Harbor

by John Ajvide Lindqvist

  That was more or less Simon’s reasoning earlier in the day when he had failed to give Anders the assurances about his daughter’s goodness that Anders had sought. In the current situation it was no longer possible to do that.

  Anders twitched on the deck and Simon placed his fist on Anders’ forehead, sending another pulse of warmth through his blood. Anders was still clutching the red snowsuit tightly in his left hand, the suit that Simon also recognised.

  How can this be?

  Simon had been standing in front of the mirror in his bedroom holding items of clothing up in front of him when he heard the cry, ‘Stop, you bastards! Stop!’ He had thrown down the clothes and rushed to the kitchen window.

  It wasn’t easy to see in the moonlight, and what he saw down by the jetty flew in the face of reason. However, he recognised an emergency when he saw one and began to hobble as quickly as he could to the outside door, then down to the jetty.

  By the time he got in the boat, Anders had stopped far out in the bay.

  Spiritus, Spiritus…

  Fortunately Simon had had the matchbox in his pocket, and as his fingers closed around it he thought he could see how things stood. Anders also had a Spiritus, but like Simon he hadn’t said anything about it. How else could the strip of ice lying in a black line across the sea be explained?

  Simon had pumped petrol into the engine, pulled out the choke and started her up. In his agitated state he had forgotten to push the choke back in when he accelerated, and the engine died. It had taken a while to get it going again, by which time Anders had turned for the shore and started sinking.

  When Simon saw the headlight of the moped heading straight for Anders across the water, he had realised that another Spiritus might not be the right explanation. That nothing he knew applied any longer. He had managed to get so far in his thoughts before the mooring ropes were untied and he set off at full speed towards the flock of birds falling from the moon.

  Anders coughed a couple of times and opened his eyes. He looked at Simon and nodded slightly. Then he pulled the snowsuit close and clutched it to his chest, saying, ‘They tricked me.’

  For a long time he said nothing more. He lay still on the deck, twisting and turning the snowsuit in his hands. Then he hauled himself into a sitting position and leaned his back against the central seat. He looked down at his body, pulled at his shirt.

  ‘Why aren’t I…wet?’ He looked at Simon and frowned. ‘How did you get me out of the water?’

  Simon scratched his neck and studied the patch on the snowsuit. Bamse had a pile of honey jars. Presumably he was very happy but the moonlight wasn’t bright enough for Simon to see what mood he was in.

  Anders turned his head and looked back at the bay, towards the spot where Simon had picked him up. ‘Didn’t it happen? Was it just… didn’t it happen?’

  Simon closed his eyes tightly, opened them again, cleared his throat and said, ‘Oh, it happened. And I think…you need to be told. Quite a few things.’

  The television was on up at Anna-Greta’s, even though she wasn’t watching. This was an occasional habit, or vice, of hers, so it was against a backdrop of people yelling and shouting at each other that Simon sat Anders down at the kitchen table, wrapped a blanket around him and poured him a glass of brandy.

  When Anna-Greta went into the living room to switch off the television, Simon followed her. A sweaty man standing in front of a steel-grey skyscraper vanished from the screen and Simon said quietly, ‘He has to know. Everything.’

  Anna-Greta’s expression didn’t change. She looked closely at Simon’s face, then gave an almost imperceptible nod and said, ‘Then he will also be—’

  ‘I know,’ said Simon. ‘But that doesn’t matter. It’s already after him. He has to be told what it is.’

  He told Anna-Greta very briefly what had happened out in the bay. Then they went into the kitchen together, sat down opposite Anders and told him the whole story.

  Left

  Tempered by fire. Anders had never really understood the concept, something being tempered by fire in order to change it. He still didn’t really know what it meant, but he had an idea of how it felt.

