The Lost Village

by Sten, Camilla

  Something isn’t right.

  Why hasn’t he knocked? Why is he just standing there in the pouring rain?

  Deep at the back of my mind, my instincts start to murmur. My breaths have gone quiet and shallow.

  Where was he coming from?

  The Volvo is parked diagonally to the right of this van, but he didn’t come from there. He was walking straight across the square. From the school.

  It’s as if time has slowed; I’m suddenly aware of how cold it is here in the van, of how much my fingers are trembling with the adrenaline. Pastor Mattias’s draft sermon is still lying on the floor behind me. For some reason, one phrase is drumming at the back of my head:

  His servants walk among you

  There’s another flash of lightning, instantly followed by a clap of thunder. I jump, accidentally kicking the battery-powered lamp, which flickers and goes out. I have to cover my mouth with my hand to stop myself from screaming.

  Yes, I saw that. I really did.

  As the lightning flashed, I saw him sitting in his car. Max. Just a silhouette, his head bowed over something—a book or a phone—but it was him. It was Max.

  But if Max is still in the Volvo …

  It’s Emmy, I tell myself. Emmy’s standing outside. She wants something.

  But if that’s the case, then why is she just standing there?

  I really wish Tone were in here with me; that I weren’t alone in this small, enclosed space that suddenly feels like a cage.

  The doors are unlocked.

  The rain is pounding to the beat of my heart.

  A sudden, deafeningly loud crackle fills the small space, and for one frantic, seemingly never-ending second I think it’s someone clawing at the doors. Then I realize that the sound is coming from inside the van. It’s coming from me. From my waistband.

  The walkie-talkie. Fingers trembling, I fumble it out, press the button and say:

  “Alice here.”

  It comes out as a shrill, shaky whisper.

  That crackle returns, only louder, so loud that it grates. But then, amid the crackling, I hear a moan.

  A child’s voice, a woman’s voice, distorted and metallic, emerges from the interference.

  The doors open and I scream and drop my walkie-talkie. It clatters to the ground, sending the batteries flying.

  The figure in the doorway pulls down its hood. Emmy’s henna-red hair comes tumbling out.

  “What is it?” she asks. “Relax! It’s just me!” She climbs into the back of the van, leaving the doors open. Behind her I see the rain pouring down in big, hard drops into the puddles that have formed in the square.

  “What is it?” she asks again. “Has something happened?” Her pupils look huge in the darkness.

  It takes me a few seconds to find my voice again. My rational thought is still caged by fear and adrenaline, and the words burst out of me:

  “What the fuck are you doing? Why were you just standing there? And that walkie-talkie game? That’s fucking sick!”

  Emmy recoils slightly at my rage, but then her features harden, and she hisses back:

  “Since when is me coming over here something to get so fucking hysterical about? I just wanted to ask if you wanted some lunch!”

  “I’m not mad about you coming over here, I’m mad about you hanging around outside like some psycho, zombie-groaning into your walkie-talkie! What are you, a child?”

  My palms are sweaty, and I can taste blood in my mouth. My anger is so intense that my voice has transformed into something gruff and hacking.

  “What?” asks Emmy, sounding genuinely confused. “What are you talking about? What groaning?”

  “Don’t even try it,” I start to say in disgust, but Emmy shakes her head.

  “No—Alice, I don’t know what you think I did, but I don’t even have my walkie-talkie on me.” She turns the pockets on her hoodie inside out to show that they’re empty, then points at her bare waistband.

  “Look,” she says.

  I stare at her.

  “And I wasn’t hanging around out there,” she goes on. “I literally just ran over from the other van. I wouldn’t want to get any wetter than I had to.”

  Her hair is tousled, the skin around her bright eyes completely unsmudged.

  Almost against my will, my eyes are drawn to the windshield, to the school looming over in the distance. Those big, open doors on their rusty hinges, and the silent void behind them.

  The sky above us lights up again, but the thunder lags a few seconds behind. The storm is passing. The rain outside has started to slow, if only a little.

