What are they doing?
Many of the birds were up in the air circling around the lighthouse, but even more were gathered on the surface of the water. Their behaviour didn't appear to have any purpose, other than to show a united front, to say: Here we are.
And yet it was unpleasant. Anders hadn't see The Birds, but he could well imagine what it would be like if such a large number of birds decided to attack. They were showing no inclination to do so at the moment, but perhaps when he stepped ashore?
When the boat slipped in among the first group of birds, they paddled quickly out of the way glaring at him aggressively, he thought. He decided to use the only weapon, or at least protection, to which he had access.
He let go of the throttle and allowed the engine to idle as he picked up the plastic bottle, took a deep breath then took a couple of swigs of the wormwood concentrate.
The nausea seared his mouth, his throat, his stomach, and the flames shot up into his head, licking around his brain. He fought back the urge to vomit, put the top back on and grasped the throttle. The birds swam away, leaving him a feather-free route up to the rock.
He hesitated for a few seconds before setting foot ashore. Then he climbed out of the boat and looked around. The birds were still whirling around in the air and it seemed to him that their screams were becoming more intense. But they weren't attacking. He pulled up the boat as far as he could and fastened the mooring rope to a rock.
And so he was standing on Gåvasten once again.
The first and last time he had been here before, the rocks had been covered in snow. Now he could see that they had been polished by the sea, and that veins of pink and white ran through the grey rock, forming a pattern beneath the spatter of guano. He stood motionless, his arms dangling by his sides and his mouth open, as the pattern freed itself from its foundation and drifted together, forming itself into...an alphabet.
A language.
The lines running vertically and horizontally, the separate dots and curlicues were all characters, parts of a system of writing that was so complex his brain was unable to encompass it; he could only establish that it existed.
Like a baby who has picked up a bible and tosses it aside when it proves impossible to chew, Anders tore his gaze away from the writing on the rock and carried on up towards the eastern side of the island. It was not his language, it meant nothing to him.
He didn't know how to look because he didn't know what he was looking for, but his consciousness was sounding out the area as if it were a knot that must be untied. He needed to find the point where there was a little slack, where he could get his finger in and start to work it.
He couldn't find any such point. The world was impenetrably solid and filled with messages he was unable to interpret.
The formation of the rock was like a broken flight of steps leading down into the sea, the individual free-standing blocks of stone and the lines of gravel in the crevices formed new characters that wanted to say something. When he looked up it was to the disorienting sight of the flocks of birds creating figures against the sky, figures that continuously dissolved and reformed into new beings.
Everything is talking to me. And I don't understand what it's saying.
Anders crouched down and dipped his hands in a puddle of crystal clear rainwater, rubbed his face and eyes, closed his eyes for a while.
When he opened them a little of the visionary impression had left him, and he was able to walk up to the lighthouse, screwing up his eyes as he went. The door was unlocked, as it had been on the previous occasion. One thing he was grateful for: the hallucinatory effect of the wormwood blocked almost all his memories. In fact, what it actually did was to place him so powerfully in the here and now that it was painful. But it was still better than the alternative.
He opened the door and was welcomed by the little collection box and the request for money. He rummaged in his pockets but didn't find any, and walked past. He stopped and giggled.
Perhaps the birds will attack now.
No. As he walked up the stairs he could hear them outside, still screaming and clucking to one another. Did they understand each other's language, the different species? Probably not, but in that case how did they know they were supposed to gather like this?
Everything is talking. Everything is listening.
He stroked the outside wall with his right hand as he climbed upwards. He passed the circular room and carried on up the stairs to the reflector.
The room looked just as he remembered it, nothing had changed. The big windows and the gleaming mirrors on the reflector bounced the daylight around so that the room seemed brighter than outdoors. He went and stood in the spot where Maja had asked him What's that? and looked out across the sea, waiting to see what he might feel.
At first there was nothing.
His eyes were unusually sensitive to the light, and despite the fact that the sky was covered in clouds, he was forced to squint in order to be able to see out across the slightly foaming water. He looked down at the sharp edges of the rocks, the congregating birds, and felt the poisonous liquid running through his body like a fluorescent green thread.
Nothing.
Then it came. Faintly at first, like the perception of another person's breathing in a darkened room. Then stronger. A knowledge that was hard to describe. Anders gasped and stumbled, leaned against the glass case surrounding the reflector.
The depths.
The depths. How deep...
He was standing on nothing. The depths were everything.
