Harbor

by John Ajvide Lindqvist

  It was obvious that people had been here since his last visit. A different generation had taken over where theirs had ended, a more careless generation. A wooden chair had been smashed and a pack of cards lay scattered across the floor. In one corner there was a pile of empty bottles, and there were no mattresses or covers on the beds.

  Anders went over to the table and sat down on a chair that wobbled under his weight. Through the little window he could see the moped up against the wall. He bent down and started gathering up the cards, thinking he might play a game of solitaire, but gave up. There seemed to be some cards missing in any case, he could only see about twenty.

  While he was still leaning forward he heard a splash from outside. It sounded different from the water slapping against the boat, and he stiffened. Immediately afterwards he heard Henrik’s voice. ‘Don’t come here tonight,’ he yelled. ‘Someone here’s going to put a hatchet in your head!’

  Anders slowly straightened up and dropped the card he was holding in his hand. It was the five of diamonds. He stared at the rhomboid symbols and found no meaning, nothing to interpret. He got up from the table, adjusted Maja’s snowsuit so that it lay like a band around his stomach, and went to the door.

  Henrik and Björn were standing at the foot of the steps. The ridiculously long blade of the knife was sticking straight out from Henrik’s raised hand.

  ‘This old house,’ said Björn. ‘Too many bad memories.’

  Anders sat down on the top step and looked at them. They hadn’t really changed much since that time after all. The place where they found themselves made him see them through a filter of memories, and he no longer saw two vengeful ghosts, but two miserable boys who had no one but each other. And he knew the song, so he said, ‘I really liked you and I meant to tell you. But I never did.’

  Henrik lowered the knife and the scornful expression left his eyes. Anders extended his hand towards them, palm upwards, and said, ‘It was me who gave you the tape, do you remember?’

  Björn nodded and began to speak, but Henrik silenced him with a gesture. ‘What do you want?’ he asked.

  Anders ran his hand over his stomach, over the snowsuit. ‘I want my daughter back. And I think you two have the key.’

  The distorted smile returned to Henrik’s lips. ‘The key?’

  ‘You’re the ones who can help me.’

  Henrik and Björn looked at one another. The knife swung to and fro in Henrik’s hand. Anders couldn’t work out what silent decision had been reached between the two of them as they sat down side by side on the step below him. Since it had worked the last time, Anders thought quickly and said, ‘Please, please, please…

  It was like a game in a minefield. Once again Henrik’s face relaxed. The three of them sitting close together, huddled on the steps, passing Smiths’ references back and forth. It could be normal, it could be tender. Anders didn’t know if it was.

  Close together…

  He tried not to let it show on his face as a cold shiver of fear ran down through his chest, filling his stomach with anxiety. His eagerness had made him miss out an essential part of the plan, to say the least. He hadn’t drunk any of the wormwood. Not today, not yesterday. And they knew it. Otherwise they wouldn’t be sitting so close to him.

  Björn was looking at Henrik as if waiting to see what he would say. Henrik remained silent, looking at a point just below Anders’ chin. Then he raised the knife and brought it slowly towards Anders’ face. Anders jerked back a fraction.

  The wormwood. How could I…

  ‘Wait,’ said Henrik. ‘Wait.’ The corners of his mouth twitched. ‘Chill out and wait.’

  Anders sat still and tried to summon up an expression of friendly interest as Henrik rested the blade against the left side of his neck. He looked into Henrik’s eyes, but could read nothing through the thin, gelatinous film covering Henrik’s iris and pupil. The cold metal was resting on Anders’ skin just a few centimetres below his chin, on the carotid artery.

  ‘I can see your face,’ said Henrik. ‘And it’s kind, in a desperate way. But that thing in the back of your mind…what is that?’

  A pulse of black emotion came from Henrik, and Anders realised that he had lost, that perhaps he had never had any chance of winning. The pulse passed into his body like a spasm, a command to his muscles to flee, but before he had time to leap up or hurl himself to one side, Henrik had made the cut.