  I look at Emmy. At her light-gray hoodie.

  It’s almost completely dry.

  Her eyes are bottomless when she fixes them on mine and says, with a voice quiet and unflinching:

  “You saw somebody, didn’t you?”

  February 9, 1959

  Dearest Margareta,

  I hope the journey went well, and that the train didn’t leave you feeling too poorly! You did look a little peaky when we said good-bye at the station, but I didn’t want to say anything in case I put my foot in it! Mother mentioned it today at breakfast. She told us how she had felt so ill when she was pregnant with you that she could hardly get out of bed for the first few months.

  But how exciting it is! And, I know you’re very busy right now with your work, the pregnancy, the new apartment and all, but you must try to write every week. I shall do exactly the same, to remind you!

  Oh, and I’ve found such a beautiful name for the baby if she’s a girl! Dagny was over for coffee when I came home today, and she said you’re definitely expecting a girl, because apparently you always feel worse with girls. Mother just smiled when she said that, but as soon as Dagny left she told me it was all poppycock, if you can imagine! Still, I think Dagny might just be right—though perhaps that’s just wishful thinking on my part. But how wonderful it would be if it were a little girl! I can’t wait. August can’t come soon enough.

  Oh yes, the name: what do you think of Ruth? Isn’t it beautiful? I know you mentioned Elisabet and Charlotta, but if you ask me, I think shorter names are more elegant. (Besides, how important is it really to have a “continental” name, whatever that means? Father said you’ve started to sound like big city folk. Did he say that to you, too? Perhaps I shouldn’t have written that. I don’t think he meant anything by it.)

  Anyway, I found the name in our Bible group yesterday. Ruth has an entire book named after her in the Bible, and Pastor Mattias had selected a passage from it to read for the meeting. The group has already become quite the crowd—even Lena has started coming to meetings, though I think that may be less to do with her interest in the Bible than her crush on the pastor. Yesterday she wore that blouse with the pleated front that she says gives her a real waspish waist. But the pastor didn’t seem to pay it any notice; he just smiled warmly and said it was lovely to see so many new faces in the group. And that was it! In fact, he gave her no extra attention at all—I almost think she was a little put out by it.

  We talked about Ruth and her family, and how hard it must have been not to have a home, and then Karin Änglund started to cry. The room went quiet—none of us knew what to say—but the pastor just sat down next to her, waited for her tears to start to settle, and then asked her what had made her so sad. Karin said that her mother and father might not be able to stay in Silvertjärn, that they might have to leave to find work elsewhere, and she didn’t know where they would go. She said that she would be homeless, just like Ruth. But then the pastor reminded her that Ruth found a new home, and he told her that she needn’t worry, for we and the church would be her home, and that he, and God, would always take her in. Then Karin started to cry even more, and when she whimpered, “thank you, thank you, thank you,” then my chest started to hurt, too, and I thought even I might burst into tears.

  Mother thinks I haven’t noticed, but I can see her getting more tired and anxious by the day. She didn’t
want to let on while you were here because she didn’t want to worry you, but I heard her tell Dagny that they’re short of money and that Father’s struggling to find a job. If things don’t get better soon then maybe I’ll be in the same boat as poor Karin Änglund.

  But do you know what? It was almost a miracle, for no sooner had I thought that than Pastor Mattias looked me straight in the eye, and it felt like he could read my mind. He told us—though it felt like he was talking to me alone:

  “Everyone has a home in the house of God. None of you need ever worry about losing your way. If your families lose their houses then the church shall be your home. If your parents and siblings leave you then we shall be your family. God looks after his flock.”

  He sounded so truthful and confident, and I believed him utterly. And, for the first time in many months, I felt calm.

  I hung back slightly after the meeting, and Pastor Mattias thanked me for all my help with the group, and for managing to bring in so many other youngsters. He even said he could never have done it without me! Can you believe it? Me! I hardly knew what to say, but he seemed to understand (he always understands), and just smiled. And then he said I could choose our passages for the next meeting! He said I could choose whatever I wanted, but that I should look at the Song of Songs, as he was sure I would like it. I haven’t managed to do it yet, but I’m certain he’s right. He always is.

