Sunday, December 21, 2014

Shadows




Shadows

“The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light: they that dwell in the land of the shadow of death, upon them hath the light shined.”
                                                                                                Isaiah 9:2 King James Bible

You hear those stories about people in prisons. If you are an abuser, hurt kids or treated women badly you might end up dead. If this was what had happened to Dylan’s father no one knew. One morning he was dead. Lay still and cold in his cell. They didn’t mourn much, Dylan and his mother. Perhaps the level of mourning corresponds to the level of love.  Dylan had loved his father with all his might as children tend to do until one day his love had burst and disappeared. He didn’t miss loving his father; on the contrary not loving him was a relief.  Without the love he didn’t have to ask himself the question why. Why does daddy hurt me? Why does daddy hit mommy? Why isn’t my love enough to stop him?

The clock on the kitchen wall chimed four times and soon after the phone rang. Dylan got up from the table and answered. His mother’s voice was a little rushed as she explained she was running late and wouldn’t be home until six. But if he met her by the bus stop they could go to the diner and have pancakes for dinner.

As he sat down by the kitchen table again and opened his math book something caught his eye, a shadow of sort moved outside the window. Black and quick. The shadow was gone for a couple of seconds and then it came back again. Stopped outside the window and took the shape of a cat. Dylan got up from his chair and walked over to the window and opened. The cat looked at him with yellow eyes and then jumped down on the floor. She slithered around his legs meowing loudly.
“Yes, yes I will give you food.” He grabbed the box of Friskies and the cat ran straight up to her bowl. She started purring as he poured the little brown and red pellets into her bowl. He sat down on the floor next to her and watched her eat. She picked up the pellets delicately and then crunched them violently in between her sharp teeth.  When she was done eating she climbed up into his lap and curled up. He caressed her back, felt the thin spine under his fingers, the gleaming black fur. She closed her eyes and purred into his solar plexus.

  The nightmares had started the day his father died.  Every night the same. He was unable to turn his head but he sensed, saw black shadows filling the air behind his back. Coming closer and closer. He struggled to free himself from this feeling of helplessness. He desperately wanted to defend himself.  But no use, he could not turn around. And then he woke up.  Always sweating and shaking. His mother had bought the cat to keep him company at night. Her warm body and purring in the dark was a great comfort. For a while the dreams diminished but last week they had returned. He had overheard his mother on the phone talking about the stress of the holidays and the stress of school. Her voice had turned fuzzy around the edges when she spoke and he knew she was worried about him. The last thing he wanted was to worry his mother.

He didn’t feel stressed; actually he didn’t feel much at all. He had lived in a comfortable numbness for a few years. Except for in his dreams. The fear in his dreams was stronger and more real than anything he had ever experienced.

He had picked out a book at the library about dreams. Sat by one of the small tables and read a whole chapter about shadows. He didn’t understand a great deal and had ended up asking the librarian. An old woman in a pilly sweater who smelled of coffee and cigarettes. She hummed a few times as she read and then lifted her head and looked at him intently.
“The shadow is an image for something inside of you that you don’t want to see or believe that you feel. Or a trait.”
He had shaken his head so she continued.
“For example…” She was quiet for a few seconds. “Let’s say you are the grandchild of a Nazi. You know who the Nazis were?” He nodded as they had just started talking about World War II in school.
“So you are the grandchild of a Nazi and you think what your grandfather did was horrible. And you always say you don’t understand how he could kill all those people. But maybe deep down you know that you could do that too because…” Her voice faded.
Dylan stood still and waited. She looked above his head, her eyes grew cloudy.
“We are all mosaics. Pieces put together. Genes…personality traits…our history. Some pieces we are proud of and others we don’t want to know about. The shadows are those pieces we don’t want to know and they come into our dreams to show us something.”

The clock on the kitchen wall chimed five times. Darkness had fallen outside the window.  The cat was sound asleep in his lap, he carefully stood up not to awaken her. He walked with her in his arms to the couch and placed her in the corner where she liked to sleep. She moved a few times before she settled back into deep sleep. The Christmas tree filled the room with a multicolored glow. I wonder if she would die if I grabbed her by the neck and threw her into the wall. The thought was clear and protruding.

Two steps and he were right next to the couch, hunched over the sleeping cat. As if she had sensed his presence, she started to purr. “Stupid animal,” he whispered and the words tasted briny in his mouth. Strong and salty. “Stupid animal.” His heart was beating fiercely, the blood one thousand degrees in his veins. The skin on his back was tingling and he opened and closed his fist.  The muscles in his arms tensed up and he could feel more than envision how he picked up the cat and threw her in the wall. He could hear more than imagine when her body hit the hard wall. It would be a loud thud; maybe she would cry out and then fall lifeless to the floor.

A fire truck went by on the street. The noise and lights brought him back. He looked down at the sleeping cat. He was sweating on his back and breathing shallow, she was still purring.

The outside air was cold and raw, just below freezing and snow mud stripes on the street. He walked with his hands in his coat pockets. He had rushed out of the apartment forgetting his gloves. The sweat on his back had turned cold and sticky and he was shaking. His body felt the same way as after he had competed in track in the summer. The only difference was that now his mind was not triumphant, no his mind was shivery. Fever chills. I am no different. I am no different. I am no different.

The bus stop was deserted. He looked over at the church across the street, only a quarter to six. If he was lucky the bus would be on time, most of the time it was at least five or ten minutes late. But he did not want to go back to the apartment by himself. He sat down on the bench for a few minutes but it was too cold to sit still. He started to walk up and down the sidewalk. Counted the Christmas lights that were strung across the street in between the light posts. Each strand had 52 lights with a big star hanging in the middle.

When the church bell tolled six he stayed put at the bus stop, leaned against the fence and waited. Next to him was an icicle attached to the fence post.  It started on the top of the fence and reached several feet. The ice was so clear and clean, he touched it with his finger then he stuck out his tongue. The cold was piercing and he knew he was stuck before he had started to pull. Don’t put your tongue on ice. Don’t put your tongue on ice. His father had said this more times than he could remember and still now he was stuck. He tried to direct his breath so it would melt the ice. No use. He tried to create saliva to drizzle down his tongue. No use.

His mother would be there soon, she could help him. Suddenly he heard a loud boom and the first thought that came to his mind was that the church door across the street had slammed closed. He tried to look out of the corner of his eye. At first he didn't see anything,  then he saw them. The black shadows. They moved fast behind his back, only a few at first then more. He tried to turn around but his head was stuck. And the sound, a swooshing in the air. More, more. Closer, closer. He pulled on his tongue. The pain was burning. The shadows grew closer, pressed against his body. The cold disappeared.  He was consumed in darkness.  I am no different.

