by Kirsten Boie
“But he’ll come tomorrow,” said Perry. “With the morning paper.” He looked down vaguely at the torn fishing nets on the floor.
“What if he doesn’t?” said Jenna. “What if he never comes back? He might just get one of the guards to take our photo tomorrow. So who can we talk to then? Perry, are you listening to me?”
Perry didn’t respond. For some time he’d been drawing in the dust with his index finger, without looking up. Even now he didn’t seem to hear her. He was drawing circles and wavy lines, then angrily rubbing them out with the flat of his hand before beginning again. Jenna gave him a nudge. “Perry, what is it?” she asked.
He raised his head and looked at her, but to her horror she realized that he didn’t see her. His lips moved silently, as if he were speaking to himself.
“Perry!” she cried, and felt goose bumps spreading over her arms.
He stared into space.
“Perry, what is it?”
When at last he managed to speak, his voice was flat and expressionless, and his eyes were fixed on some point in the distance that didn’t exist for Jenna.
“What did the phone call mean?” he asked. “The phone call in the car. It was only after that call that they changed their tactics and started to treat us as prisoners.”
He turned to Jenna, and she could see such despair in his eyes that she wanted to put her arms around him.
“But we talked about that yesterday, Perry,” she said. “I think it’s all clear now. We know that Bolström …”
Once more he seemed not to be listening.
“It was the caller who told them we’d seen the depot,” whispered Perry. “They didn’t find it out from your phone, Jenna. They didn’t take the phones away from us till later! After the call. It was the caller who told them!”
Jenna looked at him. She still couldn’t comprehend why he was in such a state.
“Then maybe it was someone from the depot who called them,” she said. “That’s logical, isn’t it? After all, they saw us!” She tugged at his sleeve. “But that doesn’t change anything, Perry! Once we tell Bolström that your father knows …”
Again his gaze wandered off into the distance. Then he turned to her almost in slow motion. From outside, Jenna recognized the high trill of a blackbird’s song. “So why haven’t the police stormed the place? Twenty-four hours have gone by, Jenna. It’s almost twenty-four hours since I told my father.”
She couldn’t bear the pain in his eyes. “What do you mean?” she asked. She still didn’t get it. “Maybe your father didn’t tell the police right away. Or maybe the police haven’t done anything right away, haven’t found the place … Or maybe …” But even she could see how unlikely all that was.
No.
No, not that, too.
Horrified, she finally understood.
“Jenna,” he said, “I think … I think …” Then his voice broke. He lay down on a coil of rope and began to cry.
All afternoon Bea had been unable to concentrate on her homework. She’d left the radio on in the kitchen, and whenever the music stopped and someone spoke, she rushed in. But the short news bulletins made no mention of Jenna. She would have to wait till the full evening news on TV.
“Bea!” her mother called from the living room. Bea looked at her grammar book. Tomorrow was the French final exam, and she still didn’t understand where these wretched pronouns were supposed to go. Which one came before which? Why couldn’t the French stick their pronouns in normal places, like everyone else?
“Y!” she moaned. “So stupid! What are you supposed to do with y?”
“Bea!” called her mother. “You wanted me to tell you — the special feature’s on in a moment!”
Bea took her French book with her into the living room. A dumb thing to do. Like she’d be able to learn anything while she was watching the news.
Her mother was sitting at the end of the sofa watching a fat little man in an ill-fitting suit pointing to the weather map.
“Special programs two days in a row,” she said. “Things must be heating up in Scandia.”
“You don’t remember the rules about French pronouns, do you?” Bea asked without too much hope. “Y and en, and all that stuff?”
“Sorry, honey,” said her mother. “I only took French for three years.”
Bea sighed. Cell phone stolen, best friend kidnapped, and now French final exam. “It’s just not my week,” she muttered, and let the book slide to the floor.
The screen showed the host in the studio, repeating what he’d already reported the previous evening, with the same familiar pictures in the background.
“Will you say something about Jenna, s’il-vous plaît!” cried Bea, leaning forward.
She heard the front door open. “Any news?” her father called. He looked at the TV, and sat down in his muddy shoes. “Anything about —”
“You could have wiped your feet,” complained Bea’s mother. “Just look —”
“Silence, je vous en prie!” cried Bea, not even realizing she’d just used one of the weird pronouns. “I want to see this!”
“… since yesterday morning, the streets of Scandia have been filled with soldiers,” a reporter was saying into his microphone. Bea recognized the foreign correspondent from last night. “Forty-eight hours ago, King Magnus declared a national state of emergency and brought in the military to keep the peace in Scandia. Discussion continues to rage as to whether this is the right move to pacify a country in which unrest is escalating by the day. On the streets of the capital city of Holmburg we asked …”
There were now armed soldiers in the background. People with frightened faces spoke into microphones.
“What about Jenna?” said Bea. “Do they think a princess is so unimportant that —”
Her father motioned her to keep quiet. “Shh, Bea, for heaven’s sake. This is important, too!”
