Harbor

by John Ajvide Lindqvist

It’s unlikely that anyone was exactly happy at having to tie up a child, and then, as it sobbed and pleaded for its life, to throw it over the gunwale and watch it sink. But they did it. They did it, because that was the custom. And it ate away at the people.

  No one was pleased when spring arrived, because spring was merely a forerunner of the summer. The leaves burst into life late in the archipelago, and when the trees became flecked with green it was not long to the summer solstice, and the whole of Domarö lived in fear of that day, the day when the vote traditionally took place.

  You might imagine that the risk of being voted out would make people amenable and less inclined to use harsh words, for fear of being regarded as difficult. You might certainly imagine that. However, that wasn’t how it turned out.

  Instead of friendliness, a climate of ingratiation flourished; instead of honesty, falseness blossomed. The kind words lost their way and turned into whispers and conspiracies, people gathered in clandestine groups and formed alliances. It had been bad enough when the vote was a matter of excluding the person who brought least joy to the group. That time was now past. Now they drowned the person who had failed in the game of intrigue.

  There were heroic gestures, of course, born out of a kind of love. A mother or father took the place of their child, a brother allowed himself to be put in chains instead of his sister. But after a few years that love also disappeared. Someone whose life was spared one year could be the victim the following year. People sank into apathy, brought home their plentiful catch of herring and took no pleasure in anything.

  At this time, Domarö was virtually isolated. The only contact with the outside world was in connection with selling the fish in autumn. However, as the years went by, rumours inevitably began to spread. The odd visitor reported on the oppressive atmosphere on the island, and the people from Domarö always kept themselves to themselves at the market. Spoke to no one unless it was a matter of business, never ventured a smile. And after all, people kept disappearing. That couldn’t be concealed in the long term.

  In 1675, a thorough investigation was finally carried out into the situation on Domarö. A delegation of aldermen, priests and members of the constabulary from Stockholm were conveyed to the island to see if the epidemic of heresy and devil worship that had taken root in the capital had also spread to the archipelago.

  They found that indeed it had. Accustomed as they were to slandering each other and conspiring, the residents of Domarö were not slow to denounce others when they were under pressure. There was no end to the confessions that spilled out behind closed doors, but always about the neighbours. Always about the neighbours.

  The members of the delegation found it impossible to untangle the skein of accusations and counter-accusations with which they were confronted, and they decided that as an interim measure they would have a number of men arrested—those who seemed to be the most compromised. These men were transported to Stockholm and held in custody.

  Under questioning the men admitted that the sacrifices had been made with the aim of gaining material benefits, but they refused to admit there had been any kind of pact with the Evil One. After a couple of weeks of intense interrogation involving pincers and thumbscrews, most of them changed their minds. It seemed, when it came down to it, people had not only prayed to the Evil One but danced with him.

  The torturers and the scribes between them finally managed to produce a comprehensive document that was completely in line with what the authorities had feared they might find. Domarö was a cauldron where the Devil’s stinking juices were slowly stewing, and the island was a danger to the entire archipelago.

  They were somewhat surprised when they returned to Domarö to call the rest of the population to account and found that nobody had fled. They interpreted this as obduracy and a stubborn belief that the powers of evil would stand by them. Therefore, they would be shown no mercy. Domarö was emptied of its people, and a long drawn-out investigation began.

  After a whole year, the verdict was delivered. There was better evidence here than in many other trials going on at the time. This was not merely a question of a fleeting word that might have sullied the honour of God, or ambiguous confessions from children and servants—no, in this case human sacrifices had definitely taken place, and evil surrounded the accused like a cloud. They wanted to make an example of the people of Domarö.

  All the men were sentenced to death, along with a number of women. For reasons that are unclear, some individuals were accorded the privilege of being beheaded first. Perhaps they had been particularly assiduous in denouncing others. The rest were burned alive.

  The women who were left were sent to work in spinning workhouses, the children were distributed around different institutions. On Domarö the nets rotted on the drying racks, and the winter ice crushed the boats to matchwood. No one wanted anything to do with the island, and ideally they would have liked to erase it from the maritime charts if not from the surface of the earth.

  To some extent their wishes were granted. The following summer, a few days after the solstice, a storm passed over the archipelago. Its effects were felt everywhere on the inhabited islands, large and small, but nowhere was the devastation greater than on Domarö.

  As already stated, no one was keen to step ashore, but when the storm had abated and people dared to venture out in boats again, they could see from a considerable distance what had happened. The magnificent houses that the residents of Domarö had built and paid for with their evil trade were gone. Their boats were gone and the jetties off which the boats had been moored were gone.

  Not that they had disappeared into thin air, oh no. The foundations of the houses were still there, and the wreckage of the houses they had supported was strewn across the rocks. The odd log from a jetty was still sticking up out of the water. But there was not one single building left.

  It was impossible to interpret this in any other way than to assume that God had been offended by the sight of Domarö. The island had been like a needle in his eye, and now he had allowed the sea to draw its rake across it in order to free the archipelago of this abomination.

