by Kirsten Boie
Malena sat on a boulder at the edge of the school grounds and looked down into the valley. It was full of heather and white clover, and she thought she could smell the scent of raspberries up here under the burning midday sun. It was from here that she’d run away last year, ducking behind one bush after another until she was finally out of sight of the school and no one had been able to find her. How far away it all seemed, and how unhappy she’d been.
And now? Was everything all right now?
She listened to the voices behind her on the field, the shouts and the laughter. At school I’m cut off from everything, she thought. Perry and Jenna disappeared two days ago, and I have no idea what’s happened to them.
Her school banned the use of any kind of phone during the week so that the students would form a community of their own, without constantly communicating with parents, relatives, and friends back home. Forget community! thought Malena. As if a cell phone would make any difference.
And there was no television, either, during the week, because without it, they wouldn’t sit there passively, wasting their time. They’d talk to one another, and play games, and compete in every sport that Scandians participated in, and join the orchestra, the choir, the theater troupe, the film club …
But I’m sure they would have told me if Jenna and Perry had been found, thought Malena. Everyone knows how worried I am. After all, Jenna’s my cousin — they all know that. They’d tell me. If I’ve heard nothing, that must mean nothing’s happened.
She started throwing pebbles down into the valley. At first they clicked against the rocks, but then they disappeared silently into the bushes farther down the slope. “Malena?” said a high-pitched, slightly out-of-breath voice behind her. It was a little girl with messy braids. Her tails of her school blouse had slipped out of her skirt waistband. “I was told to come and get you, Malena. Telephone.”
Malena felt a tightening in her chest. What did the call mean? Something good or something bad?
“Is it my father?” she asked, jumping down from the rock.
The little girl shook her head and shrugged her shoulders at the same time. “Don’t know,” she said timidly.
As she hurried past the girl, Malena recalled how she had felt at that age. Little girls had to be polite to big girls, run errands, hold doors open. One day little girls would themselves become big girls, and other little girls would do the same for them. Malena remembered how strange it had seemed at first: She was a princess, so how could anyone tell her what to do just because they were five years older?
But then she’d grown to love the custom. She had admired the big girls and envied them, and she’d longed for the time when she would be one of them. But that had long since ceased to be something special.
She hurried along the cool corridor of the school building, and knocked on the door of the headmistress’s study. Soon she would know.
The headmistress looked up and smiled at her. “Malena!” she said, pointing toward the telephone. “It’s Ylva von Thunberg. She sounds very upset. I thought I’d better make an exception and let you speak to her.”
Malena was taken aback.
“Hello, Ylva?” she said.
“I think you should go home at once,” said Ylva. “I think something’s about to happen.”
The branches cracked beneath Norlin’s feet. He just had to get away from there! It was a good thing that Scandia was full of forests so thick and impenetrable you could hide for days in them — weeks, even. He could grow a beard. He could give himself a new name.
At some point he would have to eat. At the moment he couldn’t imagine ever feeling hungry again, but there’d be berries and mushrooms. He wouldn’t starve.
He sat down on a stump. He hadn’t even had time to get dressed when he’d overheard Bolström: “Norlin’s got to go before anyone gets the chance to talk to him.” He’d left in his robe — this ridiculous silk dressing gown with a Chinese dragon embroidered on the back. He could grow a dozen beards, but if anyone saw him in his robe, they’d never swallow the story about him being a poor woodcutter.
But he’d had no choice. All that mattered was that he’d got away in time. Good grief, who’d have thought that Bolström …
“He could ruin us all. But you can leave him to me.”
His hands were trembling and his heart was thumping. Was it fear? Or was it the lack of alcohol? Where in the forest could he get something to drink?
But that wasn’t crucial now — no, he had to concentrate. Where should he hide? How could he get away?
Drat! He had to keep going, even without a drink.
“But you can leave him to me.”
Why hadn’t he thought about this before? How could he have believed Bolström’s fairy tales about him returning to the palace and being regent again? Shouldn’t he have realized it would be impossible after what had happened last summer?
But he’d shut all that out. He’d tried to forget it. And instead he’d escaped to the magic world of the bottle.
Why had he let it go so far? When he’d heard what Bolström planned to do with his daughter, he should have woken up to the truth — realized the lengths to which Bolström was prepared to go. But all he’d done was offer up a feeble protest and turned back to his brandy.
He looked at his trembling hands as if they belonged to someone else. He was being torn apart. He needed a drink. Everything else would work out then. He needed it! He wouldn’t be able to go on for another second without that merciful oblivion, that heartwarming comfort. He needed it!
Norlin leaped to his feet and rushed backward and forward, punching the tree trunks with his fists, groaning. There was nothing, nothing in the world now, no plans, no fear, only this burning desire.
When he saw the village, it was all he could think about. Someone would give him something to drink. Or he’d smash a window and rob a shop. A village meant rescue from the craving in his head and in his body. A village meant drink, and drink meant the feeling of peace that would restore him to himself.
But a village also meant revealing himself to people. No longer hiding.
