The Christmas Lights

by Karen Swan

  Frowning, she looked up. An edge of paper was peeking from beneath the pillow.

  A letter?

  Forgetting all about the wolf, she pushed the pillow aside but it wasn’t a single letter she found; there were dozens, held together with ribbon, one of the flowers from the dried posy secured in the bow. Signy stared at the treasured package. Judging by the thickness of the bundle, Margit and her mystery lover had been writing all summer. But who was he, the one she’d dreamt about on Midsummer’s Eve?

  She heard the sound again but it wasn’t the wolf howling; this was its prey, screaming. Without thought, she stuffed her feet into her boots and ran into the main room, scanning desperately for the threshing knife Margit had hidden. There was no sign of it, but no matter, there would be something she could use in the barns.

  She flung open the door and was surprised by the relative darkness. Judging by how deeply she had slept, she had thought it was almost dawn, but the moon was still high in the sky, playing hide and seek behind tossed clouds. She pounded a fist on the other cabin windows as she passed; if the wolf was in the stables, she would need help, numbers, but there was no time to explain now. They would have to find her first, shout at her later. She ran up the path, her nightie bunched in one hand, her boots slapping against her skinny calves, but as she approached, she realized all was quiet with the animals. She slowed to a confused stop. There was the occasional lowing cow, a bad-tempered bleat, but none of the screaming cacophony she would expect from the goats if a predator was in with them.

  But there was something. Movement in the haybarn. It might just be a fox hunting mice but if it wasn’t, if it was the wolf . . . she needed something. A weapon. Was the pitchfork still in there? She tiptoed across the grass to the haybarn opposite, willing it to be the wolf. She needed the others to believe her. And God help her if she had just woken them all up on account of a fox.

  The doors were closed, but not locked as they should have been (which was typical; it was Sofie’s job). As quietly as she could, she pulled the doors ajar and peered round – and right then and there she grew up, her childhood dropping away like a too small dress. Margit was sprawled across a haybale, her legs splayed wide. A man was on top of her, jerking and thrusting, making the grunting sounds she had mistaken as coming from the animals. Signy couldn’t see his face from here but she didn’t need to. His white-blonde hair was a calling card.

  He was the one. He was Margit’s destiny.

  For a second Signy couldn’t react. She was paralysed with shock, watching the scene with horror, not understanding what she was seeing and yet still somehow knowing.

  But then the details began to register, the minutiae she had initially missed now colouring in the framework of the scene. She saw that Margit’s eyes were bulging wide as she stared up at the rafters of the barn; that his hand was over her mouth and her tears were streaming over his fingers; that her dress was torn. And as Rag arched back, his face turning up to the sky like a wolf howling at the moon, she saw the man, facedown and unconscious on the ground; one eye was swollen shut, blood gushing from a split lip and seeping into the straw, staining it pink.

  Signy felt her knees buckle as she screamed. It was an otherworldly sound, animalistic, something she couldn’t recognize as coming from her and she staggered backwards, straight into the warmth of a soft body.

  ‘No!’ Sofie whispered, still warm from sleep but understanding immediately, the shawl slipping from her shoulders as she pushed Signy aside and lurched into the barn. Not seeing Mons, barely even Margit, her eyes were on him. Him alone. ‘No!’ she screamed out as Rag pulled himself off Margit, buttoning up his fly. A satisfied smile twisted his lips as he looked down at her spreadeagled before him, even though his face was badly scratched, blood drying at his nostrils.

  Turning his attention to Sofie, he came down the haybales with almost a lope, pulling the braces of his trousers over his shoulders. He seemed not to have noticed Signy at all. She was too small, too young, too harmless.

  Sofie flew at him. ‘How could you? How could you?’ she screamed, more wildcat than woman, her hair falling over her face as he grabbed her easily by the wrists, holding her in place as she flailed helplessly.

  He tipped his head to the side, as though baffled by her curious response. ‘What is this? You always knew Margit was to be mine.’

  ‘You said you loved me!’ she yelled.

  He laughed at that. ‘You’re a pretty girl, Sofie. Of course I wanted you. But loved you?’ A cruel smile spread. ‘No.’

