Midwinter Sacrifice aka Midwinter Blood

‘Wow,’ Zeke says. ‘I can hardly contain myself.’

The lights of the patrol car were shining like flickering coloured stars against the white field and sky.

They approach slowly, and the car seems gradually to reel in metre after metre of cold, of snow-covered field, of the site’s evident suitability for loneliness. Metre by metre, crystal by crystal, they get closer to their goal, a tussock, a swelling in the ground, an event that stems from an event that demands the attention of the present moment. The wind whips against the windscreen.

The Volvo’s wheels slide over the cleared road, and some fifty metres from the play of the lights a solitary oak stands out hazily against the horizon, grey-white tentacles becoming a scrambling poisonous spider on the white sky, the fine tracery of branches a net of memories and suggestions. The oak’s coarsest branches bend down towards the ground, and slowly the cold lets go of the veils that have thus far concealed what bends them from Zeke and Malin’s eyes.

There’s a figure outside the patrol car. Two heads in its rear window. A green Saab pulled up haphazardly a few metres away.

A protection barrier set up around the tree, almost reaching to the road.

And then in the tree. The not exactly great sight.

Something to make your eyes doubt what they see.

For voices to talk about.

3

In a way, it’s nice hanging up here.

There’s a good view and my frozen body is swaying pleasantly in the wind. I can let my thoughts meander wherever they like. There’s a calm here that I’ve never experienced before, that I never imagined might exist. My voice is new, my gaze too. Maybe I’m now the person I never had a chance to be.

The horizon is growing lighter and the Ostgota plain is grey-white; it looks endless, the view only broken by clusters of trees encircling small farms. The snow is drifting in waves across the meadows and fields, pasture interchangeable with bare soil, and down there, far from my dangling feet, a young man in grey overalls stands beside a police car, looking anxiously and expectantly, almost relieved, towards the approaching vehicle. Then he turns his eyes towards me, somehow watchful, as if I might run off or something.

The blood has solidified in my body.

My blood has solidified in the heavens and the stars and far out in the most distant galaxies. Yet I am still here. But I need not breathe any more, and that would be tricky anyway, considering the noose around my neck. When the man got out of his car and approached in his red jacket – God knows what he was doing out here so early – he screamed, then he muttered, Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fucking hell, oh God.

Then he rushed to his phone and now he’s sitting in the car shaking his head.

God: yes. I tried with Him once but what could He offer me? I see it everywhere: this faithless invocation that people start up as soon as they get involved in anything they imagine is related to darkness.

I’m not alone now, there are infinite numbers of people like me all around, but it still isn’t crowded, there’s room for all of us, more than enough room; here, in my infinitely expanding universe, everything is simultaneously shrinking together. Becoming clear, yet still strangely murky.

Of course it hurt.

Of course I was scared.

Of course I tried to escape.

But deep within me I knew my life was done. I wasn’t happy, but I was tired, tired of moving in circles around what I had been denied, what I, nevertheless, somewhere in my innermost being, still wanted to have, still wanted to participate in.

People’s movements.

Never my movements.

That’s why it’s pleasant hanging here naked and dead in a lonely oak tree out on one of the most fertile acres in the country. I think the two lights on the car that’s heading this way along the road are beautiful.

There was never any beautiful before.

Maybe it’s just for us dead?

It’s lovely, so lovely not to be troubled by all the worries of the living.

The cold has no smell. The naked, bloody body above Malin’s head is slowly swinging back and forth, the oak a reluctant, creaking gallows whose sounds mingle with the rumble of an idling car engine. The skin has come loose in great flaps over the bulging stomach and across the back, and the bleeding flesh, frozen, is a confusion of dull shades of red. Here and there on the limbs, apparently at random, the wounds are deep, concave, as though carved by a knife in slices from the body. The genitals appear to have been left untouched. The face lacks contours, is a blue-black, swollen, frozen mass of beaten fat. Only the eyes, wide open and bloodshot, almost surprised or hungry, yet simultaneously full of hesitant fear, let on that this is a human face.

‘He must weigh at least a hundred and fifty kilos,’ Zeke says.

‘At least,’ Malin replies, thinking that she has seen that look on murder victims before, how everything becomes primal again when we are faced with death, how we revert to the new human being we once were. Scared, hungry, but right from the outset capable of surprise.

She usually reacts this way when confronted by scenes like this. Rationalises them away, with the help of memories and things she’s read, tries to match up what her eyes are seeing with what she’s gleaned from studies.

His eyes.

Most of all she sees fury in them. And despair.

The others are waiting over by the patrol car. Zeke told the uniformed officer to sit and wait in the car.

‘No need for you to stand out here freezing. He’ll keep on hanging where he’s hanging.’

‘Don’t you want to talk to the man who found him?’ The officer looked over his shoulder. ‘That’s who found him.’

‘We’ll take a look first.’

Then this swollen frozen body in this lonely oak; a gigantic overgrown baby that someone, or more than one, has tortured the life out of.

What do you want with me? Malin wonders. Why have you dragged me out here on this godforsaken morning? What do you want to tell me?

The feet, blue-black, the toes turning black, swing against all the whiteness.

The eyes, Malin thinks. Your isolation. It’s like something moving across the plain, across the town, and into me.

First the obvious.

The branch is five metres above the ground, no clothes, no blood in the snow, no tracks in the thin covering around the tree, apart from the really fresh ones from a pair of boots.

From the man who found you, Malin thinks. One thing is certain: you didn’t get up here by yourself; and the injuries on your body, someone else must have given you those. And you probably didn’t get them here, otherwise the ground beneath you would be covered in blood. No, you froze for a good while somewhere else, so long that your blood turned solid.

‘You see those marks on the branch?’ Zeke says, looking up at the body.

‘Yes,’ Malin replies. ‘Like someone’s torn the bark off.’

‘I swear, the man who did this must have used a crane to get him up into the tree, then tied the noose afterwards.’

‘Or people,’ Malin says. ‘There may have been more than one.’

‘No tracks between here and the road.’

‘No, but it was a windy night. The ground changes by the minute. Loose snow, bits of ice. It’s changing all the