by Unknown
Ronda’s mother was a bright girl, open-minded and friendly, with golden hair, pale blue eyes and a ready smile. When little Ronda arrived there wasn’t much to hint at her legacy and though she had the colouring and looks of the old people all seemed well.
Then the accident. Just a chance thing, the truck driver losing control like that. Råhanna’s eyes stung, tears tracing silver tracks across her wrinkled cheeks. There’d been so much sorrow over the years.
After that poor Ronda had returned to Paradise Walk and Råhanna had dedicated the remainder of her life and energies to giving the girl the same chances she’d striven to give her son, though it was getting harder all the time. The city was a treacherous place, so many dangers lurking in unexpected quarters. The old world had been dangerous too, but always more honest and purer in its cruelties than human society.
There weren’t so many of the old people left now and where there’d once been co-operation and a bond, they were now divided by fear, mistrust and the constant need to fight over too few opportunities. Living cheek by jowl in embattled enclaves they treated one another with the same suspicion and animosity as they did other groups of outlanders. She still had a few friends, but not many.
Råhanna caught her breath; she hadn’t been paying attention. There was no sign of Ronda. She must have entered the alley. Nasty dark place, but the only way to Mahmoud’s store.
Ronda will be alright, she’s a good girl. Everything will be fine, she told herself, and drew back from the window into the gloom of her living room.
*
Ronda had crossed the quad with determination and purpose, but once in the shadows of the alley she tried to make as little sound as possible. Her shiny black shoes with their polished silver buckles stepped lightly across a carpet of compacted filth. On either side, great, hulking buildings towered over her, while directly above a narrow strip of clear dusk sky failed to penetrate the gloom with anything more than the faintest light.
Her stump was aching tonight. It did that sometimes, but she didn’t really want to rub it here because if anyone was watching they would see and maybe guess what she was. If her mother had been one of the old folk she would have had a proper tail, like a fox’s, but all she got was a bump at the base of her spine with a scattering of reddish bristles, which she plucked whenever they grew back.
She was going to be a doctor when she grew up. She’d make good money and live in a fine suburb. Then she’d pay for a private operation to take that stump away and nobody would be able to tell where she was from anymore. She’d marry a human and her children would go to good schools and spend summer holidays at a fine summer house.
The thought did a little to cheer her, but there was a sinister quality to the gloom tonight as if the buildings themselves were full of malice. Before long her fear got the better of her again and thinking she caught a sound somewhere ahead she stopped to listen.
Silence.
Ronda strained her ears, holding her breath.
Definitely silence.
She was a bright girl and knew that fear was just in her mind, but still she couldn’t shake the feeling she was being watched from the shadows by hateful eyes. And there were real dangers, Vättar for example. They were another group of old world outlanders and there was no love lost between them and her people.
She set off again, coming to a crossroads in the alley. This was the most dangerous place. There’d been a mugging here last month, an old lady knocked down and robbed. Ronda quickened her pace, telling herself she’d soon be at the square where Mahmoud had his shop.
But what was that? Up ahead something stirred in the shadows.
*
The doorbell rang for the second time in the space of a minute. Råhanna sighed. She’d better answer. But who would call at this time of night? Had Ronda forgotten her key? Not like her, she was always careful with things like that. Råhanna shuffled into the hall, her old worn slippers slapping against the laminate floor.
She peeked through the spyhole. Nikki? What was he doing here? His face was pale and grim. Fumbling with her keys she opened the door and Nikki towered over her, in an old dark suit, his violin case slung over his shoulder. Once a beautiful young man, he was now withered and round shouldered, his skin and clothes damp to the touch. His real name was Näcken. Not just a name either; Näcken was what he was, or had been. But here in the city he was Nikki.
Despite his age, Nicki’s voice still retained an echo of its former, sonorous power: ‘It’s Ronda,’ he said.
‘What’s happened?’ Råhanna asked, her own voice cracked and hoarse.
‘Something terrible. She’s in the alley.’ Nikki replied.
Battling to keep her dread within manageable bounds Råhanna put on her leaf-pattern scarf and dragged a shawl of forest green across her shoulders.
They went as quickly as her legs would allow, though she had to lean on Nikki for support. Ronda was lying face down in the muck of the alley, alive, but bloody, bruised and filthy. The back of her skirt was ripped open and the stump of her tail exposed.
Råhanna’s tears splashed across the front of her blouse as she and Nikki struggled between them to get the girl home. Once back in the safety of her flat she cleaned her granddaughter, dressing her wounds and putting her to bed, but the child couldn’t settle.
Råhanna shuffled back to the living room where Nikki was sitting in one of her worn armchairs.
‘What will you do?’ he wondered.
‘Can you still summon the magic, Nikki?’ She asked, her face skull-like in the gloom.
‘I … I don’t know. Not like before certainly. We were immortal in the old world. Here we’ve grown old. Everything has changed, our beauty has faded…’
‘Can you still summon magic?’ Råhanna interrupted, enunciating each word slowly and separately.
Nikki sighed. ‘I suppose I could try. What did you have in mind?’
‘A lullaby to begin with. Something soothing to send my Ronda into a deep, healing sleep.’
