The Sleeper Lies

by Andrea Mara

  Even as I said it, I could feel a surge of something – faint anticipation maybe, a pinhead of hope that she wasn’t just a restless, flighty person who abandoned her baby at the first sign of responsibility. I needed to find out the truth.

  CHAPTER 38

  On Thursday morning, Fru Hansen opened the door as soon as Asta rang, as though she had been just inside waiting. She led us through to her dining room, where the table was again set for three. At each place sat a blue-and-white plate with a picture: Fru Hansen’s depicted children in a sleigh, Asta’s showed a girl feeding a goose, and mine showed a mother and daughter at a snowy window. Fru Hansen poured coffee and offered us some apple cake, though it was only half past nine in the morning. Out of politeness, I took some but all I could think of was Hanne’s message.

  “You received the postcard?” Fru Hansen said.

  “Yes, thank you. So Hanne sent it to you from Ireland?”

  “She send me postcards from all over and at first I am happy to see it. But then I am sad to read she wished to leave.” She looked up at me. “I am very sad to think she leaves you.”

  “But can you tell me why? She said she would explain it to you in person?”

  Fru Hansen shook her head, and all the air went out of me.

  “I do not see her when she came back. She is unwell, and wishes to stay indoors, sleeping much of the time. And then, of course, you know what happens – the first time she goes out, she is gone forever.”

  Another dead end. And I’d ruined any chance of speaking to the two people who could actually tell me why she left.

  “You could try asking Dina and Erik?” Fru Hansen said, reading my mind. “I am sorry for causing this problem with them, but I am sure it can be repaired.”

  “Oh God no, it’s not your fault, you weren’t to know! But, judging by yesterday’s encounter, I’m not going to be welcome there any time soon.”

  “Give it time,” Fru Hansen said softly. “You are their granddaughter. They will get past the –” she paused, “the deception?”

  I cleared my throat. “So, back to the postcard – despite what Hanne said about a ‘reason’, for all we know it may just be what it seemed – that she was bored and restless and fed up with being a mother?” My voice was harder than intended.

  Asta looked surprised. Fru Hansen did not. She reached across the table and put her hand on mine.

  “I do not know her reason, but I am certain it was not the easy decision. No mother leaves her child unless she is without choice.”

  My eyes fixed on her hand, on the age spots and the neatly trimmed nails. Christ. I was an idiot to think I’d get a happy resolution. Sometimes things are just as they seem – no great revelation, no fairy-tale ending – my mother had simply walked away.

  “Oh, I have this,” Fru Hansen said.

  She got up, took a ceramic bowl from the sideboard and brought it to the table. Sitting down again, she took something from the bowl and handed it to me: a small key, silver in colour. The kind of key that fits in a diary. I’d had one like it as a teenager.

  “What is it for?” I asked.

  “Hanne sent it to me from Ireland. I forget until I search for the postcard – it is with all her letters and cards. You take it.”

  “But what does it unlock?”

  “I am not sure. There is a note,” she said, reaching back into the bowl and taking out a sheet of paper. She smoothed it out on the tablecloth and handed it to Asta. “You can translate better.”

  Asta read it to herself, then out loud in English.

  “Dear Inge, I have decided to move on with my life. I am locking away the past, and will make my life here in Ireland with Michael. A fresh start, with no distractions. So I am sending you the key to my past. If I ask for it back, do not send it! Love always, Hanne.”

  I looked at the date – it was sent exactly a year before I was born. A nagging thought took root. Was it my arrival that sent her fleeing? Was she happy until I came along?

  I looked up at Fru Hansen.

  “And she never said what is was for or asked for it back?”

  She shook her head, her white hair glinting in the early morning sunlight.

  “I never see her again,” she said softly. “Her next visit is also her final visit.”