  He had despaired and been nothing, then he had chased after a burning hope. He had gone from the depths of cold to a rapid warming process in the course of just a few minutes, the opposite process to tempering steel, and that was just how it felt. He had been softened. Every nerve was on the surface, and his body was as loose as a rotten pear. If he didn’t hang on to the edge of the table he would dissolve into a puddle. With every glass of water he drank, he felt more and more diluted.

  Anna-Greta and Simon talked and told stories. Of Domarö’s past, of the pact with the sea and the people who had disappeared. Of the island that had persecuted his father, and the recent change in the sea.

  Anders listened and understood that he was being told astonishing facts. But it wasn’t really hitting home, it was passing him by. His gaze returned over and over again to the red snowsuit, hanging up to dry in front of the kitchen stove.

  He listened as attentively as he could, but it still seemed like any old story, a story in which he had no part. His story had been about Maja, and that story was over now. It was that thought which kept on going around and around in his head like the whine of a dentist’s drill: They tricked me. They. And Maja.

  Maja had been a participant in all of this. She had left him and gone back to them. She was one of the evil spirits now, one of all those horrible people who had been put to death, sacrificed, or gone to the sea of their own free will. Everything had been a game to trick him, to entice him.

  To Gåvasten.

  And he had gone. Presumably they would have taken him during the day if it hadn’t been for the gulls. They hadn’t been after him at all, they had protected him and formed a wall between him and the thing that wanted to take him.

  You took me with you. And then you left me.

  He had been aware of Maja’s presence all the time. At first he had thought it was in the house, then he had realised it was inside his own body. It had left him now. He knew that. She had done what she had to do. And then she had left him.

  The hours passed and he asked questions where necessary so that the narrative continued. He was afraid of being left alone with his thoughts.

  Gåvasten.

  Which means the stone of the gifts. Which gave. And took. And took.

  Now it had taken everything. Anders could no longer hear Simon and Anna-Greta’s voices. He stared at Maja’s red snowsuit, and it really was the end now. There was, to put it bluntly, nothing to live for any longer.

  Why should I live?

  With the voices buzzing in the background he made an effort to come up with one reason why he should continue to crawl around between heaven and earth. He couldn’t find one. A person is given a certain number of opportunities, and certain number of roads to follow. He had reached the end of every single one.

  All that was left was the fear of pain.

  He didn’t notice that Simon and Anna-Greta had stopped speaking as he went through the alternatives.

  The last thing he wanted was to drown himself. Hanging was horrible, and by no means foolproof. He had no tablets. Drinking himself to death would take too long.

  For a brief moment he saw himself from outside, as it were, and found that these thoughts brought him peace. He had finally made his mind up, and it felt…not good, but less painful. There was even a hint of tingling anticipation deep inside.

  Things will be better.

  That last, faintly flickering possibility that something really did exist on the other side. A place or a state where there was joy, happiness. A place that was made for him. That wasn’t his belief, but…

  Anything is possible.

  Yes, anything is possible. Hadn’t that been proved during the last few weeks? We know nothing and anything is possible, so why not a heaven or a paradise?

  And then it occurred to him. The
shotgun. The one that had featured in the story of Simon and Anna-Greta. He knew that Anna-Greta found it difficult to get rid of things, so presumably the gun was in the house somewhere, possibly in the hidey-hole.

  Anders nodded to himself. The shotgun was good. It would satisfy all his requirements. It was quick, it was certain, and there was a perverse beauty in using the gun that had saved his father’s, and thus his own life. To end things with the same weapon.

  So be it.

  Once the decision was made and the method established, he became aware of the silence in the kitchen. He was worried that he might have been speaking out loud without being aware of it and, venturing a neutral little smile, he turned to Simon and Anna-Greta.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘There’s a lot to think about.’

  Anna-Greta gave him a penetrating look, and Anders followed his comment with a thoughtful nod, as if they really had given him something to think about, despite the fact that he had only heard fragments of what they had been telling him.

  ‘Anders,’ said Simon. ‘You can’t stay down there in the Shack while…all this is going on.’

