Åke Edwardson - Sail of Stone

Winter nodded, as though he completely understood what Osvald meant.

“We ha’n’t heard nothing,” said Osvald.

“I know,” said Winter.

“This’n’t like’m,” said Osvald.

“Sorry?”

“This isn’t like him,” translated his sister. Winter might have seen a weak smile in the corner of her mouth. “Dad, he means. Not like him. Not to call. But I’ve told you that.”

“’N’t like’m,” repeated Osvald, and now Winter realized that he was laying it on thick, extra thick. He just didn’t understand why. The guy was as far from a village yokel as he could be.

Johanna nodded past Winter, toward the blue trawler fifty yards away. Winter could see the name again, MAGDALENA.

“Erik has coffee ready in the mess,” she said.

Osvald seemed to laugh suddenly, and he turned around and walked toward the boat.

“Did the thing about the coffee come as a surprise to him?” said Winter to Johanna.

“Grandpa was a farmer’s son from Hisingen,” said Osvald, pouring the coffee. They were sitting in the mess, which was as modern as could be, wooden floors, woodwork on the walls. They left their shoes above deck, in the little hall inside the bridge. Osvald’s pronunciation was different now, as though he had wanted to show something, or prove something, earlier.

He had been out of coffee, but he returned from the store with more after five minutes. He no longer looked surprised.

“They were fishermen, too,” said Osvald. “They caught sprat and horse mackerel, which they sold to the people on Donsö for longline fishing, which was a tradition here.”

“Hooks?” said Winter.

“Exactly,” said Osvald, with surprise in his voice. “You know this stuff.”

“No. But I heard about longline fishing when we had the house on Styrsö.”

Osvald drank his coffee and Winter noticed how strong it was when he drank too. He could have used a knife and fork for it. He would lose face if he asked for milk.

“Grandpa found a woman here, or a girl, I guess you could say, and it went fast,” said Johanna. “He came here to work on a trawler. He’d gotten in contact with a skipper.”

“He was quite young,” said Winter.

“For what?” said Osvald.

“To get married and have kids,” said Winter.

Neither sibling answered. But then it wasn’t a question. Maybe there was nothing strange about it. Those who lived here wanted to begin life immediately, and continue it.

And to disappear, thought Winter. Quite young to disappear. He had his young family, a son, and another son on the way.

“He had two brothers,” said Johanna. “John had.”

“What?” said Winter.

“Two brothers came along,” she said. “Bertil and Egon. They were on the same boat.”

“The same boat? The same boat that disappeared?”

“One of them came back,” said Osvald. “Bertil.”

“Explain,” said Winter.

The Osvald brothers were a few of the people who dared to cross the sea during the beginning of the war. John Osvald was the youngest. The trawlers that could make it over to England and Scotland and unload-there was a fortune to be had. The fish were there; the harbors were farther west. It was a world at war.

Many “passed on,” as Osvald put it, “but they were propelled by the money.”

A fixed price was put on fish in the beginning of the war. It turned out that the price was extremely high.

“But the other price was even higher,” said Johanna.

Winter nodded. The other price was death.

“The ones who made it became rich,” said Osvald. “People here were able to build new houses with all the most modern things you can imagine, and when the workmen left the house, everything was paid for! With taxed money.”

“The ones who came back,” said Johanna.

“But your grandpa didn’t come back,” said Winter. “What happened?”

He heard the boat move. It was big, bigger than he’d thought a trawler could be, more modern. It must have been very expensive. It must have weighed several hundred tons, have thousands in horsepower. There were mounts for two trawls in the stern. Osvald had seen his glance, and he’d said that this was a twin rigger. He sounded proud.

“ Marino was out fishing in the North Sea, and they weren’t on their way west just then, but the Germans came up from the south and they decided to get out, and fast,” said Osvald.

“ Marino ?”

“That’s what the trawler was called.”

Marino. Not Marina, not a woman’s name, like Magdalena.

“How many people were on board?” asked Winter.

“Eight men, normally,” said Osvald. “That was the usual number.”

“How many are on this boat?”

“Four.”

“They had twice as many? On a trawler that was half as big?”

Osvald nodded.

“How was that?”

“Well, they all lived in the forecastle, and it was damp and wet. There were no personal berths like here.” He nodded toward a closed door that led to the sleeping hall. “So they couldn’t manage to do what we do now. The weather was a big problem, for example, but it isn’t anymore.”

“Why not?”

“You’re sitting on a boat that can handle any weather at all,” said Osvald.

“Can you manage to take care of it yourself?” asked Winter. “Could you be alone on it?”

Osvald nodded without saying anything.

“There weren’t eight of them that time,” said Johanna. “It wasn’t fully manned.”

Her brother turned to her.

“Did you forget, Erik? There were five of them.”

“Yes, right.”

She looked at Winter.

“That was everyone who wanted to come along on the last crossing from Donsö. Everyone who would dare.”

“The three brothers and two other men,” said Winter.

“Yes.”

“Where are they now?”

He knew what had happened to the brothers. Egon had gone under with the boat, along with John. Bertil came back and died on Donsö, in modern times.

“Frans Karlsson disappeared too,” said Johanna. “That’s what we were told by Arne, Arne Algotsson. He came back with Bertil.”

“Arne Algotsson?”

“He lives here on the island. He was along with them.”

“Oh?”

“But he is hopelessly senile,” said Osvald.

“Is he?”

“He forgets his thoughts before he thinks them,” said Osvald with a weak smile. “If he even has any.” He rubbed his hand over his chin, and the rasp of two days’ stubble was audible. “In that condition, he probably doesn’t think at all.”

The Marino had fled from the German destroyers, through the minefields, to the Scottish coast.

“They came to Aberdeen, and it wasn’t the first time, but this time they didn’t have very much fish along,” said Osvald.

“And they weren’t from there,” said Johanna.

“It was too dangerous,” said her brother.

“So they had to stay there,” said Johanna.

“In Aberdeen?”

“At first. Then they went up to Peterhead and it became like their home harbor during that year. They went out sometimes, of course.”

“But never very far?”

“Well, they probably went around the point at Fraserburgh sometimes, and a bit to the west into the strait, in toward Inverness, I think.”

“Inverness?” said Winter, looking at Johanna.

“Yes. Not all the way in, if Arne could be believed before he completely lost his memory. But into the strait there, Firth something.”

Winter nodded.

“And then they went to Iceland a few times,” said Osvald. “That was pretty bold.”

“They were crazy,” said Johanna.

“Up to Iceland?”

“The fishing grounds off of the south coast of Iceland,” said Osvald. “Witch flounder. They got a very good price for them down in Scotland.”