“Dylan?” His mother’s voice was so distant.  A hand on his shoulder then he tasted tea. Lukewarm Earl Grey with milk. His mother often bought a cup to bring on the bus. She had told him the cup of tea made the bus ride less tedious and sometimes she imagined she was in London instead of their own town.  She turned him around, everything was still dark. “Dylan, open your eyes.” He opened one eye; his mother’s face was blurry. He opened the other eye and blinked a few times. Her face became clear. Her brown eyes looked worried as she kneeled in front of him. “What happened?” He swallowed; he could taste the tea in his throat. “I got stuck,” he said and felt foolish. He had acted like a baby. His mother caressed his cheek. “Should we go and have dinner?”

The diner was warm and crowded. “A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices, for yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.” His mother sang along to Holy Night. “Mom?” She lifted her head and moved her eyes to his face. “It was just like in my dream.” She looked confused. “I was stuck and the shadows came and it all turned dark.” She put her head to the side and squinted. “You had your eyes closed.” Dylan looked down; someone had carved in the letters KNM on the table top.  He touched the letters and felt the indent with his finger. “Will I be like him?” His mother was quiet; she drank some water before she put her hand over his. “We all have choices. We can be whoever we want.” The pancakes arrived on the table and Dylan grabbed the syrup. “But what if I have it in me?” His mother cut her pancakes in small squares. Ate a couple. “Your father could be the gentlest most loving man. And then he could be the cruelest. He could have chosen differently but he didn’t.” 

Dylan got syrup on his fingers and licked it off. “But how will I know that I will…that I won’t be like him?” His mother looked out the window for a long time. “I guess you won’t. But at least you are aware of the possibility.” She stopped talking, grabbed the syrup and dribbled it over her pancakes.  “No one is completely good. No one only has light. We all have darkness inside. But depending on what we feed…” She stopped talking again. Dylan looked out the window, looked over at the bus stop. His mother had said he had his eyes closed but the shadows were still there, slithering, dark coils. Snakes, lifting their heads, looking for prey.





Sunday, October 26, 2014

The house on the hill




Once upon a time on a grassy hill stood a yellow wood house surrounded by mighty maples. In the spring the trees gave the children Polly noses to play with.  In the summer the trees turned the warm days comfortable shady.  In the fall the children watched  ruby, amber and gold leaves as they floated through the air. In late winter metal buckets got hung and the trees tapped for syrup to pour over pancakes on Sunday morning.

In the house lived a woman and a man. She sang as she scrubbed the smooth pine floors with sand and soap. She sang as she kneaded the dough. She sang as she milked the four brown and white cows in the barn. She sang when she sat on the porch and cleaned the vegetables. She sang as she washed her man’s back in the bath on Saturday night when he had come home from the factory on his bike. And she sang to her children. Sang tears away. Sang fights away. Sang them to sleep.

The children, three brown eyed like their father and two blue eyed as their mother. Annemarie, Greta and Lillian lived in the room up under the roof.  One year apart, curly haired, their father’s princesses. He had taken the bike to town and picked out the pale pink paint for the walls. The boys still small, slept together in the pull out bed in the kitchen. Over their bed hung a mobile. Closest to the ceiling the bright sun, then the birds, the animals and only a few feet from their faces green striped fish.

 At night the man listened to the radio in the kitchen. Heard voices and words.
 That sometimes filled him with joy. “And it is a homerun.”
Sometimes with worry. “The draught is now widespread. We desperately need some rain.”
 Sometimes with fear. “Today we have declared war…”
The family was a lucky family. The children grew, the rains came. No one was drafted to a war far away. And under the mighty maples many homeruns ended in cheers.

The house was a proud house. In the winter its walls protected the woman, the man and the children from the fierce cold and never did its roof leak.  It might need a nail at times or some oil on a creaking door but it was a sturdy good house. In warmer days the wind moved through the open windows and filled its inside with pride.

 And the house was a happy house because inside its walls the fights were short; even though they were intense at times they all ended with laughter and hugs. At night it listened to bedtime stories and then the children’s content sleeping sighs. The walls picked up the tender words the man and woman murmured as they lay in each other arms.

The house watched the children grow. The three girls moved in unison. A hurricane of dark curly hair and screaming laughter.  The boys blonde and calm followed their mother’s footstep, down to the barn, out in the woods, back to the kitchen.

The house watched the limbs grow longer and slimmer. Watched the falls, the scrapes and the bumps. Ached with the woman and man when the children feel ill. Huddled over them.  One by one the house watched the children leave. And then return with husbands and wives. Watch the man and the woman walk in the empty house. Unsure at first in the silence and the empty rooms but then relish the two.

The house was there when the first grandchild was brought home. The man swell with pride and the woman cradle the baby in her arms. Hushing and singing the new brown eyed baby to sleep.  Once again the house would be filled at times with running feet, loud laughter and bedtime stories.
One of the first frost nights one autumn, the house saw Death approach. He walked up the hill and entered through the unlocked kitchen door. Death sat by the bedside and watched the man and the woman sleep deeply. Saw the white hair, the wrinkles and the intertwined hands. This night he had come for the man. Death never regrets taking a life. No one ever asks the sun if she regrets setting or rising every day.

The woman mourned the way you mourn after a long, happy life together; absentmindedly. She still talked to the man. She still made the bed for two. She still looked out the window at a quarter to five to see if he possible was coming up the hill with his bike. She didn't cry much. Perhaps she knew she wouldn't be too long. A warm summer afternoon she sat on the porch with the cat in her lap when Death came. Scared the cat jumped down and ran to hide but the woman took Death’s hand and gladly left with him.

The house was now empty for the first time since it was built. An unusual feeling for the house.  A For Sale sign was put up down by the road. People came and went. Opened doors. Slammed cabinets. Poked walls. The house waited.


One day a moving truck drove up the hill. A man, a woman, a little girl and two cats. The little girl ran up to the pink room under the roof and opened the window. Then ran down again. The house cherished her footsteps. 

Thursday, June 5, 2014

Troll Gold


Summer had arrived suddenly the day before, in the afternoon to be more exact. In the morning they had huddled in groups outside the grand, old church dressed in their fine clothes. The girls wore dresses and skirts in the grey, chilly morning. Jenny had stared with envy at the boys in their suit pants and had pulled on her cardigan so it would cover her hands. Of course she didn’t know that her goose bumped legs would one day be part of a treasured memory. Jenny didn’t think of things like that, she was only nine and she couldn’t wait for the long summer break to begin.