When the two men jumped down from their rickety truck, he was almost relieved. They grabbed him in his ridiculous silken robe. They’d shoot him, and then at least it would all be over. He couldn’t stand it for another second.
“You don’t happen to have a little drink …?” he whispered.
The men pushed him up onto the truck without saying a word. Maybe they hadn’t heard.
His hands were trembling so much he could hardly hold on to the side as the truck raced away. His teeth were chattering. Just let it end quickly.
The meeting at the mill had disbanded. Jenna could only guess where all the men had gone. They’d be telling the fishermen of North Island, and all the rebels that were left in the south. They would walk nonchalantly past the soldiers on the streets, and secretly put their people on the alert.
Jenna had gone outside. The ragged sails of the mill rattled in the wind. She didn’t even want to look at Jonas, who had been leaning, grim-faced, against the banisters when she had last seen him, positioned as far away from her as possible. What on earth had she said on Sunday that made him so cold and distant? She hadn’t even touched him. If only she could remember it all more clearly, but so much had happened since then. She must have done something to make him behave as if he didn’t know her, as if he didn’t even want to know her.
Lorok and Meonok had carried the satellite dish to a beech tree and had set it up against the trunk, so that the television was now on inside the mill. Maybe she should go in and watch the photo of her kidnapped self every half hour, with game shows in between. It might at least be a distraction.
When she opened the door, she saw at once that Jonas was no longer downstairs. Maybe he had climbed up to the next floor or had gone out while she’d been standing with her back to the door, gazing out over the forest. Only Perry was there, sitting cross-legged on the floor, testing whi
ch TV channels they could get.
When the blurred, brownish pictures flickered across the screen, Jenna gasped. “My cell phone!” she cried.
Perry stopped surfing. “No way!” he breathed.
There it was, the video she had taken at the old warehouse — even more blurred in this larger format, but still distinguishable. “How did they get that?” Jenna stammered.
“Your friend Bea,” said Perry, without taking his eyes off the screen. “She came through — big-time!”
Bea, Bea, fabulous Bea! That was why she’d laughed when Jenna said she’d sent her photos of the pizza place. In her moment of panic before the kidnappers took away her cell phone, she must have sent the wrong pictures.
The short video was followed by daylight scenes, with a commentary. There were armed men in uniform attacking a foreign news team. “A CNN cameraman has been struck over the head …”
“They found the factory!” shouted Perry. “Nahira, they found the factory! Jenna’s friend did it! They’re showing the pictures all over the world!”
“Really?” cried Nahira. “On the news channels?”
“Then they can’t do anything now!” said Jenna, and from her own relief she realized just how frightened she had been. “Now the whole world knows what’s been going on in Scandia. Isn’t that right, Nahira? There’s nothing they can do!”
Nahira didn’t respond. She was talking into her cell phone a mile a minute. It was Perry who answered Jenna.
“It means that they’ll have to act even faster,” he said. “The conspirators couldn’t care less what people abroad are saying. They just have to limit what people here get to know. Now they’ll be going into action as soon as they can.”
“You mean it’s all useless?” asked Jenna. “Bea telling the media, and people all over the world seeing the proof?”
Perry shrugged his shoulders. As if in order to prove his point, he switched channels to Scandia 1, where singers were twirling and dancers gliding across a meadow, their faces radiant in the sunshine. “See?” said Perry. “Nobody’s going to learn anything from Scandia 1. And once the plotters have taken Holmburg, they’ll block access so that no one can receive any foreign channels — just like in the old days. Then they’ll decide exactly what information people are going to get. But still …”
“But still what?” asked Jenna.
“Now they’ll never really be able to deny it,” said Perry. “Too many people in the rest of the world know what they’ve done — and one day it will all come out.”
“One day?” cried Jenna. “It needs to come out now! I don’t want them to take over Holmburg! And I don’t want to spend the rest of my life on the run from them, Perry! Isn’t that what it’ll mean? If the conspirators win?”
They could hear the sound of vehicles pulling up outside, and Perry turned toward the door. “Yeah, that’s what it’ll mean, Jenna,” he said. “For you and me both.” She could feel his tension as he listened. “I’m sure they’re already hunting for us. Bolström will have put a price on our heads.” He put his arm around her. “We’ll have to go into hiding.”
Jenna, too, turned to watch the door. She knew that Lorok and Meonok were standing guard, but still they were not safe. She listened to a truck door slam, and the shouts that followed. Her head felt strangely light. Perhaps she was catching a fever …
“Nahira!” shouted one of the men. “We’ve caught someone! Come and see who we’ve got!”
Then they dragged him into the mill. One sleeve of his shiny Chinese silk dressing gown was torn, and his unshaven face was covered in sweat. His hands were trembling.
Jenna turned away and rushed up the stairs. At the top she collided with Jonas. But she didn’t even care.
When they were in Holmburg, Petterson preferred to stay in his own apartment, but this time he made an exception because Margareta was in such a state.
They’d traveled back to the city the night before — Magnus had insisted on it. In a situation of such confusion and urgency, the king couldn’t possibly stay out in the country, he’d said. But now that he was back in the palace, what could he do? Everything seemed calm in the city — almost too calm. If it wasn’t for the soldiers everywhere, you’d never know anything was wrong or that Scandia was under a state of emergency.
