The Lost Village(58)

So what was one of her drawings doing in the church?





THEN



Elsa knocks at the door. Her knock is harder than usual, but her hand is trembling and she’s finding it hard to keep her voice steady.

“Birgitta!” she says, trying to sound as cheery as she can. “Birgitta, it’s me. Elsa. I’ve brought some food.”

She does have food, in the normal picnic basket, but it’s all wrong—it’s been scrabbled together too hastily. Elsa’s still completely beside herself. Her heart is racing, and she’s sweating, despite the cool summer day.

It has been a dark start to the summer, cloudy and cool, with a constant smell of rain in the air. Elsa’s senses feel stale and insipid, and the villagers have been drifting around town like ghosts, wandering the streets without purpose or feeling. The churchgoers blaze like torches among them.

Something is afoot.

“Birgitta,” she calls out again, louder and more shrilly, and bangs on the door. “Open the door!”

It can’t be anything serious, she tries to reassure herself. She was here just a few days ago. And Birgitta was looking perfectly normal then.

Though perhaps she had been a little wan? Not that Elsa had picked up on it. Or let herself pick up on it. She was too preoccupied with other things: Staffan and his drinking; Margareta and her latest letter. More than anything she wishes she could be there with her now, that she could hold her hand and help her through her pregnancy. Her heart is bleeding for her.

And, with all of this on her mind, she hasn’t seen what has been happening to Birgitta.

To Aina.

Her girls.

Elsa can’t even curse herself anymore; the anger fails her. She drops her hand, puts her forehead to the door and whispers, though she knows Birgitta won’t open it:

“Please, Birgitta, open the door.”

The worn wood feels smooth and cool against her forehead. It soothes the heat in her face.

Her right hand is still banging on the door.

And then she hears footsteps.

She manages to straighten herself up just in time for Birgitta to open the door.

Her first feeling is one of relief. Despite knowing that it couldn’t possibly be the case, she had a crippling fear of finding Birgitta dead—that or gravely ill. Three days untended is a long time for someone like Birgitta.

But the relief soon fades, replaced by something that could almost be called horror.

Birgitta’s eyes are downcast as usual, but they are flitting around in frenzied terror, and she is humming quietly while rocking to and fro. It almost sounds like she’s crying. Elsa has never heard Birgitta cry before.

“Oh, Birgitta,” she says. She puts down the basket and reaches out to hold her, but Birgitta’s hums grow to a moaning roar, and she lashes out at Elsa. One of her arms meets the side of Elsa’s head, forcefully, and Elsa stumbles backward, seeing stars. It hurts terribly, but she manages to catch her balance just in time. She touches her cheek: it’s burning but not bleeding, and nothing appears to be loose or broken.

Birgitta has backed a few steps into the hut. She is still making her plaintive, sorrowful moans, but they now sound almost resigned. She didn’t want to hurt Elsa. Elsa knows that.

“Forgive me, Birgitta,” she says. Her head is still spinning. “That was wrong of me. I shouldn’t have done that.”

Elsa doesn’t know if Birgitta can hear her. She approaches her cautiously, her hands at her sides. She wants to show her she won’t try to touch her again. Then she picks up the basket of food from the ground.

“Can I come in? I’ve brought some food. You must be very hungry.”

Elsa makes sure to stand very still while Birgitta makes up her mind.

Eventually Birgitta takes another step back, just enough for Elsa to be able to squeeze in through the doorway.

“Thank you, Birgitta, that’s very kind,” she says politely, as though Birgitta has just invited her in for a coffee. Elsa makes sure to wipe the mud off her shoes on the threshold before stepping inside. After the long, wet summer they’ve had, Silvertj?rn is virtually one big swamp.

She steps inside and looks around. To her surprise, the musty stench is no worse than normal—quite the opposite, in fact. The summer sun filters in through the slender branches of the young oak and down onto the kitchen table.

There’s something there.

Elsa takes a close look at Birgitta before going further in, but Birgitta shows no signs of agitation. She appears to have calmed down. Elsa puts the basket on the chair, as usual, and looks down at the tabletop.

Crayons.

Four small, cheap crayons, the sort a child would have, and clearly well-used. There are four colors: red, blue, yellow, and black.

Elsa leans over the tabletop to see what Birgitta has drawn, but finds nothing. Her eyes scan the room. Nothing.

Then her eyes land on the floor next to Birgitta’s feet.

Faint traces of mud.

Footprints, in the same mud that surrounds the hut.

Elsa looks at Birgitta’s feet, but she already knows the footprints can’t be hers; they’re too big to come from Birgitta’s surprisingly dainty feet, and they’re shaped like a pair of shoes. As far as Elsa knows, Birgitta doesn’t own any shoes, and she shakes her head and flails around if anyone so much at tries to get her to wear anything other than the big, shapeless dress she’s lived in since her mother passed away. Anything else seems to cause her pain.