In the afternoon a little before 2:30, Jenny’s mother had stood on the porch with the traditional end of school year strawberry shortcake. She had sighed, looked at the grey skies and thought to herself; I guess we have to sit here this year and not in the arbor. The arbor was made up of gigantic lilac bushes and in the middle the family often sat in the summer. She put the cake on the table on the porch and almost like magic the clouds broke apart and the sun came out. The temperature rose quickly and the afternoon treat was swiftly moved outside. 

Now it was Saturday evening and Jenny lay on her stomach on her parent’s bed watching her mother working the curling iron in her dark blonde hair. The window was open and in with the soft summer breeze drifted the scent of lilacs.

“Do I need more in the back?” Her mother turned her head and tried to look in the mirror.

“No, it looks pretty,” Jenny said and rolled over onto her back. The evening sun shone through the lace curtains and made patterns on the white ceiling. She heard how her mother put down the curling iron and unplugged it. Then she heard her starting to look for something in her jewelry box. Her fingers made a slight raking noise.

“Where are my pearl earrings?” Some more raking noise. “I don’t understand. Where are they?”

The patterns on the ceiling looked like ships now.

“Maybe the trolls took them,” she said absentmindedly. “Farmor says trolls are little thieves.”

The raking noise stopped. She could feel how her mother sat down on the side of the bed.

“Jenny,” her mother said and put a hand on her arm. “We have talked about this. You know that farmor is sick. She says things. Things that aren’t real.”

Jenny nodded, the pattern on the ceiling looked like fish now.

“Oh, I think your cousins are here.”

Jenny already knew that, she had heard the car coming up the graveled road for a few minutes.

 

The cousins; Maria thirteen years old with braces, breasts and brown hair and Karl ten years old who everybody called Kalle. Jenny’s older sister Pernilla took Maria under her arm and the two girls disappeared upstairs.

“Pernilla,” her mother screamed upstairs. “Pernilla!” She looked over at Jenny’s aunt. “That girl…that girl is driving me insane. Where is Stig? Stig!”

Jenny knew that her father stood out by her uncle’s car and talked about hunting woodcocks but instead of saying anything she took Kalle by the arm and steered him into the kitchen. On the counter were three bags; one with potato chips, one with cheese doodles and one with candy. Last night she and Pernilla had walked down to the gas station and bought them. They had argued about the candy for a long time before they could agree on what to buy. They only had so much money, so every piece counted.

“Let’s fill two bowls and bring them out to the porch. Pappa and I made a fort out there for us to sleep in tonight.”

Jenny filled a big bowl with chips and cheese doodles and Kalle filled a smaller one with candy.

On the porch, under the table covered in a big blanket the two children sat together and munched.

“Jenny! Kalle! Where are you?” Pappa’s voice came from outside the porch.

“We are in here in the fort,” Jenny called out,  crawled to the other side of the porch and stood up by the open window. “Pappa! Here!”

He turned around by the arbor and came back to the porch.

“We are leaving now. I talked to Pernilla and she promised to be nice. We will be back around midnight.” He planted a kiss on his palm and reached up so she could pretend to grab it and put it in her pocket.  “Use it for bedtime,” he said and left.

The June light lingered, the blue dusk would be replaced by the navy blue night for a few hours and then the birds would start singing again and the sun would rise. Jenny and Kalle laid in the fort with yellow orange cheese doodle fingers and black licorice tongues. Her father’s kiss to use for bedtime was still in her pocket even though hours had passed since the clock struck eight in the living room. They heard music from Pernilla’s room but they hadn’t seen the older girls since they went upstairs before their parents left for the barn dance.

“Do you know what I think is strange?” Kalle shook his head, his mouth was filled with candy. “That farmor says trolls are real. Fröken says that giants threw those big rocks on the fields and that the mountain is called Troll Mountain because a troll used to live there.” Kalle chewed and listened. “But mamma says that farmor is sick and says things that aren’t real….is Fröken sick too?” Kalle swallowed and turned to his stomach, reaching for another piece of candy.

“Fröken can’t be sick…then they wouldn’t let her work in school…I think at least.” He put the candy in his mouth.

“Mamma’s pearl earrings are missing. I said it could be the trolls but she didn’t believe me. You know how farmor always say that trolls are little thieves.”

“My mamma says there are fairies in the fog on the meadow.”

“Why do they say different things? It is so strange!”

She stuffed some chips in her mouth, mostly little crumbles left now. Licked her fingers one by one and yawned. She put her head on the pillow. Kalle was quiet, she was quiet.  The only thing she heard was the faint music and the blackbird who always sat in the birch tree and sang at night.  She yawned again; she could easily fall asleep now but first she had to pee.

“I will go and pee,” she said and crawled out of the fort. Kalle didn’t respond, he was probably sleeping already. She stood on the porch and looked into the house through the door. To walk all the way into the house to pee felt so far. She took the three steps over to the porch door and opened it. She would squat in the grass and be back in her sleeping bag in less than a minute.

The grass under her bare feet was cold; she shivered and pulled up her shoulders. She held one hand on the stone stairs as she squatted. The stone step was still warm from the bright sun and smooth under her hand. Something was rummaging about over by the arbor. She squinted and tried to see. Probably Sixten, the cat, who was looking for a mouse or a vole.

“Sixten,” she called softly. “Come here kitty. Kitty, kitty.”

The rummaging stopped but Sixten didn’t show up. Oh, she got scared, what if it was a badger? They were dangerous; they keep biting until your bones crunch.  She stood quickly and leaped up the stairs. The badger came out from the bushes, stopped and turned towards her. Then it happened. The moment was as slow as refrigerated syrup. The badger stood up. The badger had arms and legs and a head with wild bushy hair. Jenny blinked hard, blinked again. The…the…the…she didn’t know what word to use, it stood there and looked at her. Then it turned around and bounded away. A skinny tail was the last thing she saw before it climbed up the old stone wall and disappeared. If she hadn’t just peeped she would have peed her pants.

“Kalle! Kalle!” She shook his feet in the sleeping bag. “You have to wake up.”

“What?” He pulled his feet away from her hands.  “I am tired. I want to sleep.”

“But Kalle.” She pulled on his feet. “I saw something. A…a…a  troll.” Yes, now she was sure it was a troll. A small furry little one.

Kalle grunted something and curled up.

“We have to see where it went.”

“Ufff,” Kalle said.

“If you are not going I am going by myself.”