Nikki nodded and opened his violin case. He positioned himself outside the girl’s bedroom door and began to play.
When Råhanna woke an hour later Nikki was beside her with a cup of tea.
‘Did it work?’ she wheezed.
‘You tell me, you’ve been flat out and snoring loudly enough to make the windows rattle in their frames.’
‘And Ronda?’
‘Sleeping,’ he confirmed with a smile.
‘Good.’
Råhanna felt different; the ache in her knees didn’t seem so bad. Had it been the Nikki’s tune? Yes, the healing sleep. He could still do it.
‘I need to find out who did this, Nikki. Do you remember the tunes that made us dream the truth?’ she asked, sipping her tea.
‘That might not be necessary,’ Nikki said quietly.
‘Why not?’
‘When I found her, this was lying next to her.’ He fished a pointed grey cloth hood from his pocket and placed it on the coffee table before Råhanna.
‘Vättar,’ she breathed.
‘It is a Vätte cap, yes,’ Nikki agreed. ‘If they’re behind this there is nothing we can do.’
‘Nothing? You underestimate us, Nikki. I want to see what happened, I want to know exactly who they were and what they did.’
‘The magic might not work. I could send you into a dream, but we can’t be sure that what you see will be the truth. It might simply be a dream, some fantasy that matches your suspicions,’ Nikki objected.
‘Do it anyway. Please, for me.’
Nikki took out his violin again and began to play and Råhanna slid away into trance. When she awoke it was to a cold fury that threatened to shatter her fragile body.
‘Did it work? What did you see?’
‘Contact the head of the Vättar community. I want a meeting with him in a neutral public place. Daylight, plenty of humans about. And police.’
*
Råhanna walked across the cobbled squa
re of Skärholmen Shopping Centre. The day had started fine and was warm, but clouds were gathering.
There’d be rain later.
She was heading for the cluster of tables outside Maria’s Café where Nikki was waiting for her with some others. Her knees had become so much better she didn’t need her stick anymore and stepped towards the group with determination, back straight. That was good. She wanted to make a strong impression.
Grandfather Vätte was seated at a round table outside the café, his dark eyes glittering beneath wiry brows on either side of a long curved blue-grey nose. He’d made an effort for their meeting, grey beard well-brushed, and his traditional dress of grey suit and pointed hood pressed and starched.
When she reached the table he got to his feet to welcome her. Respectful.
Two of his men, also in traditional dress, were standing directly behind him while other younger Vättar stood nearby in groups of three and four, their clothing more typical of modern city fashions.
The younger Vättar watched her with suspicious eyes, muttering to each other or into mobile phones as she took their chief’s hand. Unlike the older Vättar the younger ones’ beards were clipped short and styled into outlandish shapes; one only had sideburns, his grey pointed chin completely without a bristle. Several had facial tattoos completing their terrifying appearance with piercings to lips, nose and cheeks.
Råhanna shook her head. Young people!
The district police were also watching. One group was positioned on the far side of the square, another at the entrance to the underground. They glared impassively from behind mirrored sun-glasses, their hands hovering over belt-mounted pistol holsters; they knew the Vättar well enough.
Råhanna arranged her skirts carefully before sitting down, anxious to keep her tail hidden. Once she was seated, Grandfather Vätte sat down too and one of his henchmen poured coffee for them.
‘My granddaughter was attacked,’ she began in a level voice.
‘I heard as much and it saddens me. Was she very hurt?’ the old Vätte asked.
‘Both hurt and degraded. They uncovered her tail. Photographs were perhaps taken. They may end up on these social media that are so important to young people today.’
Grandfather Vätte shook his head sadly, a grim expression on his grey face.
‘People no longer care about each other, Råhanna. We have become driven by fear, greed and selfishness.’ He threw his hands wide in a theatrical gesture and looked up to the gathering clouds as if for divine guidance.
Råhanna’s face coloured, her temper rising at his obvious insincerity.
‘Nikki,’ she said quietly.
Nikki threw the Vätte cap onto the table.
‘This was found at the scene,’ she continued.
At the sight of the cap Grandfather Vätte’s deeply lined face revealed a series of different emotions in quick succession, each one more convincing than his initial performance.
‘If … if one of my people…’ he began.
‘Nikki played for me after we found this; I dreamed the truth and I know what happened.’
The old Vätte stared at the cap, contemplating everything that it might mean.
‘And?’ he asked at length, his voice scarcely more than a whisper.
‘And we must now come to an agreement on what to do about it,’ she said, the tremor of fury unmistakable in her voice.
*
Adam was on his way to the hangout to meet his gang brothers and he was in a good mood. Very good. He had news for the boys that would please them and cement his status in their fellowship.
The hangout was an old storage cellar in an abandoned commercial building from the last century; a long windowless concrete cell below ground. Located on the outskirts of his neighbourhood near where it bordered on Paradise Walk, it was out of the public eye but close to what was to become their new turf.
Perfect.
He and his gang mates met there often to drink and take speed. They ran their business interests plotting robberies, selling dope and making deals. Sometimes they took girls there too. Never decent girls, just the worst kind who didn’t deserve any better. They’d give them drink and drugs then have their fun before kicking them out in the middle of the night.
