Shadow of Fog Island

by Mariette Lindstein

  Uncle Markus was a man with precise routines. He woke at six and had his coffee and breakfast while reading the newspaper. Then he spent the morning riding around the property and inspecting the farm. In the afternoon he sat in his office, dealing with the affairs of the manor. Once a week he travelled to the mainland on business. Dinner was taken at seven with my aunt and me, and then he withdrew to the billiard room with cognac and a cigar. At ten on the dot he went to his bedroom.

  He came to my room one night a week. Always on a Friday. And he was punctual – quarter past ten. I couldn’t bring myself to look at him, so I pretended to be asleep. It was easier that way. I lay there like a passive doll. My breathing even and rhythmic. My eyes squeezed shut. If I was asleep, that meant nothing had actually happened. I didn’t want him there. I tried to keep out the steps, shuffling so heavily on the stairs as he approached. But I also wanted to be free.

  I can get through this, I thought. I have to get through this, so I can live my life. If I close my eyes and think of the forest and the sea, it will be over quickly. If this is all he wants, I can manage. And when he panted, all out of breath, I thought of the way the attic sounded when the wind was in the trees, or of the breakers’ soothing sound as they struck the rocks.

  He came to my room on the day I turned fifteen. His steps sounded different. More decisive than shuffling. The difference was so palpable that my heart grew heavy. His acrid smell spread through the room like a rotten gust of wind.

  ‘Put on your robe and come with me.’

  He waited for me. I was plunged into a state that is hard to describe. There was no oxygen, and yet I breathed. Each muscle of my body was stiff, and yet I moved. In this state, half outside my own body, I followed him up the stairs to the attic. I stepped over the threshold and gave a sob, like an animal being smothered.

  The attic was a kingdom, ruled by the master of the house. A sacristy, so holy that as children, the very thought of going there paralysed us with fear. The stories told about the attic were gruesome. It was said that God would punish anyone who stepped over the threshold uninvited in the most excruciating ways. Because this place, which rested on top of the manor house like a cupola, had been created for the strongest and boldest men so that they could escape life’s usual drudgeries.

  I had, of course, caught a glimpse of the attic one time: Mother, tied down with rope. Now its details took form. I screwed my eyes closed in an attempt to escape reality. The canopy bed – the room’s centrepiece – and the ropes and whips. Sweat broke out on my nape, trickling down my back and sending one last, degrading drop between my buttocks. A rough hand covered my mouth before a scream could escape my lips.

  ‘You will obey,’ he said. ‘Just do as I tell you and everything will be fine.’

  I could hardly stand on my two legs when he was finished. Everything was spinning and my body was burning. He told me I would get used to it, then carried me down the stairs and laid me in bed.

  Only once he had closed the door did I notice that everything was different. The house was breathing, panting and moaning sorrowfully, its walls creaking and its windows rattling faintly. There was something abnormal about the ticking of the wall clock; it seemed strained and frantic. I turned to face the room, my fear swelling. A shadow behind the wardrobe expanded and reached onto the rug. Out of the darkness was born a silhouette, and there she was, standing before me. I cried her name but she shushed me, whispering that she would come to comfort me whenever he violated me. I screwed up my eyes. If it was true that she wanted to help me, why was I so afraid? Suddenly I felt tired and was swallowed in endless darkness.

  It turned out that Uncle Markus’s fixation on details and manic sense of order were what saved me from complete degradation. There couldn’t be any marks. I had to wash myself afterwards, comb my hair and put it up. He never spilled any seed in me. Everything was methodical and planned, even though he was rough and hurt me.

  Each Friday night, at ten on the dot, I was to be in the attic. I cried myself to sleep afterwards each time. Sometimes Mother sat beside me to comfort me. I realized now that in some incredible way she had survived the fire and had hidden here at Vindsätra to take care of me. She didn’t exist, and yet she was there. And I knew one thing for certain: I would never dare to speak to anyone about her, so transitory was her presence and so invaluable was the comfort she brought me.

