Rites of Spring Page 12

  Ronny and his friends rebuild the dens, bigger and better. They help her to make new pine-cone animals and carve a new wooden doll for her. But it’s never the same again.

  *

  Thea wakes in the early hours again. The nightlight glows faintly, keeping the darkness at bay, slowing her pulse.

  The dream echoes inside her. How many years since she last had it? She can’t remember.

  Emee is awake, gazing at her with those pale eyes as if she understands exactly what thoughts are going around in Thea’s head.

  Thea gets up, gets dressed. Checks that she has her cigarettes and lighter, fetches the dog lead from the hallway.

  David’s bedroom door is closed. Her first instinct is to creep out as quietly as possible so as not to wake him, then she changes her mind, opens the door a fraction.

  The bed is unmade, the clothes valet where David usually hangs his shirt and trousers is empty.

  Thea closes the door. Has a cup of coffee before pulling on her jacket and boots. She tucks the Polaroid in her pocket and steps outside. The sun is rising, so she doesn’t need a torch.

  She cuts across to the path leading to the back of the castle. David’s car isn’t in its usual place. When he mentioned an early meeting last night, she’d assumed it was an excuse to avoid staying in her room, but maybe she was wrong. Then again, who has a meeting at this hour?

  It’s just before six. The morning mist covers the moat like a woollen blanket. She crosses the bridge, lets Emee go in the forest as usual. Lights a cigarette. It’s her last.

  She stops at the signpost. The stone circle lies straight ahead in the forest; she can just make out the contours of an almost overgrown path. She follows it through the trees. To begin with, it’s easy. The deciduous trees are tall, the ground is covered only in wood anemones and moss. But as the terrain starts to slope downwards, the vegetation becomes wilder. The moss is wet, the wood anemones give way to bracken, and time and time again she is forced to take a detour around thick, impenetrable brambles.

  She thinks about what Little Stefan told her: that Svartgården was boarded up and the track destroyed. An attempt to obliterate all memories of Elita Svart and her family. To wash away the stain on the village’s reputation.

  The morning sun is low in the sky, penetrating the leafy canopy only occasionally. It is no longer possible to make out the path, and Thea is worried that she’s lost her way in the gloom. Has she gone too far to the west and missed her target? She stops, checks her watch and tries to work out which direction she’s going in. It’s ten minutes since she left the signpost.

  She hears rustling behind her, then the sharp crack of a branch breaking. Emee, probably. She calls her name, but there’s no sign of the dog.

  Thea turns slightly to the east and sets off again. She thinks she can smell the marsh, which ought to mean that she’s going the right way.

  She circumvents another patch of brambles and finds herself in a glade. Six standing stones, each approximately one metre in diameter, are arranged in a circle, with a seventh flat stone in the centre.

  The glade is surrounded by gnarled old trees of a completely different type from the rest of the forest. Each one consists of several slender trunks leaning outwards in different directions until they form the crown. In the dim morning light it looks as if these trunks are actually tall human beings whose feet have become part of the trees’ roots, their hands part of the crown. The veils of mist slowly swirling over the wet grass add to the sense of unreality.

  There is a pole beside Thea which reminds her of the one next to the Gallows Oak. The information board is lying on the ground, overgrown with grass. With a little effort she manages to lift it. The first part of the text is barely legible, but she manages to work out that the strange, humanoid trees are hawthorn. She remembers what Dr Andersson told her the other day – that Tornaby got its name from the hawthorn, once regarded as a sacred tree.

  The rest of the text is easier to read.

  The stone circle probably dates from the sixth century, marking a grave or possibly a meeting place of some kind. At this time the castle forest was an island, surrounded by extensive marshlands, which made it suitable for religious ceremonies.

  The central stone is older than the rest. On the top there is a small bowl-shaped hollow, common during the Bronze Age. It was probably used during fertility rites, when grains of corn or small figures made of twigs were ‘sacrificed’ in the hollow to ensure a good harvest. The custom lived on in the area until the mid-nineteenth century. The stone is still referred to locally as the sacrificial stone.

