Shadow of Fog Island

by Mariette Lindstein

  He was too strong. I didn’t have the energy to fight back. I didn’t have the energy for anything at all. I just lay there like a dead fish and let him have his way.

  Forgive me for not standing my ground. Forgive my fear and weakness. I so fervently hope that I can be forgiven before I die. The consequences of my silence were so disastrous.

  Six months later, when it became clear that I was expecting, the terrible secret began to consume me. Because Uncle Markus had long since stopped caring where he spilled his seed.

  50

  The door flew open and banged against the wall. Sofia was so startled she almost dropped her book. Oswald stood in the doorway with a sheaf of papers in one hand, dressed in gym clothes, sweat dripping from his forehead. He looked unusually smug; his eyes were truly burning.

  ‘The new theses!’ he cried in triumph, holding up the papers. There was nothing about him that hinted at what had happened the day before. Here he stood, her rapist, speaking to her as if they were the best of friends. She wondered if he was so insane that she might be able to convince him to let her go.

  Then she saw that he was disgustingly big and hard under his running tights and quickly turned away. Did his own religious nonsense turn him on, or was he planning to assault her again?

  As he closed and locked the door, she hurried to set the family history on the bedspread.

  ‘Did you read it?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I was just about to start,’ she lied. She didn’t want him to quiz her about its contents. Not until she was done reading.

  He placed the stack of papers neatly on the table by the door.

  Then he came over and sat on the bed.

  ‘I was finishing up my spinning session when it struck me that you have to read the theses. Then you’ll understand how serious your betrayal is.’

  ‘Let me go!’ The words just slipped from her mouth. ‘You’ve punished me, so let me go.’

  ‘Oh sweetie, what you call “punishment” was no one-night stand. You mean more to me than that, don’t you understand?’

  ‘You are horrid. You cannot keep me here any longer.’

  His eyes narrowed. He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her face close. She tried to twist away, but he only pulled harder, until she cried out.

  ‘Acceptance,’ he said. ‘That’s what these new theses are about. The thin line between life and death. Accepting the role life has given you. In your case, it’s all about placing your life in my hands. Do you remember Lily?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘She was my girlfriend here on the island when I was young. We played with ropes and whips and so forth. One night she started to struggle. It didn’t end well. For her, that is. Don’t make the same mistake as Lily.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, you monster! As if that scares me.’

  ‘But it does, Sofia. If it doesn’t now, it will when there’s a leather strap around your neck. I can promise you that.’

  He pulled her closer, his cold lips brushing her forehead.

  ‘Oh, darling. There’s so much life in you. Far too much for your own good.’

  He went to the table and picked up the stack of papers. As he sat back down beside her, he set them in front of her.

  ‘These are the notes I made in prison. The new theses. It was while I was working on these that I succeeded in reaching what we might call the core of life. I tried out a few of the exercises on the inmates there at Skogome. You better believe they were psyched up after that. There’s an overview – I’d like you to read that first.’

  She looked down at the stack, which must have been a decimetre thick, and hoped he wouldn’t make her read out loud. On the topmost sheet was a note written in red pen, scribbled down in large, sprawling letters. Fucking illiterate. Sofia looked up at him, baffled.

  ‘Oh, don’t mind that,’ he said. ‘My new secretary was supposed to type up my notes, and she’s not as efficient as you were. As you can see. In any case, you can read all that later. This is what I wanted to show you.’

  He browsed for a moment, then pulled a sheet from the bottom of the pile. He smoothed it out and placed it on her lap. She read it silently to herself.

  A fact all the great thinkers have overlooked.

  The thin line between life and death.

  True strength and power are located on this very line.

  Jesus and his sheeple preach love and understanding.

  The Buddhists try to obliterate desire.

  The existentialists: Death is final; the flame can never be rekindled.

  Religious oddballs: Resurrection! Reincarnation!

  Life OR death.

  Black OR white.

  All of humanity is fumbling blindly.

