he was talking about."Right," said Mirja. "She's welcome to do that, I suppose.""Sure, if it provides any answers ... but it won't bring Katrine back.""I know why she died," said Mirja, drawing on her cigarette.Joakim looked up. "You do?""It was the house.""The house?"Mirja laughed briefly, but she wasn't smiling. "That d.a.m.ned house is full of unhappiness," she said. "It's destroyed the lives of every family that has ever lived there."Joakim looked at her, surprised by the comment. "You can't blame unhappiness on a house."Mirja stubbed out her cigarette.Joakim changed the subject."I'm having a visitor next week, a retired guy who knows the house. His name is Gerlof Davidsson. Have you met him?"Mirja shook her head. "But I think his brother lived close by," she said. "Ragnar. I met him.""Anyway ... Gerlof is going to tell me about the history of Eel Point.""I can do that, if you're so curious."Mirja took another huge gulp of her coffee. Joakim thought her eyes were already beginning to look slightly glazed from the alcohol."So how did you end up at Eel Point?" he asked. "You and your mother?""The rent was low," said Mirja. "That was the most important thing for Mom. She spent the money she earned from cleaning on canvases and oils, and she was always short of money. So we had to find places to live to fit in with that.""Was the place already looking shabby by then?""It was getting that way," said Mirja. "Eel Point was still owned by the state at that stage, but it was rented to someone on the island for a small amount of money ... some farmer who didn't put a penny into fixing it up. Mom and I were the only ones who were prepared to live in the outbuilding in the winter."She drank some more of her coffee concoction.The children were laughing loudly at something in the TV room. Joakim thought for a while, then asked, "Did Katrine ever talk to you about Ethel?""No," said Mirja. "Who's Ethel?""She was my older sister. She died last year ... almost exactly a year ago. She was a user.""Booze?""Drugs," said Joakim. "Anything, really, but mostly heroin over the last few years.""I've never really been into drugs," said Mirja. "But of course I agree with people like Huxley and Tim Leary ...""About what?" asked Joakim."That drugs can open doors in your mind. Particularly for artists like us."Joakim stared at her. He thought of Ethel's blank expression, and realized why Katrine had never told Mirja about her.Then he quickly finished his coffee and looked at his watch: quarter past eight."We'd better get back.""So what do you think of your grandmother, then?" asked Joakim as they drove back across the oland bridge. of your grandmother, then?" asked Joakim as they drove back across the oland bridge."She was nice," said Livia."Good.""Will we be going there again?" she asked."Maybe," said Joakim. "But probably not for a while."He decided not to think about Mirja Rambe anymore.

