She had behaved exactly as Max had suspected.
But she wasn’t the one who had quarrelled and taken off with Ally. Vendela had always been there for Max when it came to his books and everything else. For once she had done something selfish; it hadn’t been planned and she didn’t know what would happen from now on. But she had no intention of feeling guilty.
She didn’t remember falling asleep with Per, but they must have done, because she woke up from a peaceful darkness in the morning and looked into Per’s eyes. She remembered where she was, and didn’t regret a thing.
She didn’t feel in the least uncomfortable about staying for breakfast, and there were no awkward silences. Per talked quietly about his daughter, and the operation that would save her life. He knew she would make it, he just knew it, and Vendela nodded seriously. Of course. Of course everything would be fine.
‘I have to go into Kalmar,’ he said after breakfast. ‘To the hospital.’
Vendela understood, but didn’t want to go home. ‘Can I stay here for a while?’
‘Don’t you want to go home?’
She looked down at the floor and thought about her wedding ring in the hollow on the elf stone. ‘I don’t want to be there … I can’t cope with seeing Max at the moment.’
‘But we didn’t do anything wrong,’ said Per.
‘We slept together,’ said Vendela.
‘We kept each other warm.’
But Vendela knew that didn’t matter.
When Per had gone she went into the living room and sat down on the sofa. On the other side of the room, next to the television, was an old wooden chest with a scornfully grinning troll, a knight on a horse, and a weeping fairy princess carved on the front. Vendela looked at it for a long time.
From time to time she got up to look over at her own house, and towards lunchtime she saw Max come out of the front door. She couldn’t tell what mood he was in from this distance, but he went straight to the car and drove off.
His heart was still beating, then.
But still Vendela didn’t go home. She sat down in the spring sunshine out on Per’s veranda, her face turned towards the empty sea.
An hour or so later she heard the sound of a car engine. It seemed to stop over at her house. Was Max back? Perhaps, but the windbreak was in the way and she had no intention of getting up to have a look.
It was only when she had made herself a modest lunch of salad and eaten it that she glanced through the window to the south once more.
There was no car outside her house. If Max had been back, he had gone off somewhere again.
Suddenly the telephone in the kitchen rang, and Vendela jumped. It might have been Per, but she didn’t dare answer it, and it stopped after six rings.
What was Max up to? Why come back and then go off again?’
She was surprised that he was still in good health. But presumably her wedding ring was still lying on the stone.
That was when she realized she had actually wished her husband dead. The previous night she had stood by the stone and asked the elves to kill him.
It was now two o’clock, and she decided to go home. She wanted to talk to Max and find out what he had done.
There was no welcoming bark as she opened the front door; the house was silent. But Vendela was aware of a different smell in the house, the overwhelming perfume of flowers. And when she walked into the main living room she saw that the floor was virtually covered in flowers: bouquets of roses, tulips and white lilies, along with local spring flowers like wood anemones and wild thyme. Max seemed to have dug out every single vase they had in the house, along with every glass and mug. The dark-grey stone rooms were filled with splashes of red, yellow, green and lilac.
Vendela wandered slowly through the scented rooms. After a minute or so her nose began to itch, then it started to run. Her allergy was back, and it was Max’s fault. In his own way he wanted to ask her forgiveness for Ally’s death, but the flowers just made her feel worse than ever, both physically and mentally.
The house felt like a chapel of rest. All that was missing was a little coffin, just about a metre long.
Max, thought Vendela, why must you always go over the top?
The proofs of the cookery book were waiting for her on the worktop, but she didn’t want to look at them.
She sat down and thought about Max, and then about Per Mörner. She couldn’t ring either of them, but suddenly she remembered a man she could get in touch with.
It took a while to find the number, but once she found it she called straight away. The phone rang five or six times before he answered, his voice firm.
‘Adam Luft.’
‘Hello, it’s Vendela here.’
‘Who?’
‘Vendela Larsson … I came on one of your courses, Meeting the Elves.’
‘Oh, that one,’ said Adam. ‘That was quite some time ago.’
‘Five years,’ said Vendela. ‘I was just wondering if I could ask you a question?’
‘That course isn’t running any more,’ he interrupted. ‘Not enough applicants. I’m working on astral travel for the soul these days.’
‘Astral … what?’
‘You ought to try it, it’s brilliant.’ Adam’s voice became more intense as he went on, ‘We’re learning how to get the soul to leave the body … to travel through time and space. And I’ve still got places available on courses this summer – shall I put your name down?’
‘No thanks,’ said Vendela, and put the phone down. There was no one else she could talk to now, and she was too restless to stay in the house.
Shortly after six she pulled on an extra pair of trousers, a woollen jumper and a thick padded jacket and went into the bathroom. To the medicine cabinet.
She had nothing of value with her as she left the house; she hadn’t even taken her mobile.
When she reached the gravel track she saw the lights of a car approaching along the village road. Was Max on his way back?
Vendela walked faster. As so many times before, she headed north from the quarry and turned off towards the alvar. She thought about her wedding ring and knew that this particular gift to the elves had been a rash mistake. She couldn’t wish Max dead, whatever he might have done to Ally, so she had to get the ring back.
