This close, the old house looked ready to fall apart. The red paint was flaking in thick layers, the steps up to the front door warped. Some of the windowpanes were covered with bits of white plastic and duct tape.
Mom waved toward the house. “Johann’s not with you?”
Martin shrugged, taking a set of keys from his pocket. “He didn’t want to be here for this. All right. We’ll start with going through the rooms one by one, seeing what we can salvage. Otto has pen and paper to make a list.”
“You haven’t been in here until now?” said Mom.
“We’ve been cleaning a little. Johann only used a couple of the rooms, but it was bad. The smell should be bearable now.”
Otto opened the door. Johann’s unwashed stench wafted out in a sour wave. “You get used to it.” He ducked his head under the lintel and went inside.
Johann had used two rooms and the kitchen on the ground floor. Neither Cilla nor Sara could bring themselves to enter them, the stench of filth and rot so strong it made them gag. By the light coming in through the door, Cilla could see piles of what looked like rags, stacks of newspapers, and random furniture.
“There was a layer of milk cartons and cereal boxes this high on the floors in there,” said Martin, pointing to his knee. “The ones at the bottom were from the seventies.”
“I don’t think he ate much else,” Otto filled in. “He refuses to eat anything but cornflakes and milk at my house. He says all other food is poisoned.”
Otto, Martin, and Mom looked at one another.
Mom shrugged. “That’s how it is.”
Otto sucked air in between pursed lips, the quiet jo that acknowledged and ended the subject.
The smell wasn’t as bad in the rest of the house; Johann seemed to have barricaded himself in his two rooms. The sitting room was untouched. Daylight filtered in through filthy windowpanes, illuminating furniture that looked handmade and ancient: cabinets painted with flower designs, a wooden sofa with a worn seat, a rocking chair with the initials OJ and the date 1898.
“It looks just like when we were kids,” said Mom.
“Doesn’t it?” said Otto.
Cilla returned to the entryway, peering up the stairs to the next floor. “What about upstairs? Can we go upstairs?”
“Certainly,” said Martin. “Let me go first and turn on the lights.” He took a torch from his pocket, lighting his way as he walked up the stairs. Sara and Cilla followed him.
The top of the stairs ended in a narrow corridor, where doors opened to the master bedroom and two smaller rooms with two beds in each.
“How many people lived here?” Cilla peered into the master bedroom.
“Depends on when you mean,” Martin replied. “Your grandmother had four siblings altogether. And I think there was at least a cousin or two of theirs living here during harvest, too.”
“But there are only four single beds,” said Sara from the doorway of another room.
Martin shrugged. “People shared beds.”
“But you didn’t live here all the time, right?”
“No, no. My mother moved out when she got married. I grew up in town. Everyone except Johann moved out.”
“There are more stairs over here,” said Sara from farther away.
“That’s the attic,” said Martin. “You can start making lists of things up there.” He handed Cilla his torch, a pen, and a sheaf of paper. “Mind your step.”
—
The attic ran the length of the house, divided into compartments. Each compartment was stacked with stuff: boxes, furniture, old skis, kick-sleds, a bicycle. The little windows and the weak lightbulb provided enough light that they didn’t need the torch. Cilla started in one end of the attic, Sara in the other, less sorting and more rooting around. After a while, Mom came upstairs.
“There’s a huge chest here,” said Sara after a while, pushing a stack of boxes to the side.
Cilla left her list and came over to look. It was a massive blue chest with a rounded lid, faded and painted with flowers.
“Let me see,” said Mom from behind them.
Mom came forward, knelt in front of the chest, and opened it, the lid lifting with a groan. It was filled almost to the brim with neatly folded white linen, sprinkled with mothballs. In a corner sat some bundles wrapped in tissue paper.
Mom shone her torch into the chest. “This looks like a hope chest.” She carefully lifted the tissue paper and uncovered red wool. She handed the torch to Cilla, using both hands to lift the fabric up. It was a full-length skirt, the cloth untouched by vermin.
“Pretty,” said Sara. She took the skirt, holding it up to her waist.
