“It wasn’t my secret to tell,” I try to say. Again. Every time I say it, the words feel flimsier. Like paper folded over and over, until the fibers start to wear and tear along the fold.
“But they deserved to know,” he says. “That’s why I said it.”
Some of the things he’s saying make sense. Or at least partly: the others needed to know that Tone was sick, that she wasn’t well, wasn’t herself.
“But now they think she’s dangerous. They want to just leave her out there, and she must be so scared.…”
I shake my head.
“It’s too dangerous, Alice,” says Max. “I know you say she isn’t dangerous, but she isn’t herself. And Silvertjärn is obviously having an effect on her. The best we can do for her is to get out of here and get help.”
He takes a cautious step toward me.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you, you have to know that. I only did what had to be done.”
I don’t want to hear this. However reasonable his words sound, I can still feel his betrayal all over my body. But, then again, how can I trust my instincts? So far nothing I’ve thought has proved true.
“Come on, Alice,” he says, drawing my stiff body into a hug. He’s hot and sweaty under his dirty sweater, and the remnants of his deodorant find their way up my nose.
“We’ll be out of here in no time,” he mumbles into my shoulder while squeezing me hard. “Soon all of this will be over. We’ll get through this.”
I let myself be hugged, but can’t quite bring myself to hug him back.
Eventually he lets go, then steps back, looks at me, and smiles.
“Hungry?” he asks. “Let me go get you one of the protein bars.”
I swallow and nod.
“Yeah,” I say. “Thank you.”
He leaves, closing the door behind him.
I go back to my chair and sit down. The distaste I’ve just stifled has coagulated into something stiff and cold that makes my stomach ache. That or it’s just the hunger.
Something pricks me from below. Cursing, I stand up and feel the seat. Nothing there.
Then I realize I can still feel the same pricking feeling. It’s in my back pocket.
I reach around and pull out a bundle of messy, crinkled sheets of paper.
Oh. Of course. The papers from the chapel, the ones I found at this very table, half a lifetime ago. The ones I took from the van. My fingers blunt and unwieldy, I unfold and inspect them. At the top is that strange scribble, those clumsily childish doodles of spirals and stick figures. The papers have been practically destroyed by my rough treatment, and, as absurd as it is at a time like this, it pains me to see how badly they’ve fared.
I hear the faint sounds of Max chatting to Robert out in the church, but in here everything is quiet. The light has shifted, from an afternoon sharpness to a golden early evening glow.
Wait.
I force myself to focus on them, those clumpy stick figures. They look like they were drawn in crayon, with an awkward hand. I stare at them.
One of them has a big, black mouth like a hole. A void.
The windows above the sink face east, toward the slowly setting sun. Over the graveyard.
I look from the papers to the nondescript table by which we found them, vaguely aware of a mumbled conversation out in the church, and of an angel-faced man who sat at this very table some sixty years ago, writing and rewriting his sermon.
How could that drawing have gotten bundled up with his papers?
I know where I’ve seen those drawings before. That clumsy style that looks like a child’s, but isn’t.
I saw these stick figures this morning, on Birgitta’s table. She must have drawn these.
But as far as we know, Birgitta never strayed more than a few yards from her hut.
So what was one of her drawings doing in the church?
THEN
Elsa knocks at the door. Her knock is harder than usual, but her hand is trembling and she’s finding it hard to keep her voice steady.
“Birgitta!” she says, trying to sound as cheery as she can. “Birgitta, it’s me. Elsa. I’ve brought some food.”
She does have food, in the normal picnic basket, but it’s all wrong—it’s been scrabbled together too hastily. Elsa’s still completely beside herself. Her heart is racing, and she’s sweating, despite the cool summer day.
It has been a dark start to the summer, cloudy and cool, with a constant smell of rain in the air. Elsa’s senses feel stale and insipid, and the villagers have been drifting around town like ghosts, wandering the streets without purpose or feeling. The churchgoers blaze like torches among them.
Something is afoot.
“Birgitta,” she calls out again, louder and more shrilly, and bangs on the door. “Open the door!”
It can’t be anything serious, she tries to reassure herself. She was here just a few days ago. And Birgitta was looking perfectly normal then.
Though perhaps she had been a little wan? Not that Elsa had picked up on it. Or let herself pick up on it. She was too preoccupied with other things: Staffan and his drinking; Margareta and her latest letter. More than anything she wishes she could be there with her now, that she could hold her hand and help her through her pregnancy. Her heart is bleeding for her.
And, with all of this on her mind, she hasn’t seen what has been happening to Birgitta.
To Aina.
Her girls.
Elsa can’t even curse herself anymore; the anger fails her. She drops her hand, puts her forehead to the door and whispers, though she knows Birgitta won’t open it:
“Please, Birgitta, open the door.”
The worn wood feels smooth and cool against her forehead. It soothes the heat in her face.
Her right hand is still banging on the door.
And then she hears footsteps.
She manages to straighten herself up just in time for Birgitta to open the door.
Her