She didn’t run, she was too tired and hungry for that, but she strode towards the north-west until she saw the dense grove of juniper bushes.
She walked slowly up to the elf stone and looked at the top. The old coins were still lying there, but there was nothing else.
Her wedding ring had gone.
They had been here.
Vendela stood motionless next to the stone, her head lowered. The spring evening was cold and the darkness was on its way, but she hadn’t the strength to move.
Öland 1958
Vendela is running across the alvar, competing with the setting sun. But it all feels so hopeless – not only must she find someone she can trust, she must also persuade that person to accompany her back to the kingdom of the elves and help Jan-Erik home. If she can’t find anyone she must collect food and blankets from the farm, then she and her older brother will have to spend the night out on the alvar – unless she can persuade him to get up and try to walk.
She must hurry – everything depends on it.
On the way back her progress is constantly hindered by all the water, by all the lakes of meltwater spread across the grass, reflecting the sky. She has to go around them, sometimes to the left, sometimes to the right, and when the sun slips behind thick cloud it is difficult to remember exactly where she is.
She has also lost track of the time, she has no watch.
The blood is pounding in Vendela’s ears. She scrapes her legs on bushes and small rocks, her leaky boots sink down into the grass and suck up the water, but she doesn’t slow down.
She runs and runs, she doesn’t stop until a wall built of big round stones looms up in front of her. The wall is almost up to her chest, an
d she can’t see the end of it in either direction. She doesn’t recognize it – where is she? The sky is overcast, and she is no longer sure which direction she is supposed to be going in.
In the end she turns away from the wall and runs in the opposite direction, but now she can’t find her way back to the stone. The paths between the lakes are like a labyrinth, she is utterly disorientated in this watery world.
Vendela’s spring clothes are damp with sweat; she is cold and starting to feel hungry. She wants to slip her small fingers into the reassuring hand of some adult, but there is no one. Everything is silent. She keeps on moving, and when she gets tired of walking around the meltwater she begins to wade through the lakes instead. Most of them are not very deep, and her boots are soaking wet anyway.
Eventually she sees a stone wall a couple of hundred metres away. She approaches it slowly, looks at it and measures its height against her body; she is convinced it’s the same wall she was standing next to a little while ago. She has gone round in a circle on the alvar.
Vendela just cannot take another step, and sinks down next to the wall. She shuts her eyes and keeps them closed for a long time before opening them.
She sees shadows around her. Pale shadows. They shouldn’t be there, but she can see them. And as they slip towards her she realizes the elves are coming. They have been to the stone to fetch Jan-Erik, and now they are coming for her.
And Vendela wants them to take her, she reaches out her hand to them.
‘Come,’ she whispers.
But the misty shapes slip away, they do not want to play with her, and gradually their contours fade. Eventually they disappear completely.
‘Hello?’
She can hear shouts in the darkness.
‘Hello? Hellooo?’
Vendela opens her eyes. She is lying beside a stone wall, and she’s very, very cold.
‘I’m here!’ she shouts.
She doesn’t know if anyone can hear her, but the shouts are coming closer. Swishing footsteps move through the grass, dark figures take shape. Vendela sees a woman in a cape and a man in a hat and coat. She recognizes them.
‘Vendela, what are you doing out here? We’ve been looking for you!’ Aunt Margit takes hold of her frozen hands and helps her up.
She looks around. It is almost completely dark out on the alvar now.
‘Let’s get you home and make you a hot drink,’ says Margit. ‘Then we’ll set off for Kalmar.’
She and Sven start walking, but Vendela cannot go with them. ‘No,’ she says. ‘We can’t go!’
Sven keeps moving, but Aunt Margit stops. ‘What do you mean?’
Vendela points. ‘I left Jan-Erik by the stone.’
Her aunt just stares at her, and Vendela has to explain that Henry has gone down to the quarry, and that she has dragged her brother out on to the alvar. She runs up and grabs her aunt by the arm. ‘We have to go and get him,’ she says. ‘Come on!’
Her aunt and uncle follow slowly, and this time Vendela somehow finds her way along the paths between the silver mirrors made of water. They reach the stone among the juniper bushes as the twilight deepens to dark grey.
But it’s too late. There is no sign of Jan-Erik, and the silver chain Vendela placed on the elf stone has also disappeared.
Only the wheelchair is still there, stuck in the mud.
The three of them stand there for a while shouting across the alvar, but there is no reply. It is almost pitch dark now.
‘Time to go home,’ says Uncle Sven.
Margit nods. Vendela feels the panic rising, but cannot protest.
Her aunt and uncle take the wheelchair back to the farm. They push it through the garden and put it in the tool shed. Vendela is sitting in the kitchen when they come back. The house feels very cold.
The kitchen clock is ticking.
Suddenly they hear the sound of heavy boots out on the steps.
The front door opens and Henry walks into the little porch. His breathing is heavy and he seems very tired; he stops in the doorway when he sees his sister and brother-in-law in the kitchen. He says nothing, and doesn’t remove his peaked cap.
Margit and Sven don’t say anything either; it is Vendela who speaks first.
