Юхан Теорин - Echoes From the Dead

Julia stood by the bed looking at Gerlof. He seemed to have planned everything that was happening.

“Isn’t it full of fishing nets and that sort of thing?” she asked. “Floats and stones and tins of tar?”

“All gone, I don’t fish anymore,” answered Gerlof. “Nobody fishes in Stenvik.”

Julia took the keys. “You could hardly get in there before, there was so much stuff,” she said. “I remember...”

“It’s all been cleaned up,” said Gerlof. “Your sister’s made it really nice in there.”

“Am I supposed to sleep in Stenvik?” she said. “All on my own?”

“The village isn’t empty. It just seems that way.”

Half an hour after taking her leave of Gerlof, Julia was back in Stenvik, standing down by the dark water. The sky was just as cloudy as it had been in the morning, and full of shadows. It was almost twilight, and Julia longed for a glass of red wine — and another one to follow it. Wine, or a pill.

It was the waves’ fault. The waves were washing peacefully over the pebbles along the shoreline this evening, but when there was a storm they could be six feet high, hurtling in toward the shore with a long drawn-out thunderous roar. They could carry anything with them from the bottom of the sound — wreckage, dead fish, or fragments of bone.

Julia didn’t want to look too closely at what might be lying there among the pebbles on the shore. She had never gone swimming in Stenvik again after that day.

She turned around and looked at the little boathouse. It looked small and lonely, up above the shore.

So close to you, Jens.

Julia didn’t know why she’d accepted the keys from her father and gone along with the idea of sleeping there, but it would probably be all right for one night. She’d never been particularly afraid of the dark, and she was used to being alone. One or maybe two days, that would be okay. Then she’d go back home.

A final blast of cold air swept in from the sound and pushed her into the darkness as she undid the padlock on the white door of the boathouse.

When the door closed behind her, the howling of the autumn wind was abruptly cut off. Everything was silent within the boathouse.

She put on the main overhead light and stood there just inside the door.

Gerlof had been right. The boathouse wasn’t the way she remembered it at all.

This was no longer a fisherman’s working environment, full of stinking nets and broken floats and yellowing copies of Ölands-Posten piled up on the floor. Since Julia had last seen it, her sister had completely renovated the boathouse and decorated it as a little holiday cottage, with polished wooden panels on the walls and a varnished pine floor. There was a small refrigerator, an electric heater, and a hotplate by the window facing the shore. On a table beneath the window facing inland stood a big ship’s compass made of bronze and polished brass; another of Gerlof’s mementos of his years at sea.

The air inside the boathouse was dry. There was only a faint scent of tar, and it would smell even fresher once Julia had pulled up the blinds and opened the small windows. She would be able to live down here without any problems, except for the total isolation.

Presumably Ernst Adolfsson over by the quarry was her nearest neighbor. Ernst had been driving an old Volvo PV and she would have been happy to see it coming along the village road right now, but when she peered out through the window above the compass, nothing was moving out there, only the sparse grass on the ridge in the wind. Even the gulls had disappeared.

There were two narrow beds in the boathouse. She unpacked her bags on one of them: clothes, her toiletry bag, spare shoes, and the bundle of romantic paperback novels she had pushed into the bottom of her bag; she read them in secret. She placed the books on the bedside table.

On the wall by the door hung a little mirror with a varnished wooden frame, and Julia studied her face in it. She looked wrinkled and tired, but her skin wasn’t quite as gray as it seemed in Gothenburg. The stiff breeze on the island had actually put a little color in her cheeks.

What should she do now? She’d bought a hot dog that tasted of nothing from a little kiosk next to the old people’s home after visiting Gerlof, so she wasn’t hungry.

Read? No.

Drink the wine she’d brought with her? No, not yet.

She decided to do some exploring.

Julia left the boathouse and walked slowly back down to the shore and then southward along by the water. It became easier and easier to walk across the pebbles as she began to regain some of the innate sense of balance she’d had as a little schoolgirl in Stenvik, when she’d spent entire days jumping about down by the sea without even stumbling.

Diagonally below the boathouse, Gray-eye was still there, but it had slowly been drawn closer to the sea by the waves and the winter ice. Gray-eye was a narrow, yard-long boulder that resembled a horse’s back. Julia had made it her very own stone once upon a time, and now she patted it briefly as she walked past. It seemed to have sunk down into the ground over the years.

The mill also seemed smaller. It was the tallest building in Stenvik, the old windmill standing on the edge of the ridge a couple of hundred yards south of the boathouse. But when Julia got there, the rocks were too steep for her to be able to clamber up to it.

South of the windmill there were several more boathouses, in the inner part of the inlet where Stenvik’s long swimming jetty was placed during the summer. There wasn’t a living soul in sight.

Julia went up onto the road, northward, past Gerlof’s boathouse. She stopped and gazed out over the water, toward the mainland. Småland was just a narrow gray stripe along the horizon. There were no ships to be seen.

She turned so that she could take in the whole of the surrounding area, as if the coastal landscape were a riddle she could solve if she could just find the right clues.

If what everyone feared had actually happened, if Jens had managed to make his way down to the water that day, then he would have walked along here in the fog that evening. She could search for traces of him now, but of course that had already been done. She’d searched, the police had searched, everyone in Stenvik had searched.

She started walking again, and after a few hundred yards she reached the quarry.

It was closed, of course. Nobody quarried limestone any longer. The letters STEN IK STONE LTD could just be made out on a wooden sign by the coast road, its paint flaking and peeling off. There was a side track leading toward the alvar, but both the track and the yellow-brown landscape ended abruptly, disappearing into a broad pit in the ground. Julia stepped closer to the edge of the cliff, which plunged straight down to the bottom at a ninety-degree angle.

The quarry was no more than four or five yards deep at most, but it was bigger than several football pitches. The inhabitants of Öland had been quarrying there for centuries, working their way down into the rock, but to Julia it looked as if everybody had suddenly thrown down their tools one day and gone home forever. Finished blocks of stone still lay down there on the gravel, neatly lined up.

On the opposite side of the quarry, tall, pale figures were lined up on the alvar; it was too dark and they were too far away for her to be able to make out any details, but after a moment Julia realized they were stone statues. They looked like a series of artworks made of stone, all different sizes. Right on the edge of the quarry stood a block of stone some six feet tall; the top came to a point, and it looked like a medieval church tower. A replica of Marnäs church, perhaps.

Julia realized she was looking at Ernst Adolfsson’s work.