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

the name of God the Father himself—that he saw her turn her head to look at them.

They ran all night through the forest to reach the nearest town, some sixty miles away. Nils collapsed from exhaustion on the edge of town, but your grandfather held out. He told them something terrible had happened in Silvertjärn and that they had to send help, before he, too, collapsed.

When the police arrived they found Birgitta’s body in the middle of the square, just as your grandfather had said. The village was completely silent. But in the midst of that silence they heard a baby’s cries.

They found the baby naked on the floor of the school nurse’s room. It was no more than a few days old. There was no trace of whoever had left it there—nor, indeed, whoever had given birth to it.

The police searched every building, cottage, and villa, but they couldn’t find a single soul. It was as though every one of the 887 residents of Silvertjärn had disappeared into thin air. Doors had been left open, windows ajar. The river ran peacefully down to the lake. And the village was empty.

They combed the forest but found no one—not a single track. Aina, my mother, and my father were gone, like the rest of our neighbors, friends, and acquaintances. Gone. As though they had never existed.

 FRIDAY

 NOW

The morning that dawns is clear and almost lavishly beautiful. The air zings with that fresh smell of pine and wet earth that comes only after a real spring downpour, and the sky feels enormous overhead. Light blue, without a cloud in sight.

The river water is freezing but surprisingly clear. From what I’ve read, it comes straight from the mountains. We’ve washed with an all-in-one shampoo that the woman in the camping store assured me was organic and biodegradable. I stand up and wring out my hair, watch the current carry the small white bubbles off toward the lake. Its glassy surface sparkles in the morning light. Perhaps we should have washed down there instead—the water would probably have been marginally warmer—but Emmy said it probably wouldn’t be as clear, as it’s still. To be honest, I was relieved when she said it. Those unfathomable depths look anything but inviting.

By the time I climb back up onto the riverbank and wrap myself up in my ugly, burled Coca-Cola towel, I’m so cold I can barely feel my feet. The air feels almost warm after the ice-cold water, and despite my long, anxious night I feel wide awake.

Everything seems easier in the daylight, and the night’s worries feel far away. Not that my suspicions have completely disappeared, but as I watch Emmy shivering and cursing as she rinses the lather from her hair, I find it hard to see her as the shadow lurking in my nightmares. I glance at her out of the corner of my eye as she scrubs out her shampoo. She has a tattoo on her hip I don’t recognize—a small stylized owl—and she’s more muscular than I remember her being.

A sound makes me turn away. Tone is struggling to get out of the water. I give her my hand and help her to pull herself up. She’s so heavy on my arm that I almost lose her, but I manage to regain my balance. And when I take a closer look at her foot, I can understand her difficulty: her throbbing red ankle is so swollen it’s as wide as her calf.

“How’s the foot feeling?” I ask. The question is redundant, really. I can see how it feels. I just want her to tell me something else.

Tone nods.

“Oh, it’s fine,” she says. Her lips are blueish with cold, but her hand feels like it’s burning up. “You just haven’t seen it without the strapping before.”

I hear Emmy get out of the water behind us and start getting dressed.

Tone sits down heavily on her towel and, still wearing her wet underwear, starts strapping up her ankle again.

I open my mouth to say something—what, I’m not sure—when I hear Max’s voice from the buildings.

“Are you guys done already?” he asks.

I shut my mouth.

“We’re ready,” Tone shouts back, her voice unwavering. It doesn’t sound like she’s in much pain. She sounds normal.

I hastily pull my clothes on over my wet underwear. My jeans cling to my thighs and hips as I pull them up, and my top bunches up stubbornly as I try to put it on. I’ve just got everything in place by the time Max and Robert arrive.

“How was the water?” Max asks.

“Cold,” says Emmy, pulling her loose T-shirt over her head. “Really fucking cold.”

I smirk at him.

“Your sweater’s on inside out,” I say.

Max looks down, sees the label flapping under his chin and blushes.

“Ah, who cares,” he says. “I’m about to take it off again.”

I smile.

Robert’s just a few steps behind him. His hair is a dazzling gilded red in this early morning light, and with his invisible eyebrows he has an almost androgynous look.

“It’ll have to be a quick dip, guys,” I say. “We have a lot to get through today, after losing all of yesterday.”

Max gives me a thumbs up.

“Quicker than lightning.”

Tone, Emmy, and I start making our way back to the square—slowly, so that Tone can keep up. At this time of day we could almost be in any sleepy old Swedish town; a Saturday morning, perhaps, when everybody’s still asleep and the daily bustle has yet to begin.

“Wait,” I say, slowing down.

Birgitta’s shack is just ahead, to the left of the road we’ve taken. From this angle the bare, leafless tree at one corner of the house looks almost burnished, and the broken window panes are calling out to me.

I turn to Tone.

“Shall we take a quick peek?” I ask. “I know we’re going there this afternoon, but, I mean, it can’t hurt to take a look now.”

Tone nods.

“Sure,” she says. Emmy frowns and looks at Tone.

“Are you sure you feel well enough?” she asks.

Tone nods.

“Might as well