The Quarry

lived in a crofter’s cottage south-west of Visby; the area was flat, but with plenty of trees, and several elf paths met there. Adam did not cut the grass around his house, because he said it was important to leave nature untouched as far as possible.

‘The paths often lead between hazel or juniper bushes,’ he said. ‘That’s where we find the gateways into their world.’

Adam could sit cross-legged talking about elves for hours on end. He was particularly interested in their private lives, which according to him were free and open. Vendela wasn’t quite so sure about that, and sometimes when he talked about sex between elves and people, she had the feeling it was more a case of wishful thinking on Adam’s part – but when he left that particular topic alone, he often said sensible things. Such as: ‘It’s important to embrace new ways of thinking. When the Europeans first came into contact with white tufts of cotton during the Middle Ages, they had no idea what kind of material it was, or where it came from. They guessed that the cotton came from small flying sheep and lambs, who built their nests up in the trees.’

Adam had paused to let his students finish laughing.

‘So when today’s scientists hear that people have met elves,’ he went on, hands outspread, ‘what are they to think? How do they interpret this information? Just like almost everyone else, the scientists are helpless when faced with the inexplicable.’

Adam told her so much about elves. For Vendela the weekend course had been a fantastic experience. The little group had gone for long walks in the spring countryside, and had sat down to sing to the elves when the sun went down. After a while, several of the participants said they began to see them. One of the youngest, a twenty- year-old girl from Stockholm who also worked as a medium, saw elves so frequently and so clearly that she started to recognize them and gave them beautiful names, such as Galadriel and Dunsany.

Vendela was slightly envious, because she never saw any elves, but the course was still brilliant. The landscape on Gotland seemed timeless and tranquil, just like Iceland. She had returned home with a new-found belief in elves, and a powerful desire to find them on Oland, the island of her childhood. And now here she sat by the elf stone. Nobody knew where she was. Out here the rest of the world was of no importance.

Adam Luft had said it was easier to see the elves if you had faith but lacked hope. Then you were ready for them. And you could only glimpse them out of the corner of your eye. Elves didn’t like it if you stared straight at them, according to Adam; they couldn’t cope with our intense scrutiny.

The countryside had suddenly grown still around her; not a twig was moving on the juniper bushes around the stone. Vendela slowly opened her eyes and thought that the alvar, with its vernal yellow grass, looked frozen, faded like an old photograph. If she looked at her watch now, she knew the hands would be standing still.

The kingdom of the elves.

She suddenly heard a rustling sound in the grass beyond the bushes, as if someone was moving along, light as a feather. She got up cautiously, but saw no one. And yet she still had the feeling that someone was watching her through the bushes.

Her tracksuit was damp, and she shivered. All her energy was gone, chased away by a sudden sense of anxiety. She wanted to go up to the dense thicket of bushes and look on the other side, perhaps ask if anyone was there, but she remained standing by the stone.

They’re creeping up on me, she thought. The elves … or the trolls?

She didn’t dare go over and look. Her legs were taking her in the opposite direction; she moved backwards around the elf stone so that it was between her and the muted noises.

Then everything fell silent once more. The rustling stopped.

The wind began to blow, and Vendela breathed out. She felt stiff and cold, but had one thing left to do. She rummaged in her jacket pocket and placed a coin, a shiny new ten-kronor piece, in one of the empty hollows on the stone.

It was risky to wish for things in this place; nobody knew that better than her. But she needed help.

She was going to ask for one thing, no more.

Please don’t let Aloysius go blind, she thought. Give him a few more healthy years … That’s all I wanted to ask.

She put the coin down and backed away from the stone.

As she left the glade tucked away among the juniper bushes, she felt time begin to move once more. Her watch was ticking, and it was evening. The sun in the west had lost its yellow glow and was sinking down towards the horizon, the light reflected as red stripes in the spring lakes around her.

17

‘Pelle?’ Jerry asked, waking up in confusion. ‘Pelle?’

As they left Vaxjo after being interviewed by the police, his father had fallen asleep. He had slept deeply, mumbling inaudible words, then woken up as they drove into a deserted Kalmar. Per had parked next to the hospital entrance.

‘Pelle?’

‘Everything’s all right, Jerry. We’re in Kalmar.’

He opened the car door. Fresh evening air poured into the car, soothing his lungs. He coughed and turned around. ‘You stay here … I’m just going up to see Nilla. My daughter – do you remember her, Jerry?’

When he saw his father looking at the hospital signs, he went on: ‘She’s just in for some tests. I won’t be long.’

It was half past ten, and every window in the hospital was glowing against the dark sky. Per’s legs were stiff as he got out of the car; he’d been sitting in the same seat for most of the day.

The main entrance was still unlocked, and the glass doors opened silently. He took the lift up to Nilla’s ward without meeting a soul.

The corridor was also deserted, and the door to the ward was closed. He rang the bell and was admitted by a night nurse. She didn’t smile at him, but perhaps she was just tired. It didn’t necessarily mean that Nilla’s condition had worsened.

The door to her room was ajar, and he could hear two voices inside: Nilla talking to her mother.

Per coughed one last time. He had hoped that Marika wouldn’t be there. He knew, of course, that his ex-wife spent every evening with Nilla, but with a bit of luck she might have been somewhere else when he arrived. For a couple of seconds he considered walking away, then he pushed the door open.

Nilla was sitting up in bed with a pillow behind her back. She was wearing a white hospital gown, and a drip had been inserted in her arm. She looked just the same as when he had left her; a little paler, perhaps.

Marika was sitting on a chair next to the bed. The television up on the wall in one corner of the room was switched on, showing a man and a woman screaming and waving their arms at one another in a kitchen, but the sound was turned down.

‘Hello, you two,’ said Per, smiling at mother and daughter.

The conversation had stopped when he came in. It seemed as if Marika had just been joking with Nilla, because she was smiling at her, but the smile died away as soon as she saw Per. It was as if her mask slipped, and she looked very tired.

‘Hi Dad.’ Then Nilla sniffed, her expression surprised. ‘You smell of smoke!’

‘Do I? Really?’

Per’s smile was tense, and he was trying not to cough again. He couldn’t come up with anything sensible to say.

‘What’s happened, Per?’ said Marika. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘No, I’m fine … There was a house fire in Smaland. I saw it from the car, so I called the fire brigade. And they came and put it out.’

‘Was there anyone in the house?’ said Nilla.

‘There was nobody living there,’ said Per, and quickly went on, ‘So how are you two, anyway?’

‘We’re waiting for the evening rounds,’ said Nilla. ‘And we’re watching TV.’

‘Good.’