  Only I can distinguish that line.

  The border between the two sides.

  THERE lies all the power you will ever come across.

  Between them.

  There, and nowhere else.

  She looked up at him, fighting the urge to laugh, frantically trying to look serious. He gazed at her expectantly as she desperately fumbled for something good – and above all, deep – to say. Something to buy her more time. Time to find a way to escape. She’d survived any number of his idiotic riddles and little tests in the past. All she had to do was come up with something he hadn’t thought of himself. ‘The line doesn’t exist. You can’t see it, only feel it. That’s the point,’ she forced herself to say.

  His gaze became introspective. Then he began to nod slowly, running his hand over his stubble. There was that smile – the one his eyes hinted at although it never quite reached his lips.

  ‘That’s right, Sofia. Exactly! You understand. I’ll be damned – you get it. Not bad. Maybe now you know why you’re here and not out there with all the average meatball-eaters. Well done!’

  He rose hastily and patted her on the head.

  ‘Now I have to go shower. Read the family history. We can talk about it when you’re done. After that, you can read my notes. I’ll leave them here.’

  He took the stack of papers and left it on the table by the door. He lingered a moment before leaving the room with both hands making victory signs.

  51

  She rested her head in her hands and let out a long breath. Suddenly she began to laugh, shrill and hysterical. Her built-up tension began to dissipate: she couldn’t stop thinking about his absurd twaddle, and soon enough she was cracking up until she was bent double, tears running down her face. But it wasn’t a pleasant, freeing laugh. Just something she had to get out. At last she pulled herself together and began to focus. She picked up the family history and resumed reading.

  This was meant to be a history of my family, but it has turned into a confession. What is the use of that? After all, it’s too late.

  But there were happier times. When Henrik was born, I was filled with the conviction that everything would be okay. He was a wonderful child. Healthy and cheerful, almost four kilos at birth, and he slept through the night so well, crying only when he was hungry or tired.

  I felt so fortunate that I almost forgot my suspicions about his paternity. As determined as I was to hold onto this wonderful thing that had happened to me, that I turned a blind eye to other events. New maids were hired. The sounds that came from the attic couldn’t be shut out. But I convinced myself that perhaps this was better for them than poverty.

  But then something happened that triggered a domino effect of incidents that would end in yet another tragedy at the manor. My uncle had decided that Henrik should learn to play the piano. We had a grand piano, and despite Henrik’s tender age, my uncle thought he had a certain talent. So he hired a piano teacher, William Lilja, a stylish man with hair much longer than what was considered appropriate for the day.

  From the moment William arrived at Vindsätra, Gustaf was transformed. To think I didn’t understand! Those profound gazes between him and William; the way they grazed past each other so cautiously. And Gustaf’s sudden enthusiasm about Henrik’s
playing, although he did no more than plink away.

  One evening in January, a snowstorm blew in over the island. William had to spend the night at the manor. I woke to shouting voices and discovered I was alone in the bed. Henrik had been wakened and was whimpering in the nursery. I picked him up and carried him towards the racket; by now I could tell that my uncle was the one shouting. I opened the door to the bedroom. What I saw nearly caused me to drop Henrik.

  Gustaf was lying naked on the floor, blood flowing from his nose. My uncle was standing over him, his hands in fists. In the bed lay a terrified William, the covers drawn up to his chin. When my uncle turned around, his eyes were wild with fury.

  ‘This is what your twisted husband is up to!’ he roared. ‘Take him away, before I kill the pervert.’

  I tried to talk to Gustaf back in our bedroom, tried to ask how long this had been going on. But he only turned his back on me and cried himself to sleep.

  I thought of William, who was a prisoner of our dark house, of the storm, until dawn, when he would be sent home with his career as a pianist in shatters.

  We were awoken early the next morning by a sharp, impatient rap at the door. In stormed my uncle, in full riding gear.

  ‘Get up and get dressed!’ he shouted at Gustaf. ‘I’m going to make a man out of you.’