  A burning thread seared Anders’ skin and before he had time to react, his blood began pumping out of his body. The blood came pouring out in a series of powerful spurts, splashing over Henrik’s face and hands, the steps and Anders’ legs. An artery had been sliced open and as he instinctively pressed his left hand to the wound, he realised he was beyond help.

  His lifeblood was forced out in time with the rhythm of his heartbeat, squeezing out beneath his fingers with an incomprehensible force. Only now, when his heart was working against him, could he feel its full power. He could feel every beat beneath the palm of his hand like a blow, as fresh blood found its way out of the circulatory system. It ran down under his jacket and soaked his top in a matter of seconds.

  His eyelids fluttered and he was vaguely aware of Henrik getting up and positioning himself in front of the steps as if he were about to give a speech. Björn and the dying Anders were to be his audience.

  ‘So, the end of the world. Night time?’ asked Henrik, and Björn replied, ‘I really don’t know.’

  ‘Day time then?’

  ‘I really don’t know.’

  Anders slipped to one side and his right hand landed on top of his jacket pocket. He felt the hard box through the fabric, and just as Henrik said, ‘And what about having children? Any point?’ Anders pushed his hand into his pocket and took hold of the box. His fingers were stiff and cold as if they were frozen, and his nails scrabbled helplessly over the smooth surface. The blood from his throat was coming in weaker pulses now, but they were still powerful enough for a faint cascade to splash up into his eyes. And he saw the water, saw the water in the blood plasma leaving him, but he didn’t have the strength to do anything about it. Then he felt a tickling movement against his skin as the box opened by itself and Spiritus crawled into the palm of his hand, as Henrik said, ‘So…no debate. Just chill out and wait.’

  It’s flowing. The water is flowing.

  He asked it to stop. The prayer shot up from his hand and spread throughout the tree that was his veins and arteries. When it reached the cut the prayer stopped, drawing towards itself everything in the flowing blood that was water, until only solid, coagulated elements remained around the wound. In order to compensate for the loss of fluid, the artery on the right hand side of his neck began to throb so strongly that it could be felt as spasms beneath the skin.

  Anders closed his hand carefully around Spiritus, and through a veil of red he could see that Björn was now sitting right in front of him, with his back towards him. Henrik was searching for a suitable final comment. His face lit up as he found it. He flung his arms wide and he was about to start declaiming, but at that moment Anders jumped on Björn from behind and wrapped his arms around him.

  Water.

  He could see it. A cucumber. It is somehow incomprehensible that a cucumber can consist almost entirely of water and yet still have a solid form, and that’s exactly how it was with Björn. His blood, his internal organs, his skeleton were all made up of water in varying degrees of inertia, and Anders had this water in his hands.

  Björn tried to stand up and shake himself free, but Anders asked for heat. He asked for all the heat that could be summoned, he asked the water in his arms to boil.

  Boil, you bastard!

  Björn fell back on the steps as a wave of heat washed through him. Within a couple of seconds he was transformed into a mass of boiling water, scalding Anders on the arms and chest. Henrik ran towards the steps, and just as he got there Björn opened his mouth to scream.

  No scream came, but out of his mouth spur
ted a fountain of bubbling, boiling water which hit Henrik in the face and chest, so that he staggered backwards and fell over in a cloud of steam. Björn collapsed on the steps and vomited one last shower of boiling water over Henrik before he fell headfirst to the ground and rapidly shrank. In just a few moments he was reduced to a pile of wet, steaming clothes.

  Henrik writhed around on the grass, rolling back and forth as if to try and extinguish his burning body. Then his movements slowed and he lay still.

  Anders leaned forward and tried to stand up. It was impossible. His legs had lost all their strength when the blood left him. He was a wrung-out rag, and like a rag he allowed himself to tumble helplessly down the steps, only just managing to put out his hands to save himself as he landed.

