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

between two of the houses ahead of us. A road. It isn’t paved, but I hadn’t expected it to be, either.

“Must be the main road,” I say.

“One of them, at least,” Tone replies.

Driving on the road is much easier going, although it’s overgrown and full of potholes. Neither of us says a word. We’re both too engrossed by the village we’re entering.

The houses stand like accusatory skeletons, windows glaringly empty. Most of them are simple row houses painted white, yellow, or red, like the mummified ghosts of the Swedish welfare state dream.

Heather and shrubs have taken over most visibly, but there’s also the odd thin, gnarled pine shooting up through cracked front steps and split fences. I wonder how long it will take before the foliage swallows up the village completely—another sixty years? One hundred?

For a moment I’m struck by an image so powerful it feels more real than the decay around us: these same houses, only with fresh layers of bright paint and lush little gardens; kids playing on the road we’re driving down, without having to worry about cars or even bikes; women hanging stiff, freshly scrubbed sheets out to dry outside their homes; and sweaty, unshaven men heading back from the mine at day’s end, washing themselves at a tap in the garden, and going inside to their bare but homely kitchens, to take their seat at a rustic wooden table with dinner ready and waiting. They would have eaten dinner early in a village like this—no later than five.

The van lurches as we drive over a rock, and I shake off my reverie, trying to focus on what is as opposed to what once was.

We drive across what must once have been a crossroads, and Tone silently points. I curse and stop the van, but leave the engine running. By now the last of the sun has disappeared behind the trees. We don’t have much time before nightfall.

I quickly wind down the window and wave at the others, who have stopped behind us.

“What is it?” Robert shouts out of his window. In my wing mirror I can see the blue Volvo behind him. I can’t see Max through his windshield, but his car seems to have made it down the bank without any major issues.

“The bridge,” I say.

The mining company’s report had led me to believe that the western bridge was made of stone, but it must have been made of wood. It seems incomprehensible to me that only twenty years ago it could ever have been deemed safe; all that remains of it are rotting blackened stumps on either side of the river. The water has burrowed down deeper than I’d imagined, and it surges down to the lake in a way that belies its dark, languid appearance.

“Shit,” I mutter.

“What do you want to do?” Tone asks. She, too, has wound down her window, to get some shots of the remains of the bridge.

“I don’t know,” I say.

“We could set up camp somewhere else?” she suggests. “Just for tonight. Then we can find a way across tomorrow.”

I shake my head.

“No,” I say, “I don’t think so.”

I feel a shiver run down my spine. Out of the corner of my eye I can feel the houses watching me through their dark eye sockets.

“No,” I repeat. “Let’s check if the other bridge is still standing. If not we’ll have to figure something out.”

Tone raises an eyebrow.

“Didn’t the report say that one was unstable?”

“I know what the report said,” I say, cutting her off. “But it was wrong about this one, so it could just as well have been wrong about that one, too. Or confused the two.”

Tone purses her lips but says nothing.

“I’ll tell the others,” I say curtly, getting out of the van. The stench of exhaust from the running engine follows me as I stride toward them.

Robert’s window is still open, and he’s sitting there patiently, looking completely unflustered. His eyes meet mine but he doesn’t say a word.

“We’ll have to try the other bridge,” I say. “A little further on.”

He nods to show that he’s heard.

Emmy’s eyes meet mine. Pale, gray-green eyes, somehow expressionless and angry at the same time, surrounded by short, dark eyelashes.

I stand up straight again and wave at Max, then gesticulate toward the river. I hope he knows to follow us.

When I climb back into the driver’s seat, Tone’s biting at her thumbnail. She’s staring at the house to our left, a small villa that at one point must have had a certain picture-postcard charm. It’s one of the larger houses; perhaps it belonged to one of the foremen at the mine.

“What is it?” I ask, hoping she isn’t mad about the way I spoke to her before.

She gives a start, then slowly puts her hand in her lap.

“Huh?” she asks. “What?”

“You…” I look at the house. It’s in better shape than the others around it. The front door is slightly ajar, hanging from one lonely, rusty hinge, but the walls are still standing, the roof is undamaged, and most of the façade is intact.

“Just looked like you were looking at something,” I say.

Tone watches me for a few seconds, her eyes empty and slightly confused, before pulling one side of her mouth into a smile that doesn’t quite convince.

“I was somewhere else,” she says.

I pause, then put it out of my mind. I know there’s nothing to worry about, not really. Tone can be hard to read, and this whole trip must be difficult for her. She doesn’t have the same unadulterated enthusiasm for Silvertjärn that I do.

The van edges along the road, and the river disappears again behind row upon row of empty houses with gaping windows. By now the shadows have really started to fall, long streaks of black silk.

A break in the houses on my left gives me a sudden glimpse of a very welcome silhouette, and the relief runs coursing through me.

“Hah!” I exclaim, pointing at a diminutive stone bridge.

Tone whistles quietly.

“Nice,” she says.

It’s an