  And Gustaf, full of terror but hoping to placate my uncle, went with him on the hunt that day. It had stopped snowing, but the morning was cold and raw.

  Only an hour later, I heard my uncle calling from the entrance hall. Henrik and I were upstairs, and we ran down right away. Henrik rushed over to Uncle Markus but was brushed aside.

  ‘Send the boy away, Sigrid. I need to speak with you and Ofelia.’ My aunt had dragged herself out of bed and was also there in the entryway.

  As I took Henrik to the nursery, my thoughts became chaos. Why had my uncle returned alone? Why was he so shaken?

  ‘There has been an accident,’ he said when I was back. ‘It’s Gustaf.’

  I screamed and fell to my knees.

  ‘He was cleaning the barrel, somehow a shot was fired, I don’t understand how that idiot…’

  Uncle Markus hauled me off the floor and embraced me. Rocked me. Only once did he hold me like that.

  ‘I want to see him,’ I said.

  ‘No, that’s not possible. Believe me, Sigrid, it would be too much. The shot went through his head. I’ll call the police now – you two stay here with Henrik.’

  I have always believed that God the Father is the only supernatural being in this world. But there’s something more. The unspoken, the invisible, that which is not concrete but can still be suspended in the air. And in that instant I felt it. It poked at me, nudged at me, until it was clearer than the burbling water of a brook in springtime.

  So obvious it was, that lie.

  Now, in hindsight, I wonder if I should have let it go. After all, I couldn’t get Gustaf back. Everyone was in agreement that it had been an accident, including the police and the medical examiner. But I was so sure they were wrong. I knew Gustaf and his cowardice. It was unthinkable that he would have cleaned a rifle without making sure it was unloaded. This heedless behaviour was so contrary to his nature that I couldn’t let it go.

  The day after the funeral I stood in the doorway of my uncle’s office, waiting for him to glance at me.

  ‘Uncle, I don’t understand how Gustaf could have died. He was always so careful…’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘I only want to inquire about how it happened.’

  ‘We’re done talking about this. If you know better than the entire legal system, then you should contact them.’

  He had that look on his face. Each time that look appeared, it was very bad news for me. But nothing happened that day.

  I woke in the middle of the night to his breath in my ear. To his hand grabbing the back of my neck. He tied my hands to the bedstead with rope. Tore off my nightgown. Began to beat me, so hard I knew he had lost control.

  I’m going to die, I thought. This is the end of my life.

  But I didn’t die that night. Beat me black and blue – that he did. I was so sore afterwards that I could hardly move, and I was sick with shame. But I survived. And she came to me that night. To comfort me.

  Now, I’m sure you are wondering how on earth I could stand all of this, and why I didn’t ask anyone for help. Couldn’t I have taken Henrik and run away? Surely any life would have been better than this.

  That question is not easy to answer. If I ran away, I would be sentencing Henrik to a life of poverty. My uncle had inexhaustible resources with which he could hunt us down. And after all, the last time I’d tried to escape, it hadn’t gone so well. I had no other living relatives, no close friends, and no job training. Every part of my life was contained within the manor walls.

  I was convinced I was in a trap and would never be able to get out. So I chose the simplest way: I became completely submissive. So compliant and humble that I never provoked Uncle Markus. As long as I remained quiet, took care of Henrik, and cast my eyes downward, he left me alone. And this was a miracle in my miserable life.

  I’m doing this for Henrik, I thought. So he can grow up and take over the manor one day, and spread light and warmth here. This is my lot in life, and I have to make the best of it.

  Perhaps another woman will someday read this. Perhaps she will be in a similar situation. So I want to say it’s important to be shrewd. I could have gone out on the property to pick some poisonous plant and then mixed it in his liqueur. Perhaps I could have tucked a burr under his horse’s saddle. And now I’m sure you’re saying ‘Oh no, that would be dreadful!’ But life isn’t always pleasant. And when you don’t speak up, there are consequences.