Kalle shuffled his feet around for a moment and then he poked his head out from underneath the table.

“Out where? In the woods in the dark?”

She nodded and looked sternly at him.

“Well, maybe I will bring Lolo with me.” The thought of the dog gave her comfort. “Yes, I will bring Lolo and I am leaving now.”

She grabbed her jeans, pulled them on and then she walked into the house. In the kitchen the foxhound came up to her with ticky tocky claws against the hard floor.

“We are going to the woods,” Jenny said and petted the dog. The tail started waging and the dog licked her hand. She took a chair, pushed it against the counter and reached up to the cabinet. She found the flash light and tested it in the kitchen. Even though the night wasn’t completely dark yet she knew the woods would be darker.

She leashed the dog and made her way back to the porch. Kalle was standing by the door.

“If you are going I am coming with you.”

 

Lolo walked first. She was happy to be out with her favorite human. A slightly odd time perhaps but the day had been so warm she had spent most of it lying in the shade under the hedge. It was good to stretch her legs. She looked behind her. The girl had a flash light and the boy was only a step or two behind the girl. Lolo liked the other humans too but this one, the smallest one, was special to her. They had been puppies together a long time ago. Strange, humans stayed puppies forever. She was now a grown, close to aging dog. She had felt it this past winter; the hunting instinct was still a fever in her blood but her muscles weren’t as strong anymore. And to come home and rest by the fire had been a respite. A leisurely walk like this one she always liked.

 They had crossed the meadow and now they entered the woods. Lolo put her nose to the ground; smelled the grass, the dirt and the tall ferns. Lifted her head and breathed in. A fox had crossed here not long ago and she thought she smelled a hedgehog a little further along the path. The children talked behind her, she could hear something in their voices, a faint echo of fear from the boy but mostly excitement from the girl. Something was different in the woods tonight, Lolo wasn’t sure if it was because of the darkness but she could sense slight vibrations in the ground. She took another deep breath. The unfamiliar scent hit her, human and animal in one. No, not human. No, not animal. The hairs on her back stood up, the growl filled her body and she stopped on the trail.

“What is it Lolo?” the girl said and put a hand on her back. “Do you see something?”

“Let’s go home!” the boy said and his voice was shaky.

The girl sat down next to her, put an arm around her shoulders and shined the flashlight into the darkness under the ferns.

“What is it Lolo?”

She growled deeper, the unfamiliar scent was coming closer, she could hear the movement. Small feet were moving slowly and carefully over the ground. Then she saw it. As tall as her but on two feet. Big eyes in a round face. Spiky hair on the top of its head and smooth fur on the rest of the body. And it spoke. She was sure it spoke but it didn’t open its mouth but she heard words in her head. Soft, soft, soft words. Human voice but different words. “Ho ay ay ay ay buff. Ho ay ay ay ay buff. Ho ay ay ay ay buff buff. Ho ay ay ay ay buff.”

 

She was warm, sweaty on her face and back. She tried to push down her blanket but she couldn’t. She was trapped in something. Scared, she opened her eyes. Above her were planks and something orange. She blinked and tried to focus. When her eyes began to adjust she saw that the orange was the blanket she and pappa had put up yesterday on top of the table. She was lying in her sleeping bag on the porch. She turned to her side and saw Kalle sleeping deeply with his face pressed into the pillow. A strange feeling resided in her body. Her brain felt fuzzy and her limbs heavy. All she wanted to do was to lie down again and sleep but she was too hot so she crawled out of the fort and walked into the house.

Mamma was sitting by the kitchen table with a crossword and a cup of coffee.

“Sleeping beauty,” she said when she saw Jenny. “Do you want some breakfast?”

Jenny sat down on a chair and looked over at the kitchen clock. 10:30 in the morning. She had never slept this late in her whole life.

“Where are pappa and Pernilla?”

“Pappa is out with Lolo…did you play a lot with her last night? He had to drag her out of the house.” Her mother put some bread into the toaster. “Pernilla is still sleeping of course.”

Jenny felt confused, she thought she remembered that they had taken Lolo with them out to the woods last night but the memory was as faint as a dream. The bread jumped out of the toaster and her mother put it on a plate.

“You know what is strange?” Her mother opened the fridge; she brought out the milk, the butter and the cheese. “I found my pearl earrings here on the table when we came back last night. Did you find them?”

Jenny buttered her toast, sliced some cheese and took a bite. Had she found the earrings? She remembered that Kalle and her had eaten candy, chips and cheese doodles until it was almost dark. Then she went out to pee….after that it was murkier.

“No,” she said and took another bite. “I didn’t find the earrings. Ask Pernilla, maybe she borrowed them.”

Her mother smiled at her.

“Yes, you are probably right.” Then her mother narrowed her eyes and looked at her. “What is that you have in your hair?” She reached out and plucked something from her head. “A piece of fern. How odd.”

 

 

 

Wednesday, April 23, 2014

Else


Else

The old lady with the sunglasses, who drinks whiskey

and falls asleep in the big armchair on holidays.

That is how you remember me.

I know that I scared you children

and that you wished I would not come at all.

But that is not who I always was

 

 I cut my hair short, wore trousers, smoked cigarillos.

        Oh, how my mother cried.

            And begged and pleaded.

 

Sailed across the Atlantic on an Ocean Liner.

Saw New York’s skyscrapers grow in the horizon

                Bigger than us, grander than us.

 But in Hooverville we walked around the pain.

              Certain to not get our shoes dirty.

 

Stood in the cheering crowd on one of Hamburg’s main streets.

Excitement in the air. Power! We will rise again!

Who could have imagined that the tiny man

                                with the booming voice.

One day would equal evil,  destruction and chaos.

 

 

And when my sister died, all too soon.

                I tried to take care of her sweet daughters.

                                I really did!

But I believe I failed.

Too many demons. Too much urgency. Too much heartbreak.

                     I was nothing against it.

 

 

But no, I did not get married.

             Some fools said it was because I was in love with my brother –in- law.

That beautiful, brilliant, impractical man.

But tell me, why I would cause my sister more pain?

                                                                He betrayed her enough without me.

 

 

But maybe someone sat behind me

 when I rode through the apple orchards in May.

Holding me tight, the motor purring underneath us,

as I maneuvered with ease.

Up and down the hills and around the narrow bends.

The Baltic Sea covered in silver flakes and

pink petals snowing down on us.

And maybe we stopped at the pointy hills,

wrapped in a sunny blanket made of Prima Vulgaris.

Like the witches used to do, we climbed to the top.

