The Lost Village(33)

NOW



The church is only a few blocks up from the square, but in Silvertj?rn terms that’s virtually the other side of town. The wind has picked up this morning, and the building looms ominously against a background of heavy, dark clouds.

The church is today’s first port of call, but in the gray mist it feels like it could be almost twilight.

I’ve decided that the four of us will do the church together, and then we can split up afterward. Tone agreed. She’s going to stay at the camp and go through yesterday’s pictures while we’re out exploring. She was looking better today; her eyes were sharp, and there was some color in her cheeks. I didn’t feel the need to say anything, but at breakfast I saw her pop two Advil tablets and wash them down with her instant coffee.

The tall lattice windows above the church doors are still intact, except one small blue pane in the middle, which has cracked. The stucco walls are in surprisingly good shape, too—still a brilliant white—and the doors look alarmingly stable.

“Are they bolted?” Emmy asks when we stop at the bottom of the crumbling church steps. Those, at least, bear witness to the abandonment of the village: the concrete slabs are laced with fissures and pine needles.

I walk up the steps and tentatively push the church doors. I have to put some weight into it—the doors are heavy and seem to have swollen in the years of damp and cold—but with a creaking, slightly grumbling sound, they slowly swing open.

There’s a faint, musty smell of mildew inside, but it’s not as bad as in the school, presumably because most of the windows are still intact. The dampness hasn’t been able to insinuate itself here like it has in the row houses. The dark wooden pews stand in silent rows, and the altar looms large at the front, apparently untouched. An emaciated, bleeding Jesus on the cross above the altar stares down at us with empty eyes. It’s enormous, and hard not to stare at, much larger than the majority of crucifixes I’ve seen. The carved figure must be at least as tall as I am, and as heavy, too. It is also disconcertingly lifelike: the cheekbones seem to press up from under its skin, the contours of the ribs are clearly visible, and the stomach has sunken in, as though after many months of hunger. Unlike many other hale and hearty, inexplicably Aryan Jesuses I’ve seen on crosses throughout this country, this one has dark hair and is clearly in pain. Despite an untidy paint job, the eyes look bottomless, black and accusatory. Like the lake beneath the clouds.

“Fucking hell,” Emmy says quietly. When I turn around, her eyes are also fixed on the figure.

“I can get that you’d start believing in a wrathful god if you had him glaring down at you all the time,” she says. Her words are chipper but the tone rings false. She can’t seem to tear her eyes from it.

A sudden click makes me jump. It’s Robert, getting a shot of the cross. He takes some more pictures of the church as viewed from the doorway, then slowly starts walking up the aisle.

The ceilings are high. I look up to see thick wooden beams crisscrossing above us, yet not a single word echoes. I slowly make my way up to the altar.

I can picture him standing up there with his sleeves rolled up, those beautiful, angelic features red in animation. My image of his face is so clear that I’m sure I must have seen it somewhere before; it probably belongs to some innocent passing stranger, someone who happened to match the image I’ve formed of him in my mind. Smooth skin, a high forehead, piercing eyes and long eyelashes. Thick, pronounced eyebrows and a narrow nose. Like a renaissance painting of an angel—a Scandinavian prophet for the deep forests.

He was always what fascinated me most about Grandma’s story.

He was a young man, scarce over thirty, with a smooth, boyish face. He wasn’t particularly tall, but he had broad shoulders and a pleasant smile. The village women suddenly started wearing their best dresses to church of a Sunday, where they would sit in the front pews and listen, eyes gleaming, to Pastor Mattias’s sermons.

I’ve toyed with the idea of trying to do a reenactment for the documentary, to bring in some actors and shoot here, on location. I’ve even scripted a few short scenes: a church sermon; a scene with Birgitta. We could even do something with the stoning. It would give the documentary something extra, sensationalize it. But it’s just not realistic: we don’t have the budget to make it look good enough. Better to stick to a straight documentary format and focus on making the story enough of a hook.

You have to do whatever you can to stand out. With Netflix, HBO, and a media market full to bursting point, we’re going to have to throw everything we can at getting ourselves seen.

I look up again. I wonder how the pastor’s voice sounded in here as it bounded up toward the ceiling. I tried to ask Grandma about his accent a few times, but she could never give me an exact answer, only something vague about it sounding different, like he wasn’t from these parts. I could never get any more from her than that.

My eyes are drawn to the small, closed wooden door beside the altar. A closet of some kind? I walk around the altar toward it, take hold of the small brass doorknob, and twist.

There is a small but homely room behind it. The windowpanes have lasted pretty well in here, too, and the dull gray light from the spring day outside filters in through dirty glass panes. Beyond them I can see the blurred image of a pleasant little churchyard. It’s perversely idyllic, lush and green.

The room feels most like a kitchen or living room, with a small kitchenette and a simple pinewood table. An empty glass jar with a few extremely crisp, faded dried flowers balances on the windowsill, and there’s a small, old-fashioned coffeepot on one of the stovetops on the kitchenette. I walk over to it and lift the lid. The inside is thick with a black, dried-in slush. I smell it and, impossible as it may be, think I can almost make out the faint scent of coffee grounds.