  I looked down, seeing but not seeing the untouched apple cake on my plate, trying to put the pieces together. She had come to Ireland, met my dad, seemed happy, albeit hanging on to something from the past – at least until she “locked it away”. Then a little over a year later, she was running back to Denmark, abandoning us, with no explanation. Or at least nothing more than talk of a “cage”. And then came the rest – talk of a blond man and a dark-haired man, and her unsolved murder. None of it made any sense.

  “The dark-haired man you saw before Hanne disappeared – did you ever see him again?” I asked.

  Fru Hansen shook her head. “No, never again. The blond one – that is less clear.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nobody can say who saw the blond one or where the story comes from. But there was a man who helped with the search, and he is velkendt – what is the word, familiar?”

  Asta nodded, and Fru Hansen continued.

  “I tell the police, but I do not believe they accept my report seriously. I say it to Dina too and she is very sad with me for saying such things about the man – a good friend to her and to Erik, she said. She did not speak to me for some time.”

  There was something in her voice that made me look up, but her face gave nothing away.

  “Let me tell you more about Nøkken,” she went on. “There are different stories about Nøkken all around our country. Here, we have Nøkken who come out of Fugl Sø. This is the lake near to us. In some villages they say Nøkken – look as –” She paused and glanced over at Asta.

  “Disguise,” Asta said.

  “Yes. In some villages they say Nøkken disguise as beautiful animals. A horse, or a deer. Sometimes Nøkken start as soft wind, getting stronger as they push you into the lake. Here, near Fugl Sø, Nøkken always look as a beautiful blond man, playing violin. He is dressed in a white gown, and his face is like heaven. Blue eyes, pink lips, a kind and loving smile. He plays the violin, and the woman or girl – it is only women and girl children he wants – follows the music. The beautiful man moves towards the Fugl Sø lake, and she follows, forgetting there is danger, wishing only to be with him. He reaches the lake and she keeps walking, like she is asleep. When she steps into the water, still she does not wake. It is only when her head goes under, she comprehends and then it is too late. She turns to look up at him, from under the water. And as the last breath leaves her body, she sees that his beautiful white gown is really made of mouths of crying children. And his face has changed – the blue eyes, the pink lips they are gone. The face is empty now, blank and white as snow.”

  Silence, as Fru Hansen finished her story and the only sound was the clock on the wall. My skin was tingling and I couldn’t shake the image of the blank-faced Nøkken peering down at the water’s edge.

  “Fru Hansen always likes her fairy tales,” Asta said, with a laugh that sounded forced.

  Fru Hansen nodded. “Yes, you can say fairy tale if you wish. Of course you can.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “With every story in the world, there is much that is from imagination but at the centre there is always something true. Don’t you think?”

  I didn’t know what to think, so just nodded and broke off a piece of cake with my fork.

  “Have you been to her grave?” Fru Hansen asked.

  “No. I guess I imagined going there with Dina . . .”

  “I can take you now if you like,” Asta said. “I can borrow my mother’s car.”

  “Is it far?”

  “No, only fifteen minutes. Your mother’s not buried in the town cemetery, she’s in a small graveyard in the grounds of a little church on the Fuglvej. My mother and I went on
ce with Dina a long time ago.”

  I hesitated, and Asta misread it.

  “Or if you prefer to go alone, I can help you organise a taxi?”

  “No, it’s not that. If you don’t mind taking me, I’d much prefer that to going on my own. It’s just a bit daunting to think about seeing her grave.”

  Fru Hansen put her hand on mine again. “It is good that you go. Maybe a way to connect with Hanne, to understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  She shrugged, her small shoulders moving slowly. “Everything. Or maybe nothing. You will know.”

  She got up and began to clear the plates, removing them to an unseen kitchen beyond.

  “Are you sure about this?” I asked Asta. “Don’t you have places you need to be?”

  “I’m sure. To my mother’s great disappointment, employers are not knocking on my door, and amateur photography does not pay bills. So until one of those changes, I’m free. Will we go?”