19

"My daughter called me last night," said one of the elderly ladies on the sofa next to Tilda. last night," said one of the elderly ladies on the sofa next to Tilda."Oh yes, what did she say?" asked the other elderly lady."She wanted to talk things through.""Talk things through?""Talk things through, yes," said the first lady. "Once and for all. She says I've never supported her. 'You only thought about yourself and Daddy,' she said. 'All the time. And us kids have always been in second place.'""That's what my son says as well," said the other lady. "Although with him it's the exact opposite. He rings before Christmas every year and complains and says that I gave him too much love. I destroyed his childhood, according to him. Don't you give it another thought, Elsa."Tilda stopped eavesdropping and looked at her watch. The weather report should be over by now, and she got up and knocked on Gerlof's door."Come in."Gerlof was sitting by the radio when Tilda went in to collect him. He had his coat on, but didn't seem to want to get up."Shall we go?" she said, holding her arm out ready to support him."Maybe," he said. "Where was it we were going?""Eel Point," said Tilda."Right ... and what exactly is it we're going to do out there?""Well, I suppose we're going to talk," said Tilda. "The new owner wants to hear some stories about the place. I said you knew lots of stories.""Stories?" Gerlof got up slowly and looked at her. "So now I'm designated as some kind of canny old man, sitting in a rocking chair with twinkling eyes telling tales of ghosts and superst.i.tions?""It'll be fine, Gerlof," said Tilda. "Just look on yourself as a spiritual mentor. To someone who is grieving.""Oh yes? There's no pleasure in grief, said the old man who sat weeping beside the wrong grave."Gerlof set off, leaning on his stick, and added, "We'll just have to talk some sense into him."Tilda took his other arm. "Shall we take the wheelchair?""Not today," said Gerlof. "My legs are working today.""Do we need to tell anyone we're going?"Gerlof snorted. "It's nothing to do with them."It was Wednesday, the second week in December, and they were on their way out to Eel Point for coffee. Gerlof and the owner of the manor were to meet at last."How are things going at work, then?" asked Gerlof as they drove through the center of Marnas."I only have one colleague at the station here in Marnas," said Tilda. "And he tends to keep out of the way ... he's usually down in Borgholm.""Why?"Tilda remained silent for a few seconds."You tell me ... but I happened to b.u.mp into Bengt Nyberg from olands-Posten olands-Posten yesterday, and he told me that the new police station in Marnas already has a nickname." yesterday, and he told me that the new police station in Marnas already has a nickname.""Oh?""They call it the old women's station."Gerlof shook his head wearily. "That's what they used to call the train stations on the island that only had female staff in the old days. The male stationmasters didn't think the women could do the job as well as them.""I'm sure they did it better," said Tilda."Well, no one ever complained, as far as I know."Tilda drove out of Marnas and down along the deserted road. The temperature was zero, and the flat coastal landscape seemed to have stiffened into a gray and white winter painting. Gerlof looked out through the windshield."It's so beautiful here by the sea.""Yes," said Tilda. "But you're biased.""I love my island.""And you hate the mainland.""No, I don't," said Gerlof. "I'm not some narrow-minded local patriot ... but love always begins at home. Those of us who live on the island have to preserve and defend the dignity of oland."Gerlof's sullen mood gradually lifted and he became more and more talkative. As they were pa.s.sing the little churchyard in Rorby, he pointed toward the side of the road."Speaking of ghosts and superst.i.tions ... would you like to hear a story that my father told every Christmas?""Sure," said Tilda."The father of your grandfather and my father was called Carl Davidsson," Gerlof began. "He worked as a servant over in Rorby when he was a teenager, and he once saw a very strange thing here. His older brother had come to visit him, and they were out walking here by the church in the twilight hour. It was around New Year, very cold and with plenty of snow. Then they heard a horse-drawn sleigh coming up behind them. His brother glanced over his shoulder, then cried out and grabbed hold of Carl's arm. He pulled him down off the road and out into the snow. Carl didn't understand what was going on until he saw the sleigh, which was coming closer along the road.""I know this story," said Tilda. "My father used to tell it."But Gerlof carried on, as if he hadn't heard her:"It was a load of hay. The smallest load of hay Carl had ever seen, and it was being pulled by four tiny horses. And up in the hay little men were clambering around. They were