The morning air is cold and crisp, with a late-winter sharpness. The village stands in stark relief against the brightening sky, which is high and clear. Only the odd bright cloud is hovering on the horizon, and the snow crunches underfoot as Elsa sets out toward Birgitta’s hut.
It’s empty down in the village. This time a year ago it would have been bustling, even before sunrise. The villagers on the Sunday shift would have been out on their way to work, and there would always be something to look forward to on the way out to see Birgitta; Elsa would share a joke with the boys heading off to the mine, ask after their mothers and sisters and wives. Now she almost fears these early morning walks, for if she does see anyone it’ll be because they’ve spent the night on the streets, tired and befuddled, or that they’re drifting around with nowhere to go, like listless ghosts.
It’s colder out than Elsa had imagined—she should probably have put on a scarf just in case—but despite the cold it feels like spring is in the air. The river has started to course faster, and although the evenings and mornings are still dark, the midday sun is strong and warm. She can feel her heart start to lift as she walks. It’s going to be all right; it always is. However bad things might seem, they always come good in the end.
By the time she reaches Birgitta’s hut she can give the door her usual sprightly knock.
“Birgitta,” she says. “It’s me, Elsa.”
Birgitta recognizes her voice and opens the door. She seems more timid than normal, and when Elsa steps inside she realizes Birgitta has been hurting herself again. There are bruises on her face.
“Oh, Birgitta,” she says softly.
At times Elsa almost wishes she could take Birgitta in her arms and rock her like a child, even though Birgitta isn’t so much younger than herself. But Elsa knows that Birgitta would panic if she even tried to. She dislikes physical contact, as Elsa has learned over the years.
As she watches Birgitta start to unpack the food according to her own special ritual, Elsa feels an echo of that horrible sinking feeling in her chest.
The house isn’t the only reason why they can’t leave Silvertjärn. For if they left, then who would look after Birgitta?
THURSDAY
NOW
The church is only a few blocks up from the square, but in Silvertjärn terms that’s virtually the other side of town. The wind has picked up this morning, and the building looms ominously against a background of heavy, dark clouds.
The church is today’s first port of call, but in the gray mist it feels like it could be almost twilight.
I’ve decided that the four of us will do the church together, and then we can split up afterward. Tone agreed. She’s going to stay at the camp and go through yesterday’s pictures while we’re out exploring. She was looking better today; her eyes were sharp, and there was some color in her cheeks. I didn’t feel the need to say anything, but at breakfast I saw her pop two Advil tablets and wash them down with her instant coffee.
The tall lattice windows above the church doors are still intact, except one small blue pane in the middle, which has cracked. The stucco walls are in surprisingly good shape, too—still a brilliant white—and the doors look alarmingly stable.
“Are they bolted?” Emmy asks when we stop at the bottom of the crumbling church steps. Those, at least, bear witness to the abandonment of the village: the concrete slabs are laced with fissures and pine needles.
I walk up the steps and tentatively push the church doors. I have to put some weight into it—the doors are heavy and seem to have swollen in the years of damp and cold—but with a creaking, slightly grumbling sound, they slowly swing open.
There’s a faint, musty smell of mildew inside, but it’s not as bad as in the school, presumably because most of the windows are still intact. The dampness hasn’t been able to insinuate itself here like it has in the row houses. The dark wooden pews stand in silent rows, and the altar looms large at the front, apparently untouched. An emaciated, bleeding Jesus on the cross above the altar stares down at us with empty eyes. It’s enormous, and hard not to stare at, much larger than the majority of crucifixes I’ve seen. The carved figure must be at least as tall as I am, and as heavy, too. It is also disconcertingly lifelike: the cheekbones seem to press up from under its skin, the contours of the ribs are clearly visible, and the stomach has sunken in, as though after many months of hunger. Unlike many other hale and hearty, inexplicably Aryan Jesuses I’ve seen on crosses throughout this country, this one has dark hair and is clearly in pain. Despite an untidy paint job, the eyes look bottomless, black and accusatory. Like the lake beneath the clouds.
“Fucking hell,” Emmy says quietly. When I turn around, her eyes are also fixed on the figure.
“I can get that you’d start believing in a wrathful god if you had him glaring down at you all the time,” she says. Her words are chipper but the tone rings false. She can’t seem to tear her eyes from it.
A sudden click makes me jump. It’s Robert, getting a shot of the cross. He takes some more pictures of the church as viewed from the doorway, then slowly starts walking up the aisle.
The ceilings are high. I look up to see thick wooden beams crisscrossing above us, yet not a single word echoes. I slowly make my way up to the altar.
I can