  The smooth surface of the stone is dark with dampness. The hollow is about ten centimetres wide and maybe half as deep. The dew has formed a small puddle in the bottom.

  Thea takes out the Polaroid. Steps back. The background in the photograph looks slightly different. The trees aren’t so tall or overgrown. The stone, however, is exactly the same. She moves around until she finds the precise angle from which the photograph was taken. She half-closes her eyes, pictures Elita standing on the stone, David and his three friends on either side of her. The spring sacrifice and her four attendants. Five people in total.

  But there must have been a sixth person present – the photographer. Unless the camera had some kind of automatic timer, of course.

  She looks closely at the picture, trying to see if there’s a shadow from the person behind the camera, but the image is too pale, the colours faded.

  A sound interrupts her train of thought, another branch snapping, but this time she can tell where it’s come from. Among the trees, more or less opposite the point where she emerged into the glade. She is just about to call Emee when she hears more noises, branches scraping against clothing, a faint metallic click.

  She sees a movement among the hawthorns and realises she’s holding her breath. A dark silhouette appears through the mist. A man pushing a bicycle. He is on his way into the glade, eyes fixed on the sacrificial stone. He doesn’t seem to have noticed her, not until he’s almost there. He stops dead, drops the bicycle. The colour drains from his face, his eyelids flicker, and for a second she thinks he’s going to faint.

  ‘Hi, Bertil,’ she says. ‘What are you doing here?’

  29

  Walpurgis Night 1986

  I’m sure you’ve heard about the other girls who died in the forest. Isabelle who drowned in the moat, and Eleonor who fell off her horse and broke her neck.

  Soon it will be Elita’s turn.

  Beautiful women dead that by my side. Once lay.

  Isn’t that lovely?

  There’s something appealing about dying when you’re at your most beautiful, don’t you think?

  T

  he young man loved to ride. Loved the feeling of controlling something so big and strong, yet as sensitive as a horse. He himself was short and had been born with a cleft palate, which still gave him problems with his speech. He had to make an effort to master certain letters, just as he had to make an effort to control his involuntary twitching. But on horseback none of that could be seen. Up here he raced along. Agile, complete.

  He loved to ride, and he loved the land: the meadows, the pastures, the forest, the marsh. It all belonged to him, as far as the eye could see. Or it would belong to him. Soon.

  His father was getting old now. He was a hard man, a man who never talked about his love for the land, but about crops, yield and tenancies. Practical matters. Things that could be counted and measured.

  His father feared no one, apart from God. The only time his expression softened somewhat was when they prayed together in the chapel. Prayed for the young man’s mother. For her immortal soul. Asked God to forgive her weakness.

  Sometimes the young man could feel his father’s eyes on him. Studying him closely, as if he were searching for something in his face or movements. A feature, a gesture of some kind. But every time his father seemed disappointed.

  Over the years the young man had realised why. I
t was because he was his mother’s son. Because he was different.

  *

  Elita was waiting by the Gallows Oak, just as she’d promised. He galloped up to her, made the muscular stallion stop right by her feet, thanks to a combination of perfectly executed movements with the reins and his legs. Elita’s expression didn’t change. She was just as good a rider as he was – maybe even better, which was one of the reasons why he loved her.

  As always he was struck by how lovely she was – the coal-black hair, those eyes, the olive skin.

  ‘I’ve got something for you.’

  She held out an envelope. He took it, felt the square card inside.

  ‘Are you ready for tonight?’

  He nodded. Nelson did a little pirouette, his hooves digging into the soft ground. He was a thoroughbred, the most difficult horse to ride, but also the most beautiful, the fastest, the strongest.

  ‘What’s that?’

  The young man pointed with his crop to the paint tin by the oak tree. As usual he kept his sentences short so that his speech impediment would be less noticeable.

  ‘A little offering.’

  She smiled in a way that irritated him. He’d opened up to her, confided his deepest secrets to her, and yet she insisted on teasing him.

