The Lost Village(24)

“How does it feel?” she asks Tone.

“I’ve felt better,” she replies. She’s still pale, but is now regaining some color in her face, at least. She isn’t sweating anymore. “But I’ll survive.”

Emmy smiles up at her.

“Great,” she says.

Seeing the two of them interact gives me a strange feeling I wouldn’t exactly call pleasant, a mix of anxiety and something uncomfortably close to jealousy. I bite the inside of my cheek.

Robert comes back with Emmy’s small, chipped hip flask from the night before. Tone accepts it gratefully and takes a few big swigs. I’m not sure it’s a good idea, but I don’t want to say anything.

“OK, guys,” says Emmy, standing up and brushing off her knees. “Why don’t we take a break, settle our nerves a little? We can have something to eat and discuss what we want to do.”

“Sounds good,” says Robert.

It feels like those should have been my words, like she’s taken something from me. I’m running this project, not her. But Emmy’s already on her way to get us some food, and Robert has gone with her. The moment has passed.

I watch her walking toward the van, unease still festering in my stomach.

I don’t recall hearing anything on my walkie-talkie—certainly not Tone moaning.

But if they hadn’t heard something, what would bring them running back to camp like that? How could they have known she was hurt?

I heard something below us.

Could Tone really have heard something?

And could it have been Emmy and Robert?

But if so, why?

December 1, 1958

Dearest Margareta,

Wishing you a happy first day of advent! Or perhaps I should say second? After all, by the time you read this, the day will have already come and gone.

Ours was so lovely this year. Mother baked saffron buns for breakfast, and—you would have been so proud of me—I suggested we take one to Birgitta in the afternoon. It was all my own idea—Mother hadn’t dropped a single hint! But then Mother said that Birgitta wouldn’t eat it, advent or not: all she’ll take is her cold chicken, gingerbread, and black-currant juice. But Mother smiled and stroked my cheek, and said that it was a lovely thought all the same. Besides, the gingerbread we normally take her is still rather festive. We went down to see her together. Even Birgitta seemed chirpier than usual. And when Mother and I sang her some Christmas carols, it almost sounded as though she was trying to hum along.

But enough! I can’t keep it in any longer—I must tell you the big news! (Unless Mother has already told you? No, I’m sure she wouldn’t have, she never writes about anything interesting.) We have a new pastor!

I’m sure your first question will be why that would ever be news: everyone knows Einar’s a drunk, and it’s actually rather odd that he’s been able to stay on as long as he has here. Mother gets angry at me whenever I mention it, says that he’s a man of God and that we shouldn’t speak ill of others, but it’s only gotten worse these last years. Lena told me her father saw Einar asleep on the road a few weeks ago, and he’d forgotten to put on any pants! Surely it can’t be speaking ill of someone if it’s the truth?

But that’s beside the point. What makes it such big news is not only that we have a new pastor, but that no one knew he was coming! Up here everybody normally knows everything about anything (a few days ago, Albert at the pharmacy asked me how you’re doing in your new apartment!), but this came out of nowhere!

I’d already heard about him from Mother, who met him last week, but I thought the new kid she was talking about was some sort of assistant, not a new priest. Everyone was whispering and murmuring as they came into church. Last Sunday Einar had done the sermon, hissing and grumbling like a smokestack as usual, but for the advent service yesterday he just sat there nice and quiet in the front pew, while Pastor Mattias took to the lectern.

He’s so dashing! Oh, forgive me, Margareta, can I say such a thing about a priest? It’s the truth! He looks like a film star, with thick blond hair and light eyes. They’re gray as fog, and his eyelashes are long and dark like a girl’s. He isn’t so tall—Mother’s almost taller than him—but nor am I, so that suits me rather well.

Anyway, he said that he’s been sent here from Stockholm, to help Einar serve the parish in these difficult times, and that he’s looking forward to getting to know Silvertj?rn. When he started his sermon, it was so beautiful. You know I’ve never been so good at listening when Einar talks (nor are you, for that matter!), but today I was completely mesmerized. His voice was so beautiful, soft and smooth as silk, and he spoke calmly and quietly, so everyone had to concentrate to hear him. You could have heard a pin drop! He spoke about the kingdom of heaven, but not like Einar usually does—about flappy angels and golden gates—but about heaven as a feeling. About creating heaven here on earth. It was so wonderful it gave me goose bumps.

And then he even came up to greet us afterward, when we were on our way out. (That was when I noticed his eyelashes!) He and Mother had something to discuss about some sick old lady, but he said hello to me, too, and looked into my eyes as he took my hand. And oh, Margareta, it had me blushing from head to toe! It was so embarrassing. But he didn’t mention it, he just smiled and told me he thinks Aina is a beautiful name. He said it means “beauty” in Hebrew, can you imagine? I felt like I could have fainted!