Blackwater. Part 3

He could feel nothing with his foot through his stiff boot, so he had to grope with his hand among the stones. He distinctly felt something quiver against his palm, something cold and smooth. Then a strong movement like an arm striking out. He screamed.

He stood up, stamping and kicking, yelling insanely up at the circle of light.

'Help! Help! Get me out!'

Finally he was just screaming, no words. But the hole up there stayed light, like a blue disc. Nothing moved against it.

His voice cracked. He was standing with his back pressed to the sharp, k.n.o.bbly wall of the well. There was something down by his feet. Larger than a snake. He felt cold again. He had forgotten it when he was yelling.

Whatever he did, nothing changed. The well wall and the blue lid in the sky were the same. And that powerful thing hitting out down by his feet.

He tried shouting again, but that only hurt his throat. He had damaged something by screaming. For a moment it seemed to him as if the bottom of the well was being raised and he was being pressed up against the hard, blue-white disc.

He got his knife free again, a small sheath knife, rather blunt. He used it only to gut fish. And how could he slash with it in the dark?

He started stamping and kicking among the stones on the bottom, stirring up a smell of mould from the water. But no movement. He started stamping systematically round and felt the same movement by the wall, though more evasive this time. Then he kicked out so water flew and he stubbed his toes on the stones, but he ignored the pain. He was going to go on kicking until it was still. Kick it to death. Whatever it was. I'm bigger, anyhow, he thought.

Something was it a smell? make him think of fish. And then there was the memory of a feeling like a snake against his hand.

Eel.

There's an eel in the well.

He knew that in the old days they used to let eels into wells to keep them clean of worms and insects. He wanted to p.i.s.s and he was very tired. If I p.i.s.s in the water, I can't drink it, he thought. I must have a drink first. What if I'm to be here a long time. Maybe it's not harmful to drink p.i.s.s. It'd be diluted. Eels can live for a hundred years. Maybe it's white. I can't stand here much longer. Then I'll have to sit with the eel. That doesn't matter. But the water, the cold. How long has this well been dry or almost dry? How the h.e.l.l can an eel live in so little water year after year?

He had begun shaking with cold, so he kept beating his arms round his chest, but he couldn't stop his body shuddering. He tried to get warm by stamping, though more cautiously this time. There was no need to stamp on the eel. Foul, p.i.s.sing in the water, too, but he had to in the end, his bladder bursting. Then he sat down to rest. He fumbled among the stones and felt the eel. It wriggled away, but couldn't get far. f.u.c.king tough on the eel! And how often had it been hit by a stone?

Pekka and Bjorne must have thrown stones to check how much water was down there. He didn't think they'd wanted to drown him. Or dared.

The chill of the water made him get up again. He could hardly see the well wall in the darkness but he could feel moss in the cracks. It must be a long time since there had been any water down there.

The wall was made of shale, of course, like all the old stonework in the area. The slabs of shale had been displaced by the frost. It must be a crooked old well shaft.

He tried standing absolutely still, listening for cars or voices, but he could hear nothing, not even birds. Up there where time and light existed, it was Midsummer Eve. People had had their meal. The Norwegians had started coming. Cars were skidding in towards the community centre. There would be much talk about Torsten and Vidart and that Torsten's own lad had gone and reported him. Or whatever they made of it.

The music had begun thumping away and they were dancing inside or was it already over? He had lost all sense of time. Gudrun had washed up, of course, and put her white cardigan on over her dress. Had they gone down to the centre? Torsten wouldn't care a f.u.c.k about the talk.

Did Gudrun know that when he was young, Torsten had knocked down men he didn't even know? And that with two others he had taken the Enoksson boy out and beaten him up because he'd left their lumber team and gone to work for Henningsson? That they'd done that at least twice?

Had she known that when she married him? Was there something deep down in sweet little Gudrun, with her courses in English and natural dyes, that liked all that? In the dark of the night? He felt sick. Maybe it wasn't right to think in that way. But all the same, it was her fault he was down a well.

