Карин Тидбек - The Memory Theater

“There it is,” he said. “The crossroads.”

Ahead of them, where the mountainside should be, was a blur. The snowy ground at Augusta’s feet gradually flattened out and faded into cracked mud.

“You go in, and there are people who will show you the way,” Thistle said.

“Excellent, boy. Well done.” Augusta started walking.

Thistle grabbed her sleeve. “You gave me your word. My name.”

Augusta turned around and looked down at him. “Your name. Of course.”

She grabbed his jaw with one hand and looked deep into his eyes. “Albin,” she said. “Albin Jönsson is your name.”

The boy’s eyes filled with tears. He let out a long sigh.

“That means you are completely free,” Augusta said. “Which also means I am free to kill you.”

Before the boy could react, she snatched the carving knife from her belt and drove it into his stomach.

“Thank you for your service, darling,” Augusta said. “Your death will be slow.”

She let him go, and he sank to the ground with a groan. Augusta turned around and walked into the haze.

When Dora woke up, the room was empty, with only embers glowing in the fireplace. It was quiet save for the faint sound of Stjärna’s bell upstairs.

The coveralls she had hung on the back of a chair were gone, replaced by a shift and a woolen skirt and jacket that looked much like Grandmother’s. She put them on; they were almost her size, although the jacket was short in the sleeves.

A loaf of bread wrapped in linen sat on the table, together with the box of butter. Dora cut herself a thick slice of bread and chewed on it while she walked up the tunnel to the barn. Grandmother was milking the cows with a rhythmic drizzle; she crooned a slow melody, full of trills and strange consonants, so melancholy it made Dora’s heart catch: Lilltåa, tåtilla, kroknosa, tillerosa.

“Why is it so sad?”

Grandmother stopped singing and looked up at her. “It’s not sad. It’s how we sing.” She smiled. “It’s a children’s song. Counting the toes on your foot. I sang it to our daughter.”

“Where is she now?”

Grandmother’s smile tightened. She patted the cow’s flank. “She snuck down to the village for the Midsummer dance, and a man threw a pair of iron shears over her head. He saw her tail and knew that cold iron would trap her.”

She stood up and poured the contents of the bucket into a large crock, then put a lid on it.

“Take the other handle,” she said. “We’ll put it outside to cool down.”

“I would like to go now, please,” Dora said.

“We will,” Grandmother said. “But the cows need attention.”

“What do you do with the milk?” Dora asked.

“We keep some; we give some away to our cousins,” Grandmother replied. “There are more of us living here in the mountains.”

Outside, the snowy landscape was dazzling in the sunlight. Grandfather was chopping wood on a block next to the cave opening. He nodded at Dora and Grandmother as they carried the crock to a snowdrift. Grandfather put the ax down.

“Is it time?” he asked.

“It is,” Grandmother replied.

She patted Dora’s shoulder. “Let’s get you something to travel in. Shoes, for one.”

“No shoes,” Dora said. “I don’t like shoes.”

Grandmother looked at Dora’s feet and pursed her lips. “Let me at least give you a shawl. For my own peace of mind.”

She went down into the cave. She must have been prepared, because it was only a moment later that she emerged with a birch-bark knapsack and a triangular shawl which she laid over Dora’s shoulders, then crossed over her chest and tied at the small of her back. Grandmother tied another shawl over her own shoulders and shouldered the knapsack. Grandfather put on a long moleskin coat.

“Let’s get the skis, then,” he said.

“What are skis?” Dora asked.

Grandmother and Grandfather exchanged glances.

“I’ll fetch the snowshoes,” Grandfather muttered.

It took some time to get used to the woven frames that Grandfather strapped to Dora’s feet. After a while, she could let herself sink into the rhythm of the wide-legged walk. She listened to the creak of snow under their feet, the rustle of fabric, the steady breaths, sometimes syncopated by an animal shrieking about its territory. Some of the gnawing fear dissipated. Worrying about Thistle on the way was pointless.

They plodded down into the valley, through the pine forest, and up the other side where the mountain lay bare between tufts of old grass and heather. They went through the pass and down into the next valley. On the way, Grandmother sung something in a dialect Dora didn’t understand but whose notes, at once sad and joyous, sent shivers down her arms.

“I don’t suppose you ever learned the songs of your people?” Grandmother asked in the silence that followed.

“No,” Dora replied. “I don’t know if I have a people. My father abandoned me.”

“Perhaps your mother, then?”

“I don’t know if I have a mother,” Dora said. “I came from the earth.”

“Then the earth is your mother,” Grandmother said, “and that’s a good mother to have.”

She pointed north. “The most lovely music I have heard is that by our saajvoe cousins. They don’t quite sing like we do; they jojk.” The word was soft and wistful in her mouth.

“You don’t jojk about animals or moods or the sun over the mountains. Do you see? The song is the thing. A fox jojk is the fox. A happiness jojk is happiness.”

“I want to hear it,” Dora said. “Can you do it?”

Grandmother shook her head. “I would never presume to. That song belongs to the saajvoe. Perhaps you will meet them one day.”

They passed the silent rockslide and walked down into the next valley. In the last light from the sun, a farm came into view. Sounds came from inside the barn. As Dora drew closer, she saw that the yard in front of the house was stained crimson. A trail led from the yard and up the stairs to the front door.

“Odd,” Grandmother said.

“I’ll check on the animals,” said Grandfather.

“Good,” Grandmother said. “Dora, with me.”

Grandmother walked up to the front door of the house and banged on it three times.

“Nils! It’s Grandmother come to visit.”

There was no reply. Grandmother opened the door.

The thick smell of blood shoved itself into Dora’s nose.

“Nils?” Grandmother called, and went into the kitchen.

“Oh dear,” she said from inside.

Dora stepped into the kitchen with her.

Thistle was curled up on the kitchen bench. Dora couldn’t tell if he was breathing. She shoved past Grandmother and knelt down next to him. She brushed stray locks out of his face. He groaned. He was breathing, but just barely. Grandmother set her satchel down and knelt next to Dora.

“Help me turn him on his back,” Grandmother said.

Thistle’s eyelids fluttered; he let out a high whimper. The whole front of his shirt and trousers were stiff with gore. Grandmother lifted Thistle’s hands from his belly. It was such a little wound to make so much blood come out.

“Thistle?” Dora said. “Thistle.”

Thistle’s eyes opened very wide.

“You were dead,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

Dora shook her head. “I’m sorry I took so long. I feel asleep.”

Thistle’s mouth trembled. “You… fell asleep.”

“I’m so sorry,” Dora said, and buried her face in his hair.

“Grandmother will take care of you now,” she said.

Thistle’s eyes went from Dora to Grandmother, who was rummaging in her backpack.