He arrived at the entrance, a big steel door covered in patchy brown paint, and hammered three times. Then after a couple of seconds he knocked twice more. The door opened and Jussi stepped out of the shadows, face like a stone slab, eyes like slits, battered baseball bat over his shoulder. Jussi was still earning his brotherhood; just a novice. He nodded respectfully and shifted his muscular bulk aside to allow Adam access to the dark concrete stairwell behind.
In the hangout the others were already gathered; a full showing of his top boys. The dull hubbub of voices faded to silence at his entrance but their motley collection of sofas and armchairs were all taken and there was nowhere for him to sit.
Adam waited. At the urging of his neighbours one of the more junior guys nearby offered him a seat.
‘It’s okay,’ Adam said raising his hand. He wanted to address them all. He could stand.
‘There’s going to be a showdown,’ he said, his voice carrying to the far end of the cellar.
Silence
‘Afterwards this part of town will be a better, cleaner place and we’ll have at least one less set of scum to put up with.’
All eyes were on him. The silence continued.
‘The showdown is thanks to my efforts. I engineered it.’
He waited. The silence continued, but now there was fidgeting. A few of the brothers exchanged glances. He waited some more. Eventually someone cleared his throat.
‘But I heard it was those little ugly Vätt-things that hurt the Ronnaz girl,’ the speaker objected.
Silence. All eyes were on Adam. Good.
He waited once again. More glances were exchanged. The objector was looking increasingly nervous. As the seconds ticked a low murmur of speech began.
‘Of course that’s what you thought,’ Adam called out commanding silence again. ‘Because that’s what I wanted you to think. It’s what I wanted them to think too.’
He rolled up his sleeve and revealed a hair ribbon tied about his scarred forearm. It was cream coloured and embroidered with emerald leaves and fronds. There were dark spots and splashes along its length that might have been blood.
‘It was you?’ the brothers murmured, full of awe.
‘But what about the Vätte cap?’ somebody else called out.
‘That was me too, brother. And tonight I’m going up to the park for a ringside seat. Join me. Let’s watch them take each other out.’
*
‘Don’t go Grandma, please. You’ll be hurt and besides, fighting never solves anything.’
Råhanna leant closer to her beloved granddaughter and brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead. The child’s bruises were fading and her cuts and grazes were no more than dark scabs now.
‘I must go, Ronda. The insult and hurt to you must be paid for,’ she said softly.
‘But I don’t know for sure that it was the Vättar. I still don’t remember what happened,’ Ronda said, her voice quavering.
‘I dreamed the truth of what happened, Ronda, I saw…’
‘But you can’t be sure it was them. You can’t be sure that Nikki still has the magic,’ she interrupted.
‘Do you not see how much stronger I am? My knees and back don’t hurt any more. That’s Nikki’s magic for you. Why would one kind of magic work and not another?’
‘I don’t know,’ the girl admitted. ‘But what if you’re hurt or worse…’
‘Trust me my darling. I’ll be home again later and after tonight, nobody will try to hurt you again.’ She kissed Ronda’s forehead and put out her light, hoping against hope that she was right.
The front door closed behind her, latch clicking into place. The outside air still retained some of the warmth of the day. Råhanna took a deep breath.
Beyond the ever present odours of rubbish and worse, there were faint hints of summer plants and flowers. Pale traces of the waning day remained in a band across the western sky, but above her stars were rapidly appearing as the gloaming deepened into night.
She had chosen full traditional dress for the confrontation: grey skirts and white lace petticoats; a green blouse and black cardigan. Her head was covered in her best leaf-pattern silk scarf, her shoulders swathed in a printed forest-green shawl. She bore a staff too, not a walking stick, a true staff, shod in bronze and crowned with the secret symbol of her people.
As she crossed Paradise Walk a light wind stirred, causing litter and little dust eddies to swirl about the derelict play area. The breeze lifted the hem of her long skirts snagging them and revealing her bushy fox tail.
At the far side of the quad a tall figure was waiting. Nikki. He had his violin and was wearing his best black three piece suit; slim cut with silver filigree details on the collar and cuffs. His boots were polished black too.
‘Lord Näcken,’ Råhanna called in greeting.
‘Madam Råhanna,’ he replied. Then as an afterthought: ‘Your petticoat is showing.’
She nodded and straightened her skirt, unsnagging the petticoats and covering her tail again.
‘The others?’ she inquired.
He nodded. ‘Ready and waiting, Ma’am.’
Then they set off together, silent but for the steady click of Nikki’s steel heel-rims on the concrete paving. At the end of the next street they met two other shadowy figures: cow-tailed huldra sisters, still beautiful and lithe despite the years.
The four marched on and were next joined by a hulking troll with thickset features and hair like a cascade of straggling weeds. They proceeded down yet another street and a little man stepped out of the shadows, round-bodied and florid faced; a hill gnome dressed all in blue but for his pointed red cap.
Now there were six of them. In a grim line they marched towards the entrance to the park.
Once through the gates everything felt different. The park was in darkness, closed to the public since 6.00pm.