  During the whole of that summer and far into the autumn the mainland and surrounding islands were tormented by driftwood from Domarö. Timber from houses and jetties drifted up on to other shores, and were received with the same delight as clothes handed down from someone who had died of the plague. Fire was the only cure, and at irregular intervals bonfires flared up on the rocks as they burned what was left of the settlement of Domarö, down to the very last splinter.

  So ends the first chapter in the story of Domarö.

  Call-out

  Simon was feeling ill at ease. Anna-Greta had not told her story as if it were some shaggy dog story from the past, but as if she were relaying a sacred text. Her expression had been distant and her voice husky, thick with the seriousness of what was coming out of her mouth. Simon didn’t recognise his Anna-Greta at all.

  However, he couldn’t just dismiss it as a folk tale which for some reason had become gospel. His own experience got in the way. What had happened to him by the steamboat jetty fifty years ago fitted perfectly with the story Anna-Greta had just told.

  There was silence in the hall. Simon closed his eyes. The narrative had gone on for a long time; it must be dark outside by now. When he listened he could hear the sea far away. The wind was getting up. A tickling sensation ran down Simon’s spine.

  The sea. It hasn’t finished with Domarö.

  When he opened his eyes he discovered that everyone was sitting looking at him. These were not anxious, enquiring looks, there was no sense of you do believe us, don’t you? Just a silent wait for what he might say. He decided to respond in the same vein; he cleared his throat and told them what had happened during his escape. When he had finished, Margareta Bergwall said, ‘Yes, Anna-Greta told us about that.’

  Johan Lundvall snorted and wagged a finger at Simon, ‘So you did have a picklock after all. Just as I though
t.’

  So Anna-Greta had told the others his story, which she had simply dismissed when he told her.

  ‘So this is historical fact?’ Simon asked, turning to Anna-Greta.

  ‘Yes. There are records from the interrogations. And from the interviews before…Satan entered the picture.’

  ‘And you don’t think it’s him? Satan?’

  A salutary wave of sniggers and giggles swept through the group. People smiled and shook their heads. Their reaction was answer enough.

  To the right of Simon sat Tora Österberg, an elderly woman who was very active within the mission, and who lived in almost total isolation on the southern side of the island. She patted his knee and said, ‘The Devil exists, you can be sure of that. But he has nothing to do with this.’

  For once Gustav Jansson had kept quiet until now. In his heyday he had been the leading accordion player in the village, a legendary toper and an inveterate joker. Now he just couldn’t stop himself. ‘Maybe he’s been to visit you, Tora?’

  Tora’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yes, Gustav, he has, and he looked exactly like you. Although his nose wasn’t quite as red.’

  Gustav laughed and looked around, as if he actually had the nerve to be pleased about being compared with the Evil One. Simon realised that a normal human mechanism was coming into play. This was a closed group where everyone had a set role. Now they had a new audience, and immediately began to overplay their roles. Or perhaps they were just trying to get away from the subject under discussion.

  ‘But why all this secrecy?’ asked Simon. ‘Why can’t everyone who lives here know about this?’

  The more relaxed atmosphere that had been about to join the company stopped dead in the doorway. The heaviness returned like a physical force, making shoulders droop and bodies slump on their chairs. Anna-Greta said, ‘I think you’ve realised this is not something that belongs to the past. That it’s something that’s going on right now.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘We no longer give people to the sea, but it takes them anyway. Perhaps not one per year anymore, but it takes many. Summer or winter.’

  The objection that had been bubbling inside Simon throughout Anna-Greta’s narrative, making him so furious with the original population of Domarö, also applied to the group sitting here cowering in the mission house, and at last he could put it into words. ‘But all you have to do is move! They could have done it, and you…we can do it. If the sea really is taking people in a way that isn’t natural, if everyone is walking around in fear of becoming the next victim, why don’t we just move, and leave this island?’

  ‘Unfortunately it’s not that simple.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Anna-Greta took a deep breath and was about to answer, when Karl-Erik straightened his back and said, ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought we were meeting today to discuss this business of Sigrid and what it might mean, not to go over things we already know.’ He looked at his watch. ‘And I don’t know about you, but I’d like to get home in time for the news, at least.’

  Watches were examined, with some people expressing concern that it was so late; Simon was the target of some sideways glances, since it was his appearance that had led to the whole thing being so drawn out.

  Simon couldn’t believe it: they were sitting here discussing terrible forces, how they should be dealt with, and their own survival. And yet this paled in comparison with the risk of missing the news on TV. Then he realised it was only to him it looked that way. For them the threat had become a part of their everyday life, a depressing fact, not something that needed to be discussed. Like people in a war zone or a city under siege, they clung to the small elements of happiness that still exist in life. If the news can be regarded as a component of happiness.

  Simon raised his hands to show that he was giving up, that he wasn’t going to make any more demands on their time. For now.

  Anna-Greta nodded to Elof. He looked bewildered, then realised that he was expected to carry on from where he had left off a couple of hours earlier.

