Карин Тидбек - The Memory Theater

“What?” Thistle said.

“We move through the backdrop of the universe,” Director said. “We need to lift the veil so that you can go through.”

Nestor joined them on the stairs. He had shrunk, as had his beard, and he was once again the kindly old gentleman.

“Here we are,” Nestor said. “At the right place, hopefully at the right time. Keep in mind what I said.”

Thistle nodded. “I just want to find her,” he said.

“Very well,” Director said. “Let us send the children on their way.”

“Can I go?” Apprentice said. “Just to have a look.”

“You have work to do,” Director replied.

Apprentice made a whining noise. “Please. I won’t be a minute. Just a peek.”

“No,” Director said firmly.

Apprentice looked at Nestor, who shook his head. “Don’t look at me. Director said no.”

Apprentice pouted and kicked the couch.

There was a rustle from inside the carriage. Journeyman came out with an armful of pipes and flutes.

“Are these appropriate?” he asked.

“Very,” Director said. “I’ll take the aulos.”

“Crumhorn, please,” Nestor said.

Journeyman shared out the instruments to the others: a strange double flute for the Director, a long curved wooden flute for Nestor, and a tin whistle for Apprentice. He kept a long birch-bark trumpet for himself.

“What do we do if we need to find you again?” Thistle said.

“Go to the crossroads and ask for us,” Director said. “Very simple.”

Journeyman walked over to where Dora was standing. He tentatively held out his arms. Dora stepped into his embrace and rested her chin on his shoulder. She ran her hand down his back and felt the hum of myriad possible shapes waiting under his skin. He smelled like he had by the pool in the woods: urgent, musky.

Journeyman drew a shaky breath and held her closer. “I wish you would stay.”

Dora closed her eyes and ran a hand through his hair, cradled the back of his head.

“I know,” she said. “Thank you.”

“It’s time to go.” Thistle’s voice, his touch on her arm.

Dora extricated herself from Journeyman’s embrace. His face was wet. He held on to one of her hands.

“Don’t forget me,” he said.

She shook her head.

“It had to happen sometime,” Director mumbled behind her.

“At least it was someone kind,” Nestor mumbled back.

“Now, stand back,” Director said in a louder voice, and waved Dora and Thistle toward the edge of the stage.

“How does this work?” Thistle asked.

“It’s a musical number,” Nestor said cheerfully. “The music that moves the world.”

“One, two, three,” Director said, and raised the double flute to her mouth.

The collected sound from the four instruments was deafening, a warped tune that bounced around the walls of the theater. The noise invaded Dora’s body, its vibrations beating against her chest. Thistle grabbed her arm, and she looked down at him. He pointed at the landscape.

The haze that had obscured the mountainside was lifting; beyond, a yellow sun turned snow patches and lakes into shards of light that left spots on Dora’s vision. Dora looked back at the troupe. Director nodded. Dora took Thistle’s hand and descended the stairs. She caught Thistle as he jumped down onto the rocks. The noise from the company was still too loud for them to speak. They walked down the hill, into the sun, and the music ended abruptly.

A hand that wasn’t Thistle’s patted Dora on the shoulder, and she turned around. It was Apprentice, flute in hand, an exhilarated smile on her face. Behind them, the carriage had disappeared from view; there was just the mountain.

“Ha!” Apprentice shouted. “I did it!”

“What?” Dora said.

“I wanted to have a look,” Apprentice said. “I’m having a look!”

“I thought you weren’t supposed to,” Thistle said.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Apprentice said. “I’m just sightseeing.”

She put the tin whistle to her lips and played a little victorious tune.

The air trembled, and then the ground.

Apprentice’s eyes widened. “Maybe I shouldn’t have played it on this side.”

The mountain moved under their feet.

Nils was in the barn, resting his forehead against Svana’s warm flank as he milked her, when he heard the sound of thunder. He went outside and looked up at the clear sky. Then he saw it: a massive cloud of dust rising up from the side of Koryggen Mountain. A rockslide. He should go and have a look when he was done.

He went back into the barn and milked Rosa as well, then emptied the bucket into the milk can and went outside to put the can to cool in the stream. The cows were happy to leave the barn and go graze in the paddock.

Nils ate his breakfast as quickly as he could, then took his bicycle out of the shed. He rode west up the mountain and through the pass between it and the hill next to it, where the road ended at an old abandoned barn. He leaned his bicycle against the wall and walked up the slope. It wasn’t long before he spotted the rockslide.

Some of the boulders were as big as his privy, but mostly there was smaller rubble. Among the rocks, a blue shape. It did look like someone. Nils made his way over the rocks, careful lest he disturb them again.

At first, Nils thought it was in fact two people, the smaller one curled up against the bigger. When he looked again, it was just an unconscious boy in blue coveralls next to a vaguely human-shaped boulder. His right leg was soaked with blood, and his face was covered in cuts. His eyes fluttered open, and he whispered something in a hoarse voice. A little ways off, Nils saw a hand sticking out of the rubble. Nils rolled one of the rocks aside. A smashed face framed by tangled hair stared blindly into nothing.

“Help,” the boy mumbled.

Nils left the other body and moved closer to the boy.

“Don’t worry,” Nils told him. “We’ll sort you out. I’m Nils. What’s your name?”

The boy looked up at him but said nothing.

The boy stiffened as Nils got his hunting knife out of his belt, but relaxed a little when Nils merely cut his pant leg open. The wound was deep, right across the shin, but the bone didn’t seem to be broken.

“How did you end up here?” Nils asked.

The boy didn’t respond.

Nils carefully took off the boy’s boot and felt his foot. It was warm and pink. He nodded to himself.

“Good,” he said. “Your leg will be all right.”

“Please don’t hurt me,” the boy said.

“Of course not,” Nils replied. “Now let’s see if we can get you up.”

“My sister,” the boy whispered.

“Where’s your sister?” Nils said.

“She was here…” The boy trailed off.

The other body.

The boy didn’t need to know about that right now.

“Don’t you worry about your sister,” Nils said.

Nils took his scarf and put a makeshift bandage around the boy’s leg. Nils put the boot back on, then helped the boy sit up.

“Let’s get you indoors,” Nils said.

The boy was heavier than he looked, but Nils managed to get him onto the rack of his bicycle. He wrapped the boy’s arms around his own waist, told him to hold on tight, and trudged homeward.

Elna had never let anything go to waste. Half the chest of drawers in the attic was filled with scraps of old bedsheets and clothes too worn to mend. Elna would turn sheets into pillowcases and the pillowcases into handkerchiefs and, when that didn’t work, wraps. She had kept the bandages that she’d wrapped around their sons’ navel stumps when they were born. Even after she died, Nils couldn’t bring himself to throw them away. They were so soft that Nils could barely feel them in his hand. He plucked what cobwebs he could find from the windowsills and corners—cobwebs prevented wounds going bad, he knew that much—and went back downstairs.