  I stopped eating and became thin, because I thought Uncle Markus wouldn’t want me that way. But he forced me to eat, spoonful by spoonful, while Aunt Ofelia stood watch. I locked my door one Friday, but he went to fetch the master key and boxed my ears. I bit my nails, but then he had Aunt Ofelia soak my fingers in vinegar.

  My body became a claustrophobic prison with no way out. I constantly carried a heavy stone in my belly. He forbade me to visit the mainland and sent a chaperone when I walked around the island. He made Hilda accompany me to school. But who could I talk to? No one on the island would have dared to question Count von Bärensten.

  The most astounding part was that no one could see in my eyes what was wrong. Life went on as if nothing happened up in the attic.

  One night, when I returned to my room, Mother wasn’t there. No matter how much I cried out for her, the room remained empty and lonely. I knew she had left and that I was perfectly alone in the world. That was when I realized I had to escape.

  The main gate was always locked, but there was a smaller gate behind the annexes that led into the forest. My plan was to sneak out in the morning, head through the forest to the harbour, and take the ferry to the mainland.

  And then what? I wasn’t sure. The city was an unknown realm. Maybe I could find a farm somewhere that needed an extra pair of hands.

  The fog was thick that day, and the air was damp and heavy. I had packed a few necessities in a backpack and dressed in long pants, an autumn jacket, and heavy boots. The guard didn’t notice me sneaking through the gate. I began to walk in the direction of the harbour. At least, I thought I did. After an hour it became clear that I had gone astray. There was no sun to guide me, and the landscape seemed to repeat itself. The fog thickened until I could hardly see the trees.

  Exhausted and close to tears, I sat down and tried to think. Then I heard the hounds barking – worked up, eager, as dogs sound when they’re on the hunt. I knew it was him – no one else hunted so early in the autumn. I launched myself from the rocks and set off, stumbling over roots and stones, scratching myself on twigs, but rushing on. Yet the dogs grew closer.

  And then I realized who their quarry was.

  The dog darted out of the forest in attack position. I threw myself down into the moss and lay perfectly still. I heard its growl; I heard hooves coming closer – I closed my eyes and prayed to God, sincerely begging Him to save me from what was about to happen.

  He brought the horse so close to me that its hooves were right next to my body, then dismounted and pulled me to my feet.

  And then he hit me. My face first, until it sounded like there were church bells in my ears and I fell backwards into the moss. Then my body, which he pounded with his fists, straddling me.

  And last of all, he kicked. Until one blow hit my head and everything went black.

  When I first woke up, I had no idea where I was. But I recalled everything that had happened. A brutal headache pounded at my temples. I couldn’t make my eyes focus. My aunt’s blurry face hovered over me.

  ‘Thank God you’re awake, Sigrid. Something terrible has happened.’

  ‘I know what happened, I…’

  ‘Shh, don’t exert yourself. A man attacked you in the forest. A real brute. Uncle found you just in time. But the man got away. Oh, it’s just awful. You should thank God that your uncle was out hunting. Otherwise that man might have killed you.’

  ‘But that’s not what happened.’

  ‘We know exactly what happened. And he had torn your clothing off. What wretchedness!’

  ‘But Aunt Ofelia, listen—’

>   ‘Your uncle believes it was a hired man from one of the farms. He’s there now. You must rest, you mustn’t get up.’

  ‘But it wasn’t like that.’

  ‘Oh yes, little Sigrid, it was. The doctor was here. He said you might be a bit confused, because that brute hit you in the head. But you’ll recover. Oh, little Sigrid.’

  The red blotches spread over her neck like hives. All at once I realized she knew what had really happened. And exactly what occurred up in the attic.

  I turned onto my side, fluttered my eyelashes, and pretended to fall asleep.

  My aunt padded out of the room.