less than three feet tall.""Goblins," said Tilda. "Weren't they?""My father never used that word. He just said they were little people dressed in gray clothes and hats. Carl and his brother didn't dare move, because the men didn't look friendly. But the load drove past the boys without anything happening, and once it had pa.s.sed the churchyard the horses turned off the road and disappeared out into the darkness on the alvar." Gerlof nodded to himself. "My father swore it was a true story.""Didn't your mother see goblins too?""Yes indeed, she saw a little gray man run straight out into the water when she was young ... but that was in southern oland." Gerlof looked at Tilda. "You come from a family that has seen many remarkable things. Perhaps you've inherited the ability to see things?""I hope not," said Tilda.Five minutes later they had almost reached the turning for the manor, but Gerlof still wanted to take a break and stretch his legs. He pointed through the windshield to the gra.s.sy landscape on the other side of the stone wall."The peat bog has started to freeze. Shall we take a look?"Tilda pulled up at the side of the road and helped Gerlof out into the cold wind. A thin layer of shining ice covered the watery patches all over the bog."This is one of the few old peat bogs left on the island," said Gerlof as he looked out over the stone wall. "Most of the others have been drained and have disappeared."Tilda followed his gaze and suddenly saw a movement out in the water, a black shiver between two thick tussocks of gra.s.s that made the film of ice quiver and crack."Are there fish in here?""Oh yes," said Gerlof. "I'm sure there are a few old pike ... and the eels make their way here in the spring, when the streams created by the melting ice run down into the Baltic.""So you can catch them?""You can, but n.o.body does. When I was little, I was told that the flesh of fish caught in the bog had a musty taste.""So where does the name come from, then-Offermossen, 'the Sacrificial Bog'?""Sacrifices from the old days," said Gerlof. "Archaeologists have found Roman gold and silver here, and the skeletons of hundreds of animals that had been thrown into the water-lots of horses." He fell silent, then added: "And human bones.""Human sacrifices?"Gerlof nodded. "Slaves, perhaps, or prisoners of war. I suppose some powerful person decided that was all they were good for. As far as I understand it, they were pushed down beneath the water with long poles while they were still alive ... then the bodies just lay there until the archaeologists found them." He gazed out over the water and went on: "Perhaps that's why the eels still come up here, year after year. They probably remember the taste, I mean they like eating the flesh of-""Enough, Gerlof."Tilda stepped away from the stone wall and looked at him. He nodded."Okay, okay, I'm just rambling. Shall we get going?"[image]Once they had parked the car, Gerlof made his way slowly across the gravel, leaning on his stick and Tilda's arm. She let go briefly to knock on the gla.s.s pane in the kitchen door.Joakim Westin opened the door after the second knock."Welcome."His voice was quiet and he looked even more tired than the last time she'd seen him, Tilda thought. But he shook hands with her, even smiled, and his earlier anger over the mix-up with the names seemed to have disappeared."I'm very sorry about your loss," said Gerlof.Westin nodded. "Thank you.""I'm a widower myself.""Oh?""Yes, but it wasn't the result of an accident, it was a long illness ... my Ellen got diabetes, then heart problems.""Recently?""No, it was many years ago," said Gerlof. "But of course it's still hard sometimes. The memories are still strong."Westin looked at Gerlof and nodded silently. "Come in."The children were at preschool, and the atmosphere in the bright rooms was silent and solemn. Tilda could see that Westin had worked hard over the past few weeks. Almost the whole of the ground floor had been painted and wallpapered, and it was beginning to look like a real home."It almost feels like a journey back in time," she said as they walked into the big drawing room. "Like walking into a nineteenth-century manor house.""Thank you," said Joakim.He took it as a compliment, despite the fact that Tilda was mainly envious of the size of the room. She still wouldn't want to live out here."Where did you find all the furniture?" asked Gerlof."We searched and searched ... both here on the island and in Stockholm," said Joakim. "Large rooms need large pieces of furniture to occupy the s.p.a.ce. We've often looked for old pieces that we could renovate.""That's a good approach," said Gerlof. "These days people rarely set any store by their possessions. They don't repair things that are broken, they simply throw them away. It's buying things that's important, not looking after them."Tilda realized that he enjoyed going around old houses. For Gerlof the