Venice’s slender clock tower, along with Sansovino’s wonderful works of art, lay in ruins under broken plinths and stones, piled high close to the procurator buildings like a rampart of rocks and dust, while Venice mourned and the sorrow spread like a wave over the whole world.
Captain Ankerkrone grabbed Holst’s arm as the sea of people cascaded across the square and dragged him along with them, while Ulla pressed herself against him.
They didn’t speak.
But when they had found seats in a gondola, which carried them away from the quayside out onto the water, where boats were darting off between each other in feverish haste, the Captain sat with his head bowed in earnest thought. Ulla had taken Holst’s hand, and turned towards her father.
“Venice – nenn ich mit doppeltem Recht heute Sankt Marcus im Koth,” she said to him in a subdued voice.
Ankerkrone looked up.
“You’re right, Ulla, the mire has swallowed up the glorious Campanile, as it will swallow the City of the Doge and its beautiful buildings; the mire will absorb the city as it absorbs everything. We build in the mire that lies around us where our feet tread. The mire will erase every trace, every trace of our footsteps, and erase every trace of us all from the world as we sink deeper and deeper into it.”
The sorrow lay heavy and silent over Venice in the following days, and everyone’s thoughts, everyone’s talk, revolved around the great disaster that had happened to San Marco; San Marco’s glorious bell tower, which the mire had swallowed up. No one had time to think of or talk about the Swedish lieutenant who had died in prison, or to investigate how he had died. His body was buried on Kurk’s instructions on the island out there in the Adriatic, with his name on a simple marble slab along with the short inscription in Swedish:
“May God be merciful to his soul.”
The district magistrate was deeply moved by Sjöström’s death, but not really dissatisfied. After all, it was probably far better this way. No one could know how much work, how difficult a battle, would have followed his extradition. His death was in all probability due to his brother’s intervention; rich relatives in Sweden had wanted to prevent a scandal and it was best for all parties.
Ankerkrone avoided discussing the case with the magistrate, who ascribed this to it being a fellow countryman.
Holst didn’t speak to Ankerkrone about Sjöström’s death, but the evening when the collapse of the Campanile was the only thing men and women in Venice spoke about, Holst and Captain Ankerkrone stood on the balcony and looked out across the lagoon, where the moon twinkled over the rippling water.
“Eigil,” said the Captain, “the mire deletes the traces, it covers our footsteps, sticky and clayey, and nothing can be seen when we look back. Let the mire cover the tracks you have followed, so that not even the memory remains, and put our hopes in the harvest to come!”
Holst looked up.
“Sometimes I think you’re like one of those Renaissance men as you sweep your way through life. And I think this last thing was unnecessary.”
“For me – yes,” replied the Captain. “For you and her – no.”
Holst remained silent.
Ulla had come out to them on the balcony and Holst put an arm around her waist, while she turned her face to him and he kissed her lips.
Ankerkrone leant against the balustrade as his thoughts went back to Giulia and the days that were fading away and he whispered to himself, “Alles was ich erfuhr, ich würzt’ es mit süsser Erinnrung, Wurzt’ es mit Hoffnung; sie sind lieblichste Würzen der Welt.”11
A few days later, Holst and Ulla’s wedding took place and they all set off north.
Part 4
Conclusion – Forest Lake
A singular funeral was being prepared in the little church near Esrum Lake. It was late summer and the corn had turned yellow and was ready to harvest, while the treetops in the forest were darkening as autumn approached. The sun was clear in the sky, glittering above thin greyish-white clouds, and the tiles of the little church reflected the light. A grave had been dug close to the white church wall and the gravedigger’s men were lowering a yellow oak coffin into it, while the clayey soil was hidden under luxuriant wreaths and fragrant spruce. The priest stood tall in his black gown with the shining white collar; his voice was subdued as he prayed and his words were solemn as the earth fell with a hollow sound against the coffin lid.
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life.”
There were only a few people standing at the graveside: the district magistrate, Captain Ankerkrone and Captain Kurk and, between them, Eigil Holst and his young wife with heads bowed. Ulla was weeping, while Ankerkrone was pale and relying on his friend’s arm for support. A few of the people of the parish were present and stood back without taking part, but as solemn as the common people at a church service. Out of all these people, only three knew the deep secret hidden in the simple coffin and had followed the trail that was now being erased for ever while the earth fell on the coffin lid. A few scattered voices sang the hymn and the mourners spread out over the little welcoming cemetery where the gravedigger was hurriedly casting the earth that would cover Annie Bengtson’s last resting place, far from home. The lonely grave would soon be forgotten and no one would suspect what the name meant. Arvid Ankerkrone bowed his head as he cast a last look at the grave, and recalled the magnificent marble cross at Gammalstorp where his wife was at rest.