The wind up there filled with ancient strength.

We could smell freedom.

And maybe when no one saw I grabbed hold of Her.

Put my hand in the hair,

 soft as silk.

And kissed Her.

 

 

 

               

 

 

Wednesday, March 26, 2014

Fear and Doubt and Hope and Trust.


On Friday night, as the rain pounded my windows and a damp wind crept into my house, Fear stood before me. His skinny arms crossed, his eyes slits and a smile on his lips. Doubt, fat and plump, sat on his shoulders, flapping his dull wings lazily.

Fear poked me in my ribs with his long finger and said,

“Don’t trust this man. It will all lead to pain.”

Doubt happily lifted from his spot and flew around my head chirping,

“They are all the same. They are all the same. They are all the same.”

Fear caressed my cheek, I closed my eyes, felt his cool familiar touch.

“Reject him before he rejects you.”

I sat down at my desk, dipped my pen in the ink and wrote a letter of goodbye. On the verge of sending the letter, my mother’s voice calm and clear, came to me.

“Sleep on it. Tomorrow is another day.”

I went to bed with Fear by my bedside and Doubt in triumph flying around the room.

 

Saturday morning arrived in bright sunshine and crystal clear skies. The trees shone in copper and blood. Fear stood by my bed with Doubt slothfully sleeping on his shoulder. I swiftly got out of bed.

Swatted Doubt, fat and plump, from Fear’s shoulder. He bounced surprised a few times before he crawled into a dark corner. Fear crossed his arms, threw out his chest and glared at me. I firmly put my hand on his shoulder.

“I won’t feed you anymore. I exil you!”

He poked me in the ribs again.

“You know I am right.” His word silky “Life has proven this to you.”

I gently removed his finger from my side.

“I am stronger than you. No matter what happens I always survive. Life has proven this to me.”

Fear smiled gleefully at me.

“You think you can get rid of me that easily? I will just wait right here for you to come back.”

He sat down cross legged next to my bed and leaned on the wall.

“I will wait right here for you.”

 

On Sunday morning Fear still sat next to my bed. Perhaps he looked slightly paler.  I took my lantern and searched the most secluded, most secret corner of my cabinet until I found a small pine box. I gently carried it downstairs and placed it in the sunshine  on the kitchen table. Carefully I removed the lid and the pink tissue paper. Curled up around each other Trust and Hope slept.

I leaned over the box and whispered,

“I am ready to let you out now.”

Trust opened her eyes and looked at me, yawned and stretched her kaleidoscope wings. She nudged Hope, deep in sleep. Hope rolled to her side and opened one eye, put out her tiny hand in the sunlight and in a flash she left the box. Leaped around the room a few times before she landed in my palm. She smiled brightly towards me.

“About time!” she said before she took off again.

Trust, harder to convince slowly left the box. She took a few practice steps before she walked up my arm and whispered in my ear,

“Feed me! The more I get the stronger I become.”

That night I went to bed with Hope and Trust, counting the hours until you will be mine.

Monday, March 24, 2014

Ingrid, Astrid and Sven


A bird’s body, hair feather white.  Her grip surprisingly firm.

“I need my blue summer coat.” 

She commanded and sent me on a search.

Closets, coat rack and the dresser.

But no summer coat to be found.

“I’m sorry,” I said apologetic. “I seem not to be able to find your coat.”

She looked at me sternly.

“Silly girl, have you looked in the attic?”

Perplexed I looked at the old woman.

“Attic? But mam, you don’t have an attic.”

Her eyes got muddy with confusion and she waved me away.

I thought a misunderstanding had occurred so off I went again.

Searched the same closets, the same coat rack and the same dresser. 

No blue coat. Meticulously crocheted doilies. Pillowcases with monograms.

And under the bed rolled up rag rugs. Stripped in mellow colors.

 Years of hard work.  Something for a woman to be proud of.

I left her after another thirty minutes, got on my bike and rode to the next old lady.

 

The room was cramped, filled with ornament heavy wood furniture.

“No wet rag on the furniture! It leaves streaks.”

 The voice was not kind, only demanding.

I moved carefully through the mausoleum of past times.

On one of the dressers stood  a picture of two young ladies.

The owner of the apartment and my great aunt.

In another time my family had ruled this little country side town.

My great grandfather owned the biggest house. Sat on the board of the bank.

Decided who would be graced with a loan. He used to send my grandmother. 

A lean teenager to the liquor store. His name alone was proof enough.

Now I rode my bike from house to house. Helped old ladies clean, cook and take a bath.

I changed catheters, treated bed sores and searched for summer coats.

When I was done dusting without using a wet rag I was treated to a glass of water in the kitchen.

“During the war the trains stopped here. We all knew who the Nazis were. The big farmers. Stood by the train and waved. Gave the soldiers bread and apples. What a shame!”

I finished one glass and asked for another.

“You know how some people say that Hitler has a son.”

I nodded and drank.

“But he can’t have a son.  I know.”

Some sort of joy had joined her voice.

“My sister’s husband was in the same battalion as Hitler during the war. Not the second. The first. And he told us that Hitler got one of his balls shot off in the war.”

She giggled like a school girl.

 

The last house for the day was located all the way up the hill. Past the nine hundred year old church.

Magnificent green wood house on the end of a road lined with maple trees.

The man was dignified, gentle and almost rueful as he showed me where the cleaning supplies were.

He didn’t disturb me as I worked. He sat in an old red armchair and read. The walls covered in leather bound  books.

On one of the walls in the airy entrance hall hung a beautiful shawl. Crimson with gold thread. The shawl was covered in striking jewelry and underneath a black and white photo in a silver frame. Two young men and a woman.

“He was my best friend.”

I almost jumped. I had not heard him.

“Anton Nilsson,” he said and looked questioning at me. My mother had informed me so I nodded.

“He fought in the Red Army. That was after the bombing of the Amalthea of course. We disagreed about that...”

His eyes drifted out the window. I held my breath, waiting.

“But both of us thought Stalin was a curse.”

He smiled and his eyes came back to me.

“Beautiful shawl, don’t you think? Anton’s wife’s. When she died he gave it to me. I loved her...”

He took a deep breath in and shook his head.

“A young girl like you don’t want to listen to an old man’s ramblings.”

He smiled and looked around where I had been vacuuming.

“You look done. I have fresh cinnamon rolls. Would you like to stay for a cup of tea?”

We sat in his kitchen. Fragile cups with pink roses and gold. He talked. I listened for hours.