pleasure in seeing beautiful, well-made possessions went hand in hand with the knowledge of the hard work that lay behind them. Tilda had seen him sitting and contemplating items he owned-an old seaman's chest or a collection of linen hand towels-as if he could feel all the memories they brought with them."I imagine you get kind of addicted to this?" asked Gerlof."Addicted to what?" said Joakim."Fixing up houses."He was smiling, but Joakim shook his head."It's not an addiction. It's not as if we want a new kitchen every year, like some families in Stockholm ... and this is only the second house we've taken on. Before that we only fixed up apartments.""So where was the first house?""Outside Stockholm, in Bromma. A beautiful detached house that we renovated from top to bottom.""And why did you move? What was wrong with the house?"Joakim avoided meeting Gerlof's eye. "There was nothing wrong ... we really liked the house. But it's good to move up to something bigger now and again. Financially, above all.""Oh?""You take out a loan and find a run-down apartment in a good location and start renovating it in the evenings and on the weekends, while living there at the same time. Then you find the right buyer and sell it for much more than you paid ... then you take out a new loan and buy another rundown apartment in an even better location.""And you sell that one too?"Joakim nodded. "Of course it wouldn't be possible to make money out of property if the demand for places to live wasn't so high. I mean, everybody wants to live in Stockholm.""Not me," said Gerlof."But lots of people do ... prices are going up all the time.""So both you and your wife were good at fixing places up?" said Tilda."We actually met when we both went to an open house at an apartment," said Joakim with fresh energy in his voice. "An old lady had been living in a big apartment with a whole lot of cats. The location was perfect, but Katrine and I were the only ones who could put up with the stench, and stayed behind. We went for coffee afterward and talked about what could be done with the place. ...It became our first project together."Gerlof turned and looked around the drawing room, his expression grim. "And of course you're intending to do the same thing with Eel Point," he said. "Move in, renovate it, sell it."Joakim shook his head. "We'd intended to stay here for many years. We wanted to rent out rooms, maybe even open a small restaurant." He looked out of the window and added, "We didn't really have a set plan for everything we wanted to do, but we knew we were going to be happy here ..."His energy had disappeared again, Tilda could see. The silence in the white room was oppressive.After a tour of the house they sat down in the kitchen with a cup of coffee. they sat down in the kitchen with a cup of coffee."Tilda said you wanted to hear some stories about the manor," said Gerlof."I'd like that," said Joakim, "if there are any.""Oh, there are," said Gerlof. "But I suppose you mean ghost stories? Is that the kind of thing you're interested in?"Joakim hesitated, as if he was afraid someone might be eavesdropping, then said, "I'd just like to know if anyone else has experienced unusual things here," he said. "I've felt ... or imagined I've felt ... the presence of the dead at Eel Point. Both out by the lighthouses and here inside the manor. Others who have been here seem to have had a similar experience."Tilda said nothing, but she was thinking of the October evening when she had waited here for Westin. She had been alone here then-but it hadn't really felt that way."Those who have lived here in times gone by are still here," said Gerlof, his coffee cup in his hand. "Do you think they rest only in graveyards?""But that's where they're buried," said Joakim quietly."Not always." Gerlof nodded toward the expanse of plowed fields at the back of the house. "The dead are our neighbors everywhere here on the island, and you just have to get used to it. The whole countryside is full of old graves ... tumuli containing chambers from the Stone Age, burial cairns and cists from the Bronze Age, and the burial grounds of the Vikings."Gerlof turned to look out toward the sea, where the horizon had disappeared in a damp winter fog."And there's a churchyard out there too," he said. "The whole of the east coast is a graveyard for hundreds of ships that ran up on the sandbanks and were smashed to pieces, and for all the sailors who drowned. Many of those who went to sea in days gone by couldn't even swim."Joakim nodded and closed his eyes. "I didn't believe in anything," he said. "Before we came here I didn't believe the dead could come back ... but now I don't know what to believe. A number of remarkable things have happened here."Silence fell in the kitchen."Whatever you might feel of the dead, or whatever you think you might see," said Gerlof slowly, "it can be dangerous to let them rule our actions.""Yes," said