Карин Тидбек - The Memory Theater

As Dora came closer to the opening, she could sense that it was the flickering sheen of an open fire, accompanied by a rich smell of baking bread that made her stomach twist. The voices of a man and a woman. They were laughing. It wasn’t the demented cackle of lords and ladies, nor the troupe’s eerie giggle. These people laughed like Dora and Thistle did with each other.

As Dora reached the opening, it was as if she could almost see them. The tunnel sloped downward into a cavern with rushes on the floor. There was the heavy sound of a hoof scraping on the ground, deep animal calls, a bell. Dora slipped on a rock. It skipped down the tunnel with a loud noise.

The light went out. The voices and bells disappeared. The tunnel gaped at her.

“I’m looking for my brother,” Dora called into the emptiness. “That’s all I want.”

Silence.

“He’s hurt,” Dora continued. “He needs me.”

Nothing happened. Dora sat down on a boulder with her back to the cave. Her eyes prickled.

“You seem lost,” someone said behind her.

Dora turned her head. The light from the cave had returned, and revealed a broad-shouldered woman. Her skirt and the long shawl tied across her chest were red. Under the embroidered headscarf, her face was strong-jawed and stern. Then she smiled, and her features folded into laugh lines.

She bent down. “Don’t cry, girl. Now, tell me what you call yourself.”

“Dora.”

“Well met, Dora. You may call me Grandmother.”

“That’s not a name,” Dora said.

Grandmother smiled again. “You’re right, it’s not. We don’t hand our names out just like that.”

“Why did you disappear?”

“We had to have a look at you first,” the woman replied. “Of course, then you told us why you were here. We’ve decided you’re a good sort.”

Grandmother held out her hand. Dora took it, and Grandmother helped her upright without effort. Then she turned and walked down the tunnel at a brisk pace. Something like a tail peeked out from under her skirt. At the bottom of the slope, the tunnel widened into a chamber lit by lanterns hanging from the ceiling. Four fat white animals lay or stood on the straw-covered floor, chewing cud. One of them wore a large silver bell that clanked as it stuck her head into the long feeding trough that ran the length of the chamber. The air was warm and close and smelled of dung, but it was a safe smell.

“Move over, Stjärna.”

Grandmother slapped the hindquarters of the beast standing in the middle of the space. Stjärna took a step to the side and went over to sniff Dora with her wet muzzle.

“Don’t mind the cow; she’s just curious,” Grandmother said over her shoulder.

Dora patted Stjärna’s neck. She seemed content with this and walked over to the feeding trough.

“Do you always keep them in here?” Dora asked.

“Only at night and in winter,” Grandmother replied. She moved across the chamber to an opening on the other side, waving for Dora to follow. “This used to be a mine. The miners moved out, so we moved in.”

The next tunnel bent to the right and opened into another chamber that was a little larger than the first. There was a roaring fireplace, next to which stood a four-poster bed. Around the large table in the middle of the room were chairs and a wood-framed sofa. By the fireplace stood a man in moleskin trousers and a long waistcoat the same color as Grandmother’s shawl. He turned around as Dora and Grandmother came in.

“Dora, this is Grandfather,” said Grandmother, and took off her scarf.

Grandfather gave Dora a slight bow, then walked closer. He was as weathered as Grandmother, with gray hair that curled around his ears.

“Good evening, Dora,” he said.

The lines around Grandfather’s eyes were not from laughing, and they didn’t soften much when he smiled.

“She’s looking for her brother,” Grandmother said.

Grandfather nodded. “And where did you lose him?”

“We fell down the mountain, and when I woke up he wasn’t there. Is he here? He needs me,” Dora said.

Grandfather and Grandmother exchanged glances.

Then Grandmother said, “We saw a girl-shaped stone on the mountain. There was a girl corpse there, too. We didn’t touch it. You don’t look like a ghost, so you must be the stone girl.”

“There was no one there who could have been your brother,” Grandfather said.

“I have to go to him,” Dora said.

“Dora,” Grandfather said. “It has been a while. That was in harvest season. It is winter now, although it came too early.”

“What?” Dora said, and her head buzzed. “So he could be dead. On the mountain.”

“Or not,” Grandmother replied. “A man lives not far from there. He might have taken the boy in. I don’t know; we haven’t seen him for some time. We’ll visit him tomorrow.”

“You should sit down, Dora,” Grandfather said. “You must be starving. There’s no use worrying about your brother now.”

Dora’s head was still buzzing, but her stomach rumbled in reply. Grandfather smiled.

They sat her down in one of the chairs by the table and draped a thick shawl over her shoulders, even though Dora protested she didn’t feel cold. Grandfather put a large wooden bowl of porridge in the center of the table and handed Grandmother and Dora a spoon each, then made a little pit in the middle of the bowl. Grandmother lifted the lid on a box sitting on the table and dug out a large lump of butter, which she dropped into the pit.

“Go on,” Grandmother said, and gestured at the bowl, where the butter was melting into a little puddle.

Dora glanced at the little tip of tail that peeked out from beneath Grandmother’s skirt, and for a moment forgot about Thistle.

“What are you?”

Grandfather laughed, an unexpected sound. “We’re vittra, my dear. The hidden folk. What about you?”

“I don’t know what I am,” Dora replied.

“She does have an odd accent,” Grandmother remarked. “Are you from very far away, then?”

“I don’t know how far it is,” Dora said.

She brought the spoon to her mouth. The porridge tasted of oats and honey and salty butter, and it settled comfortably in her stomach.

“Who is the man you talked about?” Dora said after she had swallowed.

“Nils Nilsson,” Grandfather said. “Honest fellow.”

“A little odd,” Grandmother filled in. “Fairy blood, I always thought. His wife was a good woman, too. She borrowed Stjärna when their sons were little. Never have I seen someone take such good care of a cow.”

Dora put the spoon down. “Please take me there. Now. I need to know if he is alive.”

Grandmother put her hand on Dora’s. “No rush, dear. We’ll take you there in the morning. We can’t cross the mountain at night. If your brother was lost on the mountain, he is already dead. But if someone found him, he’s all right, and it can wait until tomorrow.”

Grandmother and Grandfather let Dora have the butter in the middle. They asked her where she came from, and Dora told them of the Gardens and their masters, and how she was grown from a seed, or at least that’s what Ghorbi had told her. And she told them about Thistle, her brother, a stolen child. Grandmother and Grandfather listened in silence, with raised eyebrows.

“Well,” Grandfather said. “That’s a strange story.”

Grandmother nodded. “Indeed.”

Dora yawned. She was still anxious, but so tired.

“You need to sleep, properly this time. Turning to stone is no way to sleep,” Grandmother said.

They unfolded the kitchen bench for her and bedded her down among blankets that smelled of sheep. Dora drifted off to the low sound of Grandmother and Grandfather talking.