 And I regret I don’t remember all he told me.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thursday, March 13, 2014

You reap what you sow (inspired by True Detective)


The boy and the girl lay close together in the narrow bed. Their faces almost touching and the boy whispering.

“Death is not the end. He will avenge us. We will rise. Dark stars in the sky. No one can do this to us.”

The girl got a little closer. Her hair frizzy from the moist heat.  She caressed the boy’s face gently.  

“You are so brave, Errol. So strong. You can do anything.”

Her words made him feel good; she was the only one who made him feel good. His mother had made him feel like a prince. She used to hold him in her lap, stroke his back and whisper in his ear.

“You are my prince, Errol. My prince. One day you will rise up. You are special.”

He remembered so little, but that he remembered. And how she used to smell of flowers and how the house was different then. When she died the sun never really reached all the way into the house anymore. He rolled over to his back, looked up at the ceiling. Watched the Devil’s Nest moving in the breeze. Making stick figure shadows on the wall.

“Grandpa Tuttle is coming tomorrow. The men will go to Carcosa. Soon I will be allowed to go with them.”

The girl moved restlessly in the bed. Sat up and leaned against the headboard.

“I don’t like Grandpa Tuttle,” she said and started to pick at her cuticles. “He hurt me.” She picked the scab off her left index finger. Yesterday she had cut herself peeling potatoes. It started to bleed instantly. She put the finger in her mouth and sucked  the wound. Iron and salt landed on her tongue .

Errol put a hand on her leg.

“I never hurt you.”

She shook her head, the finger still in her mouth.

“No, never,” she said with a smile.

He moved his hand up her thigh, squeezed the muscles. Betty was strong, not the smartest girl in the world, but she was fun. And she made him feel good. She slid down so she could lie next to him and he could put his hand inside her panties. Touched the fine hair, the silky skin and the wetness.

 One day when he was nine, during the winter when the air was clear, father had brought Betty home. She was eleven, dirty and full of lice. Miss Janette had bathed her, combed her hair, cut her finger nails and fed her. He had watched as she ate. She used her fingers more than the silverware. That night when Miss Janette had put him to bed, he had asked about the girl.

“She’s your sister,” she said and helped him button his pajamas. “She has been left alone for too long. Longer than any child should be.”

At first he had been scared of Betty. She was bigger than he was and strong.  She pinched him instead of talking to him. One day that spring, when the ground had started to warm up, Grandpa Tuttle came to visit. He brought with him a large white box with a pink bow. Betty opened it in awe, inside was a beautiful doll. Bright eyed, blonde curls, a shiny white dress. He looked at Betty for a long time. She shifted her weight on the chair, uncomfortable under his gaze. After lunch he asked her to walk with him. Father didn’t object.

When Errol went out in the barn to work on his bike he found Betty sitting curled up in a corner. Crying, with blood on her dress. She wouldn’t look at him when he spoke to her. “Are you sick?” he asked over and over but she didn’t say anything so he went and got Miss Janette.

Miss Janette undressed the girl, washed her up and sang low; “Someone is cryin’ my lord, come by here”. Betty stayed in bed for a week and after that she wouldn’t leave Errol’s side.  Next time Grandpa Tuttle brought another doll, then another, then another but never did he ask Betty to walk with him again.

“I like when you make flowers on me,” she whispered in the murky room. The sun was about to set and the crickets had started singing their song. He pulled down her panties and got out of his pants. She welcomed him in her arms with warmth and tenderness. He kissed her neck, her breasts, she moaned and lifted her hips.

The headlights from the car lit up the room and Errol jumped out of the bed. Their father would soon enter the house and if he found them in bed together he would be furious. Out of instinct he rubbed his face, felt the shiny scars under his fingers. Shuddered.

“Betty.” He pulled the girls arm. She scrambled to find her panties and then she tiptoed across the hallway into the bathroom.

 

Errol walked slowly down the stairs, heard his father move around in the kitchen.  “Betty!” he screamed and Errol heard the anger in his voice. Now close to fifteen he was taller than his father but the fear was still there. The fear of violence. The fear of humiliation. The fear of the words that used to burn his insides. When his father saw him, he stopped in the middle of the kitchen floor. Stared at Errol, narrowed his eyes.

“Where is Betty? Where is the damn dinner?”

Errol didn’t look up but spoke to the floor.

“Father was running late so we ate. Dinner is on a plate in the refrigerator. Chicken and potato salad.”

“Where is that stupid girl? Betty!”

Errol heard Betty’s clumpy steps  down the stairs. She ran into the kitchen and stopped a few steps away from their father.

“Yes father?” She also kept her eyes on the floor.

“Dinner,” their father spat out.

Betty hurried over to the refrigerator and took out his plate. She placed it on the table and brought out a glass and some silverware. Their father sat down heavily. He grabbed Betty by the arm, squeezed hard around her wrist. Errol could she how she flinched.

“Drink, you stupid cow.”

“Yes, sir.”

Betty poured iced tea into the glass and put the pitcher on the table.

“You should be grateful. I could have let you die or sold you.”

“Yes, sir,“ Betty said and curtsied, and then she left the kitchen.  Errol wanted to leave too, he wanted to watch TV. He had seen in the newspaper that Hitchcock’s Psycho was on tonight.  But when he turned around to leave his father’s voice stopped him.

“Sit!”

Errol sat down and watched as his father ate. The big man cut the chicken into pieces and shoveled the meat in with the potato salad. He drank big gulps of the iced tea.

“Grandpa Tuttle is coming tomorrow.”

Errol nodded and waited as his father ate some more. Betty had turned on the TV.

“You are old enough to come with us to Carcosa.”

Errol’s mouth fell open.

“Only to watch at first. We need new younger warriors in our ranks. You will be fifteen soon.  A young man. Not a boy anymore.”

“Yes, father.” 

His father told the story of Carcosa. A fortress, a stron hold no one could conquer. The Romans,  the Crusaders, the French. They all tried but no one could defeat the city. The King in Yellow protected them. But the protection wasn’t for free. The King needed sweet, fresh blood to nourish himself.

Errol had heard this story more times that he could remember. At first it had scared him, a story of the bogeymen coming to take him. Miss Janette had comforted him many nights when he woke up screaming.  She had made Devil’s Nest’s to hang over his bed. To capture the thing that scared him. The nightmares had been so real. The man dressed in yellow stood over his bed with a knife in his hand. As he grew older he understood that he had no need to be scared. He was one of the chosen ones. His bloodline came from Carcosa. His uncles rose through society, got more power. Reverend, sheriff, governor. One day it would be his turn.  Tomorrow would be his turn.

