The Lost Village(30)

Emmy rolls her eyes, but I think I see a twitch at the side of her mouth. It gives me a strange feeling in my gut, an echo of a certain intimacy.

“No, of course it has to all be linked, somehow,” I say. “The most banal theory is that it was some kind of voluntary migration; that the pastor convinced them all that God had commanded him to take them north, or something like that, but that they died along the way. It wouldn’t be the first time something like that had happened; the history blog Our Dark Past compares it to the Children’s Crusades in the thirteenth century. Religious fixation can make people do very odd things.”

“Still, it’s weird they never found anything,” says Max. “You’d think they would leave some sort of tracks. Nine hundred people migrating would leave its mark—on the immediate surroundings, if nothing else.”

“And it doesn’t explain the baby,” says Emmy. “Right?”

I shake my head.

“No, it doesn’t,” I say. “Nor the dogs and cats. Or the murder of Birgitta Lidman. Or why no one seems to have taken anything with them. Like you said, Robert: there are still coffee cups on kitchen counters, pots on stovetops. The police report said there was even laundry hanging out to dry on lines outside the houses. Whatever it was, it seems to have happened fast. If it were a mass migration, you’d think they’d have taken something with them.”

“There are theories about mass hysteria,” Tone adds.

I nod.

“There are historic examples of that: in the sixteenth century there was something called the ‘dancing plague’ in Strasbourg, where hundreds of people danced on the streets uninterrupted for over a month. Many of them died of exhaustion. They think it was a form of stress-induced psychosis, caused by starvation and general anxiety. If you think about how hopeless people here must have felt after the mine shut, it could have been something similar.”

“But it still doesn’t explain where they went,” says Tone. “Just like the migration theory.”

“No,” I agree, “if they just took off then a lot doesn’t add up. Some people have suggested it could have been a gas leak of some sort—methane gas in the earth’s crust released by mining activity. But the mining company that came here in the nineties checked the air quality and found nothing. And, even if that did explain why everyone died simultaneously, it doesn’t explain the baby, or why the only body they found here was Birgitta’s, who clearly didn’t die of suffocation. It was a hot summer that year, so if it had been a gas leak then there would have been corpses rotting on the streets when the police arrived.”

Max grimaces slightly at the thought.

I look at Tone.

“Have I forgotten any?” I ask.

“Those are all the big ones,” she says. “But I’ve always had a soft spot for the Russian invasion theory.”

“Oh! Yes!” I say. “That’s hilarious. Apparently the Soviet Union were doing some sort of dress rehearsal for a Swedish land invasion, and kidnapped the entire village.” I shrug. “Though, I have to say, I can’t pinpoint any actual holes with that one. I almost hope it’s true. Just imagine the scoop!”

Emmy laughs. That same flash of recognition, of warmth.

I push it down.

“So what we’re saying is there’s no good explanation?” Robert hums.

“Yeah,” I say. “Hence the mystery. Almost nine hundred people, lost without a trace. No one knows if they’re alive or dead, or if they killed themselves, got sick, or left the place voluntarily. No one knows why poor Birgitta Lidman was stoned to death. And no one knows whose was the baby in the school, or why she got left behind.”

A strange, heavy silence falls after I say this, as if the reality of the mystery hits us all at once. The wind that sweeps over the square isn’t a spring breeze; it’s still cold and raw from winter. It runs straight through my clothes, makes the hairs on my neck stand on end.

“But they must be dead, don’t you think?” Emmy asks quietly, in a tone of voice at odds with her usual loud, defiant self.

I swallow.

“I think so,” I admit. “But I don’t know how or why. So I’m hoping we can find something. Some sort of indication.”

A half truth. I’m hoping we can find more than some small indication: I want an answer. We aren’t a courtroom, I don’t need proof, just something that points in one direction. An unsent letter, fossilized tracks leading out into the forest …

I doubt we’ll find it, but I can’t quite bring myself to give up hope.

Max nods. Tone doesn’t make a sound. When I look at her ankle, I can see that her pant leg has traveled up slightly, and that the skin above the support bandage is red and swollen. She hasn’t eaten her toast; a sad, half-eaten slice of charred bread lies cooling on the ground next to her.

“So then we have a goal for tomorrow,” Emmy says, sounding more like her usual self. She stands up and holds out a hand to Robert, who takes it and pulls himself up.

“I’m gonna hit the sack,” she says. “See you tomorrow.”

Robert nods at the rest of us and follows her off toward the van.

Max looks at me, his eyebrows raised.

“Jeez,” he says, quietly, so that it doesn’t carry to Emmy and Robert. “It’s not even nine o’clock.”