  I picked up the key and put it carefully in the pocket of my jeans, wondering if I’d ever find the corresponding lock. We said goodbye to Fru Hansen, and walked out into the sunlight and the bitter, hostile cold.

  CHAPTER 39

  Within minutes of setting out in Asta’s mother’s car, we’d left the suburban streets of Købæk for a country road with forest on either side. There were no other cars. The forest was popular with hikers in summer, Asta explained, but not so much in November, and certainly not at eleven o’clock on a Thursday morning.

  Ten minutes later, when she turned into a small side road, we still hadn’t seen any other cars. Tall evergreens blocked out sunlight, and as we drove the road narrowed and became more like a track bordered on both sides by dense forest.

  Half a mile further, Asta stopped the car.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked.

  “No, this is it – we’re here,” she said, getting out.

  I couldn’t see anything that looked like a church, but I got out and started after Asta as she made her way down the track. Moments later, she disappeared through a gap between the trees, and I followed.

  In the middle of a clearing sat a redbrick church. Small, neat, clearly old, but in good condition despite its isolated location. The deeply sloped black roof showed touches of moss, and at the top stood a steeple – like a chimney wearing a witch’s hat. A low stone wall marked the edges of the churchyard, the forest flanking it on three sides. And dotted all over patchy grass, headstones.

  Asta had already pushed open the small rusty gate and was making her way across the churchyard, stepping over graves as she did. I followed to the far corner where she’d stopped opposite a headstone of black marble. Bowing her head, she took a step back.

  I read the inscription. “Hanne Karlsen.”

  I stared at the stone until the words swam, waiting for something to hit. What should I be feeling – sadness? Anger? Nothing.

  Stepping forward, I hunkered down to look more carefully at the inscription – below her name were some Danish words that looked like a quote.

  “What does that mean?” I asked, pointing.

  “If you love something, set it free.”

  I let that sink in for a moment, deciding it was probably a perfect quote for the free-spirited Hanne, uncontained by any one person or place. And still I waited for the lightning bolt of emotion, but all I felt was empty.

  Maybe sensing the anti-climax, Asta asked if she should go for a walk and leave me in peace.

  “No, that’s fine, I don’t need to stay,” I said, getting to my feet.

  “I don’t want to rush you,” she said. “I can go to the lake. Fugl Sø is just a few minutes north along the road. When the light is right, you can get amazing pictures there. You stay for a while.”

  She started back through the churchyard gate. I looked down at Hanne’s grave, waiting to feel a connection, but as the Baltic wind whipped up across the treetops, all I could feel was her ending – the dark, blank space into which she fell.

  “Asta, wait!” I called, and followed her out.

  We left the car beside the church and continued on foot through the thickening trees. After a few minutes, the dirt track seemed to disappear, and it was hard to see ahead, or imagine we’d be coming to a lake.

  “Are you sure this is the right way?” I asked.

  “I’m sure. I come out here to take photos,” she said with a smile, “despite Fru Hansen’s stories of Nøkken and witches.”

  The trees were so thick now, we couldn’t see the sky above, and the only sound was the crunching of twigs as we made our way forward. Asta stopped every now and then to take close-ups of insects and tree bark and I found myself silently willing her to keep walking. Maybe it was the reminder of Fru Hansen’s stories, or the eerie silence of the forest, but I desperately wanted to reach the lake.

  After another five minutes, I sensed a thinning of trees.

  “Is that it – are we nearly at the lake?”

  “Yes, that’s it,” Asta said, stooping to photograph a tree stump.

  I found myself breaking into run, rushing towards the clearing, and suddenly there it was.

  But the bright, sunlit scene I’d been imagining didn’t materialise. The lake was dark green and deathly still, a lifeless body of water. Tall trees shielded it on all sides, keeping the wind at bay. The sunlight was gone, the sky graphite grey. Stony, scrubby soil surrounded the lake, and on the shore reeds made it hard to spot where the water’s edge began.

