John Lindqvist - Handling The Undead

The trip had taken almost an hour and Mahler had become chilled by the wind. He turned the motor off and floated in to the dock. Here between the islands there was almost no wind and the silence was wonderful. The afternoon sun glittered in the still water and everything breathed peace.

They had been here a couple of times before; eaten sandwiches on the rocks and swum. He liked this stark island, almost at the edge of the Aland sea. Mahler had fantasised about one day being able to buy one of the two fishing cottages, the only buildings on the island.

Anna sat up and peered over the railing. 'It's beautiful.'

'Yes.'

The naked rocks down by the water were covered, farther in towards the island, in a blanket of low junipers. Meadows of heath; the occasional alder. The island was small, you could walk around it in fifteen minutes and not find much variety in the vegetation. A little world; one that could be known completely.

They tied the boat up in silence, carried Elias and their things to one of the cottages. Mahler had done most of the talking for the past few days. When he no longer needed to speak, it was quiet.

They laid Elias wrapped in the blanket on a patch of heath and started to look for the key. They checked the pit toilet fifty metres behind the house and noted that the waste at the bottom was dried up. No one had been

here for a long time. They looked under the loose stones around the steps, in hollowed-out spaces, under logs. No key.

Mahler laid the tools out on a rock, looked at Anna and received her assent. He jammed the crowbar in the crack of the door, bashed it in deeper with the hammer and applied pressure. The lock gave way immediately. The door frame was somewhat rotten-the mortice was ripped off and the door flew open.

A gust of stale air rushed out, so the cottage was not as drafty as you might have imagined. A good sign if they had to stay here for any length of time. Mahler examined the lock. A large piece of the door post had come away and it would be difficult to repair for whoever owned the place. He sighed.

'We'll have to leave a little money for them.'

Anna looked around, took in the island basking in the afternoon sun and said, 'Or a lot of money.'

It was a two-room house, approximately twenty metres square. There was no electricity or running water, but in the kitchen there was a stove with two hot plates connected to a large propane gas tank. A water container with a tap sat on the kitchen counter. Mahler lifted it. Empty. He slapped his forehead.

'Water,' he said. 'I forgot water.'

Anna was carrying in Elias into the next room to put him to bed.

She paused. 'You know, I don't get it.' She nodded at Elias. 'Why don't we give him ordinary sea water?'

'Sure,' Mahler said. 'We probably can. But what about us? We can't drink sea water.'

'There's no fresh water at al1?'

While Anna was tucking Elias in Mahler searched the kitchen.

He found a number of the things he had expected to, and had not bothered to bring along: plates and cutlery, two fishing rods and a net. But no water. Finally he opened the refrigerator, also hooked up to a gas tank, and found a bottle of ketchup and a couple of cans of sardines in tomato sauce. He hesitantly unscrewed the gas tank and found it was empty.

The tank for the stove hissed forcefully when he tried it and he

immediately shut it off.

Water.

He had forgotten it for the same reason that they needed it: it was

so basic. There was always water. There is no Swedish house without a well, or a well within walking distance.

Except in the archipelago, of course.

He stood in the middle of the kitchen and saw a troll painting in front of him. A pair of trolls grilling fish over an open fire. He'd had an almost identical picture over his bed when he was a child. Although… no, that wasn't right. The trolls were painted long after his childhood.

His gaze travelled across the kitchen one last time but no water

appeared anywhere.

Anna had put Elias in one of the beds and was leaning over it,

studying a painting on the wall. The painting depicted a couple of trolls grilling fish over an open fire.

'Look,' she said. 'I had an almost identical one…'

'Over your bed when you were little,' Mahler said.

'Yes. How did you know? I didn't think you ever came to see me and Mum at our place.'

Mahler sat down on a chair.

'I heard it,' he said. 'I hear things [romtime to time.' 'Do you hear… ' she nodded at Elias, 'him?'

'No, that is…' he stopped.

'Do you?'

'Yes.'

'Why haven't you said anything?'

'I have told you.'

'No, you haven't.'

'Yes, I have. You didn't want to listen.' 'If you'd said straight out that…'

'Listen to yourself,' Anna said. 'Even now, when I'm telling you that yes, 1 can hear Elias, I know what is going on inside his head, even now you don't ask what it is , you just try to put me in my place.'

Mahler looked at Elias, tried to make himself empty, receptive; a blank slate for Elias to write on. His head was buzzing, fragments of images flashed by, disappearing before he could grab hold of them. They could just as easily be his own thoughts. He got up, opened the cooler and took out a carton of milk, drinking a couple of gulps directly from it. He felt Anna's eyes on him the whole time. He held the milk out to her, thought: want some?

Anna shook her head. Mahler wiped his mouth and put the milk back.

'What does he say, then?'

The corners of Anna's mouth were pulled up. 'Nothing you want to hear.'

'What do you mean?'

'Just that he talks to me, he tells me things that aren't meant for you to hear and therefore I'm not going to tell you, OK?'

'This is ridiculous.'

'Maybe so, but that's how it is.'

Mahler took a couple of steps through the room, picking up the guest book that was on the bureau and turned some pages compliments about the cottage, thanks for letting us stay-and wondered if they were going to write anything before they left. He turned around.

'You're making it up,' he said. 'There is nothing…I haven't heard anything about the dead being able to… communicate with the living. This is something you're imagining.'

'Maybe they haven't wanted to.'

'Oh for pity's sake, what does he say?'

'Like I said… '

Anna was sitting on the edge of the bed giving him a look that he. felt was… pitying. Rage boiled up inside him. It wasn't fair. He was the one who had saved Elias, he was the one who had worked the whole time at trying to make him better while Anna had simply… vegetated. He took a step toward her, and raised his finger.

'You shouldn't… '

Elias sat straight up in the bed, staring at him. Mahler caught his breath, backing up. Anna did not move.

What is this…

A sharp bang inside his temple, as if a blood vessel had burst, made him teeter, almost tripping on the rug. He leaned against the bureau and the raging headache he'd felt coming on immediately retreated, disappeared.

Instinctively he held his hands out in front of him, saying, 'I won't…I won't…' He had no idea what he wasn't going to do.

Anna and Elias were sitting next to each other, looking at him.

An intense distaste gripped him and he backed out of the room with his outstretched hands protective in front of him. Kept going away from the cottage, over the rocks.

What is happening?

He left the cottage as far behind as possible. His feet ached from the weight of his heavy body on the rock. He crawled out of the wind behind a wall of rock where he could not be seen from the house and sat there looking out at the sea. The occasional gull sailed out there; no prey to dive for. He rested his face in his hands.