hard.
The stench hit him, a warm, sickening blast from the dark interior. It was a smell of rotten meat, rancid dry fodder and old piss, blended with fumes from a strong alkaline cleaning solution. And excrement. What it had smelled like when Ejvor had gone in to clean up he did not want to imagine. By then no one had cleaned in there for almost three weeks. All they had done was carry in plastic bags and boxes of food.
With his left hand covering his nose and mouth he stepped over the threshold and carefully kicked the snow off the soles of his boots. Not too hard – he did not want it to sound as if he was knocking.
He shone the torch on the circular pattern of the cork matting and then over the faded floral wallpaper on the narrow wall that separated the two doors on the opposite side of the hall. There was a rustling of small clawed feet in one of the rooms. He stood listening, feeling anxious, and after a while was forced to let go of his nose and draw in air.
Christ, what a stink! He twisted his face in disgust and foughtas hard as he could against the impulse to run out.
Perhaps he ought to let them know he was here after all? It went against his instinct, but the big ones did not like people creeping up on them. They were exactly like bears in that respect. It could get dangerous.
‘Ejvor?’ he said.
He waited a few seconds and then he said:
‘Mum?’
There was no way he would shout. Even sudden noises could irritate them, and it would almost certainly upset the little ones.
He could not see her, so she must have gone downstairs, as he thought. Because she couldn’t be upstairs, surely? He shone his torch up the staircase but quickly lowered it. He did not know which of them was in the house, and considering Ejvor was hardly likely to be on the upper floor it was unnecessary to disturb them.
He looked into the kitchen. They had already made a mess. A real mess.
On the floor lay polystyrene trays with remnants of minced meat long turned grey. There were half-eaten packages of black pudding and liver pâté and bacon, and an upturned paper carrier bag from the supermarket with its contents of apples and potatoes strewn across the floor. It looked as if they had amused themselves by trampling on it.
Around the buckets lined up under the draining board the cork matting was black with pellets of dry fodder. Someone had dug down deeply to see if there was anything else at the bottom.
Normally they didn’t crap in the kitchen, but judging from the smell they must have done, and it was when he was searching for their droppings with the torchlight that he caught sight of her, only a few metres away.
She was sitting with her back propped against the wall and her legs straight out in front of her, her hands resting limply on the floor. The head torch was resting on her chest like a large pendant.
It never occurred to him to approach Ejvor, so he must have immediately registered that something was wrong, but he aimed the torch at her for several seconds before realising that the back of her head with the shiny knot of hair was where her face should be, and that she was staring straight at the wallpaper without seeing it.
The long hours of daylight that fortify us and the unyielding darkness that wraps itself thickly around the shimmering green swirls of the northern lights – it is primarily these extraordinary and mutually opposed forces that led our family, the Myréns, to investigate and eventually reveal the existence of trolls.
Dad was drawn to the dramatic play between light and darkness, and to the landscape itself, of course. And he drew us with him.
This is what I remember him saying, or rather singing:
‘Sweden, Sweden, country of wildlife, winter country of fiery northern lights.’
I used to wonder what kind of image foreigners have of our circumpolar land. A windswept and frost-ravaged expanse? A barren and for the most part wretched region, sparsely populated, if not to say uninhabited? A stag standing
The stench hit him, a warm, sickening blast from the dark interior. It was a smell of rotten meat, rancid dry fodder and old piss, blended with fumes from a strong alkaline cleaning solution. And excrement. What it had smelled like when Ejvor had gone in to clean up he did not want to imagine. By then no one had cleaned in there for almost three weeks. All they had done was carry in plastic bags and boxes of food.
With his left hand covering his nose and mouth he stepped over the threshold and carefully kicked the snow off the soles of his boots. Not too hard – he did not want it to sound as if he was knocking.
He shone the torch on the circular pattern of the cork matting and then over the faded floral wallpaper on the narrow wall that separated the two doors on the opposite side of the hall. There was a rustling of small clawed feet in one of the rooms. He stood listening, feeling anxious, and after a while was forced to let go of his nose and draw in air.
Christ, what a stink! He twisted his face in disgust and foughtas hard as he could against the impulse to run out.
Perhaps he ought to let them know he was here after all? It went against his instinct, but the big ones did not like people creeping up on them. They were exactly like bears in that respect. It could get dangerous.
‘Ejvor?’ he said.
He waited a few seconds and then he said:
‘Mum?’
There was no way he would shout. Even sudden noises could irritate them, and it would almost certainly upset the little ones.
He could not see her, so she must have gone downstairs, as he thought. Because she couldn’t be upstairs, surely? He shone his torch up the staircase but quickly lowered it. He did not know which of them was in the house, and considering Ejvor was hardly likely to be on the upper floor it was unnecessary to disturb them.
He looked into the kitchen. They had already made a mess. A real mess.
On the floor lay polystyrene trays with remnants of minced meat long turned grey. There were half-eaten packages of black pudding and liver pâté and bacon, and an upturned paper carrier bag from the supermarket with its contents of apples and potatoes strewn across the floor. It looked as if they had amused themselves by trampling on it.
Around the buckets lined up under the draining board the cork matting was black with pellets of dry fodder. Someone had dug down deeply to see if there was anything else at the bottom.
Normally they didn’t crap in the kitchen, but judging from the smell they must have done, and it was when he was searching for their droppings with the torchlight that he caught sight of her, only a few metres away.
She was sitting with her back propped against the wall and her legs straight out in front of her, her hands resting limply on the floor. The head torch was resting on her chest like a large pendant.
It never occurred to him to approach Ejvor, so he must have immediately registered that something was wrong, but he aimed the torch at her for several seconds before realising that the back of her head with the shiny knot of hair was where her face should be, and that she was staring straight at the wallpaper without seeing it.
The long hours of daylight that fortify us and the unyielding darkness that wraps itself thickly around the shimmering green swirls of the northern lights – it is primarily these extraordinary and mutually opposed forces that led our family, the Myréns, to investigate and eventually reveal the existence of trolls.
Dad was drawn to the dramatic play between light and darkness, and to the landscape itself, of course. And he drew us with him.
This is what I remember him saying, or rather singing:
‘Sweden, Sweden, country of wildlife, winter country of fiery northern lights.’
I used to wonder what kind of image foreigners have of our circumpolar land. A windswept and frost-ravaged expanse? A barren and for the most part wretched region, sparsely populated, if not to say uninhabited? A stag standing
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