  ‘To whom?’ His voice sounded more brusque than he’d intended. Nelson snorted. Performed another little pirouette.

  Elita’s smile broadened. She pointed up at the nodular growths on the tree trunk that resembled a face.

  ‘To him. The Green Man.’

  She tipped her head back and laughed. Her teeth were so white, so perfect. Like his mother’s pearl necklace.

  For a brief moment the young man wished he could own her. Lock her up in a box, as his father had done with the necklace. Preserve the memory of her, equally untainted and precious.

  ‘Are you worried?’

  The young man shook his head, but as usual she saw straight through him. She grabbed the reins, stroked Nelson’s forehead, which instantly calmed the stallion. Then she looked up at him with those eyes that reminded him so much of his mother’s.

  ‘Don’t worry, Hubert,’ she said softly. ‘Everything will be fine.’

  30

  T

  hea gets Bertil to sit down on one of the stones. Her father-in-law is still as white as a sheet. His lips are constantly moving, whispering the same two words over and over again. She leans closer to hear what he’s saying.

  ‘Poor girl, poor girl, poor girl . . .’

  ‘What girl? Do you mean Elita Svart?’

  The name makes him fall silent. He lowers his eyes.

  ‘What are you doing here, Bertil?’

  No response.

  ‘Does Ingrid know you’re out on your own?’

  Nothing.

  He’s wearing a shirt, jacket and checked pyjama bottoms. Wellingtons on his feet. No coat, in spite of the cold morning air. His legs are shaking, his lips turning blue.

  Thea takes off her own coat and wraps it around his shoulders, then gets out her phone and calls David. It rings six times, then goes to voicemail. She tries again, with the same result. His phone is clearly switched on, so either he can’t hear it or he’s ignoring her.

  She finds Ingrid’s number; her mother-in-law answers almost right away.

  ‘Hi, it’s Thea. I’ve got Bertil here; he seems to have gone off by himself.’

  Ingrid doesn’t waste any time on her own reaction. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘In the forest, at the stone circle.’

  A brief pause. ‘Where’s David?’

  The question takes Thea by surprise; surely Ingrid should be asking how Bertil is?

  ‘He said he had an early meeting. He’s not answering his phone.’

  Another pause. ‘Where can I meet you?’

  Thea looks around the glade. Trying to drag Bertil back the way she came doesn’t seem like a good idea; the terrain is too difficult. Obviously he cycled here by a different route, but she doesn’t know the back roads to the village.

  ‘I can take him to the hunting lodge – it can’t be far, I’m sure I can find it.’

  A third pause, a fraction longer this time.

  ‘Do that,’ Ingrid says, and ends the call.

  *

  The sun disperses both the darkness and the mist, helping Thea to locate the muddy canal quite quickly. They follow it to the left. Bertil is exhausted, and has to stop to catch his breath every couple of minutes. He says next to nothing during the walk, he merely continues to move his lips silently as if he’s fully engaged in some internal dialogue. However, he follows her instructions, and seems to have an idea of where he is.

  The roof of the hunting lodge appears through the trees. There is smoke coming out of the chimney, which suggests that Kerstin is up and about.

  A freshly cut strip of weeds that must be Jan-Olof’s work marks the boundary between the forest and the property. They pass the paddock; as they approach the house Thea can’t help glancing at the figure of the Green Man on the wall. She thinks about the dream she had last night. About Ronny and her father.

  The door is flung open before they reach it and Kerstin comes out onto the steps.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  Her voice makes Bertil look up, and his face breaks into a smile.

  ‘Kerstin,’ he murmurs. ‘Dear Kerstin. There was something I had to do. Something important. But I must have got a little bit lost.’

  The two of them shepherd Bertil into the kitchen, wrap him in a blanket and settle him on the sofa next to the wood-burning stove. Kerstin pours tea; the hot drink make Thea realise how cold she’s got without her coat. She examines Bertil as best she can. The colour has returned to his cheeks, his pulse is steady and she can’t find any sign of injury.

