The Lost Village(9)

Tone purses her lips but says nothing.

“I’ll tell the others,” I say curtly, getting out of the van. The stench of exhaust from the running engine follows me as I stride toward them.

Robert’s window is still open, and he’s sitting there patiently, looking completely unflustered. His eyes meet mine but he doesn’t say a word.

“We’ll have to try the other bridge,” I say. “A little further on.”

He nods to show that he’s heard.

Emmy’s eyes meet mine. Pale, gray-green eyes, somehow expressionless and angry at the same time, surrounded by short, dark eyelashes.

I stand up straight again and wave at Max, then gesticulate toward the river. I hope he knows to follow us.

When I climb back into the driver’s seat, Tone’s biting at her thumbnail. She’s staring at the house to our left, a small villa that at one point must have had a certain picture-postcard charm. It’s one of the larger houses; perhaps it belonged to one of the foremen at the mine.

“What is it?” I ask, hoping she isn’t mad about the way I spoke to her before.

She gives a start, then slowly puts her hand in her lap.

“Huh?” she asks. “What?”

“You…” I look at the house. It’s in better shape than the others around it. The front door is slightly ajar, hanging from one lonely, rusty hinge, but the walls are still standing, the roof is undamaged, and most of the fa?ade is intact.

“Just looked like you were looking at something,” I say.

Tone watches me for a few seconds, her eyes empty and slightly confused, before pulling one side of her mouth into a smile that doesn’t quite convince.

“I was somewhere else,” she says.

I pause, then put it out of my mind. I know there’s nothing to worry about, not really. Tone can be hard to read, and this whole trip must be difficult for her. She doesn’t have the same unadulterated enthusiasm for Silvertj?rn that I do.

The van edges along the road, and the river disappears again behind row upon row of empty houses with gaping windows. By now the shadows have really started to fall, long streaks of black silk.

A break in the houses on my left gives me a sudden glimpse of a very welcome silhouette, and the relief runs coursing through me.

“Hah!” I exclaim, pointing at a diminutive stone bridge.

Tone whistles quietly.

“Nice,” she says.

It’s an arched bridge made of speckled granite, like something out of a fairy tale. There’s moss growing on and between the stones, but it looks stable. Older than the rest of the village.

“Must be the original bridge, huh?” she says. “From before the state nationalized the mine and started expanding.”

“Exactly,” I agree, continuing toward the bridge. “They must have gotten it wrong in the report. This is the bridge that’s supposed to be safe.”

Tone raises her eyebrows.

“Are you sure?” she asks. “If it’s that old, it might not be stable. I don’t know how solid their constructions were back then—it was built for horses and farmers, not vans.”

For a moment I hesitate. But then I shake my head and tentatively put my foot on the gas.

“It’ll hold,” I say, driving onto the bridge.

For a few seconds I expect it to disappear from beneath us, that lurching, falling sensation. But it never comes. The bridge holds, and in a matter of seconds we’re on the other side.

Tone shakes her head, but I smile jubilantly. I knew it would hold. It wouldn’t dare try anything else.

I’ve fought to get here. Tooth and nail, for every little break. Nothing is going to stop me now.

The road runs straight up from the bridge to the main square, and we slowly make our ascent over heather and cobblestones.

On one side of the square there’s a building with a grizzled stone fa?ade that claims to be the village hall, and on the other, an old, Villa Villekulla–type building that can only be the village school. Its doorframes gape, the doors hanging open.

The square is smaller than expected, cobbled and overgrown. Dry yellow blades of last summer’s grass poke up from between the cracks in the stones, and a few of the stone slabs have been completely overturned by particularly ambitious pine shoots that appear to have then succumbed to winter.

We drive into the middle of the square and stop. I put on the hand brake, and the engine goes quiet.

“Well,” Tone says as we both look up at the church. The last rays of light give in to the blue dusk, throwing even the church spire into shadow. I hear Emmy’s van pull up beside us and stop, and Max’s Volvo right behind.

“We’ve made it.”

I try to make a mental note of everything around me: that last buzz of sunshine, the artificial smell of spruce in the car, the feel of the cold air against my cheeks as I open the car door.

This is Silvertj?rn.

This is where it all begins.





NOW



It’s colder than I thought it would be. What little warmth the pale April sun gave off doesn’t stick around long after darkness, and the chill of winter is still set deep underground, beaming up through the cobblestones to fill the night with the scent of frozen soil.

We have a little campfire going, and there’s something perversely cozy about the whole setup. At Emmy’s request, Robert has managed to hot-wire a small speaker to the generator we brought with us, which is now playing tinny dad rock. I don’t know if it was Emmy or Robert who chose the music, but it brings back old memories of cold student dorms and warm beer. Emmy’s head heavy against my shoulder. Tipsy, lighthearted pre-party chatter.