  But anyway, do have a think about the name! Ruth! I know it may not be so “continental,” but despite her hardships Ruth did become a queen in the end. So it is a royal name, and I think that’s even better!

  Now, I’d best go read the Song of Songs, to try to select some passages. Write soon!

  Your little sister, Aina

  NOW

  I wake up.

  My heart is pounding, but I blink and sit up in my sleeping bag, trying to shake off the nightmare. I stretch out, let my fingers brush against the edge of the tent. I’m not in that van anymore.

  What woke me up?

  It’s pitch black in here. I have no idea what time it could be, but the dawn light hasn’t started to filter in through the thin fabric of the tent. It smells of humans and sleep in here, with a faint hint of rain.

  I hear Tone roll over in her sleep, and say her name quietly.

  No reply.

  When I focus on Tone’s curled-up figure, I almost think her eyes are glinting at me in the darkness; that she’s lying there, silent and unmoving, staring at me. It makes my heart pound even faster, but the next second I’m convinced it’s all in my head. It’s just the lingering shrouds of sleep over my eyes, that’s all. She’s asleep.

  I’m not used to waking up in the middle of the night. Staying up late for work, sure, but not the feeling of being wrenched out of sleep, the kind of unpleasant stillness that comes of being awake against your will, while everyone else is asleep. My hearing seems keener than usual, and however hard I try, I can’t stop myself from listening out for something.

  Footsteps.

  There’s no one there, I tell myself. You know there’s no one there.

  But I don’t believe it.

  There’s no sound outside.

  I had denied what I thought I had seen and asked Emmy to leave the van, but even once the doors were shut that lingering fear had lived on in my body. I felt uneasy well into the evening, even after the clouds had dispersed enough to reveal an ethereally pink sunset. The ground was too wet to get a fire going, so instead we made grilled cheese sandwiches on the alcohol stove. I didn’t say much while we ate, just watched the others as they made full-mouthed small talk, spraying bread crumbs over the cobblestones.

  I watched Emmy.

  She was the one who was there, despite everything—the one who opened the door. And even though her hoodie was dry, that could have been some sort of setup: she could have had it in a plastic bag, for example, then put it on to make it look like she had run straight over.

  But why?

  Tone said she’d heard someone downstairs in the school before she fell through the steps, and Emmy and Robert did make it back to camp suspiciously quickly.

  It feels ridiculous to picture Emmy behind all this, though. It would go against everything I thought I knew about her. However dim my opinion may be of her now, there’s no denying she has always taken her work incredibly seriously. At college she was just unbearable, so nitpicky that no one ever wanted to do group projects with her. She would edit and re-edit until her eyes were tired and bloodshot, her fingertips numb. She always had her eyes on the prize, results over all else.

  I can’t believe that she would sabotage this project.

  But then …

  I have wondered why she agreed to come on board—despite us paying peanuts, despite having to work under me.…

  No. I shake my head. The thought is insane. Emmy may be selfish, pragmatic, and cold, but she isn’t unhinged. She isn’t trying to ruin my chances, or my film. It’s all in my head. Silvertjärn is just getting to me.

  I really wish Tone were awake. A familiar voice in this darkness. She would tell me to stop being ridiculous, remind me, in that deadpan voice of hers, that the most we have to worry about is a hungry bear fresh out of hibernation wandering into the village one night and deciding we look like a tasty breakfast.

  But Tone’s sleeping soundly, and I’m the only one awake.

  It’s a very lonely feeling.

  I can’t help thinking about Grandma. Grandma, alone in a narrow bed in Stockholm, heavily pregnant and beside herself with worry. What she said about the last letter.

  It arrived at the end of August, just before my due date. It had been a cool summer, but a heat wave had swept in at the end of July, and August had been just terrible. The air felt completely static, and I could hardly breathe, let alone move. It had been almost a month since I’d heard anything from Aina or Mother, which had worried me, but the pain and the heat had taken up more of my attention.