  He crawled forwards. The steam from Björn’s clothes rose up and evaporated into the night sky, and as Anders crawled past them he could feel the heat from inside the heap, like a little dormant volcano. Henrik was lying flat on his back on the grass, staring up at the sky. Anders crawled over to him as quickly as he could, feeling Maja’s snowsuit sliding over his stomach.

  Don’t die. Don’t die.

  Henrik’s face was in the process of melting away. His chest was collapsing. The thin skin around his eyes had already dissolved into liquid, and his eyeballs looked like painted porcelain marbles placed in a hollow of inflamed flesh. Henrik’s fingers were moving slightly over the grass, as if he were stroking it.

  As Anders made his way over to Henrik, the process of disintegration slowed down as the heat of the boiling water diminished. A few final curls of steam rose from what was left of Henrik’s face, and the attack was over.

  It was not a human being lying there on the grass. A human being cannot fall apart in the way that Henrik had done. The water had sliced through him without distinguishing between the hard and soft parts of a human body. The left side of his chin and neck were gone, his cheeks were perforated with a series of large and small holes that went right through his head.

  A human being who had recently sustained such injuries would give off a stench of blood or burnt skin, but there was no smell coming from Henrik. A face sculpted in sand that had had a bucket of water thrown over it. Some parts had been washed away or fallen off, others were intact.

  ‘Henrik…’

  Anders leaned on his elbow so that he could look into Henrik’s eyes, which were still there, but were staring in an insane, pop-eyed manner since the skin around them had disappeared. Henrik’s pupils moved in his direction. It was impossible to tell if Henrik was smiling, since his lips had more or less gone.

  ‘Can I see…’ said Henrik. His voice was unclear, gurgling, as if he were speaking through a film of liquid. ‘Can I see…what you’ve got…’

  Anders didn’t know what he meant, but just at that moment Spiritus moved in his hand, twisting like a finger trying to escape from his grasp. He held his hand up in front of Henrik’s eyes. Opened it and closed it quickly.

  Henrik’s head moved almost imperceptibly. ‘Thought so—’ he said.

  ‘Henrik,’ said Anders. ‘You have to tell me—’

  Henrik interrupted him with his inhuman, bubbling voice. ‘Are you feeling bad for me? Don’t. Deep down, you know, I really want to go.’

  ‘Asleep,’ said Anders. ‘I know. We listened to it in your cottage. We were sitting on your bed. Please, please, please, Henrik. Tell me.’

  ‘The key…’ said Henrik.

  ‘Yes. What do I have to do?’

  Henrik emitted a puff of steam or air that was transformed into steam by the cold, it was impossible to tell which. His chest collapsed a few centimetres more. His voice was now no more than a faint hiss, and Anders placed his ear close to Henrik’s mouth so that he could hear.

  ‘It’s in your hand.’ There was a brief silence, then Henrik added, ‘Dickhead.’

  Anders’ extra finger was burrowing and bumping against the palm of his hand as if in response, and he pulled himself forward so that his mouth was right next to Henrik’s completely undamaged ear, but before he had time to ask anything more, Henrik let out a final, whispering sigh, ‘There must be another world. A better one.’

  Then he said no more. Anders gave in to his neck muscles, which were insisting on rest, and sank down with his forehead on the grass next to Henrik’s head.

  Farewell. Dickhead.

  The loss of blood and the exertion had finished him. All he could do was lie there, just managing to turn his head to one side so that he could breathe. The minutes passed and the chill of the ground began to make the right side of his head go numb. Spiritus was crawling around in his hand but not trying to escape. Anders could feel the streams and veins of water in the ground beneath him, and was barely able to distinguish them from his own weakened circulation.

  I am…sinking…

  The only heat that existed was coming from the burning, agonising wound in his throat. The warm wound remained on the surface, while he sank down into the coolness of the earth and it grew dark around him. He lost contact with his body and fell.

  Sing me to sleep…

  He no longer knew what was up or down, he was in freefall, unaware of anything beneath him or any approaching conclusion. He was floating. He was in dark waters, and he was drowning.