Joakim quietly."And to try to call them up ... or ask questions.""Questions?""You never know what answers you might get," said Gerlof.Joakim looked down into his coffee cup and nodded. "But I have wondered about this story that says they will return here.""Who?""The dead. When I was having coffee with the neighbors, they told me a story: those who have died here at the manor return home every Christmas. I was just wondering if there were any more tales about that?""Oh, that's an old story," said Gerlof. "It's told in many places, not just here at Eel Point. The Christmas vigil of the dead, that's when those who have pa.s.sed away during the year return for their own Christmas service. Anyone who disturbed them at that time had to run for their life."Joakim nodded. "An encounter with the dead.""Exactly. There was a strong belief that people would be able to see the dead again ... and not only in church. In their homes too.""At home?""According to folk beliefs, you should place a candle in the window at Christmas," said Gerlof, "so that the dead can find their way home."Joakim leaned forward. "But was that just those who had pa.s.sed away in the house," he said, "or other dead people as well?""You mean drowned sailors?" said Gerlof."Sailors ... or other members of the family who have pa.s.sed away somewhere else. Did they come back at Christmas as well?"Gerlof glanced briefly at Tilda, then shook his head. "This is just a story, you know," he said. "There are many superst.i.tions surrounding Christmas ... It was the turning point of the year, after all, when the darkness was at its peak and death was at its closest. Then the days grew longer again, and life returned."Joakim didn't say anything."I'm looking forward to that," he said eventually. "It's so dark now ... I'm looking forward to the turning point."A few minutes later they were outside saying goodbye. Joakim held out his hand. they were outside saying goodbye. Joakim held out his hand."You have a beautiful home out here," said Gerlof, shaking it. "But be careful of the blizzard.""The blizzard," said Joakim. "It's supposed to be a really big snowstorm down here, isn't it?"Gerlof nodded. "It doesn't come every year, but I'm pretty sure it will come this winter. And it comes quickly. You don't want to be outdoors down here by the sea when that happens. Especially not the children.""So how do people on oland know when something like that is coming?" asked Joakim. "Can you feel it in the air?""We look at the thermometer and listen to the weather forecasts," said Gerlof. "The cold has arrived early this year, and that's usually a bad sign.""Okay," said Joakim with a smile. "We'll be careful.""You do that." Gerlof nodded and set off toward the car, supported by Tilda, but he suddenly stopped, let go of her arm, and turned around. "One more thing ... what was your wife wearing on the day of her accident?"Joakim Westin stopped smiling. "I'm sorry?""Do you remember what clothes she was wearing that day?""Yes ... but they were nothing special," said Joakim. "Boots, jeans, and a winter jacket.""Have you still got them?"Joakim nodded, looking tired and tortured again. "The hospital gave them to me. In a parcel.""Could I take a look at them?""You mean ... you want to borrow them?""Borrow them, yes. I won't damage them in any way, I just want to look at them.""Okay ... but they're still all parceled up," said Joakim. "I'll go and get them."He went back into the house."Can you take care of the parcel, Tilda?" said Gerlof, setting off toward the car once more.When Tilda had started the engine and driven out through the gate, Gerlof leaned back in his seat. the engine and driven out through the gate, Gerlof leaned back in his seat."So, we had our little chat," he said with a sigh. "I suppose I was a bit of a canny old man after all. It's difficult to avoid it."A brown parcel containing Katrine Westin's clothes was lying on his knee. Tilda glanced at it."What was all that business with the clothes? Why did you want to borrow them?"Gerlof looked down at his knee. "It was just something that occurred to me when we were standing out there by the bog. About how the sacrifices were carried out there.""What do you mean? That Katrine Westin was some kind of sacrifice?"Gerlof looked out through the windshield, over toward the bog. "I'll tell you more very soon, when I've looked at the clothes."Tilda pulled out onto the main road."This visit worried me a little," she said."Worried?""I'm worried about Joakim Westin, and about his children ... It felt as if you were sitting there in the kitchen talking about folktales, while Westin regarded them as reality.""Yes," said Gerlof, "but I think it was good for him to talk a little. He's still grieving for his wife, which is not so strange after all.""No," said Tilda. "But I thought he talked about her as if she were still alive ... as if he were expecting to see her again."