“There’s more in here,” said Mom, moving tissue paper aside. “A shirt, an apron, and a shawl. A whole set. It could be Märet’s.”
“Like what she got married in?” said Cilla.
“Maybe so,” said Mom.
“It’s my size,” said Sara. “Can I try it on?”
“Not now. Keep doing lists.” Mom took the skirt back, carefully folding it and putting it back into the chest.
Sara kept casting glances at the chest the rest of the morning. When Cilla caught her looking, Sara gave her the finger.
Later in the afternoon, Mom emptied a cardboard box and put the contents from the hope chest in it. “I’m taking this over to Hedvig’s. I’m sure she can tell us who it belonged to.”
—
After dinner, Mom unpacked the contents of the hope chest in Hedvig’s kitchen. There were six bundles in all: the red skirt with a matching bodice, a red shawl, a white linen shift, a long apron striped in red and black, and a black purse embroidered with red flowers. Hedvig picked up the purse and ran a finger along the petals.
“This belonged to Märet.” Hedvig smiled. “She showed me these once, before she passed away. That’s what she wore when she came down from the mountain,” she said. “I thought they were gone. I’m very glad you found them.”
“How old were you when she died?” said Sara.
“It was in twenty-one, so I was fourteen. It was terrible.” Hedvig shook her head. “She died giving birth to Nils, your youngest great-uncle. It was still common back then.”
Cilla fingered the skirt. Out in daylight, the red wool was bright and luxurious, like arterial blood. “What was she like?”
Hedvig patted the purse. “Märet was…a peculiar woman,” she said eventually.
“Was she really crazy?” Cilla said.
“Crazy? I suppose she was. She certainly passed something on. The curse, like Johann says. But that’s silly. She came here to help with harvest, you know, and she fell in love with your great-grandfather. He didn’t know much about her. No one did, except that she was from somewhere northeast of here.”
“I thought she came down from the mountain,” I said.
Hedvig smiled. “Yes, she would say that when she was in the mood.”
“What about those things, anyway?” Sara said. “Are they fairies?”
“What?” Hedvig gave her a blank look.
“The vittra,” Cilla filled in helpfully. “The ones that live on the mountain.”
“Eh,” said Hedvig. “Fairies are cute little things that prance about in meadows. The vittra look like humans, but taller and more handsome. And it’s inside the mountain, not on it.” She had brightened visibly, becoming more animated as she spoke. “There were always stories about vittra living up there. Sometimes they came down to trade with the townspeople. You had to be careful with them, though. They could curse you or kill you if you crossed them. But they had the fattest cows, and the finest wool, and beautiful silver jewelry. Oh, and they liked to dress in red.” Hedvig indicated the skirt Cilla had in her lap. “And sometimes they came to dance with the local young men and women, even taking one away for marriage. And when a child turned out to have nerve problems, they said it was because someone in the family had passed on vittra blood…”
“But did you meet any?” Sara blurted.<
br />
Hedvig laughed. “Of course not. There would be some odd folk showing up to sell their things in town, but they were mostly Norwegians or from those really small villages up north where everyone’s their own uncle.”
Sara burst out giggling.
“Auntie!” Mom looked scandalized.
Hedvig waved a hand at her. “I’m eighty-seven years old. I can say whatever I like.”
“But what about Märet?” Cilla leaned forward.
“Mother, yes.” Hedvig poured a new cup of coffee, arm trembling under the weight of the thermos. “She was a bit strange, I suppose. She really was tall for a woman, and she would say strange things at the wrong time, talk to animals, things like that. People would joke about vittra blood.”
“What do you think?” said Sara.
“I think she must have had a hard life, to run away from her family and never speak of them again.” Hedvig gently took the skirt from Cilla and folded it.
“But the red…”
Hedvig shook her head and smiled. “It was an expensive color back then. Saying someone wore red meant they were rich. This probably cost Märet a lot.” She put the clothes back in the cardboard box and closed it.
—
Cilla stayed up until she was sure everyone else had gone to bed. It took ages. Sara wrote in her journal until one o’ clock and then took some time to fall asleep, Robert Smith still whining in her ears.