The light didn't reach down here. It was up above. He could see it. But it had no effect down here. The well shaft was too deep. Someone had dug and dug, confidently hopeful at first because the divining rod had turned down just there, then in sheer rage. Eventually, he must have dug on from sheer pigheadedness, whoever it was. Not Alda's husband. It must have been whoever had cleared the forest and built the cottage. He would have returned from the forest for a meal, saying nothing, taken his cap and gone out again. And if he had sons, they had to haul up the rubble. When at last he reached water, he had proved that he couldn't have been wrong. Then the wall was built with shale, thoroughly, first-cla.s.s work.

But the water had retreated.

Johan sat down with the eel. He couldn't do that for long because he soon froze, but he found it almost as cold when he stood up. The seat of his trousers was soaking wet. He dozed off with his head against the sharp slabs of shale, a kind of sleep, although he knew all the time where he was, and that he had to rest and keep moving alternately until they came to get him out.

He woke thinking someone was touching his hand, but the hand and arm had gone numb. He was sitting heavily on one side with his arm underneath him and could no longer feel the cold. His body was stiff and chilled through and through. When he tried to ease himself up, his legs refused to obey.

Then he remembered the eel and was more frightened than he had been before. Not of the eel, but of what might happen. His thoughts had touched on that occasionally. That anything could happen. And that things didn't always go well. They could go badly. It'll be too late.

The worst thing could happen. The kind no one can think to a conclusion.

Old man Annersa had lain dead in his cottage for five weeks, his horse dying of thirst in the stable.

The goldeneye with a hook through its beak, and its soaking wet, semi-rotten feathers.

The Enoksson boy sawing straight through his thigh with a chainsaw. How? No one knew. Things just went badly.

I must get up. The eel woke me.

He started moving his toes and fingers, and slowly feeling came back even into in his calves and lower arms. In the end, he heaved himself up with his back to the wall, feeling like a collapsed hay-drying rack that had to be raised. He hooked his fingers in the protruding shale slabs and hoisted himself into an upright position, at last succeeding and stamping again to get warm. Then it struck him, like an electric shock.

Shale protruded from the wall, probably all the way up. The well had settled. Get the toe of his boot in far enough for support. Dig out the moss further up with the knife if he couldn't find a bit of shale far enough out. Climb.

b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l! Heave himself up step by step. Dig out. Prop his backside against the wall and hoist himself on up.

He started at once and soon found a foothold for his boot, then another, which was not so good but enough if he pressed his back hard against the wall. He was no longer standing in water.

Suddenly he remembered the eel. He knew it was a kind of madness, recklessness anyhow, but he did it all the same. He climbed down again and squatted down to rummage round in the water and muddy leaves until he got hold of the strong, slippery body skulking among the stones.

It was a b.l.o.o.d.y big eel! It twisted and turned in his grip. He fumbled for his knife, but then thought perhaps the eel was a hundred years old. Over fifty anyway. For Alda's husband had probably not been the well digger.

If only he had something to put it in. He tore off his sweatshirt and shirt, quickly putting the sweatshirt back on, for it really was cold. Then he put the shirt down in the water and, once he got a hold on the eel again, he wrapped the material round it, knotting the sleeves hard into a firm parcel while it trembled and thrashed around inside. He fumbled for his belt and tied the shirt parcel beside his knife. The wriggling wet bundle was heavier than he had thought.

He started climbing again. He found three footholds before it became really difficult. There were no shale slabs protruding far enough to get a foothold. It would be better if he were barefoot, but he hesitated to sacrifice his boots. Barefoot, he would have to get back home along the verges. And he didn't want to go home. He had no intention of returning to his brothers' scornful grins or Gudrun smuggling gla.s.ses of milk and sandwiches up to his room.

Then he remembered the tow rope they had tied him up with. He climbed down again, and as he stood rootling round in the water for it, his excitement faded. Everything seemed to be happening slowly, like in a dream. He would never be ready. Something else always got in the way.

