I hid down in the tunnels, for I remembered what he had said: that those outside God’s grace would take me from him and destroy our paradise, for they knew no better. That the woman who had been my mother would surely have fed them lies about us.
They would never understand. No one could understand.
But then the water started to rise over the rubble. And I remembered what my father had said, back when I still had a father: they used to have to pump away the groundwater, to stop the passages from flooding.
I wanted to stay down there and let the water take me, but I knew I couldn’t do that. To take one’s own life is a sin, and those who waste themselves are the ones who burn most furiously in hell.
I had no choice but to wait for them. I had given my word.
I knew that he would come back to me.
After a while the food ran out. I had to go into others’ kitchens and start eating from their pantries. But I could never bring myself to go back into her house, my false mother’s house. I had a feeling in my bones that this was all her fault, or at least in part. She had always loved that witch more than she loved me, in spite of everything.
I let the rest of the congregation look after me. I slept in their beds and ate of their food. We were all one, and what belonged to one of us belonged to us all, I tried to persuade myself. That was what he had told me. But it felt wrong, and I started to feel sad. At night I would cry.
Sometimes I felt the doubts creep up on me, like stinging little devils. What if they didn’t come back? What if he was wrong?
But I beat them off, fiercely and furiously. He had promised. He was God’s chosen one, and he had told me we would be together for all eternity. That we would create paradise on earth.
I went back out into the forest, to the path that led to our church. I took a lamp with me this time: perhaps their light had gone out, and they had gotten lost in the darkness. He used to call me his light. His divine light. His angel.
Perhaps I could show them the way out of the darkness. Perhaps I could help them to return.
I went as far down into the tunnel as I could. The water had risen so high that I couldn’t even see the rubble anymore. Soon the tunnels would be completely flooded.
I sat there until the lamp burned out, and then I cried again.
But then I heard them. From out of the ground itself.
I heard them singing.
And then I cried again, but this time in relief.
I realized that my offering had not been enough. I stayed down there in the tunnels, moving upward with the water until it stopped rising, and I listened. They whispered to me at night. At first I didn’t hear them so clearly, but I learned with time.
They told me what I had to do. Sin must be cleansed with blood. Sooner or later the devil whore would return, and then the price would be paid.
So I waited.
THANK YOU
Every writer knows that the unsung heroes of every book are the people who lie behind it: who have given their support, read drafts and offered feedback, made tea, and—occasionally—forced the writer in question outside for some fresh air and sunlight. I, of course, am no exception; in fact, I would say that I demand more of my little circle than most, so it’s only right that I make a little space here to thank everyone who helped me to write The Lost Village.
Thank you to my fantastic publisher, Erika, who has made this book so much more than I could ever have envisioned. You saw a potential in that first, raw draft that I don’t think anyone else could have. I often say a good publisher is like a coach—someone who peps you up, supports and inspires you, but who also forces you to run until you drop, and then do another five miles. You have done both with bravura.
Thank you also to my editor, John, who has had to put up with my many passionate attempts to prove you can write “as to” in addition to “as if” or “as though.” (I am right, as, I am sure, the world will come to see in time.)
Thank you to my agents, Anna and Johanna, who have made all my dreams come true. How many people get to say that that’s all in a day’s work? Not only have you made sure that Alice, Emmy, Elsa, and Aina made it out into the world; you have also handled my frenetic but-what-if-everyone-hates-it? emails with far more patience than I deserve, which in and of itself should make you shoo-ins for sainthoods. I promise to write to the Vatican about this personally.
Thank you to my fantastic friends, who have put up with and supported me during this process. It isn’t always easy to live with a neurotic author in full-on editing mode, but you have handled it all so well that you make it look like child’s play.
Thank you to Frida and Sofia, who inspire me to be a little kinder every day, both to myself and to others. I see the fact that I have you both in my life as incontrovertible proof of good karma.
Thank you to Saga, who has been with me from the very start. That you read my very first teenage attempts at a book but are still happy to look at my new manuscripts says a lot more about your character than it does about