“… evidently the first successes,” said the correspondent. He didn’t look too happy about what he had to say. “Today, soldiers searched a number of factories after receiving reports from the locals that North Scandian rebels were hiding there. A few arrests were made, but the most important discovery, allegedly, was of large stores of weapons. Unfortunately, reporters have not been allowed access to view the weapons for themselves.”
“Make sense of that if you can!” said Bea’s father, taking off his right shoe. “That’s completely illogical! Just now, when the country’s bringing in a whole raft of reforms—”
“Dad, shut up!” cried Bea.
“… most extraordinary,” said the correspondent. In the background was a cemetery. Soldiers armed with shovels were digging up graves. “In the cemetery of the little town of Ylarook, on North Island, further caches of weapons were found in a number of coffins. The police and army would certainly never have found them had they not been tipped off by local citizenry.”
“They can say what they like!” growled Bea’s father. He looked as if he wanted to crawl into the set to take them all on. “But there’s no way they can —”
“… latest news on Princess Jenna,” said the host in the studio.
“Shh, Dad!” yelled Bea.
“… perhaps the biggest surprise of all,” said the correspondent. The scenes behind him began to repeat themselves. “Last night it was still not certain whether the princess had run away or had been abducted, but over the course of this afternoon the situation was made clear. The press, Princess Jenna’s mother, and her frequent companion in recent times, Peter Petterson, who is the father of the other missing child, have all received the same demands from the kidnappers.” A photo appeared on the screen showing a tearstained and exhausted Jenna together with a boy that Bea didn’t know. They were both holding a newspaper.
“Oh God, Jenna!” exclaimed Bea.
“They have provided photos showing the two young people with today’s newspaper as evidence that they are still alive, and they are demanding in exchange the release of Minister
of the Interior Liron, who was arrested for high treason yesterday. The North Scandian Rebel Movement has claimed responsibility for the abduction. However, a far more serious threat to the country is the fact that rebels have been working in league with at least some members of the present government. Yesterday’s arrest was seen by many as proof that the Minister of the Interior has been planning a coup with the rebels …”
“That’s incredible!” said Bea’s father.
“Incroyable,” Bea echoed.
“And now back to the studio,” said the correspondent.
“Will they do it?” asked Bea. “Dad? Will they make the exchange? What will the rebels do to Jenna if they won’t cooperate?”
Her father shrugged his shoulders. “If you ask me,” he said, “there’s something very peculiar going on. We can only hope for the best.”
Bea stood up. “I’m going to my room,” she said.
Her mother bent down. “What about your French book?” she said. “You left it behind!”
“Oh, forget French!” said Bea. There would be no more pronouns this evening.
For a while, Jenna just sat looking at Perry. She didn’t dare go to him, or take his arm to comfort him. Because if his suspicions turned out to be true, what comfort could there be?
Only when it was completely dark, and the voices and laughter of the guards had gradually faded away, did she finally sit down next to him. She felt utterly helpless.
“Perry?” she whispered. He had hidden his face in his arms. Maybe he’d fallen asleep. “Perry? It may not be like that at all. There could be a completely different explanation.”
Perry slowly raised his head. Jenna saw to her relief that his eyes were now dry. But there was also a coldness in them that made her shiver.
“And what sort of explanation might that be, Jenna?” he asked. “We’ve been through it all. If my dad is part of this plot —”
“But why do you insist on thinking he is?” Jenna pleaded. “It doesn’t have to be that way!”
“Doesn’t it?” said Perry. “Last year you saw how your father was mixed up in a plot against the king. Why does someone have to be a good person just because he’s a father? Criminals have kids, too. And do you know how much oil the Pettersons own on North Island? And bauxite mines? Not to mention our huge flocks of sheep and our farms …” His voice trailed off. “There’s no way my father could want the reforms.”
In the forest, the unsuspecting blackbird repeated its song. This was the time of night when the horned owl flew off in search of its prey.
“He wouldn’t allow it,” said Perry. “The idea that he might lose out. That one day he might even lose everything. He’ll be afraid, just like the rest of them, that the reforms are only the beginning. He’ll have gone in with the people who are planning the coup. Not the rebels, Jenna — the opposite. All the time that Bolström was in exile, they must have stayed in contact. Who knows what they’re planning now? And I went and told my father that we’d discovered the depot … God, how naïve! How totally, shamefully stupid!”
“But he still wouldn’t hand over his own son to Bolström!” insisted Jenna. “Perry, your father wouldn’t do that!”
Perry shook his head. “Maybe he didn’t think it through,” he said. “Maybe he panicked, and the only thing on his mind at that moment was ‘How can we stop those kids from blowing our cover?’ Maybe in all the excitement he just felt he had to warn Bolström, and only realized later what that would mean for me.”
The blackbird was still singing. Oh, be quiet, thought Jenna.
“Then Bolström informed the men who’d captured us,” said Perry. “That was the call to the car. My father is the one who betrayed us, Jenna, and I’m to blame. Why did I trust him?”
“Perry!” whispered Jenna. The harshness of his expression frightened her. “Maybe he isn’t …”
“There’s no maybe,” said Perry, and Jenna could see that in the last few hours something had changed in him. Perry was no longer the boy she’d met in the navigator’s house. Why couldn’t he lie to himself just a little? He understands too much — that’s what Jonas always said — and once he’s understood something, he can no longer ignore it. Jenna stroked his arm. She didn’t want to think about Jonas.
