The Lost Village(39)

Mother thinks I haven’t noticed, but I can see her getting more tired and anxious by the day. She didn’t want to let on while you were here because she didn’t want to worry you, but I heard her tell Dagny that they’re short of money and that Father’s struggling to find a job. If things don’t get better soon then maybe I’ll be in the same boat as poor Karin ?nglund.

But do you know what? It was almost a miracle, for no sooner had I thought that than Pastor Mattias looked me straight in the eye, and it felt like he could read my mind. He told us—though it felt like he was talking to me alone:

“Everyone has a home in the house of God. None of you need ever worry about losing your way. If your families lose their houses then the church shall be your home. If your parents and siblings leave you then we shall be your family. God looks after his flock.”

He sounded so truthful and confident, and I believed him utterly. And, for the first time in many months, I felt calm.

I hung back slightly after the meeting, and Pastor Mattias thanked me for all my help with the group, and for managing to bring in so many other youngsters. He even said he could never have done it without me! Can you believe it? Me! I hardly knew what to say, but he seemed to understand (he always understands), and just smiled. And then he said I could choose our passages for the next meeting! He said I could choose whatever I wanted, but that I should look at the Song of Songs, as he was sure I would like it. I haven’t managed to do it yet, but I’m certain he’s right. He always is.

But anyway, do have a think about the name! Ruth! I know it may not be so “continental,” but despite her hardships Ruth did become a queen in the end. So it is a royal name, and I think that’s even better!

Now, I’d best go read the Song of Songs, to try to select some passages. Write soon!

Your little sister, Aina





NOW



I wake up.

My heart is pounding, but I blink and sit up in my sleeping bag, trying to shake off the nightmare. I stretch out, let my fingers brush against the edge of the tent. I’m not in that van anymore.

What woke me up?

It’s pitch black in here. I have no idea what time it could be, but the dawn light hasn’t started to filter in through the thin fabric of the tent. It smells of humans and sleep in here, with a faint hint of rain.

I hear Tone roll over in her sleep, and say her name quietly.

No reply.

When I focus on Tone’s curled-up figure, I almost think her eyes are glinting at me in the darkness; that she’s lying there, silent and unmoving, staring at me. It makes my heart pound even faster, but the next second I’m convinced it’s all in my head. It’s just the lingering shrouds of sleep over my eyes, that’s all. She’s asleep.

I’m not used to waking up in the middle of the night. Staying up late for work, sure, but not the feeling of being wrenched out of sleep, the kind of unpleasant stillness that comes of being awake against your will, while everyone else is asleep. My hearing seems keener than usual, and however hard I try, I can’t stop myself from listening out for something.

Footsteps.

There’s no one there, I tell myself. You know there’s no one there.

But I don’t believe it.

There’s no sound outside.

I had denied what I thought I had seen and asked Emmy to leave the van, but even once the doors were shut that lingering fear had lived on in my body. I felt uneasy well into the evening, even after the clouds had dispersed enough to reveal an ethereally pink sunset. The ground was too wet to get a fire going, so instead we made grilled cheese sandwiches on the alcohol stove. I didn’t say much while we ate, just watched the others as they made full-mouthed small talk, spraying bread crumbs over the cobblestones.

I watched Emmy.

She was the one who was there, despite everything—the one who opened the door. And even though her hoodie was dry, that could have been some sort of setup: she could have had it in a plastic bag, for example, then put it on to make it look like she had run straight over.

But why?

Tone said she’d heard someone downstairs in the school before she fell through the steps, and Emmy and Robert did make it back to camp suspiciously quickly.

It feels ridiculous to picture Emmy behind all this, though. It would go against everything I thought I knew about her. However dim my opinion may be of her now, there’s no denying she has always taken her work incredibly seriously. At college she was just unbearable, so nitpicky that no one ever wanted to do group projects with her. She would edit and re-edit until her eyes were tired and bloodshot, her fingertips numb. She always had her eyes on the prize, results over all else.

I can’t believe that she would sabotage this project.

But then …

I have wondered why she agreed to come on board—despite us paying peanuts, despite having to work under me.…

No. I shake my head. The thought is insane. Emmy may be selfish, pragmatic, and cold, but she isn’t unhinged. She isn’t trying to ruin my chances, or my film. It’s all in my head. Silvertj?rn is just getting to me.

I really wish Tone were awake. A familiar voice in this darkness. She would tell me to stop being ridiculous, remind me, in that deadpan voice of hers, that the most we have to worry about is a hungry bear fresh out of hibernation wandering into the village one night and deciding we look like a tasty breakfast.