The Lost Village(96)

The knife he draws from his belt is nothing special; it’s a pocketknife, the type carried by every man and boy in the village. Its handle is black, and its blade glistens in the glare of the torch.

The pastor hands the torch to one of the multitude of people standing behind them and bends forward. He places his hand on Elsa’s head. It’s dry and warm.

“Don’t worry,” he says, “she isn’t here.” It’s a whisper, directed at Elsa alone. “She’s above ground with the baby. She won’t see this.”

Aina.

The gratitude that wells up in Elsa is perverse, a thick, sluggish delirium that mixes with the hatred she feels until she can no longer separate the two, until they become one in her body.

She looks him in the eye.

His dry lips kiss her forehead.

Dagny’s sobs have risen to a full-on cry, and she is begging and pleading:

“No, please, please, let me go, I didn’t mean to, I promise to never … never…”

Her voice turns into a howl, then a whimper, and Elsa doesn’t get to hear what it is that she will never do.

The pastor straightens up.

“I submit this soul to You, O Lord, for You to welcome her into Your Grace and cleanse her of the sin and blackness of the world,” he orates. The hand on Elsa’s head grows heavier. He digs his fingers into her hair and pulls her head back, exposing her neck.

He raises the knife, a silver sword in the glare of the flickering torch.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy—” he says, but his voice is drowned out by another sound.

A rumble above their heads. It runs through the rock above them like a peal of thunder: weakened structures that have been cut and hollowed out time and again; beams that have rotted and weakened and now start to give way; thousands of tons of bedrock, buckling under the strain of its own weight.

Some of the congregation scream—short, shocked cries. Elsa hears the sound of backing, stumbling feet. Most of them can’t move at all; there are too many of them, in too small a space. There is nowhere for them to go.

The pastor looks up again and opens his mouth.

“No,” he says quickly. A command, not a prayer.

Elsa closes her eyes.

As the world comes crashing down the short cries turn into panicked screams, but even those are drowned out by the bellows of the bedrock as it caves in and consumes them.

How funny, Elsa thinks, the second before the world dissolves around her and everything turns to nothing.

The muffled roar of the rock above them sounds just like Birgitta.





NOW



Robert carries Tone as we limp our way back toward the village. The night sky is in full bloom above us, and the bright, glowing half moon makes the kerosene lamp redundant. Just as well: the last of the kerosene has burnt out, and the wick fades to a thin glow before going out.

“I’ll leave it here,” I say quietly to Robert, who nods, and I put it down by the path. There it will stay, like a little marker. A dropped bread crumb showing where we’ve been.

We walk toward the square, as if in silent agreement. It was where we slept when we first arrived; we can spend one last night there. One last night before they come to get us.

The square is completely still when we reach it. The April night tints the ruins of the cars dark blue, but they don’t feel threatening anymore. The last of the stench of burning metal has started to pass. Robert lays Tone down carefully on the ground. She is wet and her skin feels hot, but she looks better now than before. The water washed off the worst of the blood and dirt from her face.

I stroke her head gently. Her breaths are quiet and regular. I can’t tell if she’s asleep or unconscious, but her facial features are calm and flat.

“Will you stay with her?” I ask Robert, and he nods. He has twisted his nose back into place as well as he can, but it still looks awful. I don’t know how it’s going to heal.

“Where are you going?” he asks.

“I thought I’d get some blankets and sheets from the school,” I say. “We can make a fire with them. Warm ourselves up.”

He nods. There’s not much more to be said.

I walk around the school to reach the fire escape, then climb it carefully. It creaks, but holds. It’s darker in there without the moonlight, but my eyes adjust and I find my way around.

I gather as many blankets and sheets as I can carry, and put them in a pile by the window. Then I step into the hall.

The white figure by the wall is almost invisible in the darkness, but I know where she is. I walk over and kneel down beside her, then pull back the sheet from her face.

She is cold and stiff. Her lips are frozen.

The tears well up in me again, and this time I let it all out. My sobs are quietly draining, not loud or dramatic, and I let them flow through my body until they ebb away. Then I just sit there for a few minutes, until my breathing calms, until my hands find their way into my lap and I can look at her, at her still, light face in the flimsy glow of the moonlight outside.

“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I’m so, so sorry. Forgive me.”

I take in a deep breath and let it out. The air tastes of dust and old sunshine.

Then I lean forward and kiss her on the forehead. Her skin is icy under my lips.

“Thank you,” I whisper.