‘Dad … where’s Jan-Erik? Have you seen him?’
‘Jan-Erik?’ says Henry, as if he can barely recall the name. ‘He’s gone.’
‘Gone?’ asks Vendela. ‘Gone where?’
There is a brief silence in the kitchen, then her aunt chips in: ‘Did he go up to the station?’
Henry won’t look at his daughter; he looks at the floor and nods. ‘That’s right … Jan-Erik has gone on the train. He was heading for Borgholm, then the mainland.’
‘You mean … he’s run away?’ says Sven.
‘Yes. And I couldn’t stop him … He’s seventeen years old.’ Henry looks up. ‘Shall we make a move, then?’
No one says anything; everyone seems to be thinking of Henry’s destination. The prison.
He goes into his room and comes back with his bag.
‘Well, we’d better make a start on locking the house up,’ says Aunt Margit.
Vendela goes to her room and packs her bags in silence.
Suddenly she hears a scream from downstairs. Her aunt shouts at the top of her voice: ‘It’s empty! Everything’s gone, every single thing!’
When Vendela gets down to the kitchen, her mother’s jewellery box is standing open on the table, and Aunt Margit is as white as a sheet. She has lowered her voice, but she is just as angry. ‘Jan-Erik has stolen all his mother’s jewellery,’ she says. ‘Did you see him do it, Vendela?’
Vendela shakes her head in silence. Her father is standing next to his sister, looking even more gloomy. ‘I should have locked it away.’
He gazes blankly at Vendela; she lowers her eyes and goes back to her room to fetch her bags. She knows that Jan-Erik did not take the jewellery, and she doesn’t believe he has run away on the train. She was the one who left him, not vice versa.
He sat on the grass and waited until he realized she wasn’t coming back. Only then did he get up and walk away from the stone.
Jan-Erik has gone to the elves. That’s what must have happened. He has gone to the world behind the mist, where the sun always shines.
When they reach Kalmar an hour later, Henry gets out with his bag in front of the well-lit entrance to the prison.
‘Thanks for the lift,’ is all he says.
He turns up his collar, grips his bag firmly and leaves Vendela without a word. He walks up to the guard at the gates and doesn’t look back.
Time passes. When Jan-Erik doesn’t arrive at the station for his journey to the mental hospital, the police are informed, but a retarded teenager on the run isn’t a major issue. The police have other priorities, and he is never found. It is as if Vendela’s older brother has been swallowed up by the ground.
Time passes, and the little farm belonging to the Fors family is sold that summer.
Time passes, and Vendela does not visit her father in prison, not once.
When he finally comes out he is a much subdued man. Late in the autumn he returns to Öland and settles in Borgholm, where he is less well known than in his home village. Henry becomes a labourer, lives in one room with no cooking facilities, and muddles along somehow.
By this stage Vendela is settled in Kalmar and doesn’t want to go back to Öland. She has a whole new life with Margit and Sven. Soon the children in her class at school forget that she comes from the island, and stop teasing her. Her aunt and uncle have no children of their own, and they are very fond of Vendela.
Everything works out for the best.
She is given new clothes, a red bicycle and a record player.
She is given almost everything she asks for, and no longer has to wish for things.
She grows up, passes her exams and meets a nice man who owns a restaurant. They have a daughter.
The memories of Öland slowly fad
e away, and Vendela hardly ever takes the ferry across the sound to see her father. His little room is always littered with empty spirit bottles, and they have nothing to say to each other when she does visit.
After Henry’s death at the end of the sixties, she has no reason to go back. She no longer has any family left on the island – just a collection of graves in the churchyard. In her room she has a few objects made from beautifully polished limestone which she inherited from her father, along with an empty jewellery box.
It is not until she is in her forties, when her marriage to Martin is over and she has married Max Larsson, that Vendela begins to think about her childhood on Öland, and to feel a desire to return there.
And a growing urge to follow her brother to the elves.
60
I don’t want any more jewellery! Ella had written.
Gerlof had reached the last entries in his wife’s diaries from the fifties. Only four and half pages left to read now.
The book ended in the spring of 1958, and the final pages were filled with closely written text. Ella’s handwriting had become anxious and untidy, and Gerlof hesitated before putting on his glasses. But eventually he began to read:
Today is 21st April 1958, but I hardly know how to begin writing. Something awful has happened, and Gerlof isn’t here. He set off north towards Stockholm on his cargo boat the day before yesterday, and he was supposed to be back today. But last night he rang and said that he and John couldn’t get away from the capital because of the wind, and were moored at the quay down below City Hall. There’s a gale blowing up the Swedish coast, almost storm force, but it hasn’t reached the island. It’s just cloudy and cold here; the electric heaters are on all day.
The girls went off on their bikes late yesterday afternoon to go to the cinema in the community hall. So I was left alone in the cottage. The whole village felt deserted.
The sun had started to go down and I was sitting sewing when I heard a faint noise from the veranda. It wasn’t a knock, like when the neighbours come to call, just a kind of scraping against the door, so I put down my sewing and went to have a look. There was no sign of anyone, but when I looked more closely I noticed a piece of jewellery lying on one of the steps.
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