  ‘Right, well, as I said before…before we were interrupted…I can only think that this is a positive development.’ Simon noticed that several of the others were shaking their heads, but Elof went on, ‘It’s never happened before, no one has ever…come back. I would say this is an indication that…it’s getting weaker. Somehow.’

  His lips moved but he couldn’t work out how to proceed. Anna-Greta helped him out, ‘And what do you think we should do about that?’

  ‘Well…’

  He didn’t get any further before he was interrupted by a noise. At first Simon thought it was a distant foghorn, but then he remembered what it was. It had been heard that time when some idiot from Stockholm had set fire to some brushwood at the end of June, and almost set the whole of Kattudden alight.

  Everyone was on their feet immediately.

  ‘Fire!’

  Jackets and coats were pulled on, and within a minute the room was empty. Only Simon and Anna-Greta remained. They looked at each other without speaking. Then Simon turned on his heel and went out.

  After the light inside the hall, the autumn darkness was dense. The little megaphone in the alarm bell tower was sending out its pulsating tone, but there was no sign of a fire down towards the village. In any case, the wind was coming from the south-west. He should have been able to smell the smoke on the breeze if the fire was in that direction.

  There was a fire service, but it was focused on the area around the harbour, the original settlement. A powerful pump next to the jetty was connected to a four-hundred-metre pipe, and in an emergency this could be used to hose sea water over most of the buildings in the central part of the village.

  But the fire wasn’t in the central part of the village. When Simon’s eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness, he could see the outlines of the others from the meeting. They were heading for Kattudden. The low-lying clouds to the east were tinged with pink. When he had gone a few steps in that direction, Anna-Greta appeared by his side. She groped for his hand, and Simon pulled it away.

  After about fifty metres they caught up with Tora Österberg. Her gumboots creaked slowly in the darkness as she moved along with the help of her wheeled walker. She was dangerously close to the edge of the track and the ditch. Anna-Greta grabbed her arm and stopped her from tipping over the edge.

  ‘Go home, Tora,’ said Anna-Greta. ‘You’re not needed here.’

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with being needed,’ snapped Tora. ‘I want to see what’s going on.’

  Simon took the opportunity to put some distance between himself and Anna-Greta. He strode out as fast as he could, and slowed down only when Tora’s indignant voice was far behind him. He was so disappointed in Anna-Greta, and he just didn’t know what to do.

  The purely symbolic rent he had been paying for so many years had enabled him to put quite a bit of money away, and he could probably afford to buy a house. Perhaps he could buy the house he lived in from Anna-Greta?

  He smiled bitterly. No. For one thing he wouldn’t be able to pay what a house so near the shore was worth, for another he might not want to live close to Anna-Greta any longer, for another…for another it would be like paying back the rent he really owed.

  Fuck her. Fuck the lot of them.

  Suddenly the ground fell away beneath his feet and he tumbled over. The darkness in the forest, the darkness in his head had led him to the ditch. As he landed he grazed his hand on a rock. Tears of pain and fury welled up in his eyes and he screamed out loud, ‘Fucking hell!’

  Then he pulled himself together and checked himself over. Nothing was broken or damaged, and he didn’t want Anna-Greta to see him like this. He crawled out of the ditch and got to his feet, pressing the cut on his hand against the edge of his shirt. He was about to set off again when he heard the sound of an engine approaching. It was coming from the forest, from the path leading down to the shore on the northern side of the island.

 
The sound was strained, hysterical, like a moped engine being revved much too hard. He peered into the forest and there it was, the headlight of a moped bouncing along the narrow track, its engine roaring.

  Who the hell is that? It’s virtually impossible to ride along there!

  The only house in that direction was Holger’s, and Holger didn’t have a moped. Besides which, he would never have driven a moped with a cargo platform—because Simon could hear from the rattling noise that it was a platform moped—along the bumpy path.

  The moped swung up on to the track ten metres ahead of him, and Simon was blinded by the powerful headlight. He had thought the moped would turn in the opposite direction, towards the fire, but instead it swerved to the right and came straight at him. He was about to step to one side, but remembered that he was already standing by the verge.

  The dazzling light made it impossible for him to see anything at all. He just heard the roar as the moped zoomed past him, felt the faint thrust of air as the metal body passed by. The moped carried on at high speed along the track towards the village.

  Anna-Greta, Tora!

  He turned and saw the beam of light from the moped racing along the track. He could also see a vague silhouette of the person who was driving. He couldn’t see who it was, just a figure bent over the handlebars with something on the platform, something roughly the same size as a child standing up.

  Immediately afterwards he saw Anna-Greta and Tora caught in the beam. They had been sensible enough to step to one side, and the moped passed them with plenty of room to spare. Simon breathed out. He might be deeply disappointed in Anna-Greta, but he definitely didn’t want to see her run over by some lunatic on a moped.

  Who was it?

  In his mind Simon went through the small number of young people living on the island, but couldn’t come up with a single candidate. As far as he knew, they were all quiet kids who spent too much time playing computer games and longed for the day when they would be able to leave Domarö. At worst they might scrawl rude graffiti about Stockholmers on the steamboat jetty shelter.