The Lost Village(15)

The young pastor puts a pot of coffee on the stovetop and pulls out a chair for her. She sits down on the familiar, all-too-stingily stuffed seat and waits while he putters around the room, arranging papers and adjusting the curtains. She finds it rather endearing, the way he attends to the room with an almost matronly care.

“If you don’t mind me asking, is this your first placement?” Elsa asks, as the young man pours coffee into Einar’s small, chipped cups.

He smiles and places a cup before her.

“Of course I don’t mind, Fru Kullman, there’s no need for such formality with me,” he says, before hastily adding, “unless, of course, you prefer it that way.”

“In that case, you can call me Elsa,” she says, then smiles. He can’t be more than ten or twelve years her junior, but this young pastor inspires something almost maternal in her.

“Where’s Einar?” she asks, lifting the coffee cup to her lips. It’s good—strong and piping hot. Better than what Einar normally makes.

“He’s asleep in the parsonage,” says the young pastor. “I think—hmm … sadly I think he had a rather heavy night last night.”

“Perhaps having you here to help him will do him good,” she says.

“I hope to lighten his load wherever I can,” says the pastor. His eyes are gray, Elsa now sees, with dark rings around his irises. Perhaps it’s those eyes that make him seem so charming. They’re big and round like a child’s, and they make him look younger than he surely must be.

“What was it you wanted to see Einar about?” the pastor asks. “Perhaps it’s something I might be able to assist you with?”

Yes, perhaps you can, she thinks.

Einar had used to help Elsa with any tasks that needed seeing to in the village; he would talk sense into men who didn’t treat their wives properly, offer a shoulder to cry on to those who were bereaved and needed to talk. Einar had never been particularly sharp, it was true, but his heart was good and his faith sincere. In recent years, however, his drinking had worsened. Elsa had had to bear a greater share of the load.

“One of the older women in the village, Agneta Lindberg, is very unwell,” Elsa begins. “I fear she may not be long of this earth.”

He looks at her intently.

“How old is she?” he asks.

“Sixty-seven,” she says. “She has cancer. Of the stomach. She’s afraid, and I think she ought to speak to someone who can allay her fears. She isn’t afraid of death; she’s afraid of … well…”

He nods slowly. His big, light-gray eyes don’t leave hers, and she feels something within her lift.

She can trust him. He can help her.

“She’s afraid of what comes next,” he says, finishing her sentence. “And you would like someone to hold her hand and soothe her fears. Tell her about the kingdom that awaits her after death, and God the Father who will receive her.”

“Yes, exactly,” says Elsa. “Just to calm her. Reassure her.”

He gives a faint smile.

“If you feel it would be appropriate,” he says, “then I would be most happy to do that in Einar’s place.”

Elsa returns his smile.

“I think that might be good,” she says.





NOW



A loud scream yanks me out of my sleep.

Being woken by a scream is like the feeling of crushing glass with your bare hands: instantaneous, distinct, painful. My pulse starts racing and, still half asleep, I fumble with my sleeping bag, trying to make anything out in the darkness.

It’s only once I’ve scrambled out of the tent that I realize I was the only one inside it.

The night air is still, the silence compact; for a few seconds the only sound I can hear is the frenzied pounding of my own heart. But then: the unmistakable sound of van doors opening.

By now my eyes have adjusted well enough to the weak moonlight to pick out Emmy as she stumbles out of the back of the van. Her hair is dangling messily around her shoulders, and she isn’t wearing any pants—just a pair of underwear and the big, white T-shirt she had on yesterday. The cobblestones must feel just as cold to her bare feet as they do to mine. The dampness of the dewy moss between the stones is already working its way up between my toes.

“Did you hear it, too?” I ask her as I see Robert jump out of the van behind her. Emmy doesn’t look at him. She has already marched off toward the front of the van and the school.

“Emmy?” I say, as Robert starts running after her.

I don’t feel I have any choice but to do the same.

As I round the van, I see that Emmy has stopped after just a few steps. She’s panting—shallow, scratchy breaths that echo my own—and her eyes are darting around the empty square. Bright and glossy in the cold light of the crescent moon, they flit from the blue Volvo where Max is sleeping to the school building, and then on to the greenery shooting up between the cobblestones.

Robert stops behind her and gently places his hand on her shoulder. Hesitantly, as though stroking a frightened dog. When he touches her, she doesn’t recoil.

“Emmy, what is it?”

It’s only then that it clicks.

“Was it you who screamed?” I ask.

I hadn’t recognized the scream as Emmy’s; every screaming voice sounds the same. But now, as she turns around to face us, I realize it must have been her.