The Memory Theater

by Karin Tidbeck

  * * *

  —

  The crossroads looked exactly the same. Augusta approached the nearest creature she could find. Perhaps it was the same one who had pointed her to that place with the tower; perhaps not.

  “The Gardens,” Augusta said. “I was supposed to go to the Gardens, but you pointed me in the wrong direction.”

  It did that head-tilting motion, then pointed, very decisively, to Augusta’s left.

  “Fine,” Augusta said, and headed that way.

  * * *

  —

  Augusta arrived at a labyrinthine garden the size of a city and went back to the crossroads. She was pointed to a garden of taxidermied animals. Then a garden with sculptures carved from ice. She came to a garden of living trees and ate screaming fruit that tasted of spices and flesh. She did not sleep there, although the ground was soft and inviting. None of these were her Gardens. Rage grew in her chest.

  The eighth time she came back to the crossroads, she marched up to a booth and stared down at the creature seated there.

  “You know where I need to go,” she said between her teeth. “You just won’t take me there.”

  It looked up at her and clucked its tongue. It raised a hand to vaguely point at a spot behind her.

  “No,” Augusta said. “No more.”

  She gripped the miserable thing by its throat and squeezed. Its neck was frail, the skin dry and scratchy. She could feel the rest of them crowding around her, chattering, tearing at her clothes, but they were not nearly as strong as her. She snapped the creature’s neck. The others let go of her and fell silent. Augusta turned around.

  “Do as I tell you!” she roared.

  * * *

  —

  Later, Augusta sat down with her back to the enclosure just to rest for a little while. Behind her, tables were overturned and little bodies littered the ground. No one had been helpful. They had paid for it.

  “There you are,” a familiar voice said.

  Augusta looked up. A tall shape wrapped in shadowy silks loomed over her.

  “Ghorbi,” Augusta said.

  Ghorbi said nothing, just looked at her. Augusta got to her feet and took a step backward. She still had to crane her neck to meet Ghorbi’s eyes.

  Ghorbi looked her up and down. “I know who you are, Augusta.”

  Augusta brightened. “You know me!”

  She waited for something to happen. Nothing did. Of course. Ghorbi was not one of her own.

  She sighed. “I’m stuck in some old man’s body.”

  “Indeed,” Ghorbi replied, then paused. “I came here on business. This is not what I expected to see.”

  “They refused to help me,” Augusta muttered.

  “Do you know what you have done, Augusta?” Ghorbi said.

  Augusta shrugged. “Punished them.”

  Ghorbi let out something between a guffaw and a growl, then bent over Augusta. “This place is a hub in the multiverse. And only these folk know the directions. You have just made travel between worlds impossible to almost everyone, you idiot.”

  Ghorbi stepped around Augusta, who made to follow her. Ghorbi held up a hand. Her voice was tense with suppressed wrath.

  “You will stay where you are.”

  Ghorbi walked around between the bodies, checking each one for signs of life.

  “Ah,” she mumbled, and helped one of them into a sitting position.

  Augusta closed her eyes and heard Ghorbi whisper to the creature in its own language. All this action had depleted her, and her knuckles hurt.

  After a while, she heard footsteps approach again and looked up. Ghorbi loomed over her.

  “One of them is still alive,” she said. “Fortunately. The crossroads is still functional.”

  “I just want to go home,” Augusta said. “I’m tired.”

  “I don’t kill,” Ghorbi said. “I made a vow long ago to follow a god that will not allow it. But I will take you back to your Gardens. You will do less damage there.”

  Ghorbi started walking in a direction that was ever so slightly different from the one Augusta had taken last. She stopped and motioned ahead of her.

  “Go on,” Ghorbi said. “Go. Before I change my mind about my vow.”

  28

  Dora and Albin traveled south between the mountains. They rested under trees or in the occasional empty barn along the way, getting up at dawn to move on south while the short day lasted. Dora relished the deep silence of the snowy mountains, the exhilaration of going downhill into a valley, even the slog of putting on ski skins and climbing up the other side. Her body seemed built for it. Albin was doing all right, too; he had turned rosy, and his beard had thickened. He smiled more often than not. He was the one who got up first in the mornings, eager to move on. He spoke about his family along the way: his affable father who made furniture and took Albin on fishing trips; his quiet mother who sewed dresses for fancy ladies and made him help her in the kitchen. He couldn’t wait to see them. They would be older now, but not terribly old. Perhaps there would be younger siblings.

  One day they crested a hill and came into a valley where the snow had been broken up by rain. They left their skis in an unused sheep shelter and continued on foot.

  “We’re getting closer,” Albin said. “I can feel it. What if they don’t recognize me?”

  His smile had vanished. Dora put an arm around him.

  “I’m here,” she said. “I’m with you.”

  Albin looked up at her. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

  He tugged his cap down around his ears and continued into the valley, where tall pines swallowed the daylight. Mossy boulders lay strewn about on the ground.

  Albin pointed at a particularly large rock. “My mother said they were thrown here by giants,” he said, and smiled.

  Patches of snow lingered in the hollows at their base.