“Well, we’ve got something in common, then,” she whispered. She couldn’t help him. She couldn’t take this terrible burden off his shoulders. But maybe she could console him a little with the knowledge that he was not alone. “My father’s a criminal, too.”
Perry didn’t seem to notice the hand on his arm.
“Yes, they’re both criminals,” he said. “But last year when he had to decide whether to let you go or kill you, your father chose to save your life, even though it meant his own downfall. But my father, Jenna …” His voice began to tremble. “My father has betrayed me. He’s sacrificed me. His property, position, and reputation are more important to him than my life.”
“Oh, Perry,” said Jenna.
The blackbird in the forest had stopped singing.
Petterson had left Osterlin to go to his own estate, where he could talk freely. He’d pretended that the groundskeeper had called to tell him there was something wrong with his favorite mare — a valuable animal — and that he had to see her for himself in order to decide what was to be done.
“Your son is being held hostage and you’re worried about a horse?” Margareta had shouted at him. “Peter, I don’t understand you!”
“What difference does it make whether I wait here or at home?” he’d answered. “I’ll come back, Greta, though maybe by then it’ll all —”
“No!” she’d screamed. “No! How can all of you be so …?”
He would have to hurry back to her. He didn’t even park the car in the garage.
He rushed up the stairs to his study and closed the curtains. A pointless thing to do — even if someone saw him on the phone, how would they know who he was talking to, and what about?
“Bolli!” he said when the call was answered. “Bolli, I want to know —”
Bolström said something.
“But I told you straightaway!” said Petterson. “It was obvious something had to be done to stop the children from talking about what they’d seen! But now you’re holding them prisoner and using them as hostages! I’ve seen the photo.”
Bolström tried to interrupt, but Petterson wouldn’t let him. “Yes, it’s fine that you’ve put even more suspicion on the rebels, and yes, it would be even finer if we actually got hold of Liron! But you don’t honestly think they’ll make the exchange, do you?” He was breathing hard. “And in any case, you wouldn’t go ahead with it, would you? You’re not going to release the children, even in exchange for Liron. If you were, you wouldn’t have needed to lock them away.” He waited a moment. There was silence on the other end. Bolström did not contradict him. “So what are you going to do? With the children, I mean? What are you going to do with my son?”
The answer was cool and calm.
“Is that a promise, Bolli?” asked Petterson dubiously. “You swear you’ll set them free when it’s over?” What else could he say? He knew Bolström only too well. Even at school, he’d been as cruel as he was brilliant. He’d tormented anyone he could torment, just for the sake of it. And he’d had a nickname for everyone — a name that fit, but was often mocking. Petterson himself had been lucky: You could live with being called “Captain.”
“I don’t know if I can trust you, Bolli,” he said softly. “And whatever impression you may have had in the past, I am far from indifferent to the fate of my son, even if he is a wimp.” He listened for a moment. “Tell me as soon as you’re ready.”
When the conversation was over, Petterson went to the window and gazed thoughtfully outside. Somewhere in this darkness, Bolström was holding his boy and the princess prisoner, but he wouldn’t say where. When they’d saved the country, and the reins of government were firmly in their hands, Bolström would set the children free — o
r so he said. How stupid did Bolström think he was, then? Would what they knew no longer pose a threat? No one must ever know that the hunger being suffered now was not the work of the rebels but of himself and Bolström. Bolström was far too clever not to realize the danger if the children talked.
Slowly he went downstairs. He must go back to Margareta. She was already furious with him. For the moment, the children were safe, because Bolström still needed them. There would have to be new photos every day.
But afterward? Once power changed hands?
And, worst of all, there was nothing he could do about it.
They sat, wide awake, on the ropes and nets, waiting for the morning, even though everything was sure to be the same as it had been the day before. Why was Jenna longing so much to see the sunrise?
A few times she had tried to sleep, but just a few feet away Perry sat so stiffly upright that the very sight of him immediately jolted her awake.
Perry’s theory had to be right. It was the only explanation that made sense. And how could he sleep when he’d been betrayed by his own father?
If there had been a church clock anywhere nearby, they would have heard it toll the hours. If it had been lighter in the hut, they might have been able to see their watches. But for now they just sat there.
A confused blackbird let out a high trill, which was answered by another. The sound was comforting, though.
“Stupid birds,” murmured Perry. “It’s the middle of the night.”
For a moment all was still, and then a third blackbird responded.
“Maybe it’s almost morning now,” said Jenna. “Maybe we slept on and off after all, and the time’s gone by. Lots of birds start singing before sunrise. I wonder how they know, when they don’t have clocks.” At a time like this, Jenna also wondered how she could even be thinking about birds.
The blackbirds continued to hold their conversation. Perry jumped up.
“These birds have no more clue about the sunrise than we do!” he whispered. “If you get what I’m saying, Jenna. Let’s just hope that the guards are asleep.”