But now he had his boots tied firmly round his waist and he made the two steps up on the three first footholds. They were sharp but he went on, resting on his haunches, leaning forward and clinging to the wall in front of him, his muscles trembling, each new foothold hurting his toes. But he pressed them in. He couldn't use the knife, as he didn't dare let go anywhere. Sometimes he had his whole weight on one elbow or one knee.

He hauled himself on up until he felt the light on his face and his arms could almost reach the edge of the well. He hoisted himself up the last bit with his backside. His sweatshirt got caught and his back sc.r.a.ped against the sharp shale, but he ignored the pain and pressed on. The eel thrashed wildly in its shirt bundle, as if making one last effort to get back into its prison. As he tumbled over the edge of the well, the bundle got in the way. I'm squashing the eel, he thought. But he couldn't help it. He gave one last heave, kicked out as hard as he could against the wall, then hauled himself up the last bit and was over the edge, lying in the gra.s.s, the eel wriggling beneath him.

He was not going to stay lying there. They're not b.l.o.o.d.y going to find me here, he thought. The sky was blindingly bright, but Alda's cottage and the forest behind it were in the shade from the ridge. He trotted silently on his bare feet down to the woodshed and went in behind it, untied his boots and put them on. It was twenty to twelve. I left home at seven, he thought. They got me ten minutes later, at the most a quarter of an hour. Then they fooled about a bit, perhaps for ten minutes. I was down in the well before half past seven. I've been down there over four hours.

All his joy had gone and now he was simply cold. He remembered the intoxication of his recklessness when he had realised he could climb. But that hadn't been a very remarkable idea. In fact, it was strange that he hadn't thought of it at once.

Before leaving his hiding place, he listened carefully for any sound of car engines. He hurried up the path. Where to, he didn't really know. Away from the village, anyhow.

The insects were tiny, smaller than a pinhead and invisible until there was a cloud of them. They stirred them up as they walked though the tall gra.s.s, but as soon as they came to the open s.p.a.ce in front of the store, the insects were swept away by the current of air from the lake. There was no real wind and the evening was warm. An hour or two later, insects sought them out up there as well, finding their cheeks and necks and crawling into the corners of their eyes, their stings like sparks. Mia kept crying and thrashing about. It was hard to bear. They had to run across to the little shop and bang on the door, but the shopkeeper and his wife were now watching television upstairs and it was some time before they heard.

He wasn't surprised to see them again. He or his wife must have peered round the curtains. He was humorous about the insects and implied that you had to be born there to cope. They were called stingers, he said. She said she doubted anyone could cope with them. At that he grew rather heated and said people who worked in the forest couldn't go home just because of the stingers. You just had to get used to them.

She asked whether they could sit in the shop and wait, though she would prefer to find a place where they could get something to eat.

'There isn't anywhere. Not in this village.'

He sounded almost triumphant. His wife was in the living room, only half her attention on the television screen. They had been sitting together on a green velvet sofa, coffee and a large a.s.sortment of small cakes and biscuits on a tabletop made of flower-decorated tiles. They were drinking something brown in wide gla.s.ses. Cacao liqueur?

'Wouldn't you prefer to rent a room instead?'

'Roland said the camping site was full,' his wife called. There was malicious pleasure in her voice.

'There are private cabins, but they're probably all taken until after Midsummer,' said her husband in confirmation.

Then it occurred to Annie that perhaps Dan had thought Midsummer Eve was not until the next day. On the Sat.u.r.day. For it was, really. The old Midsummer Eve.

'My boyfriend's probably up there at Nilsbodarna,' she said. 'There's been a misunderstanding. Do you know anyone who could take us there by car?'

'There's no road.'

'I know. But there is up to where the path begins. I have a map with me. It's not far to walk after that.'

Husband and wife looked at each other. Annie could sense their criticism. This was not aversion but something more subtle. They seemed to have agreed on something and now it had been confirmed.

'I need to buy some food for my daughter,' she said, though she hated saying it. From the living room, the wife said nothing. She was staring at the screen.

'That's all right,' said the man. 'Though we want to watch the feature film first. Perhaps you'd like to watch it as well.'