  Anna-Greta finished off, ‘You’re staying here.’

  Anders nodded for a long time, then said, ‘Thank you. That’s great. Thank you.’ He looked at Simon. ‘Thank you for everything.’

  Why didn’t you let me sink?

  When Simon continued to look at him suspiciously, Anders searched his memory for some detail that would make it sound as if he had been listening. He found it and added, ‘It’s unbelievable, all that business with…Spiritus.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Simon, but the tense, watchful atmosphere did not ease. Anders realised he wasn’t performing very well, and that it had been noticed. If this went on, the conversation would take a new turn and he didn’t want that. He let his body slump and said, ‘I’m absolutely shattered.’

  That at least was true, and the reaction was exactly what he had hoped for. Anna-Greta went to make up the bed in the guest room and Anders remained in the kitchen with Simon.

  ‘Is there any more brandy?’ asked Anders, just for the sake of something to say, and Simon fetched the bottle and poured him another drink. Anders took note of where the bottle was kept, in case he might need a drink to help him carry out his plan.

  He knocked back the contents of the glass and it had no effect whatsoever, it merely went down and was dispersed into the darkness of his body. Simon was still looking at him, he seemed to be on the point of asking a question but Anders forestalled him by taking up another of the threads he remembered from their story.

  ‘It’s strange about the Bergwalls,’ he said. ‘The fact that they all seem to have been…influenced.’

  To his relief Simon took the bait. ‘I’ve thought about that a lot,’ he said. ‘Why only certain people have been affected. Elin, the Bergwalls, Karl-Erik. And you.’

  Before Anders could stop himself he had said it. ‘She’s gone.’

  Simon leaned across the table. ‘Who’s gone?’

  Anders could have bitten his tongue, but he shrugged his shoulders and tried to say it as casually as possible. ‘She’s left me. Maja. I’m free. Everything’s fine.’

  He heard Anna-Greta’s footsteps coming down the stairs and stood up, folded the blanket over the back of the chair. Simon also got to his feet, and Anders precluded any possible follow-up questions by going over to him and giving him a hug. ‘Good night, Simon. Thanks for this evening.’

  Anders didn’t feel remotely tearful as Simon patted his back and hugged him in return. The decision had been made with such clarity that he was already dead in every meaningful sense. It was merely a question of establishing the time and place for his death in the physical world.

  Anna-Greta went through the arrangements for the following day and Anders nodded at everything. It was easy. Everything was generally much easier when you were dead, he noticed. It was the perfect solution, a miracle cure. Everybody should try it. On his way upstairs he glanced over at the door to the hidey-hole.

  When?

  As soon as possible. The vague euphoria currently floating in his chest wouldn’t last long, he realised that. If he postponed the deed, the roaring, bottomless darkness would return. It had to happen soon, very soon.

  He could hear Simon and Anna-Greta’s voices downstairs as he went into the guest room across from Anna-Greta’s room. She had put out some clothes for him to borrow for the following day. He undressed and got into bed, feeling as excited as a child the night before its birthday, he could see Maja in his mind’s eye, jumping up and down in bed and ripping open her presents while she—

  No. Go away. Go away.

  He felt a stab of pain in his chest as he pushed away the picture of Maja and evoked the taste of metal on his tongue, felt his lips closing around the barrel of the gun, his finger on the trigger. He sucked on the image and was at peace once more.

  A little while later he heard Anna-Greta and Simon come upstairs and go into the room opposite. By this stage he was so far into his own death that he really did slip away from this world, and fell asleep.

  Divining rod

  ‘You old fool, how did you come up with such a thing?’

  ‘It just felt as if it was time.’

  ‘Was it your idea?’

  Simon hesitated. Göran laughed and patted him on the shoulder. ‘No, I thought not. It’s not like you at all. But it’s very much like Anna-Greta!’

  Simon pulled a face and said childishly, ‘Yes, but I want to get married too.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I don’t doubt that,’ said Göran. ‘But I just found it difficult to picture you…going down on one knee.’

