Åke Edwardson - Sail of Stone

She hadn’t said more, but he knew through Johanna Osvald that Ella Algotsson had never married.

Her fate was connected to John Osvald and his family; their fates were linked to one another; the chain continued through the years from the past to the present. Binding the nations on both sides of the North Sea.

“He lies down there too,” she had said after a little while. “Thay never found the boat. The Marino. And nothin’ else neither.”

Ringmar had looked like he was preparing himself.

“Did you know that Axel Osvald went over to Scotland a few weeks ago, Miss Algotsson?” he had asked.

She had nodded.

“Do you know why?”

“No.”

“Erik Osvald didn’t say anything about it when he was here?”

She had repeated a “no” but suddenly it was as though she no longer had the strength. Her face had fallen. The clouds in her eyes were gone, but her eyes had a new kind of faintness. She seemed tired now, dead tired. Winter had again felt ashamed, as though they were using these people without really knowing why. As though nothing good could come of this.

As though this would only make everything worse. What was it Erik Osvald had said one time? Storms are good for the sea? That they stir up the stew on the bottom. That no fisherman yet has lost by betting on a storm.

What was it they were tearing up with their questions? He thought about that now, in the dark of his flat, where he’d spent the better portion of his adult life.

Would this investigation be good for anything?

He saw Ella Algotsson’s face again. He blinked and it remained. He saw Arne Algotsson nodding again, as though he were concurring with something again.

They had concluded their conversation with Ella; they had tried to speak with Arne. They had moved their chairs up to the window.

They had asked questions, but all his responses had been nonsensical. It was both comic and tragic.

Arne had no more to say about “Skipper Osvald.”

Winter had wanted to know more. John Osvald hadn’t been the skipper when they set out. He became skipper. Why?

Why weren’t Arne Algotsson and Bertil Osvald along on that last trip?

What relationship did the young men have with one another on the little island that had been their home?

How had they functioned together out at sea?

Winter had thought about Erik Osvald’s words again, about the silence on board, the relationships on board.

Had something happened on board?

How had they functioned together in their involuntary exile?

He thought about it again now, sitting in the middle of the city he’d always lived in. He wanted to know. He wanted to look for answers to all of those questions, and to several others that couldn’t be answered here, only there. Possibly. Over there in Scotland.

It was a fascinating story. There were many parts. Spread across more than fifty years, across the sea.

There was a great sadness here, but there was also something else.

He wanted to know.

There were those who knew more than he did but didn’t want to say anything.

Yes.

Axel Osvald found something in Scotland that he’d been searching for his entire life, and it ended his life. Did such a truth exist, such a reality?

Maybe.

It was connected to the sea. The fishing. The trawlers. The cities. The islands. The villages. The winds. And so on.

Winter got up to go into the bedroom and try to get a few hours of sleep.

It was as they were going to leave the house on Donsö, as they were about to say good-bye to Arne Algotsson. Ringmar had said something about Scotland, Winter didn’t remember exactly what, something about Scotland in general. Ringmar had said “Scotland” several times in a row.

But he remembered what Algotsson had suddenly answered, or said, more like said straight out to no one in particular, more like said straight out the same way he had chanted about his mission earlier:

“The buckle boys are back in town” was what it sounded like.

“What did you say?” Ringmar had asked, but of course Algotsson wasn’t rational like that; he didn’t repeat himself on command.

“The buckle boys are back in town,” Ringmar had repeated, because it was easy to say; it flowed nicely.

“The buckle boys are back in town,” Algotsson repeated, as mechanically as before.

“You said SCOTLAND before,” Winter had said to Ringmar, but also to Algotsson. “Scotland.”

“Cullen skink,” Algotsson had said, and then he had been completely silent.

The words were still there in Winter’s head. He still hadn’t made it to bed; he was standing halfway in the hall. Cullen skink. Those were damn strange words. It sounded Scottish, it did, but what did it mean? Or maybe he’d said something else? Collie skink? Collie sink. Had he said “sink?” Just as Winter had that thought, the faucet in the kitchen dripped, a sound only heard at night. An irritating sound that would stop if only he would change the washer. Drip down in the sink. That sinking feeling.

He walked back to the living room. The clock on the wall was no longer on three; it was four thirty. He could hear the first streetcars. The sound of a delivery truck getting bread down in the bakery, or leaving flour. Suddenly Göteborgs-Posten dropped down through the mail slot in the hall behind him. He still wasn’t tired. He walked over to one of the bookcases and selected one of the atlases, taking out the one he thought was the best.

Scotland.

The buckle boys.

Cullen sink.

He turned on the floor lamp and remained standing.

He searched for map 6, northern Scotland. He found Inverness in the innermost part of the bay called Moray Firth. He saw Thurso and John O’Groats way up there, but they didn’t mean anything to him. He read the names of towns and cities from Inverness to Aberdeen. It was far, but not that far. He started inland, from west to east. He came across Dallas, a little dot, but still there. Proto-Dallas. Maybe Steve’s father had started the milking there now, along with Steve’s brother. Mom was making oatmeal like mad, Scotland’s delicious national dish.

Winter came to Aberdeen with his finger, and now he let it run north. He came to Peterhead. He came to Fraserburgh at the northeastern tip. He continued straight west, back toward Inverness, along the coastline now, village after village: Rosehearty, Pennan, Macduff, Banff, Portsoy, Cullen.

Cullen. Cullen as in Cullen sink or skink. Sink from Cullen. A kitchen sink from Cullen, Scottish kitchen sink realism.

So there was a Cullen between Portsoy and Portnockie. Something had told him it was a place.

He continued west along the coast, but only to the next city.

Buckie.

The Buckie boys are back in town.

He was home again. This was the only place he called home now. He was walking on the beach. The protruding rock formation in front of him, to the west, was called the Three Kings. Everyone here had always called the rocks that. It had to do with the sea. Ruling the sea, being the master out there.

In a different time this had been a city of life, a royal burgh for the future. No more.

No trawlers went out for herring, none came back. Haddock wasn’t smoked here anymore; there was no haddock and therefore no smoke that stung your nose. Once there had been three smokehouses. Now the smoke smelled like garbage when it came up out of the houses where the poor souls tried to get warm. The smoke hit the sky and it too was petrified.

He turned around. It was a blue day. He could see. The sky was cracked as though from some cursed strikes of a hammer, and it had collapsed at the edges and was wide open, and he could see across Seatown and the viaducts and the city above and the hills above the city and the blue sky above the hills. That was what he wanted to see. It was why he had walked here, wandered down Castle Terrace and climbed over the Burn. He could still climb. He could do a lot, still.