Midwinter Sacrifice

The field lies open. Between Maspelosa, Fornasa and Bankeberg, at the end of an unploughed road covered by just a thin layer of snow, stands a lone tree, like the one I was hanging in.

The car with the woman in the boot stops there.

I wish I could help her now.

But she must do that herself.

The black thing has to open up. It has to help me out. Then I shall be an engine. I shall explode, I shall get away, I shall live.

The black thing opens the boot, heaves my body over the edge and down on to the snow by the exhaust.

It leaves me lying there.

A tree trunk, thick, ten metres away.

The stone is covered by snow, but I still see it. Is it my hands that are free, is it my hand, that swollen red lump I see to my left?

The black thing at my side now. Whispering about blood. About sacrifice.

If I twist to the left and then grab the stone and strike at what must be its head, it might work. That could get me away.

I am an engine and I am turning the key.

Now I ignite.

I exist again and I grip the stone, and the whispering stops; now I strike, I am going to get away and I strike myself away from here. Don’t try to fend me off, I strike, I want more, my will is what sits deep, deep down, it’s brighter than the darkness can manage to blacken.

Don’t try.

I strike at the blackness, and we roll around in the snow, and cold does not exist and it gets a tight grip on me, but I explode once more and then I strike. The stone against its skull and the blackness goes limp, glides off me, on to the snow.

I crawl up on to my knees.

Open field in all directions.

I get up.

In the darkness. I have been there.

I stagger towards the horizon.

I am on my way, away.

I drift beside you as you stumble on across the plain. You will arrive somewhere, and wherever you go, I will be there to meet you.

68

Thursday, 16 February

Johnny Axelsson puts both hands on the steering-wheel, feels the vibrations of the vehicle, how the cold is making the engine run unevenly.

Early morning.

Clouds of snow are drifting in across the road from the fields and farms, in shifting, almost blinding veils.

It takes nearly fifty minutes to get from Motala to Linkoping, and at this time of year it can be dangerous as well, with the uncertain state of the roads, ice that comes and goes, no matter how much they salt them.

No, best to take it cautiously. He always goes via Fornasa, much prefers that road to the main road through Borensberg.

And you never know what’s going to come out of the forest. He’s come close to hitting deer and elk before now.

But at least the roads are straight, built as they were to be able to function as runways in case of war.

But how likely is it that war will ever come?

Unless it’s already here.

Motala. Junkie capital of Sweden.

Few if any jobs, unless you want to work in the public sector.

But Johnny Axelsson grew up in Motala, and that’s where he wants to live. So what if he has to spend a couple of hours commuting? That’s a price he’s willing to pay to live somewhere he feels at home. When the job advert from Ikea appeared in the paper he didn’t hesitate. And he didn’t when he was offered the job either. Don’t be a burden. Contribute. Do the right thing. How many of his old friends are living off benefits? Still claiming unemployment even though their jobs disappeared ten years ago. God, we’re thirty-five, how can they even bear to think about it?

Go fishing. Out hunting. Play the pools. Watch trotting races. Do a bit of carpentry on the sly.

Johnny Axelsson drives past a red farmhouse. It’s close to the road and inside he can see an elderly couple. They’re eating breakfast, and in the light of the kitchen their skin looks golden, like two fish in an aquarium, safe