  She began wrestling him again but he calmly stepped back and slapped her once, hard, across the face. The shock stunned her into silence, her hands flying to her cheek as she struggled to keep her balance. She stared back at him, tears blotching her face, her breath coming in heavy, clotted clumps.

  ‘You’re a cotter’s daughter, Sofie,’ he said simply. ‘We both knew how it would end.’ He wagged a finger at her. ‘And besides, we both know you only wanted me because you knew I was tagged for Margit here. You always want what she’s got.’

  ‘That’s not true!’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  He sighed, the action heavy and wearisome. ‘Mons here has the same problem. He always wants what’s mine – my father’s attention; my future wife.’ He kicked a lazy foot at Mons, groaning and still dazed on the ground. Sofie gasped as she finally caught sight of him, the truth of this situation beginning to dawn on her.

  ‘You’re a m-monster,’ she stammered, his red handprint livid against her skin.

  ‘No. He tried to take what was mine,’ Rag sneered, looking down at Mons with a look of vicious contempt. ‘I was simply protecting my rights. Droit de seigneur, I think they call it. He’s been chasing her tail for quite a while by all accounts: secret love notes being carried up here every week, romantic walks together just the two of them . . . I was lucky to catch on when I did. It looks like we weren’t the only ones—’ and he suddenly threw his head back and howled. Like a wolf. Her wolf.

  It had been him? Them? Their signal?

  Signy felt a burst of rage explode through her. ‘We’ll tell my father!’ she screamed, dancing her feet like a boxer, her hands pulling and releasing into panicky fists.

  Rag’s gaze settled upon her, noticing her for the first time. Something about her seemed to amuse him. ‘And say what, little thing? That your sister is a slut, playing fast and loose up here with any passing stranger? What would he think, huh? How would he feel if the rest of the village were to hear that?’

  ‘You leave her –’ Behind him, Margit was trying to sit up, to gather her dress to her, bunching the skirt at the knees, trying to pin up the shoulder. Hay stuck out from her hair and she looked like she had the beginnings of a black eye too. Her face was blotchy and swollen and her breath came in rolling heaves that physically inflated and collapsed her. She tried to scoot forwards off the bale but a bolt of pain stopped her short, blood smearing her inner thighs, her face contorted in a grimace.

  At the sight of her, Signy felt the fear switch – like blood marbling water, becoming pinker and redder, anger began to swirl in its place.

  ‘As it is, your sister’s lucky. I’ll still marry her. As soon as you girls get back next week, in fact. I have to leave again—’

  ‘I will never . . . marry you,’ Margit panted, every word an effort, her voice low and split by pain.

  ‘That isn’t your choice to make now,’ Rag said, watching as she pulled herself down the bales, scratched and bloodied, wounded and weak. ‘You should be about ready to pop by the time I get back from training.’

  Margit pulled herself to standing, her balance unsteady. ‘I would kill it first,’ she hissed, meeting his glare.

  Rag took a step towards her, menace in his movements. ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Sofie said from behind him, suddenly calm. ‘We can always keep mine.’

  He turned to find Sofie holding her arms around her stomach and pinning down the thin co
tton of her nightdress. His mouth parted as he looked down at her gently swelling belly. A victorious glimmer sparkled in her eyes as she saw his shock.

  Slowly, he looked back up at her. ‘You stupid bitch!’

  She snorted. ‘I’m stupi—?’ But the word was smacked away from her as he slapped her hard with the back of his hand again. This time she did reel, spinning backwards and hitting the barn door before slumping to the floor.

  ‘Sofie!’ Margit cried, lunging forwards, but she was too slow to stop the backwards arc of his leg as it swung, kicking forward into Sofie’s prone body with immense force. Sofie screamed out, curling around her stomach and trying to protect her unborn child – and for a moment, the valley rang with the sounds of their screams. Kari, Brit and Ashi had stumbled up to the barn just in time to see Margit launching herself at his back, fists flailing, but he swatted her away as easily as if she were a doll, his leg swinging back and forth at Sofie like a pendulum.