It is said that only ten per cent of an iceberg protrudes above the surface of the water. What Anders perceived throughout his entire body in one cold, burning moment was similar, only much bigger, more intense: what was sticking up, what he was standing on wasn't even one per cent. It was almost nothing. A strand of cotton over an abyss.
His legs gave way and he sank down, falling backwards until his head hit the wooden floor.
We are so small. Just poor little people with our flashing lights.
He had foolishly thought that the lighthouse had something to do with it all. Its ghostly eye flashing across the sea at night had misled him. But what is a lighthouse? A human invention of wood and stone. A building with a lamp inside it, nothing more. The light can be extinguished and the building can decay, but the depths...
The depths remain.
The insight slipped out of him like a wave retreating from the shore, and he lay on the floor with only the dry knowledge left. The rivulets of poison were diluted in his blood, and he breathed deeply, out and in, out and in.
He rolled over on to his side and glanced over the graffiti on the whitewashed interior walls of the lighthouse.
FRIDA WAS HERE 21/06/98
JM
When in trouble, when in doubt
Run in circles, scream and shout
NÅTEN BOYS = IDIOTS
One sentence was written in bigger, clearer letters than most of the rest. Anders thought he remembered seeing it the last time he was here, but he hadn't attached any importance to it. Now he did.
Printed beneath the date 28/01/89 it said:
STRANGE WAYS, HERE WE COME.
Henrik and Björn had disappeared some time around that date.
Strangeways, Here We Come was the title of The Smiths' last album.
They had sat here and written, almost carved that final message on the wall with a ballpoint pen and then.. .set off. Along the strange ways.
They knew. They knew what they were doing.
Anders got to his feet and raced down the stairs.
'I'm going to get you, you bastards! I know where you're hiding and I'm coming to get you! Somehow, I swear to God, I'm going to get her back!'
Anders was standing on the eastern rocks screaming to the sea and the wind, screaming along with the birds that drifted past his face like a gigantic curtain that his arms were too short, his knowledge too limited, to be able to peep through. But he would d
o it. Somehow he would do it.
He went on screaming and threatening the sea until his throat was swollen and his rage had subsided.
When he came to his senses again he saw that the birds had moved closer. Almost all the golden-eyes, ducks and swans had gathered on the surface of the water off the eastern side of Gåvasten. They were there in front of him, bobbing on the waves. Thousands of birds packed so tightly together that it looked as if it would be possible to walk a hundred metres out to sea on their backs. The gulls had stopped circling around the island and were now flapping directly in front of him in a single white cloud that seemed to rise from the sea and drift towards the spot where he was standing.
At any moment an audible or inaudible command would reach them and he would drown in a swarm of hacking, tearing beaks.
They understand. I have to get away from here.
Slowly, one step at a time, he walked backwards towards the boat, never taking his eyes off the birds. If they showed the least sign of attack there was a chance he could make it into the lighthouse before they tore him apart—just as long as he made sure to keep watching them.
The lichen made the rocks slippery as soap on this side and he lost his footing once. But still he kept his eyes on the birds and although he banged his hip sharply, he managed to stop himself from falling.
The flock of gulls had moved closer; they were circling above the rocks on the eastern side as he undid the mooring rope without looking at his hands, and shoved the boat out into the water with his back. The agitated screams of the gulls shredded through the air and filled his head, making it impossible to think rationally. The only thing he could see in his mind's eye was: Get the boat out. Get away from here.
The boat moved smoothly away from the rocks and he walked backwards in the water, pushing off from the seabed with one foot as he climbed aboard. The boat glided a few metres away from the island. There was no longer any chance of making it to the lighthouse. He didn't dare turn his back on the gulls to start the engine, so he grabbed an oar and paddled backwards like a gondolier, one side at a time.
"When he was about a hundred metres from Gåvasten, the birds began to calm down. The flock of gulls broke up and spread out into a thinner cloud that encompassed the whole island. Anders dropped the oar, sat down and let out a long, quivering breath. He put his head in his hands and caught sight of the plastic bottle, rolling around on the deck.
He had forgotten about it, forgotten that its contents could have protected his retreat from the menacing birds. Perhaps it had done so anyway. He looked at the bottle, which did a half roll as a wave lifted the boat. The label with his father's childish handwriting came into view: WORMWOOD.
He understood. At last he understood what had happened to his father. That day and all the other days.
Wormwood
He really ought to go home and put the cash in his money box, but Anders wanted to hang out for a while enjoying the feeling of being rich. His pockets full of money. Like the boy with the golden trousers, he could simply peel off a note with a rustling sound, and another, and another.