But there they were, stationed in all the squares and on the main roads, holding their guns loosely in their arms, chewing gum, and looking slightly embarrassed, as if they didn’t really know what they were doing there themselves.
Petterson had retreated to his room, pretending that he had a headache and wanted to lie down. He closed the door behind him and went straight to his suitcase. The code for the lock was Perry’s birthday. How could he have been so sentimental as to choose that?
His cell phone was tucked inside a sock. It had felt too dangerous to carry it around with him, but he couldn’t wait any longer to check his messages. It was almost twenty-four hours since he’d last spoken to Bolström, and since then he’d had no news. The display still showed nothing: no texts, no voice mails. He held it up close to his eyes. What the devil was going on?
“Almost twenty-four hours!” he murmured. Why hadn’t Bolström made contact? He had always been the first person Bolström discussed things with. He’d even been assigned the delicate task of infiltrating the royal family, which he’d accomplished masterfully. And now silence.
Slowly he sank down on his bed. The search for the children had produced nothing all day. Why? Were Peter and Jenna already dead? Was that why Bolström had not been able to photograph them with today’s newspaper? That must be it. The news broadcasts must be right. The rebels had killed the children because they saw no prospect of them being exchanged for Liron.
Except that the rebels weren’t the rebels.
Petterson dialed Bolström’s number with trembling fingers. No reply. What else did he expect?
He turned on the television concealed in a cabinet opposite his bed. What should I do now? he thought. What is Bolström planning next? If he’s killed my son and knows that he won’t be able to trust me anymore, what does he intend to do with me once the country has been “saved”?
“One life more or less doesn’t matter to him,” murmured Petterson. On Scandia 1 some idiots were dancing across the screen with ribbons in their hair. On Scandia 2 the host and a well-known actress were cooking some exotic dish, smiling enthusiastically into the camera. “What a joke!” murmured Petterson. He switched to the international news channel.
He had to wait a few seconds. Evidently there were disasters happening all over the world, but eventually a map of Scandia with its two islands appeared on the screen. The anchorwoman’s voice was urgent.
“… assume that the abducted children have been killed, as there has been no more communication from the kidnappers for more than a day,” she said. In the background was a new picture, and Petterson caught his breath. “Based on the discovery of an abandoned warehouse stocked with supplies, it now seems clear that the shortages in the country have been caused deliberately, and were not in any way connected with the rebels sympathetic to the cause of northern equality …”
“No!” Petterson spat.
“The military are now heading for the capital city of Holmburg from all over the country,” said the anchorwoman, and the image shifted to a live shot of the channel’s correspondent, on the ground in Scandia. “… looks like a military coup,” he was saying. “Many of my colleagues in the foreign press have already closed down their bureaus and left the country. In the meantime, the …”
Petterson could feel the fear rising, and his heart was pounding. He couldn’t just sit here waiting till the soldiers arrived and aimed their guns at the palace. Who knew what they would do with him? He was sitting in a trap.
“No, no, no!” he cried. Why hadn’t Bolström contacted him? “Blast you, Bolli, call me! This is my coup as much as yours!”
His cell phone remained stubbornly silent. What he heard
instead, though, was a stifled cry from behind him.
Margareta had opened the door and was standing there holding a tray on which sat a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin.
Nahira gazed at the man in the silken robe. “Norlin,” she said.
How many years was it since they had last met? During the incidents last summer she’d seen him on television with his hair dyed white and blue contact lenses concealing his dark eyes. Now his hair was growing black above his pale, bloated face.
Once she had loved him. Once they had even been engaged, when they were both fighting for the cause of the north. Then he had decided to leave her and join Princess Margareta in a life of luxury. And finally, last year, he had forced his way onto the throne. Meeting him again under these circumstances was grotesque.
“Nahira!” said Norlin. His voice sounded like a plea, his hands were trembling, and he looked old. “Nahira, you must have something here to … I need …”
“What?” asked Nahira. What was he talking about? They had captured him, and he ought to be grateful her men hadn’t killed him. So what was he rambling on about now?
“Something, Nahira, you must have something —” His voice broke off. She could see the sweat pouring down his forehead. “I can’t go on, Nahira. Once we were … Something, you must have something …”
Nahira couldn’t take her eyes off him. Was this the same Norlin who for a short time had actually ruled the country? “Lorok,” she said. “See if we’ve got some liquor for him somewhere. He’s no use to us like this.”
Within seconds, Lorok was back with a bottle. “We were keeping it to celebrate our victory,” he said reproachfully.
Nahira took it from him. “If we succeed in beating the conspirators, there’ll be other places we can get supplies for our celebration party,” she said, unscrewing the top. “Here, drink.”
It was amazing to see how quickly the alcohol took effect. Norlin seized the bottle with trembling fingers and raised it to his lips. As one gulp followed another, his body began to relax, his hands stopped trembling, and, when he finally put the bottle down, his eyes were almost clear.