  And then it stopped, the silence cracking like a gunshot as Rag fell still, his face a ghastly growing green. No one could speak as a few beads of blood crowned in his hair, before becoming a tide. His hand rose up, touching the warm, sticky substance as if in disbelief. Stumbling, he turned, lurching like a drunk man as he looked to see who had murdered him. And how.

  Little Signy Reiten stared back at him, her chest rising and falling in breathless pants, her eyes as wide as his, and her arms still holding the old whetstone above her head, white-blonde hairs dangling down from it like mosquito legs.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The sound made her jump, her mouth frozen open in a perfect ‘o’ as her ears strained for another. It was so distinctive – the creak of snow underfoot . . .

  There it was. Coming closer.

  Feeling her heartrate spike, she looked around for something, anything, that could double as a weapon. He had the advantage. With the lights on, he could see straight in. He might be standing by the window, right now, staring in at her, his own face shrouded in the darkness. How long had he been there?

  Her eyes fell onto the poker by the stove and she jumped up to grab it, knowing she couldn’t get to the door in time to lock it, but she reached up for the light switch and cut the power, darkness drenching the room but for the glow of the fire. Crouching down by the side of the sofa, she waited. She felt the pound of her heart beat through her body as she tightened her fingers around the neck of the poker, bracing for the sound of the latch.

  She heard the footsteps again, each one planted slowly, carefully. He was creeping his way closer. Did he know she knew he was there? He had to. He must have seen the lights, surely.

  There it was – the click of the latch disengaging, a zip of cold air nipping in before him. She felt the poker shake in her hand, an unstoppable hysteria rising up in her.

  He was here.

  He had found her.

  ‘. . . Bo?’ The whisper drifted in like a feather.

  She clutched the poker tighter, willing herself not to drop it.

  ‘Bo? It’s me.’

  What? The breath whistled from her like it was pulled on a string. ‘Anders?’ she gasped.

  ‘It’s me.’

  The door closed behind him and she saw his already-familiar shape as her eyes adjusted to the darkness.

  ‘What . . . oh my God, what are you doing here?’ she whispered back, on the verge of tears, trying to stand again but not sure her legs would manage it.

  ‘He’s still not come back?’

  ‘Who? Zac?’ She wanted to cry with relief. ‘No. No, he’s . . . he’s punishing me, I think.’ He was in front of her now, the smell of him engulfing her. His hands on her arms.

  ‘You’re shaking.’

  ‘. . . Just an overactive imagination,’ she said, forcing a laugh. She couldn’t tell him; she couldn’t say that she’d thought he was Him – that he’d been at the club last night, that he had followed her back here as she had followed Anders, their cars snaking a daisy-chain through the night. ‘What are you doing here?’

  She felt his grip tighten on her arms, saw his head drop, and she didn’t need an answer. They both thought it, both felt it. Separation was inevitable, yes, but there was still some sand left in the timer. There was still tonight.

  She reached up and kissed him, feeling how quickly he responded to her, the heat between them instantaneous. ‘How did you get back?’ she asked, eyes closed as she felt his hands on her.

  ‘I took the skidoo . . . Parked it up the top and walked down so my grandmother wouldn’t hear.’

  ‘I thought you said . . . she’s pretty deaf,’ she gasped between kisses.

  He gave her a wry look. ‘She suffers from selective deafness.’

  Bo laughed. ‘And what if she sees you coming out of here in the morning?’

  ‘Then I’ll say I came in here first to go over the itinerary.’

  They pulled back to look at one another again; it had felt like an impossible wish that they might have another night together, and his simmering look of intent made her stomach flip. She pulled back slightly as he pulled her top off. ‘. . . But what if Zac comes back?’

  ‘He won’t now. It’s too dark.’

  ‘But what if he gets here early?’

  ‘Then we wake up early,’ he said, his mouth back on hers, urgent now, walking her backwards into the bedroom. ‘Or even better, we won’t sleep at all.’

  It was no stealth attack, but they were still in bed when she heard Lenny and Zac coming up the path the next morning. It was dark outside – Anders had kept the fjord-side curtains open especially, not wanting to sleep too deeply – and they looked at each other in a curious mix of wide-eyed alarm and resigned despair. They had both known this moment was coming. It was due payment for last night.