All tracks disappear – all tracks are erased.
It was getting towards evening and the sun was sinking over the yellow fields. Eigil Holst walked with his young wife to the forest where they had first met. It was quiet and over the field rose a light veil of fog while the bell rang in the tower of the old church. They crossed the stile, where the hazel and the blackberry bushes weaved together over the granite boulders and the yellowish-green moss with the yellow stonecrop. A single sharp cheep-cheep came from a frightened bird that shot swiftly between the bushes and, as they finally emerged from the thickets, beside the lake which lay deep beneath the shoreline, they saw a strong roebuck that stood with a bowed head by the water which mirrored its slender body. They were downwind, so the buck didn’t notice them. They walked noiselessly to the bench and sat down.
Not a word passed between them.
Suddenly, as if in thought, Ulla picked up a stone and threw it at the lake’s mirror, which lay quite low with little depth, despite the frequent rain. The buck’s magnificent limbs tensed immediately; it lifted its head and flew startled away from the shore through the thicket in long, supple leaps.
There came a sharp cry from a forest bird, then everything went quiet.
And while the sun was setting, while the mist and the fragrance from a forest preparing itself to rest rose around the beech tree at the edge, Ulla leant her head on her husband’s shoulder, and he told her in a subdued voice the strange, sad story of the trail from the lake between the beeches north of Esrum, which led across Småland’s moors and its shimmering lakes between the heather and the stones, to the lagoon city where the mire was beginning to swallow it and conceal it like the earth of Zealand concealed the coffin in the old cemetery behind the white walls.
The trail was hidden forever but, in the beginning, had played its part, which for these two ensured it against being forgotten as long as the sun shone over one of them; if it couldn’t always shine over both of them, which is what people who are in love hope and pray for.
And that is what became of Forest Lake and the mystery hidden in it; it was their richest memory, the first one in their common ownership.
Acknowledgements
To my wonderful wife, Lotte, for elucidation, brain-storming, proofreading and material replenishment.
To Lucy Moffatt, translator of Stein Riverton’s The Iron Chariot, for the inspiration for this one.
To Scott and Kat at Abandoned Bookshop, for the clarity and speed of their communication.
First
published as Hvad Skovsøen gemte in Denmark in 1903 by Gyldendalske Boghandels Forlag (F. Hegel & Søn)
This edition published in the United Kingdom in 2018 by
Canelo Digital Publishing Limited
57 Shepherds Lane
Beaconsfield, Bucks HP9 2DU
United Kingdom
Copyright © Palle Rosenkrantz, 1903
Translation copyright © 2018 by David Young
The moral right of Palle Rosenkrantz to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781788630627
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Look for more great books at www.canelo.co
Endnotes
1.
To waste money and time take a good look, At the comical guide in this little book. – Goethe, epigrams 1790. « Back
2.
I walked by the sea looking for mussels. In one I found a pearl; it has now secured a place in my heart. « Back
3.
I have often erred and come to my senses again, But never more happily; now this girl is my happiness! If this is yet another error, then spare me, you wiser Gods, And don’t deprive me of it until yonder on the cold shore. « Back
4.
This girl was poor and without a stitch when I met her; Back then I liked her naked, as I still do today. « Back
5.
I once had a love, she was dearer to me than anything! But I have her no more! Be silent and endure the loss! « Back
6.
And so I philandered, separated from all my friends, In the city of Neptune, days and hours pass, Everything I experienced, I seasoned with sweet memories, Seasoned with hope; it is the sweetest seasoning in the world. « Back
7.
Whatever happens to you, you growing youngster, Love created you, so may love be a part of you. « Back
8.
It was jest enough, my sweetheart! « Back
9.
It doesn’t surprise me that people love dogs so much, For they are miserable rogues – people as well as dogs. « Back
10.
There is a church called St John’s-in-the-Muck; today I have twice as much right to call Venice St Mark’s-in-the-Muck. « Back
11.
Everything I experienced, I seasoned with sweet memories, Seasoned with hope; it is the sweetest seasoning in the world. « Back
The Forest Lake Mystery Page 22
