Anne Holt: Fear Not

Adam was standing in the kitchen where his mother-in-law couldn’t see him. He waved to Johanne, silently forming words with his lips: ‘Take no notice. Pretend you can’t hear her.’

‘Dam-di-rum-ram,’ said Kristiane.

‘You can have whatever you want,’ Johanne whispered. ‘You can have the very thing you want most of all.’

She knew it didn’t help at all. Kristiane made her own decisions about where she was. During the course of fourteen years with this child so close to her that she sometimes found it difficult to tell which was her and which was her daughter, she still had no idea what made her go from one state to the other. They had learned simple patterns, Johanne and Adam and Isak, Kristiane’s father. Routines and habits; foods to be avoided and food that had a particular effect on her; drugs they had tried before agreeing they were unsuitable… specific paths had been cleared that made life with Kristiane simpler.

But for the most part her daughter was in a world of her own, following her own map and making her own incomprehensible choices.

‘Mummy loves you all the way to the stars and back,’ Johanne whispered quietly, her lips tickling her daughter’s ear and making Kristiane smile.

‘Daddy’s coming,’ she said.

‘Yes, Daddy will be here soon. When he’s had dinner with Grandma and Granddad he’s coming to see his little girl.’

Kristiane’s face was completely expressionless. It looked as if her eyes were moving independently of one another, and it frightened Johanne. Usually they were just fixed on something no one else could see.

‘The lady was-’

‘Her name is Albertine,’ Johanne interrupted. ‘Albertine was asleep.’

‘It was so cold. I couldn’t find you, Mummy.’

‘But I found you. In the end.’

Johanne was so focused on the child that she hadn’t noticed her mother. She caught the scent first, a present from her sister that cost more than Johanne spent on cosmetics and personal hygiene in an entire year.

Go away, she tried to convey with every fibre of her being. She arched her back and made a tiny movement to the side, still crouching beside her daughter.

‘Kristiane,’ the child’s grandmother said in her calm, firm voice. ‘Come to Granny, please. First of all we are going to open the red present with the pink ribbon on it. It’s for you. Inside is a box with a lid. When you open the box and lift the lid, you will find a microscope. Which is just what you wanted. Now take my hand…’

Johanne was still sitting with her hands resting on Kristiane’s narrow thighs.

‘Microscope,’ said Kristiane. ‘From the Greek micro , small, and skopein , to look at.’

‘Quite right,’ said her grandmother. ‘Come along.’

Sølvguttene were no longer singing. Ragnhild switched off the television, as did the neighbours down below. The aroma of coffee drifted from the kitchen, and the world outside was silent in the way it was only on this night of the year, when the churches had emptied, the bells had fallen silent and no one was on the way to or from anything or anyone any longer.

Her grandmother’s long, slender hand crept into Kristiane’s.

‘Granny,’ the girl said with a smile. ‘I want my microscope.’

But her eyes were fixed on Johanne. Her gaze was steady, and remained so until she went over to the sofa with her grandmother to open a Christmas present, the contents of which she already knew.

Johanne got stiffly to her feet and remained where she was.

An unaccustomed shiver of happiness ran through her body, only to disappear before she really had time to work out what it was.

For Eva Karin Lysgaard, happiness was a solid concept.

Happiness was her faith in Jesus Christ. Every day since she had met the Saviour while walking in the forest when she was sixteen she had experienced the joyous feeling of His presence. She spoke to Him often, and frequently received answers. Even in times of sorrow – and, of course, a woman of sixty had lived through such times – Jesus was with her, giving consolation and support and endless love.

It was almost eleven o’clock on the night of His birthday.

Eva Karin Lysgaard had an agreement with Jesus. A pact with her husband Erik and with her Lord. When life had been at its darkest for both her and Erik, they had found a way out of all their difficulties. It was not the simplest way. It had taken time to find it and it must always remain a matter between her, Erik and the Saviour.

Now she was here, on her way.

The rain blew in off Vågen, tasting of salt. Behind many of the windows in the picturesque development of small houses a soft light was still visible; Christmas Eve was not over for most people. She tripped on a paving stone as she turned the corner, but quickly regained her balance. Her glasses were wet and misted over, and it was difficult to see clearly. It didn’t matter. This was her path, and she had walked this way so many times before.

Taken by surprise, she stopped for a moment.

She could hear footsteps behind her.

She had already been walking for over twenty minutes and hadn’t seen another living soul apart from a stray cat and the sea birds, screaming so faintly above Vågen.

‘Bishop Lysgaard?’

She turned towards the voice.

‘Yes?’ she said in an enquiring tone, and smiled.

There was something about his voice, something strange. Harsh, perhaps. Different, anyway.

‘Who are you? Is there something I can help you with?’

When he struck her with the knife she realized she had been wrong. During the sixteen seconds it took her from the moment of realizing that she was going to die until she was no longer alive, she offered no resistance. She said nothing, and allowed herself to fall to the ground with the strange man leaning over her, the man with the knife; he was of no relevance to her. She was the one who had been wrong. During all these years, when she had thought Jesus was by her side in her vain belief that He had forgiven and accepted, she had been living a lie that was impossible to live with in the future. It was too big.

And at the moment of her death, when there was no longer anything to see and all perception of existence was gone, she wondered what He who has eternal life had been unable to accept. Had it been the lie or the sin?

It all came down to the same thing, she thought.

And died.

‘Baby Jesus can’t possibly be two thousand and eight years old,’ said Ragnhild with a yawn. ‘Nobody lives for ever!’

‘No,’ said Adam. ‘He actually died when he was quite young. We celebrate Christmas because that’s when he was born.’

‘In that case we should have balloons. It’s not a proper birthday without balloons. Do you think baby Jesus liked balloons?’

‘I don’t think they had balloons in those days. But it’s time you got some sleep, my girl. It’s almost one o’clock in the morning! It’s already Christmas Day, in fact.’

‘My personal best,’ Ragnhild rejoiced. ‘Is one o’clock later than eleven o’clock?’

Adam nodded and tucked her in for the fourth time in two hours.

‘Time to sleep.’

‘Why is one later than eleven when one is a little number and eleven is a big number? Can I stay up this late on New Year’s Eve?’

‘We’ll see. Now go to sleep.’

He kissed her on the nose and headed for the door.

‘Daddy…’

‘Go to sleep. Daddy’s going to get cross if you don’t try. Do you understand?’

He flicked the switch and the room was filled with a reddish glow from a string of small red hearts around one window.

‘But Daddy, just one more thing.’

‘What?’