  “This is so familiar,” Albin said. “I think I used to hide here.”

  He walked ahead of Dora, at first hesitant, then more confident. An aspen tree broke the monotony of pine. Then another. As pine gradually gave way to deciduous forest, the air grew damp. An overcast sky became visible through the branches. The ground was soggy with melting snow.

  In the evening they came to a wall made of piled-up stones. On the other side ran a trail. Albin climbed over the stones and started walking down it. In not too long, they saw a cluster of small wooden houses with white corners that almost shone in the murk.

  “There were two apple trees in the yard,” Albin said to himself.

  They walked down the trail, past houses with empty windows, with buckling porches and ruined front steps. Debris lay here and there in the yards, humps with sharp edges.

  “Where is everyone?” Dora wondered.

  “Maybe they’re all in the fields or at church,” Albin said, but he didn’t sound convinced.

  He suddenly stopped.

  “There,” he said. “There it is.”

  The two-story house was slightly larger than the others. It had a small sagging porch, on which stood a bench and a bucket. The two enormous apple trees that flanked the path up to the house were gnarled and unkempt. From one of them hung two tattered ropes.

  “My father put that swing up for me,” Albin whispered.

  “Are you going to knock?” Dora said.

  Albin remained where he was. “It looks different,” he said. “And like no one’s home.” His lower lip trembled. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

  “I’ll go,” Dora said.

  She went up the path and stepped onto the porch, which complained under her weight. Nothing moved inside. Dora knocked on the door. When no one came to open it, she tried the handle. The door was locked. Dora looked over her shoulder. Albin hadn’t moved: he stood in a puddle on the path,
his face wan in the weakening light. Dora pulled at the handle, hard. The door came off its hinges. She caught it and propped it up against the wall.

  The hall beyond was empty and smelled of mildew and dust. Dora heard Albin’s footsteps behind her, then his gasp. He went past her and walked into a room on the right.

  “Mamma?” he called from in there. “Pappa?”

  His footsteps moved away, up a set of stairs. His voice called out, over and over. Then silence.

  Dora followed. Nothing stirred inside the house. The little corpses of flies and spiders rested on the windowsills. She found Albin in a room on the second floor. He was sitting in a small alcove, head in his hands.

  “They’re gone,” he said. “They left without me.”

  Dora said nothing, just sat down next to him and held him as he cried. Eventually, he fell asleep. Then she laid him down and went downstairs. The chill had deepened outside; the puddles on the ground were icing over. Dora’s breath came out in great clouds. The cloud cover broke, and a few stars came out. Dora stood there, listening to the noise of puddles freezing and birds rustling in the forest, until the crows woke up and lights came on in the house farthest down the road.

  Albin came outside. He looked shivery in the open air. Dora wrapped her arms around him from behind to warm him up.

  “Look,” she said. “Someone’s there.” She pointed to the little house where the lights were turned on.

  * * *

  —

  The man who opened the door was very old. He looked at Dora and Albin in surprise.

  “Who might you be, then?” he said.

  “My name is Albin,” Albin said. “I used to live here. I’m looking for my parents.”

  “Very well,” the man said. “My name is Börje. Come in, won’t you?” he added, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

  * * *

  —

  Börje showed them into his kitchen and boiled a brew of ground seeds and water at the stove. Dora and Albin sat in silence while he poured them each a cup.

  “Now, then,” he said. “Tell me what you’re doing out here.”

  “My parents,” Albin said. “Edvin and Amanda. They’re not here. Where are they?”

  “Edvin and Amanda Jönsson?” the old man asked.

  Albin nodded. “I came back to look for them. They’re not there. The house…” His breath caught. “The house is empty.”

  Börje was quiet for a long moment. He looked at Albin, then at Dora, and seemed to make a decision.

  “There was a boy,” he said. “The Jönsson boy. He disappeared. The whole village looked for him. His mamma swore that he had been taken by the fair folk. Of course, no one believed her. They all said that he must have gotten lost in the forest or drowned somewhere, or wolves took him.” He peered at Albin. “You’re that boy, aren’t you.”

  Albin nodded. He sat on the edge of his chair, eyes brimming.

  The old man sucked at his front teeth and sipped from his cup. “So it’s true then.”

  “Where are they?” Albin asked.

  “This all happened when I was little,” Börje replied. “My mamma and pappa told me about it. They never let me go into the forest on my own.”

  “Where are my parents?” Albin repeated.

  Börje put his hand on Albin’s. “They’re gone. They died many years ago. I’m sorry.”

  Albin stared at his cup.

  “How many years?” he said eventually. “Since I left.”

  “Oh,” the man said. “I’m eighty-five. I’m the last one here in the village. Everyone moved to the city when the foundry closed down. Maybe they’ll come back if the war comes here. But for now, it’s just me.”

  “The war?” Dora asked.

  “Yes. There’s a war on. There’s an evil man who wants to conquer the world. He has occupied our brother nations to the west and south. But he’s not here yet.”

  “But what if he does come?” Dora said.

  “Then we do what we can to survive,” he replied. “Most people are good at heart. We will help each other. And if people come here to hide, well, I will help them.”