  The letter was short. The handwriting wasn’t Aina’s usual style, which everyone had always praised for its elegance. It was written in a jerky, slipshod hand, on ink-stained paper, and was both incoherent and incomprehensible. She wrote that the hour was nigh, and that I must return to them before it was too late.

  This made me frantic with worry, as I’m sure you can imagine. I begged and pleaded with your grandfather to let me go to Silvertjärn. Even he started to worry when he read the letter, but I was in no state to travel: I was in my ninth month, and practically bedridden.

  So your grandfather went there himself.

  He roped his best friend into going with him, in case he should need any help. They took the 09:13 from Stockholm Central Station to Sundsvall, where they changed to the train for Silvertjärn. It took them eleven hours to get there in all. Trains were slower back then.

  It was already dusk when Grandpa and Nils got off the train, and the station was completely deserted. There wasn’t a soul in sight.

  They made their way toward the center of town, the shadows drawing in, the houses empty. They knocked at doors here and there for directions—your grandpa hadn’t been there in a long time and couldn’t find my parents’ house, especially with the cottages looking so alike—but no one opened up.

  It was only when they crossed the river to the main square that they saw it.

  A pole had been raised in the middle of the square, and from it hung a limp body bound by ropes. Gitta must have been there for many long days, for the flies were swarming around her, and she had swollen in the late summer heat. Her face was bloody, beaten beyond recognition, and the stones they had used to execute her lay strewn around her body. Smooth, round river stones that had been gathered from the riverbed and blunted of any jagged edges. They were peppered with blood and hair.

  Your grandfather and Nils were petrified. They had no idea what to do. At first they wanted to try to get her down, but it was soon clear that Birgitta was beyond saving. She had been dead for days. So they ran into the nearest hou
se, in search of someone who could help.

  It was empty. As was the next one, and the next. The doors all stood ajar, the rooms vacant.

  By this point they were so scared that they were at their wit’s end. They ran back out into the square. Darkness had started to fall, and Birgitta’s body was still hanging from the pole. But when they looked at her, your grandfather swore—on the name of God the Father himself—that he saw her turn her head to look at them.

  They ran all night through the forest to reach the nearest town, some sixty miles away. Nils collapsed from exhaustion on the edge of town, but your grandfather held out. He told them something terrible had happened in Silvertjärn and that they had to send help, before he, too, collapsed.

  When the police arrived they found Birgitta’s body in the middle of the square, just as your grandfather had said. The village was completely silent. But in the midst of that silence they heard a baby’s cries.

  They found the baby naked on the floor of the school nurse’s room. It was no more than a few days old. There was no trace of whoever had left it there—nor, indeed, whoever had given birth to it.

  The police searched every building, cottage, and villa, but they couldn’t find a single soul. It was as though every one of the 887 residents of Silvertjärn had disappeared into thin air. Doors had been left open, windows ajar. The river ran peacefully down to the lake. And the village was empty.

  They combed the forest but found no one—not a single track. Aina, my mother, and my father were gone, like the rest of our neighbors, friends, and acquaintances. Gone. As though they had never existed.

  FRIDAY

  NOW

  The morning that dawns is clear and almost lavishly beautiful. The air zings with that fresh smell of pine and wet earth that comes only after a real spring downpour, and the sky feels enormous overhead. Light blue, without a cloud in sight.

  The river water is freezing but surprisingly clear. From what I’ve read, it comes straight from the mountains. We’ve washed with an all-in-one shampoo that the woman in the camping store assured me was organic and biodegradable. I stand up and wring out my hair, watch the current carry the small white bubbles off toward the lake. Its glassy surface sparkles in the morning light. Perhaps we should have washed down there instead—the water would probably have been marginally warmer—but Emmy said it probably wouldn’t be as clear, as it’s still. To be honest, I was relieved when she said it. Those unfathomable depths look anything but inviting.