  Now I’m thinking about Henrik. Wondering how he turned out the way he did. Whether it was his upbringing, or if it was already there inside him. Or if it was a fatal combination of the two – like pouring magnesium into water.

  Henrik was six years old when I realized something was wrong.

  It started with the anthill. A piercing, naked scream came from the forest near the annexes. I rushed over and found him brandishing a shovel. He was standing in the middle of the anthill, stabbing the shovel into it as he bellowed. I ran over and lifted him away, trying to calm him. His whole body was covered in angry ants, which I brushed off. When he was quiet, I tried to talk to him.

  ‘Ants aren’t dangerous if you leave them alone.’

  ‘I’m not afraid of them, I just want to kill them.’

  Two days later, he poured petrol over the anthill and set it aflame.

  The strange behaviour continued. First with insects – he would pull off their legs and wings or burn them to death by focusing sunbeams through a magnifying glass. Then he turned to torturing small animals on the farm. At last I got my uncle’s permission to take Henrik to a child psychologist. The doctor first spoke with Henrik, who appeared to give sensible answers to his questions. Thereafter the doctor listened to me as I told him about everything Henrik had done.

  ‘What could it be? Is he sick?’

  ‘He’s so young,’ the doctor said, looking at Henrik, who was pressing his nose to the aquarium in the waiting room and making terrible faces at the fish. ‘It might go away on its own.’

  ‘But what is this – what is wrong with him?’

  ‘If he were an adult I would say mild psychopathic narcissism, but it may be a phase of development that he’ll grow out of.’

  ‘Can something like this be hereditary?’ I asked, full of dread.

  ‘Perhaps, but it’s often a combination of heredity and environment. We’ll let it rest there for a while. Come back if he doesn’t improve.’

  And it did go away. As quickly as these ideas had begun, they vanished.

  I felt great relief.

  Thank God, he won’t turn out like them.

  Henrik often brought playmates to the manor. This made me happy, because
children spread warmth and cheer to the otherwise empty, gloomy house. My uncle had no objections. Anything to keep Henrik happy, and – above all – normal.

  The first incident occurred when Henrik was ten years old. A boy and a girl had come for a visit. When they’d had enough of running around the great rooms, they retreated to Henrik’s room.

  It was the silence that bothered me first. My uncle was on the mainland for the day, and my aunt was resting as usual. It was so quiet in the manor that the rhythmic ticking of the Mora clock echoed off the walls. At first I supposed the children were immersed in some quiet game. But then I grew anxious, padded up the stairs, and put an ear to the door of the nursery.

  I could only hear a faint murmur inside. I cracked the door and peered in, but all I could see was a pair of feet so I threw the door wide open.

  The girl was naked on the floor. Both arms were extended above her head and her hands were tied to a bureau. The boy was holding her feet; her legs were spread, and there between them sat Henrik with a long, blunt object in his hand.

  I kept calm to avoid scaring the girl.

  I made Henrik untie the rope and helped the girl back on with her clothes. I took the object, which I could now see was a screwdriver, from Henrik’s hand. None of the children said anything. At last I asked the girl why she had let the boys do this to her, and she responded that Henrik had promised her money. And he had plenty of it, because my uncle passed him bills regularly.

  I thought of the girl’s parents, about whether I should talk to them, but she seemed relatively unaffected and I decided nothing serious had really happened.

  When the children left, I tried to speak to Henrik but he only stared at me.

  That night, as I was going to bed, I immediately felt that someone had been in the room. There was a vague sense of danger about. At first everything looked perfectly normal, spic and span thanks to the servants. But then I saw the object on the bed, neatly placed on the pillow. A noose made of thick rope, neatly displayed on the pillow. I screamed and everyone came running – Henrik, my uncle, a few maids. I went to Henrik and shook him, because it had to be the same rope he’d used to tie up the poor little girl. But Henrik pulled away from my grip and flatly denied it. And, as usual, my uncle took his side.