  Simon glanced at Göran’s stiff legs and awkward gait. ‘I find it difficult to picture you going down on one knee as well.’

  They emerged from the forest and headed down towards Kattudden. The worst of the devastation had been cleared away, but when they cut across the Carlgrens’ garden, where the outhouse had been damaged by some of the trees that had had to be felled, they had to pick their way among lopped-off branches and rough wood that would presumably lie there for some time. Göran kicked an empty plastic bottle out of the way and said, ‘I wonder if there’s any point, really.’

  ‘In what?’

  ‘Well, we’ve tried to keep a bit of a watch out here at night. So that nothing else will happen. But I mean, we can’t go on like this forever.’

  ‘You’re thinking about your own cottage?’

  ‘Yes. If this carries on, I imagine that’s bound to go as well, eventually. Unless we catch them, of course.’

  Göran’s cottage was at the southern end of Kattudden. A line of trees separated it from the area Holger’s father had sold to the broker. However, Simon understood Göran’s unease. With a big fire and the wind in the wrong direction, the flames would soon reach Göran’s house. And in that case a newly-dug well wouldn’t be much help.

  ‘Let’s see how it goes,’ said Simon. ‘I mean, you can always do the actual digging later.’

  ‘True.’

  They passed through the village and glanced over at what used to be the Grönwalls’ summer residence. Simon’s throat went dry as he thought about what had happened to the girl who had lived there. They took the short path to Göran’s house.

  ‘What’s your take on all this?’ asked Göran. ‘Can you make any sense of it?’

  ‘None at all,’ lied Simon, taking out the divining rod made of rowan which he used for appearances’ sake.

  ‘Do you think you’ll be able to find a pure source here?’ asked Göran. ‘I know there have been problems in the past.’

  ‘Let’s wait and see,’ said Simon, starting to scan the ground as they moved towards the house.

  Göran sat down on the porch and watched Simon as he moved slowly across the garden with the divining rod in one hand and the other hand in his pocket. He thought this was a strange technique. Twice before he had watched people using a divining rod, and they had held t
he forked branch steadily in both hands. He had neither seen nor heard of Simon’s one-handed grip before.

  Oh well, Simon was welcome to walk backwards with the branch in his mouth as far as Göran was concerned, as long as he found clean water. For what it was worth.

  Göran sighed and looked sideways at the front of the little cottage his grandfather had built more than a hundred years ago. He thought what a dreadful waste it all was. One little spark, and the entire history of this part of the family would be wiped out.

  When he looked back at the garden, Simon had stopped and was looking down at the ground.

  So there was water after all.

  Göran got to his feet to go over to him, but froze as Simon raised his head and their eyes met. Something was wrong. Simon’s eyes were wide open and his mouth was gaping, the branch fell from his hands and he wobbled as if he had been dealt a powerful blow.

  ‘Simon!’

  Göran got no reply, and went over to Simon, who was swaying on the lawn with unseeing eyes. A couple of words forced their way out and Göran thought it sounded like:

  ‘I…know.’

  Old lead

  Anders woke to a silent and empty house, inside and outside. Nothing was moving, and he could hear only the faint sounds of the house itself. He lay there for a while staring up at the white-painted wooden ceiling. Nothing had changed. The darkness was ready to pounce, only his decision was keeping it at bay.

  He got up and dressed slowly and carefully in the clothes Anna-Greta had laid out. Then he crept down the stairs. The kitchen clock was showing quarter-past eleven, and Simon and Anna-Greta were out attending to their respective tasks. Everything was as it should be. He opened the door at the bottom of the stairs.

  The hidey-hole consisted of two rooms, each approximately seven or eight metres square, and originally intended for children who never came. Now they were filled with all kinds of rubbish and long-forgotten memories, things that might come in useful but never did, and closest to the door more practical things, such as tools and painting equipment.