  He planted another kiss on her lips and then threw back the covers, stepping into his clothes with brisk efficiency. They heard the latch turn on the front door just as he shrugged on his sweater, but he didn’t rush – his eyes never leaving her as she felt their goodbyes swim in the silence.

  ‘What the hell?’ Lenny’s voice in the other room was muffled and Bo knew they were looking at the new, decorated, miniature tree. She had dragged the other one outside and left it propped against the wall. To hell with Zac’s wounded ego.

  Anders came back over to the bed, leaning over and kissing her lingeringly one last time. His eyes roamed hers, seeing everything but a solution there, and then he pulled back and walked over to the window. He flung it open and hoisted himself easily onto the frame, pulling up one leg, then the other. He looked back at her with an expression that made her feel like she was the one falling – and then he jumped.

  It was a fair drop, even with thick snow to land in; the ground sloped sharply downhill there and the stables were accessible on that side. She jumped out of bed and looked out, seeing him run, crouched, around the side of the building. He was below the level of the windows in the main room – so long as no one was looking out of them, he would escape unseen. She quickly closed the window, climbed into her thermals and was knotting the belt of her cardigan just as the door opened and Zac looked in.

  They stared at one another. He looked rough, unshaven and pale, puffy-eyed.

  ‘Hey,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Hey,’ she said simply, after a moment. ‘You’re back then.’

  ‘Yes.’ The word was short, his mouth a set line, and she couldn’t quite tell if he was still angry or wanting forgiveness. Maybe both? Perhaps he was trying to gauge her reaction first.

  She watched him glance around the room. Could he tell another man had been here? Did he sense his worst nightmare was in play? The bed was rumpled, chaotic, but she often spread herself across the bed when he got up, stretching up and outwards to sleep like a starfish.

  Another silence bloomed, neither one of them sure how to fill it. The anger she felt at his behaviour in Alesund had diminished in the bright light of her realized feelings for Anders and she didn’t want an ap
ology from him – it didn’t seem important; she didn’t think she even cared.

  ‘Would you like a coffee?’ she asked, walking past him and registering his surprise at her calm manner. Had he been braced for a showdown? A catastrophic screaming match?

  ‘. . . Sure.’

  She went to the stove and scraped out the sludge from yesterday’s coffee pot. She could feel him watching her as she busied herself with washing up and finding cups.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘What?’ She turned disinterestedly.

  He was holding up Anders’ distinctive North Face jacket. They both knew perfectly well to whom it belonged. ‘Why’s this here?’ he frowned, looking back at her.

  It had been lying on the ground beside the sofa where Anders had shrugged it off last night, concerned only with getting her into the bedroom. She had completely forgotten about it.

  Her mouth parted but no words came. What could she say? Her eyes rose to his, panic clouding her brain, and she was sure she could see him begin to attach a narrative to it, to find a story that fitted perfectly. The only one.

  The sound of feet being stamped on the mat made them both turn. Anders was walking in with a piled-high armful of logs. ‘There, that should do it,’ he huffed, before stopping at the sight of Zac. ‘Oh. Hey. You’re back.’

  Zac’s demeanour changed at the unexpected intrusion, Anders’ uncharacteristic ‘chattiness’.

  ‘Yes – a load of snow dumped on Anders on the way over. He’s drying it out before we all head off later,’ Bo explained, walking over and taking the coat from Zac before he could process that it was bone-dry. She made a play of patting it down and positioning it in front of the stove.

  But Zac couldn’t take his gaze off Anders. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked coldly, just as Lenny’s booted feet sounded on the ladder and he emerged from his digs again. If Bo had thought Zac looked bad, Lenny had taken it to a whole other level – he didn’t look like he’d slept in days. Had he lost weight?

  Anders frowned at their frowns. ‘We are still going out today, aren’t we? I thought today was the big day?’ And when Zac didn’t – couldn’t – reply, added: ‘The last I heard we were doing the crevasse walk on Mount Åkernes?’