  I was bedridden for several weeks, saying that I didn’t feel well. I refused to get up. No one spoke of the fact that I had attempted to escape. The clouds floated past outside my window. Days became nights. The moon shrank and grew again. My wounds healed but I couldn’t bring myself to get out of bed.

  One day he came into my room. I turned my face away.

  ‘You will be travelling to Switzerland,’ he said. ‘For a long visit.’

  I was sent to a boarding school where nuns watched me like hawks. They were always getting after me with urgent tirades about God’s mercy and forcing me to go to confession. Yet I didn’t dare to reveal the secret that burdened me so. It was my certainty that my uncle was giving money to the school to buy the nuns’ favour.

  It was out of the question that I should come home on holidays. My uncle always found some reason to postpone my visit. I was just as relieved each time.

  I took my baccalaureate exams the same year as World War Two broke out, in 1939. On that day, proud but weighed down by an uncertain future, I made a decision. Everyone was talking about the war by then, even at the school. I decided to try to forget what had happened in the attic. Because everything was going to change. The world was at war, people were dying, and life would never be the same.

  The fog lay thick over the sound on the day I came home. The ferry heaved against the swells and I knew we were close, but the island was hidden behind a curtain. As it majestically appeared, the shapes of the firs, the boats, the spires on the roof of the manor house, I imagined that this was the start of a brand-new life.

  But the air was vibrating with frustration when I arrived home at Vindsätra. Uncle Markus had a new plan, and it couldn’t wait. Almost immediately he called me into his office.

  ‘We must start thinking about finding a suitable husband for you, Sigrid,’ he said, eyeing me up and down.

  I knew I had changed. There wasn’t much to do at boarding school besides study and eat, so I had filled out.

  He put a finger under my chin and lifted my head until I had to look him in the eye.

  ‘You’re looking pretty. A little less food from now on, perhaps.’

  I wondered how he could think about this while a war was raging in the world.

  ‘And you’re not a virgin, of course,’ he said, raising his eyebrows. ‘But a charitable man will look past that.’

  I recoiled.

  ‘Sigrid! Why do you take everything so seriously? I have a few prospective suitors. You take care of your appearance, and I’ll take care of the rest.’

  In that moment, I saw all my dreams for the future go up in smoke. I’d dreamed of getting a job. I wanted to travel and see the world. All of this turned to nothing in an instant.

  ‘That will be all. Now go rest up. You’ve had a long journey.’

  I felt a blush spread from my neck to my face.

  ‘Uncle. I would prefer to find my future husband myself, if it’s all the same to you.’

  He began to laugh.

  ‘I see, and how will you do that? Sigrid, you have no contacts whatsoever. I’m only going to introduce you to some viable candidates.’

  I didn’t know how to respond. So I didn’t say anything. As usual.

  My room had been aired out and smelled of soap. I sat on the bed and looked around, trying to tell if she had been there, but the room seemed empty.

  I was given a respite from marriage for several years.

  Uncle Markus was called to the capital on matters involving the war, affairs that increased our wealth by enormous sums. He stayed for a long time and life began to feel tolerable again.

  But then my uncle came home for Christmas one year. It was snowing that day, so heavily that we had to use a horse and carriage to fetch him at the harbour. When he stepped off the ferry, I spotted a man at his side. A long, gangly figure with the collar of his coat turned up around his neck. Orange hair stuck out under his hat and his nose was red from the cold. He aimed a bewildered smile at me and put out a gloved hand. The snowflakes swirled down and stuck in his pale eyelashes.

  ‘This is Gustaf Stjernkvist,’ my uncle said. ‘He is my accountant and will be staying with us for a while.’

  That I would wed Gustaf was carved in stone from the start. He followed me around the manor like a shadow, courting me insistently. There was something feeble and spineless about Gustaf, something I couldn’t put my finger on and wouldn’t understand until much later. And by then it was too late.

  At Easter of 1944, my uncle returned to Vindsätra for good. He immediately called me to his office.

