Карин Тидбек - Jagannath

“There’s more in here,” said Mum, moving tissue paper aside. “A shirt, an apron, and a shawl. A whole set. It could be Märet’s.”

“Like what she got married in?” said Cilla.

“Maybe so,” said Mum.

“It’s my size,” said Sara. “Can I try it on?”

“Not now. Keep doing lists.” Mum took the skirt back, carefully folding it and putting it back into the chest.

Sara kept casting glances at the chest the rest of the morning. When Cilla caught her looking, Sara gave her the finger.

Later in the afternoon, Mum emptied a cardboard box and put the contents from the hope chest in it. “I’m taking this over to Hedvig’s. I’m sure she can tell us who it belonged to.”

After dinner, Mum unpacked the contents of the hope chest in Hedvig’s kitchen. There were six bundles in all: the red skirt with a matching bodice, a red shawl, a white linen shift, a long apron striped in red and black, and a black purse embroidered with red flowers. Hedvig picked up the purse and ran a finger along the petals.

“This belonged to Märet.” Hedvig smiled. “She showed me these once, before she passed away. That’s what she wore when she came down from the mountain,” she said. “I thought they were gone. I’m very glad you found them.”

“How old were you when she died?” said Sara.

“It was in twenty-one, so I was fourteen. It was terrible.” Hedvig shook her head. “She died giving birth to Nils, your youngest great-uncle. It was still common back then.”

Cilla fingered the skirt. Out in daylight, the red wool was bright and luxurious, like arterial blood. “What was she like?”

Hedvig patted the purse. “Märet was… a peculiar woman,” she said eventually.

“Was she really crazy?” Cilla said.

“Crazy? I suppose she was. She certainly passed something on. The curse, like Johann says. But that’s silly. She came here to help with harvest, you know, and she fell in love with your great-grandfather. He didn’t know much about her. No one did, except that she was from somewhere northeast of here.”

“I thought she came down from the mountain,” I said.

Hedvig smiled. “Yes, she would say that when she was in the mood.”

“What about those things, anyway?” Sara said. “Are they fairies?”

“What?” Hedvig gave her a blank look.

“The vittra,” Cilla filled in helpfully. “The ones that live on the mountain.”

“Eh,” said Hedvig. “Fairies are cute little things that prance about in meadows. The vittra look like humans, but taller and more handsome. And it’s inside the mountain, not on it.” She had brightened visibly, becoming more animated as she spoke. “There were always stories about vittra living up there. Sometimes they came down to trade with the townspeople. You had to be careful with them, though. They could curse you or kill you if you crossed them. But they had the fattest cows, and the finest wool, and beautiful silver jewellery. Oh, and they liked to dress in red.” Hedvig indicated the skirt Cilla had in her lap. “And sometimes they came to dance with the local young men and women, even taking one away for marriage. And when a child turned out to have nerve problems, they said it was because someone in the family had passed on vittra blood… ”

“But did you meet any?” Sara blurted.

Hedvig laughed. “Of course not. There would be some odd folk showing up to sell their things in town, but they were mostly Norwegians or from those really small villages up north where everyone’s their own uncle.”

Sara burst out giggling.

“Auntie!” Mum looked scandalized.

Hedvig waved a hand at her. “I’m eighty-seven years old. I can say whatever I like.”

“But what about Märet?” Cilla leaned forward.

“Mother, yes.” Hedvig poured a new cup of coffee, arm trembling under the weight of the thermos. “She was a bit strange, I suppose. She really was tall for a woman, and she would say strange things at the wrong time, talk to animals, things like that. People would joke about vittra blood.”

“What do you think?” said Sara.

“I think she must have had a hard life, to run away from her family and never speak of them again.” Hedvig gently took the skirt from Cilla and folded it.

“But the red…”

Hedvig shook her head and smiled. “It was an expensive colour back then. Saying someone wore red meant they were rich. This probably cost Märet a lot.” She put the clothes back in the cardboard box and closed it.

Cilla stayed up until she was sure everyone else had gone to bed. It took ages. Sara wrote in her journal until one o’ clock and then took some time to fall asleep, Robert Smith still whining in her ears.

The cardboard box was sitting on the kitchen sofa, the silk paper in a pile next to it. Cilla lifted the lid, uncovering red wool that glowed in the half-dawn. The shift and the skirt were too long and very tight around the stomach. She kept the skirt unbuttoned and rolled the waistline down, hoisting it so the hem wouldn’t trip her up. She tied the apron tight around her waist to hold everything up, and clipped the purse onto the apron string. The bodice was too loose on her flat chest and wouldn’t close at the waist, so she let it hang open and tied the shawl over her shoulders.

It was quiet outside, the horizon glowing an unearthly gold, the rest of the sky shifting in blue and green. The birds were quiet. The moon was up, a tiny crescent in the middle of the sky. The air was cold and wet; the grass swished against the skirt, leaving moisture pearling on the wool. Cilla could see all the way down to the lake and up to the mountain. She took her glasses off and put them in the purse. Now she was one of the vittra, coming down from the mountain, heading for the river. She was tall and graceful, her step quiet. She danced as she went, barefoot in the grass.

A sliver of sun peeking over the horizon broke the spell. Cilla’s feet were suddenly numb with cold. She went back into the house and took everything off again, fished her glasses out and folded the clothes into the cardboard box. It was good wool; the dew brushed off without soaking into the skirt. When Cilla slipped into bed again, it was only a little past two. The linen was warm and smooth against the cold soles of her feet.

They returned to the family house the following day. Sara decided that wading through debris in the attic was stupid and sulked on a chair outside. Cilla spent the day writing more lists. She found more skis, some snowshoes, a cream separator, dolls, a half-finished sofa bed, and a sewing table that was in almost perfect condition.

Johann showed up in the afternoon. Martin and Otto seemed to think he was going to make a scene, because they walked out and met him far down the driveway. Eventually they returned, looking almost surprised, with Johann walking beside them, his hands clasped behind his back. When Cilla next saw him, he had sat down in a chair next to Sara. Sara had a shirtsleeve over her nose and mouth, but she was listening to him talk with rapt attention. Johann left again soon after. Sara wouldn’t tell Cilla what they’d spoken about, but her eyes were a little wider than usual, and she kept knocking things over.

When they returned to Hedvig’s house, Sara decided to try on Märet’s dress. On her, the skirt wasn’t too long or too tight; it cinched her waist just so, ending neatly at her ankle. The bodice fit like it was tailor-made for her as well, tracing the elegant tapering curve of her back from shoulder to hip. She looked like she’d just stepped out of a story. It made Cilla’s chest feel hollow.

Sara caught her gaze in the mirror and made a face. “It looks stupid.” She plucked at the skirt. “The red is way too bright. I wonder if you could dye it black? Because that would look awesome.”