thinking about – maybe she wished for something else.
A better life, perhaps? Did she wish that she could get away from the farm, away from her father and the Invalid upstairs, away from the island? That she could escape to another world where she would have no duties, and where money wouldn’t be a problem?
Vendela can’t remember. She leaves the coin in the hollow and sets off across the grass without looking back.
She goes out to the meadow when she gets home, and the cows lift their heads when they see her. Rosa, Rosa and Rosa form a line and begin lumbering towards the gate, and Vendela lifts her stick. But she doesn’t hit them today; her head is full of thoughts. She walks behind the cows, wondering how her wish will be granted.
That night she is woken by the sound of the cows bellowing in the darkness. They sound terrified, and a strange crackling noise is mingled with their cries.
Vendela sits up in bed; she can smell smoke. Through the blind she can see a flickering glow outside. A yellow light around the barn that just keeps on growing, making the rest of the yard melt into one with the dark forest. She hears feet thundering up the stairs, and a shout: ‘The barn’s on fire!’
It’s Henry’s voice. She hears his steps crossing the floor, then the door is flung open. ‘It’s on fire! Get out!’
Vendela gets out of bed, and Henry pulls and drags and carries her down the stairs and out into the cold night air. She ends up on the wet grass, looking around in confusion; that is when she sees that the barn is ablaze. The flames are forcing their way out through the walls, sending sparks whirling up into the night sky. The fire has already begun to lick at the gables.
Henry is standing over her, barefoot and wearing only his nightshirt. He turns away. ‘I have to go and get Jan-Erik!’
He rushes back into the house.
‘Jan-Erik?’
No reply.
The cows are still bellowing, louder and more long-drawn-out than she has ever heard – they can’t get out.
The flames writhe across the ground, scrambling up the barn and colliding with each other beneath the roof like red breakers, and Vendela feels as if her legs are paralysed. She can’t move. She sits there on the grass watching her father emerging from the house with a big bundle of blankets in his arms.
Henry drops the bundle on the grass.
Vendela can hear the sound of wheezing. Two arms push the blankets aside, a face with white eyes appears, blinking, then a mouth with white teeth smiles at her.
The Invalid is sitting there on the grass, just a metre away from her. They sit and stare at one another, and all they can hear is the sound of creaking and cracking as the roof of the barn begins to collapse.
In the glow of the fire Vendela can see that the Invalid is not old at all. The Invalid is just a boy, perhaps five or six years older than she is. His legs are long and thin.
But he is sick. Vendela can hear that he has thick phlegm in his windpipe, and there is something wrong with his skin; his face is red and swollen even when the glow of the fire is not illuminating it, and he has long, bloody scratches on his cheeks and forehead, as if an animal has attacked him. The upper part of his body is also red and covered in sores. But he’s still smiling.
Between two and three years – that’s how long the Invalid has been living on the farm without Vendela knowing who he is. Can he talk? Does he understand Swedish?
‘What’s your name?’
He opens his mouth and laughs, but doesn’t answer.
‘My name’s Vendela. What’s yours?’
‘Jan-Erik,’ he says eventually, but his voice is so quiet and muted that she can barely hear it through the fire. He carries on laughing.
‘Who are you?’
‘Jan-Erik.’
Henry is still running around the yard, sometimes clearly visible in front of the flames, sometimes completely invisible in the darkness. When the fire reaches out and grabs hold of the gables of the house, he pumps a bucket full of water and goes upstairs to damp down the wood and beat out any sparks.
Vendela’s paralysis eases, and she begins to move. She does just one thing right tonight: she goes over to the hens’ enclosure next to the barn and opens the rickety gate. The hens and chickens come flapping into the yard, tumbling over one another, followed by the cockerel. They gather in a dense huddle in the darkness, out of danger.
‘Ring the fire brigade!’ shouts Henry.
Vendela dashes into the kitchen and rings the fire brigade in Borgholm. She is put through to Kalmar, and it takes a long time to reach someone and explain where the fire is.
When she comes back outside, the Invalid is still sitting on the grass, and Henry is still running back and forth between the barn and the water pump.
But it’s all too late. The fire is roaring through the loft and across the walls along the animals’ stalls, and in the end Henry slows down. He takes a deep breath, one long, heavy sigh.
Vendela can only stand outside and listen as the bellowing from inside falls silent.
Cooked meat: the night is filled with the smell of charred beef.
Vendela can feel the heat of the fire, but she is still freezing cold. She doesn’t want to stay out here.
‘Father … are you coming inside?’
He doesn’t seem to hear her at first, then he shakes his head and answers quietly. ‘It’s not the fire’s fault.’
Vendela doesn’t understand what he means.
After almost an hour the fire brigade turns up with two vehicles from Borgholm, but all they can do is prevent the fire from spreading. It is impossible to save the barn.
Several hours after midnight, when the fire-fighters have left but the yard is still thick with smoke, Henry is sitting out on the steps in the cold. He has carried the Invalid back to his room, but refuses to go inside. Vendela goes out to him one last time.
‘Who’s Jan-Erik, Dad?’
‘Jan-Erik?’ says Henry; he seems to consider the question before answering. ‘Well, he’s my son, of course … your brother.’
‘My brother?’
He looks over his shoulder at her. ‘Didn’t I tell you?’
Vendela stares at him. She has hundreds of questions, but asks only one. ‘Why doesn’t he have to go to school?’
‘He’s not allowed,’ says Henry. ‘They said it would be a waste of effort. It’s impossible to educate him.’
Then he reverts to staring into the darkness.
Vendela goes back inside and takes herself off to bed. She lies there as stiff as a board.
Perhaps Henry is up all night, because when he wakes his daughter at seven o’clock the next morning, he is still wearing the same clothes.
‘School,’ is all he says. Then he adds, ‘I let you have a lie-in today … No need to do the milking any more.’
Only when Vendela hears his words does she become aware of the smell of smoke in the room, and then she remembers the fire during the night. Then she remembers the Invalid. Jan-Erik.
Henry stops in the doorway as he leaves the room. ‘Don’t you worry about what’s going to happen. I’ve got the insurance policy and a receipt for the premium, so everything will be all right.’
Then Vendela remembers one last thing: the school trip is today. The class is going to Borgholm on the train.
She can go with them. She’s got the money for the fare, after all, and the cows are no longer a problem.
An hour later she is walking across the empty alvar, but gives the elf stone a wide berth, keeping her eyes fixed firmly ahead. She doesn’t want to see it any more, but the questions come anyway.