20

After the break-in at Hagelby vicarage and the flight through the forest, it was two weeks before the Serelius brothers came back to Borgholm. But suddenly there they were at Henrik's door one evening, at the worst possible moment. at Hagelby vicarage and the flight through the forest, it was two weeks before the Serelius brothers came back to Borgholm. But suddenly there they were at Henrik's door one evening, at the worst possible moment.Because by that time the quiet but rhythmic knocking in his apartment had started to become intolerable, like a dripping faucet that couldn't be turned off.At first Henrik was convinced that it was coming from the old stable lantern, and after three difficult nights with the constant sound of tapping, he put it in the car. The following morning he drove over to the east coast and put the lantern in the boathouse.But the knocking continued the next night, and now it was coming from inside the wall in the hallway. But not always the same wall-the sound seemed to move slowly behind the wallpaper.If it wasn't the lantern, then it must be something else he had brought with him from the forest, or from that f.u.c.king death chamber he'd been crawling around in.Unless of course it was something that had sneaked into his apartment through the brothers' Ouija board. Those nights when they had sat around the kitchen table staring at the gla.s.s as it moved beneath Tommy's finger, it had definitely felt as if something invisible was in the room.Whatever it was, it was getting on Henrik's nerves. Every night he wandered back and forth between the bedroom and the kitchen, terrified of going to bed and turning off the light.In sheer desperation he had called Camilla, his ex-girlfriend. They hadn't been in touch for several months, but she sounded pleased to hear from him. They had talked for almost an hour.Henrik's nerves were at the breaking point when his doorbell rang three days later, and the sight of Tommy and Freddy at the door didn't exactly make him feel any better. the breaking point when his doorbell rang three days later, and the sight of Tommy and Freddy at the door didn't exactly make him feel any better.Tommy was wearing sungla.s.ses and his hands were twitching. He wasn't smiling."Let us in."It wasn't a friendly reunion. Henrik wanted money from the Serelius brothers, but they had none-they hadn't sold any of the stolen goods yet. He knew they wanted to do one more trip to the north of the island, but Henrik didn't want to.And he didn't want to discuss any of it with them tonight, because he had a visitor."We can't talk now," he said."Sure we can," said Tommy."No.""Who is it?" asked Camilla from the sofa in front of the TV.The brothers craned their necks curiously to see who the female voice belonged to."It's just ... two friends," said Henrik over his shoulder. "From Kalmar. But they're not staying."Tommy lowered his sungla.s.ses and gave Henrik a long look. It made him step outside and pull the door closed behind him."Congratulations," said Tommy. "Is this a new find, or an old one you've dug up?""It's the girl I used to live with," said Henrik quietly. "Camilla.""f.u.c.k me ... she took you back?""I called her," said Henrik. "But she was the one who wanted to meet up.""Nice," said Tommy without a smile. "But what shall we do now, then?""About what?""Our joint project.""It's over," said Henrik. "Apart from the money.""Oh no.""It's over."They stared at one another, Henrik and the brothers. Then he sighed."We can't talk out here on the stairs," he said. "One of you can come in."In the end Freddy lumbered back out to the van. Henrik led Tommy into the kitchen and closed the door behind them. He lowered his voice:"We're going to sort this out right now, then you can go."But Tommy was still more interested in Camilla, and asked loudly and clearly, "So has she moved back in? Is that why you look so f.u.c.king tired?"Henrik shook his head. "That's something else," he said. "I'm not sleeping well.""I expect that'll be your conscience," said