  “You see how it would be easy to slip in.”

  Asta’s voice caught me off guard and I jumped.

  “Yeah, dangerous spot if you had kids or one too many beers,” I replied, forcing a laugh.

  “I guess this is how the folk tales came about,” she said, hunkering down to take a photo. “Fru Hansen’s tale of Nøkken: a warning not to step too close.”

  I shivered, still trying to locate the water’s edge.

  “Argh, I can’t get it out of my head now!” Asta said. “The golden-haired man, playing his violin, and the young girl following with no idea of his evil intent.”

  She laughed. I didn’t.

  I stooped to pick up a stone and threw it in the water. The splash was loud in the silence that shrouded us like a cold blanket, the ripples somehow reassuring. But then they were gone, the water still again. Still and waiting.

  Asta lifted her camera and framed another shot, but after a couple of clicks she dropped it again.

  “Not the best light today,” she said. “Usually it’s beautiful here.”

  “Is it?” I asked, pulling my scarf up over my mouth and hugging myself for warmth. “To me it feels dark and cold and . . . unfriendly?”

  “You’ve been spooked by the stories. I’m sorry.”

  “No, no, it’s not just the stories. It feels . . . I don’t know, there’s something not quite right.”

  She looked at me, eyebrows up, waiting for more, but I wasn’t sure myself what I meant.

  “I wonder if my mother ever came here,” I said eventually.

  “I guess so, local people do. Dina and Erik go to the church we have just been to – that’s why Hanne is buried there. No doubt they came here on occasion.” She paused. “Or do you mean later, do you mean when she died?”

  I wasn’t sure – maybe I was still chasing the connection I hadn’t felt at the grave.

  “Are you thinking she came here that night?” Asta went on. “It’s about fifteen kilometres – she couldn’t walk that far.”

  “I don’t know what I’m thinking – maybe the stories are just getting to me. Why do you think Fru Hansen talked about Nøkken again this morning?”

  “She loves to tell stories, she has always been like this.”

  “But was there more to it? Do you think there’s some link with what really happened?”

  Asta shook her head. “No, because Fru Hansen doesn’t know what really happened. They’re just stories, and I’m sorry that it’s made you think there was
some deeper meaning.” She lifted her camera again. “Come on, cheer up, smile for the photo!”

  I smiled mechanically and she clicked the shutter.

  The wind whipped up again, racing through treetops like an angry ghost, and the sky loomed darker than before.

  “It’s going to snow,” Asta said, lowering her camera. “We had better go.”

  And as we turned away from the lake and back towards the forest, the first snowflakes began to fall. On contact with the ground, they disappeared, disguising themselves as something else entirely.

  CHAPTER 40

  That should have been the end of it, and at the time I thought it was. But I had two more days to kill, so spent Friday wandering around Købæk on my own, and on Saturday morning Asta called by the hostel to take me shopping, insisting I couldn’t leave without checking out the local stores. We wandered around the pretty town centre, dipping in and out of jewellery and gift shops, lingering to avoid the cold. In one tiny shop towards the end of the main strip, I found a scarf I knew Ray would like and, as I was waiting to pay, I spotted little clay figurines. There were horses and tiny deer, and one that looked like a man in a long gown, holding a violin.

  “Are these Nøkken?” I asked Asta.

  “Yes, they are actually. I’ve never seen something like that.”

  On a whim, I picked up the man with the violin, and paid for it. For Ray or for me, I wasn’t sure.

  Shopping done, we wandered on in search of coffee. As we approached a colourful building with murals on the outside wall, a woman who looked like Dina walked out. I squinted as she came down the steps, but she was already walking away in the opposite direction.

  “I think that was Dina,” I said to Asta, who was still scouting for coffee.

  “Oh yes, it may have been. She volunteers with a youth group there.”

  “Your mother mentioned something about ‘children from poverty backgrounds’?”