been brown with ingrained dirt, and there had been dust everywhere.
And there it was on the right, the shiny door. It led to a little bedroom. There had been a small table by the door, where Vendela had always placed a tray of food before she left for school in the morning.
The door was half-open now; she could see toys and pieces of Lego on the floor, and she could hear a little boy laughing.
She turned to face the woman. ‘Are you staying long?’
‘No, just over Easter. We’ll be going home on Monday.’
‘I’ll be here until the middle of May,’ said Vendela, trying to sound calm. ‘I could keep an eye on the house, if you like. I come past here sometimes when I’m running anyway, so …’
‘Would you do that?’ said the woman. ‘That would be really kind; there have been quite a few break-ins here on the island.’
Vendela looked around. ‘Are you happy here?’
‘Oh my goodness, yes, we love it here,’ said the woman. ‘It’s really cosy here.’
Vendela doubted that. The farm was in the way of the elves – she realized that now. Living here could bring nothing but misfortune.
Patches of snow were still hiding beneath the thickest bushes, and the lakes formed by melting ice and snow on the alvar were wider than ever, but were evaporating in the sunshine. By the time May came, they would be gone.
Vendela was finding her way more easily now, and after running for quarter of an hour she had reached the big stone once more. She saw immediately that the elves had been there.
The old coins were still there in the hollows, but the ten-kronor piece she had offered as a gift for Aloysius was gone.
She wasn’t surprised, just delighted that they still gathered at the elf stone after all these years.
She sat down on the grass with her back against the eastern side of the stone and breathed out. She had had her doubts, but now she knew this was where she needed to be; every other place she had ever visited or yearned for disappeared beyond the horizon. Here by the stone there were no demands on her; the Vendela Larsson that Max and the rest of the world constantly watched did not exist here.
She closed her eyes, but continued to see pictures inside her head. She could see all the way across the alvar to the water, and she thought she could even see the quarry and her own house beside it. Max was sitting there at one of his desks working on the penultimate chapter of
Vendela knew that at that moment Max was utterly convinced that this was the case, despite the fact that she was almost always the one who made their breakfast. He had treated her to breakfast in bed or had made dinner on the odd special occasion, and she had hoped that if she praised him enough he might help her in the kitchen more often. But cooking had never become part of Max’s everyday life.
That didn’t matter now, out here on the alvar.
She could see their neighbours’ house to the north, the old house built by one of Henry’s workmates, and the family who were living there now. Per Morner was sitting on the patio with his elderly father. His children were there too. Everything looked very peaceful and festive, but Vendela knew that appearances could be deceptive.
Per was a stressed and tortured soul. It would do him good to get out here on the alvar for a run.
Then she stopped gazing into the distance and her thoughts returned to the place where she was sitting now, to the stone and the little glade among the juniper bushes. For a brief moment everything was bright and shiny, but suddenly she saw the image of a tall man in her mind, dressed in a white robe. He was standing completely still, unaffected by her gaze. He was smiling at her.
The king of the elves? No, Vendela sensed that this was their messenger, a servant indicating that they were aware of her presence. This man was of a lower rank – he actually reminded her of Max to a certain extent.
He remained there inside her head, still smiling, as if he were trying to say:
But Vendela was not ready to take that step, not yet.
She opened her eyes and looked around. The glade was empty, but she could hear the sound of rustling over in the bushes.
She shivered, just as she always did when she dragged herself back from the world of the elves. She got up and took three coins out of her pocket. She placed them in a row on top of the stone, each in its own hollow.
One coin for Max and herself, one for Aloysius’s health, and one for the neighbours by the quarry. Per Morner and the others.
Then she turned and set off across the alvar again, loping between the gleaming pools of water. The evening sun was shining in the west, a warm lighthouse guiding her down towards the coast.
It was only seven o’clock when she got home. Time had passed slowly, as it always did in the world of the elves.
28
Gerlof was sitting in the garden. It was Good Friday, the day that Jesus had died on the cross. When he was a little boy, Gerlof had been forced to mark the day by doing absolutely nothing. You were not allowed to play, or listen to the radio, or talk loudly, and you were most definitely not allowed to laugh. All you could do, in fact, was sit still on a chair. As an old man he marked the day in more or less the same way, but now it felt pleasantly restful.
He was waiting for his children and grandchildren to arrive from the west coast. There were things he could be doing; he had customers waiting for ships in bottles, and he was paid well for making them. But it was a holiday, after all, and in any case his thoughts kept returning to the pile of Ella’s old diaries.
He should never have started looking at them.
In the end he got up and went to fetch the diary for 1957. He settled down in his chair, opened the diary somewhere around the middle, and began to read Ella’s neat handwriting.
16th June 1957
Last night we had a storm, and the children and I got up to watch the lightning. It struck three times out in the sound – we could hear the water crackling. Gerlof slept through the whole thing, but I suppose he’s used to noise out at sea.
Yesterday he cycled up to Langvik, bought a new fishing net and cycled back to lay it out, then he got up at five this morning to check it – there were twenty-five flounder and six perch. So today we had fish in white sauce – delicious.
This morning Lena and Julia saw a young deer run across the road into the forest.
Today that poor widower Henry Fors who lives to the north of the village sold his last two calves for slaughter, the wagon came from Kalmar to fetch them at two o’clock, so now he just has the three cows that his daughter Vendela helps him with. It’s sad, but I suppose he needs the money.
Ella was right about Vendela Larsson’s father, Gerlof thought; he had never had much money. A few skinny cows grazing on meadows that were anything but lush, and his job in the little village quarry that could no longer compete with the big companies. It wasn’t easy.
He turned to the next page:
27th June 1957
It’s been a while since I wrote; time goes so quickly and I’ve got so much to do that the days just disappear. And I don’t always feel like writing, anyway.
It’s hot and sunny – summer has definitely arrived.
Gerlof has sailed down to Kalmar to measure the ship; he went yesterday and took the girls with him – they’re on holiday from school. I’m perfectly happy up here in the village on my own, though – I mean, there’s the sewing group down in Borgholm, but I don’t really miss it. It’s mostly talk and gossip about whoever hasn’t