The cardboard box was sitting on the kitchen sofa, the silk paper in a pile next to it. Cilla lifted the lid, uncovering red wool that glowed in the half dawn. The shift and the skirt were too long and very tight around the stomach. She kept the skirt unbuttoned and rolled the waistline down, hoisting it so the hem wouldn’t trip her up. She tied the apron tight around her waist to hold everything up and clipped the purse onto the apron string. The bodice was too loose on her flat chest and wouldn’t close at the waist, so she let it hang open and tied the shawl over her shoulders.
It was quiet outside, the horizon glowing an unearthly gold, the rest of the sky shifting in blue and green. The birds were quiet. The moon was up, a tiny crescent in the middle of the sky. The air was cold and wet; the grass swished against the skirt, leaving moisture pearling on the wool. Cilla could see all the way down to the lake and up to the mountain. She took her glasses off and put them in the purse. Now she was one of the vittra, coming down from the mountain, heading for the river. She was tall and graceful, her step quiet. She danced as she went, barefoot in the grass.
A sliver of sun peeking over the horizon broke the spell. Cilla’s feet were suddenly numb with cold. She went back into the house and took everything off again, fished her glasses out, and folded the clothes into the cardboard box. It was good wool; the dew brushed off without soaking into the skirt. When Cilla slipped into bed again, it was only a little past two. The linen was warm and smooth against the cold soles of her feet.
—
They returned to the family house the following day. Sara decided that wading through debris in the attic was stupid and sulked on a chair outside. Cilla spent the day writing more lists. She found more skis, some snowshoes, a cream separator, dolls, a half-finished sofa bed, and a sewing table that was in almost perfect condition.
Johann showed up in the afternoon. Martin and Otto seemed to think he was going to make a scene, because they walked out and met him far down the driveway. Eventually they returned, looking almost surprised, with Johann walking beside them, his hands clasped behind his back. When Cilla next saw him, he had sat down in a chair next to Sara. Sara had a shirtsleeve over her nose and mouth, but she was listening to him talk with rapt attention. Johann left again soon after. Sara wouldn’t tell Cilla what they’d spoken about, but her eyes were a little wider than usual, and she kept knocking things over.
—
When they returned to Hedvig’s house, Sara decided to try on Märet’s dress. On her, the skirt wasn’t too long or too tight; it cinched her waist just so, ending neatly at her ankle. The bodice fit like it was tailor-made for her as well, tracing the elegant tapering curve of her back from shoulder to hip. She looked like she’d just stepped out of a story. It made Cilla’s chest feel hollow.
Sara caught her gaze in the mirror and made a face. “It looks stupid.” She plucked at the skirt. “The red is way too bright. I wonder if you could dye it black? Because that would look awesome.”
Cilla looked at her own reflection, just visible beyond Sara’s red splendor. She was short and barrel-shaped, eyes tiny behind her glasses. There were food stains on her sweater. “You look stupid,” she managed.
Mom was scrubbing potatoes in the kitchen when Cilla came downstairs.
“Who’s getting the dress, Mom? Because Sara wants to dye it black.”
“Oh ho?” said Mom. “Probably not, because it’s not hers.”
“Can I have it?” Cilla shifted her weight from foot to foot. “I wouldn’t do anything to it.”
“No, love. It belongs to Hedvig.”
“But she’s old. She won’t use it.”
Mom turned and gave Cilla a long look, eyebrows low. “It belonged to her mother, Cilla. How would you feel if you found my wedding dress and someone gave it away to some relative instead?”
“She has everything else,” Cilla said. “I don’t have anything from Great-Gran.”
“I’m sure we can find something from the house,” said Mom. “But not the dress. It means a lot to Hedvig. Think of someone else’s feelings for a change.”
Sara came down a little later with the same request. Mom yelled at her.
—
Maybe it was because of Mom’s outburst, but Sara became twitchier as the evening passed on. Finally she muttered something about going for a walk and shrugged into her jacket. Cilla hesitated a moment and then followed.