Tommy. "But the old guy will be okay, they'll patch him up.""Who the f.u.c.k knocked him down?" hissed Henrik. "Don't you remember?""It was you," said Tommy. "You kicked him.""Me? But I was behind you in the hallway!""You stood on the old guy's hand and broke it, Henrik. If they find us, you're going down.""For f.u.c.k's sake, we're all going down!" Henrik glanced toward the door and lowered his voice again. "I can't talk any more now.""You want money," said Tommy. "Don't you?""I've got got money," said Henrik. "I've got a job during the day, for f.u.c.k's sake!" money," said Henrik. "I've got a job during the day, for f.u.c.k's sake!""But you need more," said Tommy, nodding toward the other room. "They're expensive to run."Henrik sighed. "It's not the f.u.c.king money that's the problem, it's all the stolen stuff in the boathouse. We need to get it sold.""We'll sell it," said Tommy. "But first we're going to do one more trip ... the last trip to the north. To the manor house.""What manor house?""The one with all the paintings ... the one Aleister told us about.""Eel Point," said Henrik quietly."That's the one. When shall we go?""Wait a minute ...I was there last summer. I went just about everywhere, but I didn't see any f.u.c.king paintings. And besides ...""What?"Henrik didn't say any more. He remembered the echoing rooms and corridors at Eel Point. He had enjoyed working for Katrine Westin, the woman who lived there with her two small children. But the place itself had felt forbidding even in August, despite the fact that the Westin family had given it a thorough cleaning and started a ma.s.sive renovation project. What would it be like there now, in December?"Nothing," he said. "But I didn't see any paintings at Eel Point.""They're probably hidden, then," said Tommy.There was a faint knocking sound.Henrik jumped, then realized it was just an ordinary knock at the kitchen door. He went over and opened it.Camilla was standing outside. She didn't look pleased."Will you be done soon? Otherwise I'm going home, Henrik.""We're done," he said.Camilla was small and slender, much shorter than the men. Tommy smiled sweetly down at her and held out his hand."Hi there ... Tommy," he said, in a quiet, polite voice Henrik had never heard before."Camilla."They shook hands so vigorously, the buckles on Tommy's jacket jingled. Then he nodded at Henrik and moved toward the door."Okay, so that's agreed then," he said to Henrik. "I'll call you."Henrik locked the front door behind Tommy, then went and joined Camilla on the sofa. They sat in silence and finished watching the film they'd started before the brothers turned up."Do you think I should stay, Henrik?" she asked half an hour later, when it was almost eleven o'clock."If you want to," he said. "That would be good."After midnight they were lying next to each other in the little bedroom, and for Henrik it was like being taken six months back in time. As if everything was as it should be. It was just fantastic that Camilla had come back, and the only thing that was bothering him now was the persistent Serelius brothers.And the knocking.Henrik was listening for it, but all he could hear was the sound of Camilla's soft breathing. She had fallen asleep with no problem.Silence. No noises inside the walls.He didn't want to think about the knocking now. Or about the visit from the Serelius brothers. Or about the manor house at Eel Point.Camilla had come back, but Henrik didn't dare to discuss with her exactly what their relationship was. They weren't living together, anyway. Early the next morning he got up and went off to work in Marnas.She was still in the apartment then, but when he got home it was empty. There was no reply when he rang her.That night he lay alone in his bed again, and when he had turned out the light the noises started in the hallway. There was a knocking sound inside the walls, quiet but persistent.Henrik raised his head from the pillow."Shut the f.u.c.k up!" he yelled out into the room.The knocking paused briefly, then resumed.