So Annie had to sit down in an armchair by the coffee table. Mia clambered up on her knee and soon lost interest in the film. Instead, she looked round this room full of objects that must have seemed strange to her. Lots of animals, embroidered, carved or made of gla.s.s or pottery. As the woman fetched a cup and poured out coffee, she tried not to take her eyes off the screen, where a familiar actor was moving about in a ca.s.sock. Mia started systematically eating the cakes, cream cakes and sugared buns in small pleated paper cups. Annie sat crookedly in the armchair to be able to overlook the area in front of the shop. A car went by now and again, but none stopped. Mia fell asleep after a while, curled up on her lap, her long legs hanging outside and her thumb in her mouth. Annie hadn't seen her take to her thumb for a long time.

Once the bizarre drama on the screen was over, they went out into the kitchen and the woman made something she called bilberry gruel for Mia. She took the bilberries out of the freezer and boiled them up in water, then whipped some cornflour into them. Of course, Mia wouldn't touch it. It looked like purple glue. But she ate some bread and salami and drank some milk.

Annie looked into a room alongside the kitchen. It was full of pictures. Above the bed was one made of short-pile plush, brightly dyed in shades of pink, yellow and brown. It depicted a naked girl. She had tight fluffy b.r.e.a.s.t.s with budding nipples like large eyeb.a.l.l.s gazing at whoever came in. They must look at the wife every time she went in with the duster. For everything was certainly very clean.

They thought Annie ought to stay in the village, but she was beginning to suffocate in the long, narrow kitchen. Besides, something might have happened to Dan. He was all alone up there. But the man whose name was Ola dismissed that.

'What the h.e.l.l would happen to him there?'

'He might have broken his leg?'

She noticed they thought she was peculiar.

'Living in the Nirsbuan,' the woman said, snorting through flabby lips like a horse.

In the end, Annie managed to persuade him to drive them there. They were allowed to leave their belongings in his garage, where they changed into boots. Ola said they had to wear boots as they would be walking over marshy ground.

'Won't you stay?' was the last thing his wife said, though not saying where. Hands in the sleeves of her cardigan, she watched them leave from the steps. It was growing chilly out, but was still just as light.

Ola had told them to walk on ahead. They wouldn't take the main road that went on into Norway, but a turning off in the middle of the village. He would follow later and pick them up.

Annie felt great relief as they left the village. They walked uphill almost immediately, but they didn't have to go far. Ola came in the car when they were just beyond the last houses.

'Why did we have to walk the first bit?' she asked him.

He grinned. But she persisted. It wasn't exactly frightening that he wouldn't pick them up until no one could see them. His wife knew he was going to take them. But she was ill at ease.

'Well, no need to tell everyone you're giving Red Guards a lift,' he said.

She was so astonished by his words that she couldn't bring herself to ask anything more. It sounded so idiotic. Or old hat. She remembered Elmer Diktonius' poem about Red Emil, the mother with her hand round the throat of the b.a.s.t.a.r.d child. What did he know about the Reds in Finland's civil war? She didn't ask any more questions, but she said: 'I think my boyfriend will come and meet us. He's probably just got delayed.'

'Is he your boyfriend then?' he said mockingly.

'Yes.'

'Oh, I thought you didn't have special ones. I thought it was just anyone.'

I'll say nothing more, she thought. Whatever happens.

All the way was forest, no buildings at all. They came to a clearing where he told her to turn and look down towards the lake. You could see the high mountains in Norway from there, and they were black and blue-shaded, the peaks streaked with snow. There was a turquoise patch in the great lake which seemed to have no connection with the colour of the sky, the water all round a deeper blue.

The forest took over again and the road rose steeply. Crooked birches with veils of black lichen mixed with the spruces. When the forest opened out she could see a small lake glinting far down below the road, almost black with the reflection of the spruce forest. Only in the middle was there a lighter oval, which again did not reflect the pale-blue colour of the sky. Instead, it was golden like old red gold. Ola stopped on the roadside, saying this was Stromgren's, an old homestead really. She didn't know what this meant. Dogs were barking wildly and hurling themselves at a wire-netting fence. She caught a glimpse of someone in a window, but no one came out when they stopped.

