river, they cut across some marshland which swayed under their feet. They could hear the water now, a murmur as talkative as the stream’s, but with several voices. According to the map, the river ran down from the mountain, its winding bends ceasing at the Klöppen. As they rounded a little island of birches in the marshland, she caught sight of the lake. A white sheet, a metallic gleam lighter than the sky’s.
The same fuzzy grey willows grew along the river as on the banks of the stream, but the undergrowth was higher, apparently impenetrable. The ground was firmer among the birches, but very uneven. She was beginning to feel really tired. With her much shorter legs, how long would Mia be able to cope with walking up and down dips and uneven ground?
Quite unexpectedly, the undergrowth thinned out, leaving a slope running down to the river. Something blue glinted and once past the last obscuring bushes, they could see two twisted spruces close to each other and beside them a small tent. A circling bird with its wings outspread suddenly dived, its wings pressed close to its body, and they heard a whistling sound that was perhaps a call. It looked like a projectile as it dived through the air.
The tent was not big enough for more than two people. It had been pitched close to the water, which raced along between smooth, round stones. At first she felt a tremendous relief. Whoever was sleeping inside would have walked there and must know where the path led and where to ford the river. Then she saw Mia’s eyes fixed on the bright-blue little tent, and they were wide with fear. She ought to tell her everything was all right now. They had found people. They would soon find Nirsbuan and their journey’s end. But she said nothing. She took Mia’s hand and pulled her slowly behind the undergrowth.
‘Let’s go,’ she whispered, though it was totally unnecessary to whisper. Inside that tent no one could have heard anything above the noise of the water.
A silvery light was gleaming round the cottage, which lay high up, and through the screen of wild chervil, Johan could see how everything seemed to rise and fall in the uncertain light – like the earth breathing.
He didn’t go in by the door. The key to the cottage always used to be kept on a nail under the eaves on the gable facing the lake. But Torsten had said that if the Starhill people occupied it, he would report them to the police for breaking and entering. Then he put an iron crossbar across the door and locked it with a padlock. Nowadays, he kept the key at home.
It was possible to ease out the nails that held the hingeless bedroom window in place. Once he had climbed inside, he threw the eel parcel on the kitchen table and at once started the lengthy process of lighting the stove. It had to be started with meths, so he soaked some old newspaper, stuffed it inside and lit it. At first there had been a rustle when he pulled out the damper, as if something, perhaps the body of a bird, had fallen down a bit. Then a thick cloud of yellow smoke came billowing out as he set fire to the sticks and firewood. He almost started crying, as if he had lost ten or twelve years of his life as he crouched down in front of the stove, chilled to the bone and shaking. Acrid smoke soon filled the cabin.
He opened the window, pulled out the burning wood and put it into a basin. Then he started from the beginning again, the meths flared up this time and the roaring sounded different.
Running along the path, he had been thinking about the warmth of the cabin, hot cocoa and the old quilts he would wrap round himself. He would be in a nest. But once he got the stove going and the smoke had more or less dispersed, there was much to do before he could curl up and think. He wanted to think. He had to. But first he had to fetch a bucket of water from the lake, and to do that he had to climb out through the kitchen window. Then he had to put the bedroom window back into its frame and slot
The same fuzzy grey willows grew along the river as on the banks of the stream, but the undergrowth was higher, apparently impenetrable. The ground was firmer among the birches, but very uneven. She was beginning to feel really tired. With her much shorter legs, how long would Mia be able to cope with walking up and down dips and uneven ground?
Quite unexpectedly, the undergrowth thinned out, leaving a slope running down to the river. Something blue glinted and once past the last obscuring bushes, they could see two twisted spruces close to each other and beside them a small tent. A circling bird with its wings outspread suddenly dived, its wings pressed close to its body, and they heard a whistling sound that was perhaps a call. It looked like a projectile as it dived through the air.
The tent was not big enough for more than two people. It had been pitched close to the water, which raced along between smooth, round stones. At first she felt a tremendous relief. Whoever was sleeping inside would have walked there and must know where the path led and where to ford the river. Then she saw Mia’s eyes fixed on the bright-blue little tent, and they were wide with fear. She ought to tell her everything was all right now. They had found people. They would soon find Nirsbuan and their journey’s end. But she said nothing. She took Mia’s hand and pulled her slowly behind the undergrowth.
‘Let’s go,’ she whispered, though it was totally unnecessary to whisper. Inside that tent no one could have heard anything above the noise of the water.
A silvery light was gleaming round the cottage, which lay high up, and through the screen of wild chervil, Johan could see how everything seemed to rise and fall in the uncertain light – like the earth breathing.
He didn’t go in by the door. The key to the cottage always used to be kept on a nail under the eaves on the gable facing the lake. But Torsten had said that if the Starhill people occupied it, he would report them to the police for breaking and entering. Then he put an iron crossbar across the door and locked it with a padlock. Nowadays, he kept the key at home.
It was possible to ease out the nails that held the hingeless bedroom window in place. Once he had climbed inside, he threw the eel parcel on the kitchen table and at once started the lengthy process of lighting the stove. It had to be started with meths, so he soaked some old newspaper, stuffed it inside and lit it. At first there had been a rustle when he pulled out the damper, as if something, perhaps the body of a bird, had fallen down a bit. Then a thick cloud of yellow smoke came billowing out as he set fire to the sticks and firewood. He almost started crying, as if he had lost ten or twelve years of his life as he crouched down in front of the stove, chilled to the bone and shaking. Acrid smoke soon filled the cabin.
He opened the window, pulled out the burning wood and put it into a basin. Then he started from the beginning again, the meths flared up this time and the roaring sounded different.
Running along the path, he had been thinking about the warmth of the cabin, hot cocoa and the old quilts he would wrap round himself. He would be in a nest. But once he got the stove going and the smoke had more or less dispersed, there was much to do before he could curl up and think. He wanted to think. He had to. But first he had to fetch a bucket of water from the lake, and to do that he had to climb out through the kitchen window. Then he had to put the bedroom window back into its frame and slot
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