The last year of the fifties-that's when my own story begins. The story of Mirja at the manor house at Eel Point, and of Torun and her paintings of the blizzard.

I was sixteen years old and fatherless when I arrived at the lighthouse station. But I had Torun. She had taught me something all girls ought to learn: never to be dependent on men.

-MIRJA RAMBE

WINTER 1959.

The two men my artistic mother, Torun, hated most were Stalin and Hitler. She was born a couple of years before the First World War and grew up on Bondegatan in Stockholm, but she was restless and wanted to venture out into the world. She loved painting, and at the beginning of the 1930s she went to art school in Gothenburg first of all, and then on to Paris, where, according to Torun, people constantly mistook her for Greta Garbo. Her paintings attracted a certain amount of attention, but she wanted to get back to Sweden when the war broke out, and traveled back via Copenhagen. There she met a Danish artist and managed to fit in a quick romance before Hitler's soldiers suddenly appeared on the streets.

When she got home to Sweden, Torun discovered that she was pregnant. According to her, she wrote several letters to the father-to-be, my Danish daddy. It might be true. However, he never got in touch.

I was born in the winter of 1941, when fear covered the world. At that time Torun was living in Stockholm, where all the lights had been turned off and everything was rationed. She kept on moving to different rooms for unmarried mothers, poky little holes rented out by disapproving old ladies, and supported herself by cleaning for the rich folk of ostermalm. She had neither the time nor the money to be able to paint.

It can't have been easy. I know it wasn't easy.

When I first heard the dead whispering in the barn at Eel Point, I wasn't afraid. I'd experienced far worse in Stockholm.

One summer after the war, when I am seven or eight years old, I start to have problems peeing. It's terribly painful. Torun says I've been swimming too much, and takes me to a doctor with a beard on one of Stockholm's widest streets. He's nice, my mother says. He charges next to nothing to see children.

The doctor is very friendly when he says h.e.l.lo. He is old, he must be at least fifty, and his coat is all creased. He smells of booze.

I have to go in and lie down on my back in a special room in his surgery, which also stinks of booze, and the doctor closes the door behind us.

"Unb.u.t.ton your skirt," he says. "Pull it up and just relax."

I am alone with the doctor, and he is very thorough. But at last he is satisfied.

"If you tell anyone about this, they'll put you away in an inst.i.tution," he says, patting me on the head.

He b.u.t.tons up his coat. Then he gives me a shiny one-krona coin and we go back to Torun in the waiting room-I stagger along, my legs trembling, and I feel even more ill than I did before, but the doctor says there isn't anything serious wrong with me. I am a good girl, and he will prescribe some suitable medicine.

My mother is furious when I refuse to take the doctor's tablets.

At the beginning of the 1950s, Torun takes me to oland. It is one of her ideas. I don't think she had any connection with the island, but just as when she traveled to Paris, she longs for an artistic environment. And of course oland is famous for its light and for the artists who have succeeded in capturing it. My mother babbles about Nils Kreuger, Gottfrid Kallstenius, and Per Ekstrom.

I am just happy to be leaving the city where that old doctor lives.

We arrive in Borgholm on the ferry. We have all our possessions with us in three suitcases, plus Torun's package of canvases and oils. Borgholm is a neat little town, but my mother is unhappy there. She thinks the people are stiff and haughty. Besides, it's much cheaper to live out in the country, so after a year or so we move again, to a red outbuilding in the village of Rorby. We have to sleep under three blankets, because it is always so cold and drafty.

I start at the local school. All the children there think I speak a kind of affected big-city talk. I don't say what I think of their dialect, but I still don't make any friends.

Soon after we end up out in the country, I start to draw in earnest; I draw white figures with red mouths and Torun thinks they're angels, but it is the doctor and his slashed mouth that I am drawing.

When I was born, Hitler was the big bad wolf, but I grow up filled with the fear of Stalin and the Soviet Union. If the Russians want to, they can conquer Sweden in four hours with their airplanes, according to my mother. First they will occupy Gotland and oland, then they will take the rest of the country.

But for me, as a child, four hours is quite a long time, and I give a great deal of thought to what I would do during this last period of freedom. If the news comes that the Soviet planes are on their way, I will run off to the store in Rorby and stuff myself with as much chocolate as I can, I'll eat all they've got, then I'll grab some crayons and paper and watercolors and rush back home. Then I'll be able to cope with living the rest of my life as a communist, just as long as I can carry on painting.

We move around as lodgers from one place to another, and every room we rent stinks of oils and turpentine. Torun makes enough money to live on by cleaning, but paints in her spare time-she goes out with her easel and paints and paints.

In the last fall of the 1950s we move again, to an even cheaper room. It is in an old building at the manor house at Eel Point. An outbuilding, built of limestone, with whitewashed walls. Cool and pleasant to live in during the hot summer days, but freezing cold the rest of the year.

When I find out that we are going to live near lighthouses, of course I get a whole lot of magical pictures in my head. Dark, stormy nights, ships in trouble out at sea, and heroic lighthouse keepers.

Torun and I move in one October day, and I immediately feel unwelcome there. Eel Point is a cold and windy place. Walking between the big wooden buildings feels like sneaking around some desolate castle courtyard.