  His lungs contracted as he tried to breathe in air that did not exist. He had only seconds left to live. But the seconds passed and still his consciousness drifted in the formless darkness, refusing to die away and thinking: I have been here before. I know what happens next.

  The horror of what was to come made a heart begin to beat more quickly somewhere out in the darkness. It could be his own heart, but such distinctions were meaningless here. There was a heart beating in fear, and there was something coming closer.

  It’s coming…

  The darkness grew thicker, a shadow began to form inside a shadow. He was nothing against this shadow and he was being sucked towards it like krill about to be strained through the baleen plate of a whale. It wasn’t interested in him, it was too immense to bother about him, but he was in its way and he was being drawn into it.

  Come with me…come with me…

  A hand crept into his, a little hand. It tugged and pulled. Maja’s hand.

  You have to come now!

  No. I am Maja. Daddy’s hand is so big. When we go for a walk I just hold on to his forefinger. His forefinger is in my hand. Why doesn’t he come?

  Daddy, come on!

  Her hand is in mine, it’s so tiny and slender, it’s as if I’m holding a finger, come on Daddy, now Daddy, we have to go!

  I’m coming.

  He followed the hand that was pulling him, he pulled on the finger that was following him and the darkness shifted in shades of aluminium as the finger and the hand turned into an insect and the salt-laden sea air was drawn into his lungs in a single deep breath.

  I’m coming.

  He was able to see once again. He was able to breathe. His body was lying on a grassy slope. The wind sluiced across his face. Beside him lay wet clothes, as if laid out to dry in the moonlight. Judging by the position of the moon in the sky, he had been gone for a long time, perhaps several hours. Ten metres away from him lay the boat, pulled up on the shoreline.

  I can’t do it.

  He saw before him the effort required to push the boat out into the water, to get the engine started. He didn’t think he could do it. He wanted to carry on sleeping, but without dreams.

  Come on!

  ‘Yes, yes…’ mumbled Anders, getting unsteadily to his feet and tottering over to the boat. The wind had picked up and was helping him. The little waves had been working on the boat, and had started to draw it towards them. In a little while longer it would probably have drifted away. He only had to give it a gentle nudge, and it was floating out on the water, then he followed it, scrambled up and fell over the rail.

  He tried to open the hand holding Spiritus, but his fingers were locked. With the help of the other han
d’s slightly more flexible fingers, he managed to force the hand open and tip Spiritus back into the matchbox. He stared at the engine.

  One pull. I can manage that.

  He was on the point of giving up again when the engine didn’t start first time, but he gritted his teeth, prayed a wordless prayer and tried again. The engine started. Before he grabbed the controls he checked that he still had the snowsuit inside his jacket.

  To no purpose.

  Slumped on the seat in the prow so that he could barely see over the rail, he left Kattholmen and headed for Domarö. He knew what he must do, but he had to rest first, regain a little of his strength.

  He was almost unconscious when he reached his jetty and it wasn’t until he was halfway up to the Shack that he caught sight of himself for a brief moment and asked himself a question:

  Did you make the boat fast?

  He didn’t know, he couldn’t remember, and he didn’t even have the strength to turn around and check. If he hadn’t tied the boat up, he wouldn’t be able to do anything about it anyway. A while later he was vaguely aware of opening the outside door, closing it behind him, finding a bottle of diluted wine on the bureau and knocking it back. Then he collapsed on the floor and knew no more.

  The first

  Anders will be the last. Let him sleep and rest. He will need it. Meanwhile, let us listen to the tale of the first one.

  It is a kind of fairy tale, and as in all fairy tales, the details have drifted away on the tide of time and we are left behind on the shore with at best part of a keel, a ship’s figurehead or a log book damaged by the water.

  Something happened. It happened at some point. That is all we need to know. At the time when the inhabitants of Domarö made their living from herring fishing and an unholy alliance with the powers of the deep, the tale may have been better known. Now only fragments remain, and we must let our imagination build the ship.