  ‘Gustaf has asked for your hand, Sigrid. I intend to announce the engagement as soon as possible.’

  ‘What if I don’t want to marry him?’

  ‘Then there are other things we can do. Everything is just the same up in the attic. You and I had a good time, Sigrid, but now I want you to marry Gustaf.’

  My jaw dropped.

  ‘Sigrid, can’t you take a joke? There now, go say yes to Gustaf.’

  ‘He didn’t even propose to me!’

  ‘He will.’

  We married at Whitsuntide in 1945, when the golden rain was blooming. It was two weeks after the end of the war. Everyone was so happy that we were pulled along in their wake.

  But our marital problems began almost immediately.

  While Uncle Markus’s sexual urges were excessive and sadistic, Gustaf Stjernkvist’s were substandard, to say the least. It was especially embarrassing for us on the wedding night. He just stroked me awkwardly for a while, then turned onto his side and fell asleep.

  When this had gone on for a week, I gathered my courage and asked him what was wrong. Gustaf mumbled that there was nothing wrong with me, but that this lack of interest in women’s bodies seemed to be something he had been born with.

  Dismayed, I asked why he’d married me at all. He responded that it seemed like a practical solution, and that he was fond of me.

  We made several attempts to consummate the marriage, but it was clumsy and a failure each time. Hanging over us was the threat that our family line would be erased. We had to have a child.

  Uncle Markus soon got wind of what was going on. Gustaf was called to his office and stayed there for a long time. I waited outside the door, anxious. Listening to my uncle’s angry voice and Gustaf’s gentle one. When Gustaf came out, his face bright red, my uncle asked me to come in.

  ‘Gustaf is going to the mainland to visit a doctor in the city,’ he said. ‘You already know what it’s about.’

  I nodded, demoralized.

  ‘Don’t look so glum, Sigrid, I’m only trying to help. And for your part, you must find out what your husband wants and give it to him.’

  I don’t know what got into me just then – something burst. The injustice – that I had to stand before him like a disobedient child and be scolded for something that was out of my hands. I turned on my heel, walked out of the office, and slammed the door.

  Gustaf travelled to the mainland the next day. My uncle didn’t say a word to me all day. The silence stung, and there was a sense that something more, something worse, was coming. After dinner I got word that Gustaf had missed the ferry and would not return until the next morning.

  I fell asleep late that night and had nervous dreams. I woke to find myself freezing and thought I must have kicked off my covers. But then
I sensed something else in the room and sat up in bed. His hands came from behind, throttling me.

  ‘You have been naughty, and now you must be punished,’ he hissed in my ear. He shoved me onto my stomach, tied me to the bed by my wrists, and began to beat me. Not wildly, like when I had run away, but methodically. He beat me black and blue until I passed out from the pain.

  By the time I came to, he had left the room.

  I dragged myself to the toilet and vomited until my stomach was empty. Then, out of the blue, I felt her cool hand on my forehead. Maybe I imagined it. But I didn’t want to know. All that mattered was that she was back.

  When Gustaf returned from the doctor the next day, I told him everything Uncle Markus had done to me. From the very first time until what had happened the night before. But Gustaf turned his back on me.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked in horror. ‘Aren’t you going to help me?’

  ‘There’s nothing I can do,’ he said. ‘If I cross your uncle I will never again be able to get a job and I will live in poverty for the rest of my life. He would destroy my reputation as an accountant. You’ll have to make sure not to upset him again.’

  ‘But Gustaf, surely you can’t just let him do this to me?’

  ‘You bear a certain amount of responsibility yourself, Sigrid. You provoke him. Let’s focus on having a child. That’s what he really wants, after all.’

  And yes indeed, Gustaf managed to make it happen once or twice, but when Uncle Markus asked him how many times he’d spilled his seed in me everything went to hell. Suddenly Gustaf had to visit the doctor once a week. And Uncle Markus resumed his visits to our bedroom.