The Lost Village(12)

I know you and Mother have said she won’t get angry as long as I follow her rules, but I have to say, I don’t like being there alone. As soon as I see her hut, my heart starts to patter like a bird’s, and my mouth goes dry. Mother says the only reason Birgitta got so angry at me that time is because I opened the door and stepped in without knocking—Birgitta’s more afraid of me than I am of her, she says. But Birgitta’s tall as a man and built like a bear! It took weeks for my scratch marks to heal that time. Part of me thought I’d be stuck with them forever.

Oh, now I’m sounding like I don’t feel sorry for Birgitta, and you know that I do! I’m happy to report that she was looking well today. She had trailed some mud inside from her walk in the forest, and I wondered if I should clean it up, but I was afraid of getting her back up. Besides, Mother hadn’t told me to clean—she probably thinks I’m too careless and would rather do it herself. Anyway, that’s besides the point: Birgitta had some color in her cheeks, and she really devoured her chicken and gingerbread. She even did those funny hand movements that you say mean she’s happy.

It’s just … oh, Margareta, it’s not just the scratch marks. I was afraid of Gitta even before then. She’s just so big, and she moves so strangely, and the way her hair dangles down over her face makes her look like a forest troll from those fairy tales Grandmother used to tell us. Perhaps that’s a terrible thing to say, but it’s the truth. She even smells of the forest. I’ve told Mother we should cut her hair and get her some new clothes—anything but those threadbare rags she goes around in every day. Perhaps then the other villagers wouldn’t find her so strange. And then she could live in a real house, and we wouldn’t have to look after her all the time.

But Mother says it’s not as simple as that. Sometimes I think she likes having Birgitta to take care of. It’s not like Birgitta can ever answer back or get on Mother’s nerves like I do, seeing as she can’t talk.

Oh well. It did go okay today, and Lena wasn’t too angry with me when I eventually got home. She even let me borrow some lipstick before we went to the river. I felt very stylish. Perhaps I can buy one just like it when I come down to visit you and Nils? What do you think?

Write soon!

Your sister, Aina





NOW



My sleeping bag rustles as I twist and roll over onto my other side. The tent is big and fairly spacious, but it’s hardly a hotel room: it’s cold and basic, and smells of a mix of plastic and something slightly nauseating that I can’t put my finger on.

Still, it’s better than sleeping on the back seat of a Volvo, like Max. It was his choice, but I’m sure he’s going to spend our entire trip with a stiff neck and the makings of a bad back. Emmy and Robert didn’t bring a tent, either, but Emmy said they’re used to sleeping in vans. Maybe it is the done thing, but I’m glad I get to pass. Something about cargo compartments makes me claustrophobic. Even if we fixed the equipment securely in place, I wouldn’t be able to shake the feeling that it was all going to collapse on us as we slept.

The sleeping bags we have are good, at least, so well insulated that the cold air actually feels nice against my cheeks. I normally like to sleep in a cold room under a thick duvet—even in winter I leave the windows open for a breeze—but right now I can’t catch a wink, despite my exhaustion. My excitement sits like a vibration under my skin, keeping me awake.

“Can’t sleep?” asks Tone, her voice cutting through the darkness.

I roll back onto my other side to face her, even though I’d need the night vision of a cat to make out anything but shadow.

“Did I wake you up?” I ask.

“No,” comes her muted reply. “You know me.”

Tone has sleep problems. It was one of the first things I ever learned about her, that first time we met, in an anonymous coffee chain by Odenplan just over two years ago. I’d stood waiting outside, unsure if she would show up and not even clear about what to look out for—her Facebook profile picture was four years old at the time and blurry, too (as far as I know, it still hasn’t changed).

“It’s like I can’t wind down,” I say. “My brain won’t switch off.”

“Maybe you should ask Emmy for some of her whisky,” she says dryly. “That might help.”

I roll my eyes, though I know she can’t see me. “Who hits the bottle as soon as they arrive on a job?”

“From what you’ve told me about her, it doesn’t sound like that should come as a surprise.”

I hear a rustle as she changes position.

“No, I guess not.”

I think for a moment.

“You don’t have anything, do you?” I ask. “No sleeping pills or anything?”

“No,” Tone replies, “I can’t take them. Given … well, you know.”

“Oh,” I say. “No, of course. I’m an idiot. Sorry.”

“It’s OK,” she says, sounding mildly amused. Her words seem to swell in the small space, though they’re hardly more than a whisper. “I don’t expect you to keep track of which pills I can and can’t take.”

“No, but still. I should know.”

We go quiet. I prop myself up to rearrange the thick, folded-up sweater I’m using as a pillow, then lie back down to no noticeable difference.