The Lost Village by Camilla Sten (best fiction novels TXT) 📗

“Could that have been it? Maybe she landed on the talk button when she fell.”

Robert shrugs, his squirrelly brown eyes downcast.

“I guess,” he says. “That or it broke. It could have sent out interference, or something.”

Emmy steps forward and sits down at Tone’s feet, so close that I have to shuffle back, thrown.

“All right if I take a look?” she asks.

Tone’s voice is thin and exhausted:

“Alice was just—”

“I’ve had training.”

My skin is rippling in irritation, but I can hear the pain in Tone’s voice. Her ankle is now so swollen that it hardly looks like a leg anymore.

I swallow my pride.

“Go on, take a look.”

Emmy carefully sinks her fingertips into Tone’s swollen, red skin, then glances up at her, muttering a “sorry” when Tone whimpers.

“Have you taken anything for the pain?” she asks.

Tone shakes her head, and I add:

“She’s allergic to painkillers. It’s her stomach.”

“Is that true?” Emmy asks.

Tone nods without hesitation.

“I have a little whisky,” says Emmy. “You can take a few swigs, if you want. It’s an old-school kinda painkiller, but it works.”

Miraculously enough, this draws a wry smile from Tone. Emmy looks around at Robert, who sets off toward their van without a word. Then she picks up another roll of gauze and starts winding it tightly around Tone’s ankle.

“I can’t tell whether it’s broken or sprained,” she says. “But this should keep everything in place for now. It’d be better if we had something cold to put on it, but…”

She looks at me. “Did you bring any frozen foods we don’t know of?”

I shake my head.

“Then we’ll just have to make do with good old pressure and elevation,” she says, securing the gauze with a small safety pin from the roll.

“How does it feel?” she asks Tone.

“I’ve felt better,” she replies. She’s still pale, but is now regaining some color in her face, at least. She isn’t sweating anymore. “But I’ll survive.”

Emmy smiles up at her.

“Great,” she says.

Seeing the two of them interact gives me a strange feeling I wouldn’t exactly call pleasant, a mix of anxiety and something uncomfortably close to jealousy. I bite the inside of my cheek.

Robert comes back with Emmy’s small, chipped hip flask from the night before. Tone accepts it gratefully and takes a few big swigs. I’m not sure it’s a good idea, but I don’t want to say anything.

“OK, guys,” says Emmy, standing up and brushing off her knees. “Why don’t we take a break, settle our nerves a little? We can have something to eat and discuss what we want to do.”

“Sounds good,” says Robert.

It feels like those should have been my words, like she’s taken something from me. I’m running this project, not her. But Emmy’s already on her way to get us some food, and Robert has gone with her. The moment has passed.

I watch her walking toward the van, unease still festering in my stomach.

I don’t recall hearing anything on my walkie-talkie—certainly not Tone moaning.

But if they hadn’t heard something, what would bring them running back to camp like that? How could they have known she was hurt?

I heard something below us.

Could Tone really have heard something?

And could it have been Emmy and Robert?

But if so, why?

December 1, 1958

Dearest Margareta,

Wishing you a happy first day of advent! Or perhaps I should say second? After all, by the time you read this, the day will have already come and gone.

Ours was so lovely this year. Mother baked saffron buns for breakfast, and—you would have been so proud of me—I suggested we take one to Birgitta in the afternoon. It was all my own idea—Mother hadn’t dropped a single hint! But then Mother said that Birgitta wouldn’t eat it, advent or not: all she’ll take is her cold chicken, gingerbread, and black-currant juice. But Mother smiled and stroked my cheek, and said that it was a lovely thought all the same. Besides, the gingerbread we normally take her is still rather festive. We went down to see her together. Even Birgitta seemed chirpier than usual. And when Mother and I sang her some Christmas carols, it almost sounded as though she was trying to hum along.

But enough! I can’t keep it in any longer—I must tell you the big news! (Unless Mother has already told you? No, I’m sure she wouldn’t have, she never writes about anything interesting.)

We have a new pastor!

I’m sure your first question will be why that would ever be news: everyone knows Einar’s a drunk, and it’s actually rather odd that he’s been able to stay on as long as he has here. Mother gets angry at me whenever I mention it, says that he’s a man of God and that we shouldn’t speak ill of others, but it’s only gotten worse these last years. Lena told me her father saw Einar asleep on the road a few weeks ago, and he’d forgotten to put on any pants! Surely it can’t be speaking ill of someone if it’s the truth?

But that’s beside the point. What makes it such big news is not only that we have a new pastor, but that no one knew he was coming! Up here everybody normally knows everything about anything (a few days ago, Albert at the pharmacy asked me how you’re doing in your new apartment!), but this came out of nowhere!

I’d already heard about him from Mother, who met him last week, but I thought the new kid she was talking about was some sort of assistant, not a new priest. Everyone was whispering and murmuring as they came into church. Last Sunday Einar had done the sermon, hissing and grumbling like a smokestack as usual, but for the advent service yesterday he just sat there nice and quiet in the front pew, while Pastor Mattias took to the lectern.

He’s so dashing! Oh, forgive me, Margareta, can I say such a thing about a priest? It’s the truth! He looks like a film star, with thick blond hair and light eyes. They’re gray