 

Betty sat by the TV with one of her dolls, she absentmindedly caressed its hair. Errol stood in the doorway, didn’t move, only watched her. Carcosa, Carcosa, Carcosa. A dream. A curse. What I will do for revenge no one understands. Only you Carcosa. The King in Yellow, do you hear me? I am the dark star. I will do what you need me to do. All I ask is revenge. I am yours.

The words in his mind grew, burst, rained down like shattered glass. Fragile, beautiful, kaleidoscopic, sharp.  

“Betty,” he said and she jumped up scared from the floor. When she saw it was only him her face relaxed.  “I’m going to Carcosa tomorrow.”

She dropped the doll, then a big smile spread across her face and she clapped her hands.

“Oh, oh, oh,” she said and ran up to him.

“I can only watch first.” He bent down and looked into her eyes, it glimmered in there. “But when I am in charge I will avenge us. No one can treat us like this. We will get the power.”

She nodded excitedly, put her hand on his face. Followed the scars over to his lip.

“He will regret what he has done to us,” her voice low, vibrating.

Errol nodded and opened his mouth so he could lick Betty’s finger. The thought of power made him hard and he could tell she felt it too.

“I want to fuck you,” he whispered into her ear.  His words fell into her and she licked her lips.

“Father?”

Errol pointed to the ceiling. They listened to the heavy man’s steps as he walked around in the bathroom. After a few minutes he walked across the hallway and into the bedroom. The bed creaked under the weight. When it got quiet Errol grabbed Betty’s arm. Pulled her close.

“I will get it all. His power will fill me up.”

She gasped under his touch as he pulled her dress over her head. She stepped out of her panties and he got out of his pants.

“Look how hard I am. I can feel his power.”

She laid down on the couch and he entered her. Pushed hard, he knew she liked it hard.

“Errol,” she moaned. “You are so strong! So brave!”

“Yes,yes, yes. I will get it all!”       

At the moment of climax when he normally was filled with nothingness a man appeared. A two faced man. A tidy man with a notebook and a man filled with haunt, burning eyes, a man who could taste the air. Next to the man the faint watermark of a girl. She held onto the man’s hand. A string of gold tied the man to the girl.  A sudden flash of realization hit him. This man was his destiny.

Saturday, March 1, 2014

Midgård


The summer sun was beating down on her head as she sat outside the longhouse. Her back ached an d she could feel the baby pressing down on her pelvis. Soon it would be time. Soon.  The boy came running around the corner; his light, almost white hair caught the sun. With him came the grey dog, his constant companion. He stopped in front of her, panting. The dog jumped around him a few times, his pink tongue hanging out of the side of the mouth. 

“Mor.” The boy put a hand on her leg. “Will he be home today?” Gudrun caressed her son’s gleaming hair.

“Any day now.” The boy looked up at her with dark blue eyes. The same eyes as his father.

“Can I go down to the shore and look for the ships?”

She knew he missed his father as much as she missed her man. She knew he was anxious to see the sails in the horizon, grow bigger and bigger until you could hear them beat in the wind. Hear the men call out to each other. See his face again. He would wave from the ship, jump in the water and run to them as they waited by the shore.

“Yes you can but…” The word but made her son roll his eyes. “You have to bring your sister and Torbjörn with you.”

“Mor…” he started complaining. She reached out and took a handful of his hair in her hand. She didn’t pull hard enough for it to hurt but he knew that there was no point complaining anymore. She let go, smoothed the hair with her palm. “I can’t have Torbjörn around my feet all day, you know that.” He sighed deeply. “And,” she continued, “take one of the baskets and pick some blueberries on the way. Ask Marya for some bread to bring along.” The dog lifted his ears when he heard the name Marya. The dog was clever, knew where he could get food.

“Loki,” the boy said and the dog was instantly at his heels. Both of them took off running like before. Gudrun was  about to lean back against the wall once more when she remembered.

“Sune!” she called and the boy stopped. “Don’t let Torbjörn eat too many blueberries or sand.”

The boy and the dog disappeared around the corner of the house. The child inside of her kicked hard against her ribs. She had to put a hand on the foot and press. Please stay in there until Valdemar is home. Please. The only time she had giving birth without Valdemar at shore it had ended gravely. After Sune, the first one, she had given birth to a strong, angry girl less than a year later. The third one, a thorn still stung her heart when she thought about the third one.  The rain pounded the house that day. Everything was damp even though it was in the middle of the summer and the child did not want to come out. She pushed and pushed but no. Eventually the midwife had crawled in between her legs, put a hand inside of her and pulled the child out. Oh, this child. Transparent, red haired. No fierce cry. Only a whimper.

She had put this child to her breast, weakly she suckled and then she fell asleep. The midwife said to keep the child close, let the child rest. She wasn’t sure when she realized that this life would never last. She stroked her breasts, forced small of drops of her milk into the child’s mouth. Five days later the rain stopped. A rainbow grew across the sky when the sun broke through the clouds. The child lay in her arms, more transparent than before. Eyes closed and she simply stopped breathing.

When Valdemar came home Gudrun lay in bed with her face against the wall. Didn’t speak. Didn’t eat. Didn’t tend to her children. He tried to talk to her but she didn’t respond. She laid, in a state of neither sleep nor wakefulness. Until one morning, she felt someone crawl over her and Sune pressed himself in between the wall and her body. He strung his arms around her neck and placed his head under her chin.  His breath against her skin. He lay still and quiet for a long time.

“Mor,” he whispered, “I don’t like Marya’s porridge. Can you make me some?”

She opened her eyes, looked down at his golden head, put her nose on his hair and breathed in. He smelled of the woods, of the fireplace and the sea.  He smelled like life.

When she felt stronger again she had walked across the forest, across the yielding grounds of the moor to her father. He had fallen into trance for her. Searched for the little transparent girl in the spirit worlds. When he came back he told her that the little girl was trapped. Held back by Gudrun’s love and yearning. Couldn’t move into Gimle. Stuck in between. All the little girl wanted was to be allowed to leave. She was never supposed to be here. Her father taught her a croon. A few words, a few lines, rhyming, easy to remember. Every time she thought of the little girl she would repeat the croon. Soon the words would take over the place in her mind and the girl would be set free. Her mind let go faster than her body and for years no child would stay long enough to be born. Until Torbjörn. Robust, howling, suckled until her nipples bled.