He went up to the shop with no other plan in mind: just to saunter around as the richest boy on Domarö for the time being.
The boats were still out searching for Torgny Ek, but the crowd on the jetty had thinned out. Anders hesitated. If he went down to the jetty there would be a load of adults asking him questions, and he didn't know if he wanted that. 'Hi.'
Cecilia pulled up beside him on her bike. Anders raised a hand in greeting. When the hand was in the vicinity of his nose, he realised it smelled of fish. He shoved both hands in his back pockets and adopted a relaxed attitude.
'What are you doing?' asked Cecilia.
'Nothing special.'
'What's going on down on the jetty?'
Anders took a deep breath and asked, as if in passing, 'Would you like an ice cream?'
Cecilia looked at him as if he were joking, and smiled uncertainly.
'I haven't got any money.'
'I have.'
'Are you paying, then?'
'Yes.'
Anders knew perfectly well that it was a strange question to ask, a strange thing to do. But none of the others were around, and his pockets were full of money. He just had to ask her.
She pushed her bike up to the shop and he walked alongside her, still with his hands in his back pockets. She had put her hair up in two medium-length plaits, she had freckles on her nose and he was struck by an urge to touch her plaits. They looked so.. .soft.
Fortunately his hands were deep in his back pockets, which prevented him from giving in to that particular impulse.
Cecilia propped her bike against the wall and asked, 'So did you sell a lot of herring, then?'
'Yes, this morning. Loads.'
'I usually sell Christmas magazines.'
'Is that worth doing?' 'It's OK.'
Anders started to relax properly. This was the first summer he had really considered the fact that he was different from his friends, who were only summer visitors. That there might be something embarrassing about the fact that he sat outside the shop selling herring and ended up with his hands smelling of fish. That he was.. .a bit of a hick. But it turned out that Cecilia sold things too. Although presumably Christmas magazines didn't smell.
They went into the shop and studied the contents of the freezer.
'So what can I have?' asked Cecilia.
'Whatever you like.'
'Whatever I like?' She looked at him suspiciously. 'A Giant Cornet?'
'Yes.'
'Two Giant Cornets?'
'Yes.'
'Three Giant Cornets?'
Anders shrugged his shoulders and Cecilia opened the lid. 'What are you having?'
'A Giant Cornet.'
She picked up two Giant Cornets and when Anders leaned over to pick up another, Cecilia slapped him on the shoulder, said 'I was only joking, idiot!' and handed him one of the ice creams she was holding.
At the till Anders pulled a ten kronor note out of his pocket without managing to create that special rustle you always heard when the boy with the golden trousers took out his cash.
They sat down on the bench outside the shop to eat their ice creams. Anders told her what had happened that morning, and Cecilia was seriously impressed that he had seen a person drown himself for real.
While they were eating their ice creams, while Anders was telling his story, while they sat looking out over the water afterwards, a little prayer was running through Anders' head: don't let anybody come along, don't let anybody come along. He wondered if Cecilia was thinking the same thing, or if this sort of thing was perfectly normal for girls.
OK, it wasn't particularly embarrassing to be sitting here with Cecilia eating ice creams that he had paid for, but nor did he want the moment, the atmosphere to be broken. Even though he felt uncertain and didn't really know how he ought to behave, he was having such a fantastic time. It was just the best, sitting here with Cecilia.
When they had finished their ice creams and looked at the sea for a while, Anders' suspicion that girls were more used to this sort of thing was confirmed when Cecilia stood up, wiped her hands on her shorts and said, 'Shall we go back to yours?'
All he could do was nod. Cecilia picked up her bike and pointed to the parcel rack. 'Hop on. I'll give you a lift.' He sat astride the parcel rack and Cecilia kicked off and rolled the bike down the hill from the shop.
There was nothing else to do. It was completely natural. At first he tried to keep his balance by hanging on to the back of the parcel rack, but the track was uneven and he wobbled and nearly made the bike fall over. So he placed his hands on her hips.
He could feel the warmth of her skin on his palms, the sun was shining in the sky and the wind was caressing his forehead. They coasted through the village and he held on to her. The few minutes it took to coast and pedal to his house were the happiest he had experienced in his life, so far. They were.. .perfect.
>
Cecilia parked her bike by the woodshed and nodded in the direction of the smoker, which was still giving off a faint aroma.
'We were going to do some smoking, but we didn't get round to it.'
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