  “I don’t care about the war!” Albin shouted. “I want my mamma and pappa.”

  “I’m so sorry, Albin,” Börje said, and his voice was soft. “They never forgot about you.”

  * * *

  —

  Börje walked them down to an old church not far from the village. It seemed disused, its doors barred. The graves in the yard outside were ordered in neat rows. No flowers adorned the graves; the grass that stuck up through the rotten snow had grown wild.

  “Here we are,” Börje said. “Now let’s find your parents.”

  The gravestone was tucked in a corner beneath a birch. edvin jönsson 1825–1898, it said, and his wife amanda 1828–1902. their son albin, missed and loved. Lichen dotted the stone and crept up its sides. Albin crouched down in front of the stone. He said nothing, just cried. Dora waited and listened to the magpies arguing with each other in the tree. Börje stood next to her, hands clasped behind his back.

  Finally, Albin stood up and turned to face them. His eyes were swollen and his jaw was set.

  “There is nothing for me here,” he said.

  “What will you do?” Börje asked.

  “Go elsewhere,” Albin replied. “We have something to do.”

  “Very well,” Börje said. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Albin shook his head. “No. You have already helped.”

  Börje nodded. “I suppose I will leave you to it. Be well, Albin Jönsson.”

  He shook hands with Dora and Albin, and then wandered back up the slope toward the village.

  When he was out of sight, Dora asked, “What exactly is it we have to do?”

  “Find Augusta again,” Albin said. “And kill her.”

  “It didn’t go so well last time,” Dora said.

  “I wasn’t who I am now,” Albin replied. “I can do it. I don’t have to fight her. I just need the Memory Theater to help us. I have a plan.”

  “What’s the plan?”

  “They tell memories. Maybe they’ll tell a new memory.”

  Albin began to sing.

  29

  Slender birch trees sprung up around Augusta as she walked. There was a familiar scent in the air: apples. The sky changed into the familiar hue of a summer night. The grass was thick under her feet. Augusta looked at her hands: still worn and square. Not her own. But these woods were familiar. Here and there, things hung on the lower tree branches: a glass prism on a string, a strip of silk, a bird skull in a silver net. They formed a path deeper in between the trees.

  The splash of water made Augusta turn her head. Not too far away, a pond she recognized.

  “Hello,” a voice said.

  A heart-shaped face framed by blond locks peered at Augusta from under a small overhang. The face smiled, and its teeth were pointed.

  Porla tilted her head. “Who is this gentleman?”

  Augusta blinked. “Porla?”

  Porla let out a tinkling laugh. “The gentleman knows! I am honored. Welcome to my home. Would my lord like to see it? I have a friend I could introduce. Who are you? Are you lost?” She squinted at Augusta, then said, “I know you. Don’t I?”

  Augusta’s eyes prickled. Something that had been clenched in her chest let go in a sobbing sigh. Porla came out from under the overhang and reached for Augusta’s ankle. Her skin was flecked like a frog’s, her touch icy.

  “You know me,” Augusta whispered. “By what name do you know me?”

  Porla pawed at Augusta’s leg and stared up into her eyes. “It’s on the tip of my tongue.” Then she paused, and her eyes drifted down to the water.

  Then she looked up again. “I can int
roduce you to my friend.”

  “Do you recognize me? Say my name,” Augusta said.

  Porla smiled with her needle teeth and shook her head. “The tip of my tongue,” she said.

  Augusta felt her heart sink.

  “Let me show you my friend,” Porla said. “That will make you happy.”

  Augusta shook her leg free of Porla’s hand. “I’m not interested in your friend, Porla.”

  Porla’s lower lip quivered. “No one ever is,” she said.

  “Good,” Augusta said.

  She looked back as she walked away. Porla was under the overhang again, arms around what looked like a bloated body. Porla whispered to it intently and glared at Augusta. Then she dived under the surface and dragged the corpse down with her.

  There was a drumbeat, uneven and heavy. Little lanterns were strung from the branches. In the distance, the flash of colorful silks moving in time to the music. Augusta peeked from behind a tree. They were dancing in slow graceful movements, their powdered faces shining in the dusk. Augusta swayed to the rhythm. She could burst onto the marble floor now, join them in the dance. But would they know her in this guise? Would they say, “Ah, Augusta, we see you”? Porla didn’t. Would they murder her as an invader?

  The music ended. The lady Mnemosyne’s voice filled the air.

  “A game,” she called. “We shall have a game.”

  A cheer went up, and the dancers formed a line. Mnemosyne led the way out of the statuary grove and toward the game lawn. Augusta followed them at a distance.

  “Stop right there,” a voice said.

  Augusta turned around to see Walpurgis a few steps behind her. He was poised like a statue in his elaborate dress, corkscrew locks in a perfect frame around his exquisite visage. He held a hand up in a forbidding gesture.

  “You don’t belong here,” he said.

  “Do you not know me?” Augusta said.

  She had to make Walpurgis name her.

  “You do not look like anyone I know,” Walpurgis replied. He took a step closer. “But I will concede that there is something familiar about you.”