A number of grey timbered buildings lay scattered far apart on the hillside. He showed her the path leading from a woodshed up to a small grey house.

'It goes on down towards the stream, and you have to follow it up to the last barn. Then you'll come to the path down from the village. There you must turn left. Otherwise you'll find yourself coming down again.'

A red car was parked on the roadside, a Renault 4L. It didn't seem to belong to the holding, because there was an old Opel parked there by the barn wall. So there must be people out there somewhere. That made her feel good. People who had a little red car.

She had a rucksack with her for their sweaters and the sandwiches Ola's wife had wrapped up for her. She had already taken out the map in the car. Ola helped her find the cottages he called Nirsbuan. On the map they were called Nilsbodarna. She realised now they were outfield farm buildings. The path ran on eastwards across the marshes and towards a river called Mountain River on the map, but which Ola called the Lobber. They had to cross that. There was a ford there and it was easy to find because it was just before the river ran into the Kloppen, a large mountain lake. The path went on up to Starhill. But for their part, they had to turn east towards the little black square marked Nirsbuan.

'Thanks for the lift,' she said, feeling she had to, but not daring to offer to pay. She was quite simply afraid his answer might be indecent.

'Why doesn't Dan come?' said Mia, as soon as they were alone.

'I don't know. He's probably got the wrong day.'

She couldn't hear the sound of Ola's car, but he must have gone. Now there were only birds and even they sounded hesitant. Perhaps most of them were asleep, although it was so light. It was past midnight. A bird kept calling on the same monotonous note and there was strong scent of birch leaves all around them, the leaves not as far out as down in the village. The gra.s.s in the pastures was also shorter than on the slopes down below.

The homestead consisted of a modern red building and a barn, a couple of dog runs and a group of small grey cottages on a slope. The light was so uncertain now that the houses furthest down by the lake seemed to be moving. Mia held Annie's hand as they trudged along, listening attentively in towards the forest.

'The way he goes on,' she said. Annie realised she meant the capercaillie whistling on its one note. The pasture sloped down to a stream, and in the dip the path divided where there was a small building with a collapsed shingle roof.

'We go left here.'

The path curved, then climbed again. After a while they could see the woodshed again and the house from the back. Annie was uncertain. The map told her nothing about the network of paths across the pasture, nor about the numerous small wooden buildings gleaming in the night light. To make sure, they plodded back to the stream, and at the little house they set off in the other direction.

The path seemed larger now, apparently leading somewhere and taking them away from the little grey timber houses. They came into forest consisting almost entirely of twisted birches hung with lichen. Some had fallen and were slowly rotting; grey fungus grew like tumours out of them. Ferns protruded from the ground beneath the birches, their hairy brown tips still curled up. The forest with its hanging black lichen and fallen trees was full of bird calls, whistles, clicks and flutings. But they saw no birds.

They had come up into upland terrain and she thought this odd, for they ought to have been nearing the lake. Now they seemed to be going up to a ridge and the path had joined a much larger and more used one. She suddenly realised they were going in the wrong direction. Ola had said to be careful not to get on to the path from Blackwater. That would take them down into the village again if they went on.

'We must turn back,' she said. Mia gave her a look which made her seem adult.

'Or . . . hang on. We've probably come on to the right path from the village. But we're on our way down. We must turn round, not go down the way we came, but take this big path to the lake. Wait, and I'll show you.'

She sat Mia down on a tree trunk and started unfolding the map. It was difficult to see the details for the light was grey under the trees, and she realised she needed a compa.s.s. But when they had left Ola's car, she had had no idea the landscape was so full of paths branching off and dissolving into long wet streaks of marshland, diffuse grey buildings and human installations where there should have been wilderness, heights and hollows she had not expected. Not even the names matched those on the map.

She had been in a hurry to get away and had felt pressured by Ola's unpleasant semi-aggressive curiosity. He was nothing like what she had imagined people here would be.