  ‘Dear Kerstin, I really am sorry to be such a nuisance,’ Bertil says.

  ‘No problem. It’s a good job Thea found you.’

  ‘It is. She found me in the forest. By the stone circle.’ He looks anxious again, and shakes his head. ‘Poor child . . .’

  ‘Drink your tea, you’ll soon feel better,’ Kerstin says, gently rubbing his back.

  He nods and does as he’s told. The anxious expression disappears. After just a few sips his eyelids grow heavy. Thea helps Kerstin to pile cushions behind him so that he can have a nap.

  ‘He’s worn out. I added a little camomile to his tea; it’s very calming.’

  Kerstin signals to Thea to sit down at the table. The kitchen has a different smell this time, probably thanks to the bunches of fresh nettles hanging above the stove. Kerstin follows her gaze.

  ‘Nettles are good for the immune system, and they’re at their most nutritious now, in the spring. Another of my tea blends.’ She frowns. ‘It really was a stroke of luck that you found Bertil. Things could have gone very badly. What if he’d fallen into the canal?’

  She waves towards the kitchen window and the green water outside. Thea nods; the same thought occurred to her. ‘Why do you think he came out here, of all places? He must have cycled five kilometres from the village.’

  Kerstin is considering her answer when they hear the sound of a car engine.

  ‘That must be Ingrid,’ Thea says, getting to her feet.

  But the car is not her mother-in-law’s dark grey Mercedes, but a black three-door BMW. The driver’s door opens and a man with a moustache climbs out; he is wearing jeans and a leather jacket. He takes the steps in one bound and opens the door so fast that the cat who has fallen asleep on the kitchen floor shoots away, terrified.

  It’s Arne. Ingrid’s younger brother, David’s uncle. He nods a greeting. ‘Ingrid said you needed help.’

  They wake Bertil and lead him out to the car. Bertil thanks Kerstin over and over again, keeps calling her ‘dear Kerstin’.

  Arne, on the other hand, says very little. He supports his brother-in-law, eases him into the passenger seat carefully, almost tenderly.

  ‘Thanks for
your help, Kerstin,’ Arne mumbles when Bertil is settled.

  ‘You’re welcome. I hope he soon feels better.’

  Arne flips down the driver’s seat so that Thea can get in the back. The car smells of a Little Tree air freshener, coffee and leather clothing.

  Within minutes Bertil has gone back to sleep.

  ‘Where did you say you found him?’ Arne asks.

  ‘By the stone circle.’

  ‘Mhm.’ Arne meets her gaze in the rear-view mirror. ‘And what were you doing in the middle of the forest so early in the morning, if I may ask?’

  ‘I woke up early and took the dog out.’

  She knows what the next question will be a millisecond before he asks.

  ‘So where’s the dog now?’

  Emee. Shit! She’s been so focused on helping Bertil that she’s forgotten all about Emee.

  ‘I expect she ran off home. I had my hands full with Bertil.’

  Arne nods, still watching her in the mirror. ‘Did he say anything about why he was there? Was he rambling?’

  Thea takes a deep breath, playing for time to give herself a chance to think.

  ‘He just said “poor girl”.’

  ‘Poor girl? Is that all?’ Arne sounds as though he doesn’t really believe her.

  ‘Yes.’ She pauses, considers whether to continue. ‘He meant Elita Svart. The spring sacrifice.’

  No answer, just a long stare. They reach the turning for the castle and lose eye contact.

  He drops her at the coach house. There is still no sign of David’s car.

  Arne holds out his hand. ‘Thank you so much, Thea.’

  ‘No problem.’

  He squeezes her hand a little harder.

  ‘The thing is, Thea . . .’ He leans forward in a way that she doesn’t really like. ‘It would be best if we kept this . . . incident to ourselves. Within the family, so to speak. There’s already enough gossip in the village.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Good.’

  Another squeeze; he stops just before it begins to hurt. He lets go, jumps in the car and drives off. Bertil is still sleeping peacefully in the passenger seat.