“Fuck off,” Sara muttered without turning her head when Cilla came running after her.
“No way,” said Cilla.
Sara sighed and rolled her eyes. She increased her pace until Cilla had to half jog to keep up. They said nothing until they came down to the lake’s shore, a stretch of rounded river stones that made satisfying billiard-ball noises under Cilla’s feet.
Sara sat down on one of the larger rocks and dug out a soft ten-pack of cigarettes. She shook one out and lit it. “Tell Mom and I’ll kill you.”
“I know.” Cilla sat down next to her. “Why are you being so weird? Ever since you talked to Johann.”
Sara took a drag on her cigarette and blew the smoke out through her nose. She shrugged. Her eyes looked wet. “He made me understand some things, is all.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m not crazy. Like none of us are.” She looked out over the lake. “We should stay here. Maybe we’d survive.” Her eyes really were wet now. She wiped at them with her free hand.
Cilla felt cold trickle down her back. “What are you on about?”
Sara rubbed her forehead. “You have to promise not to tell anyone, because if you tell anyone, bad stuff will happen, okay? Shit is going to happen just because I’m telling you. But I’ll tell you because you’re my little sis.” She slapped a quick rhythm on her thigh. “Okay. So it’s like this—the world is going to end soon. It’s going to end in ninety-six.”
Cilla blinked. “How would you know?”
“It’s in the newspapers, if you look. The Gulf War, yeah? That’s when it started. Saddam Hussein is going to take revenge and send nukes, and then the U.S. will nuke back, and then Russia jumps in. And then there’ll be nukes everywhere, and we’re dead. Or we’ll die in the nuclear winter, ’cause they might not nuke Sweden, but there’ll be nothing left for us.” Sara’s eyes were a little too wide.
“Okay,” Cilla said slowly. “But how do you know all this is going to happen?”
“I can see the signs. In the papers. And I just…know. Like someone told me. The twenty-third of February in ninety-six, that’s when the world ends. I mean, haven’t you noticed that som
ething’s really, really wrong?”
Cilla dug her toe into the stones. “It’s the opposite.”
“What.” There was no question mark to Sara’s tone.
“Something wonderful,” Cilla said. Her cheeks were hot. She focused her eyes on her toe.
“You’re a fucking idiot.” Sara turned her back, demonstratively, and lit a new cigarette.
Cilla never could wait her out. She walked back home alone.
—
On midsummer’s eve, they had a small feast. There was pickled herring and new potatoes, smoked salmon, fresh strawberries and cream, spiced schnapps for Mom and Hedvig. It was past ten when Cilla pulled on Sara’s sleeve.
“We have to go pick seven kinds of flowers,” she said.
Sara rolled her eyes. “That’s kid stuff. I have a headache,” she said, standing up. “I’m going to bed.”
Cilla remained at the table with her mother and great-aunt, biting her lip.
Mom slipped an arm around her shoulder. “Picking seven flowers is an old, old tradition,” she said. “There’s nothing silly about it.”
“I don’t feel like it anymore,” Cilla mumbled.
Mom chuckled gently. “Well, if you change your mind, tonight is when you can stay up for as long as you like.”
“Just be careful,” said Hedvig. “The vittra might be out and about.” She winked conspiratorially at Cilla.
At Hedvig’s dry joke, Cilla suddenly knew with absolute certainty what she had been pining for, that wonderful something waiting out there. She remained at the table, barely able to contain her impatience until Mom and Hedvig jointly decided to go to bed.
Mom kissed Cilla’s forehead. “Have a nice little midsummer’s eve, love. I’ll leave the cookies out.”
Cilla made herself smile at her mother’s patronizing remark and waited for the house to go to sleep.
—
She had put the dress on right this time, as well as she could, and clutched seven kinds of flowers in her left hand—buttercup, clover, geranium, catchfly, bluebells, chickweed, and daisies. She stood at the back of the house, on the slope facing the mountain. It was just past midnight, the sky a rich blue tinged with green and gold. The air had a sharp and herbal scent. It was very quiet.
Jagannath Page 7