 

“Tova! Tova! Where are you?” Sune had the basket in one hand, the leather satchel with bread in the other and Torbjörn behind him toddling as fast as the short legs would let him. They had been searching for their sister everywhere. First down by the pigs, sometimes she went down there and talked to the pigs. Fed them leftovers and scratched them behind their ears. In the winter when it was time for slaughter and sacrifice she hid in the house. She could not stand to see the blood steaming in the cold air. He laughed at her, teased her, happy the fearless girl was scared of something.  Then he had walked to the horse corrals and even taken an extra turn around the beehives. He had sent Torbjörn in to the henhouse and the storehouse, Tova was nowhere to be seen. Finally he spotted her sitting on top of the root cellar in the shade under the old oak tree.

“Tova!” he screamed and she stood up, “We are going to pick blueberries and go down to the shore to look for the ship. And Mor said you had to come.”

The girl ran down the side of the root cellar, her braids bounced on her back. She grabbed the basket as she ran by him.  Loki yelped out of excitement and ran after her. Sune started to run but Torbjörn let out a howl and he had to slow down to let the little boy catch up.

The tall pine trees gave enough shade to make the forest pleasant compared to the bright sunshine. The pine needles had turned the trail into a copper snake; it slithered around the blueberry bushes. The bushes were  covered in big, dark blue, almost black berries. Tova was already picking  and dropping the berries into the basket. The dog lay on the trail with tiny forest flies all around his warm body.

“Don’t eat too many blueberries,” Sune said to Torbjörn. “Not good for your stomach.” He poked the little boy in his round, soft belly.

His fingers got red from the berries and they had attracted the mosquitoes. He watched one land on his arm, pierce his skin with its trunk and drink his blood.  The back part of the body grew, turned from grey to brilliant red.  He started to get tired of picking. He wanted to go down to the shore, look at the horizon and search for the first sign of the ships. The dog could sense his restlessness, walked around him with his tail wagging. Egging him on.

“Let’s go down to the shore,” he said and started to walk down the trail. Tova didn’t stop picking, when she had started she could keep going forever. Her eyes got glazed over and she didn’t seem to hear or notice anything.

“Tova,” he raised his voice and the girl lifted her head. “I am going down to the water.”

Torbjörn with a reddish blue circle around his mouth started to walk after him but Sune started to run.

“Une! Une!” the little boy screamed, but he pretended not to hear.

 

He came down to the shore and the dog ran straight out in the calm, warm summer water. Sune sat down on the rocks and put his feet in.  Loki came up and sat next to him, the water dripping from his long fur.

“Should we scare them?”

The dog’s tail started to pound the rock when he heard the anticipation in the boy’s voice.

The boy and the dog walked back on the trail again and hid behind a big moss covered stone. He held his arms around the dog and whispered in its ear.

“Soon, soon, when they come walking we jump out and scream. Soon, soon.”

Sune heard Tova’s voice long before he saw them. She was singing loud and clear in the forest.

“Bridges and stones. Bridges and timber. No one can cross. No one can cross. Till you tell me your beloved’s name. What is his name?”

The dog shivered in his arms.

“Soon,” he murmured. Torbjörn came first, tottered, fell and got up again. Tova carried the basket with the berries in one hand and the leather satchel with the bread in the other. He slowly released the grip around the dog’s body. Both of them jumped down on the trail. The dog barking and the boy shouting. Torbjörn sat down on his behind and started to cry terrified. Tova let out a high pitched scream, dropped the basket on the ground and the berries rolled out. Her face got red.

“Sune,” she growled. “You and your stupid dog. Look at the berries!”

Even though he was older she was taller and stronger than him. Her hand turned into a fist and she waved it at him.

“I will punch you in the face if you don’t pick them up.”

He was wise enough to take her threat seriously. A punch from her wouldn’t be as bad as his mother’s anger though. He sat down and started to pick up the berries and put them into the basket again, he sang softly  as he worked.

“Tova got scared. Tova got scared. Tova got scared.”

She smacked him on the back of his head and he stopped singing.

“Torbjörn and I will go down to the water. Come when you are done.”

 

Tova pulled the dress over her head and helped Torbjörn with his tunic. She took the small boy in her arms and walked into the sea. The water was soothing against her skin. She opened her hand and dropped a piece of bread, watched it slowly sink.

“Ran, Aegir and your daughter’s nine. Bring home my father in soon time.”

Morfar had taught her the croon last summer and every time she went down to the shore she recited it four times.  Torbjörn splashed with his chubby hand in the water.

”Ran, Ran,” he said and smiled.

“Yes, Ran will bring him home.”

 

After she had played with Torbjörn in the water she handed him over to Sune and she started to swim.  Dived down into the murkiness.  Touched the dark rockweed and the glowing light green seaweed. Came up when her lungs hurt. Swam to the cliff and climbed up. Squeezed her fingers and toes into crevices, she never fell. At the top she looked down at her brothers. Torbjörn and Loki had curled up on the grass and were sleeping. Sune looked up at her; she knew he wanted her to look out over the sea. See if she could spot the ships. She craned her neck, squinted, strained but had to shake her head to him. She backed up and ran to the edge and jumped. Flew through the air and landed in the water with a splash. Felt the bubbles around her body, heard them crack as she pushed her way up again.

Sune watched the bubbles,  waiting for her to resurface. The water scared him, the unknown down there. The seaweed that grabbed his leg. Morfar had said that the spirits would leave him be if he wasn’t scared. But he didn’t trust himself so he stayed on land. The water broke and Tova’s head showed up. Her light blonde hair was darker now when it was wet. She waved to him as she swam to the cliff again.

She climbed up again, craned her neck, squinted and strained. Something was out there on the horizon, a small dark line of something. She squinted some more, it wasn’t a trick of the eye. Something was out there. Was it Far and his ships? She couldn’t tell yet but she turned around and nodded to Sune. He jumped up excitedly and ran to the cliff. When Loki tried to follow he told the dog to stay with the sleeping Torbjörn.

He climbed up and joined his sister. She pointed to the spot on the horizon. He squinted and strained. The spot grew slowly, eventually turning into four spots. The spots took form into four ships.

“It is him!” Sune exclaimed and grabbed his sister’s hand. “It is him!”

Tova nodded and pressed his hand.

“We have to tell Mor.”

Gudrun leaned against the wall when the children came running from the woods. For the last few hours she couldn’t deny anymore that this child wanted to enter this world, sooner rather than later. Tova carried Torbjörn on her back and the dog bounced around them.

“We saw them! We saw them!” Sune shouted.

Her womb contracted hard and the pain shot down her legs.

“He is coming home,” she said and caressed her stomach. “Welcome to the world.”