Think, you idiot. Think.
He looked out across the ice again. There was nothing to interrupt his gaze, no cover at all. If there had been holes in the ice, they would have been visible. However good you are at hiding, you still have to have a place to hide.
He stopped. His eyes narrowed. He could hear Maja’s voice inside his head.
Daddy, what’s that?
He went over to the spot where she had been standing when she asked the question, looked in the direction where she had pointed. Nothing. Only ice and snow.
What was it that she saw?
He strained to try and see something, then realised he was still wearing his rucksack. He pulled out the camera and looked through the viewfinder, zoomed in and panned across the area where she had been pointing. Nothing. Not a hint of another colour, not the slightest nuance in the whiteness, nothing.
His hands were shaking as he dropped the camera back in his rucksack. Out on the ice there was only white, white, but the sky had grown a little darker. It would soon be afternoon, it would be dark in a couple of hours.
He put his hands to his mouth, stared out into the vast emptiness, heard Cecilia’s distant cries. Maja was gone. She was gone.
Stop it, stop it.
And yet a part of him knew that it was so.
It was just after two when Simon’s telephone rang. He had spent the last hour fiddling with old conjuring props that his hands, stiff with rheumatism, could no longer use. He had considered selling them, but had decided to keep them as a little family treasure.
He answered the telephone on the second ring. He’d hardly managed to say hello before Anders interrupted.
‘Hi, it’s Anders. Have you seen Maja?’
‘But surely she’s with you?’
A brief pause. A quivering exhalation at the other end of the line. Simon sensed that he had just extinguished a hope. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘She’s gone. I knew she couldn’t have got back to the land, but I thought—I don’t know, Simon, she’s gone. She’s gone.’
‘Are you at the lighthouse?’
‘Yes. And she can’t…it’s just not…there’s nowhere…but she isn’t here. Where is she? Where is she?’
Two minutes later Simon had pulled on his outdoor clothes and kicked the moped into life. He rode out on to the ice where Elof was sitting on a folding chair, gazing down into the hole he had made with Simon’s drill. He looked up as he heard the moped approaching. Simon braked.
‘Elof—have you seen Maja, Anders’ daughter?’
‘No—what, here? Now?’
‘Yes. In the last hour or so.’
‘No, I haven’t seen a soul. Or a fish, come to that. Why?’
‘She’s disappeared. Out by the lighthouse.’
Elof turned his head towards the lighthouse, kept his eyes fixed in that direction for a few seconds and scratched his forehead.
‘Can’t they find her?’
Simon clenched his teeth so tightly that his jaw muscles tensed. This bloody long-winded way of going about things. Elof nodded and started reeling in his line.
‘I’d better…get a few people together then. We’ll come over.’
Simon thanked him and set off towards the lighthouse. When he turned to look back after fifty metres or so, Elof was still fiddling about with his fishing gear, making sure it was all neatly packed away before he set off. Simon ground his teeth and rode so that the snow whirled up around his wheels as twilight fell.
Five minutes later Simon was out by the lighthouse helping to search, despite the fact that there was nowhere to look. He concentrated on riding around on the ice to check if Elof had been right, that there could be weak spots. He didn’t find any.
After another quarter of an hour a number of dots could be seen approaching from Domarö. Four mopeds. Elof and his brother Johan. Mats, who owned the shop, had his wife Ingrid on the back. Bringing up the rear, Margareta Bergwall, one of the few women in the village who had their own moped.
They rode around the lighthouse in ever-widening circles, searching every square metre of the ice. Anders and Cecilia wandered aimlessly around on the lighthouse rock itself, saying nothing. After an hour it was so dark that the moonlight was stronger than the small amount of sunlight that remained.
Simon went up to Anders and Cecilia, who were now sitting by the lighthouse door, head in hands. Far out on the ice the faint lights of the four mopeds were just visible, still circling round and round like satellites of a desolate planet. A police helicopter with a searchlight had arrived to extend the search area.
Simon’s joints creaked as he crouched down in front of them. Their eyes were empty. Simon stroked Cecilia’s knee.
‘What did you say about the tracks?’
Cecilia waved feebly in the direction of Domarö. Her voice was so weak that Simon had to lean forward in order to hear.
‘There weren’t any.’
‘You mean they didn’t go off in a different direction?’
‘They stopped. As if…as if she’d been lifted up into the sky.’
Anders whimpered. ‘This can’t be happening. How can this be happening?’
He looked into Simon, right through Simon, as if he were looking for the answer in a knowledge that lay somewhere behind Simon’s retina.
Simon got up and went back down on to the ice, sat on the back of his moped and looked around.
If only there were somewhere to start.
A nuance, a shadow, anything that could serve as a loose edge where they could begin tearing away. He pushed his hand down into his jacket pocket and closed it around the matchbox that lay there. Then he placed the fingertips of his other hand on the ice and asked it to melt.
First the snow melted, then a deepening hollow appeared, filling up with water. After perhaps twenty seconds there was a black hole in the ice, perhaps as big as a clenched fist. He let go of the matchbox and, with some difficulty, lowered his arm into the cold water. The surface of the ice was just above his elbow before he was able to grip the lower edge.
The ice was thick. There was absolutely no chance that Maja had fallen through somewhere.
So what has happened?
There was no loose edge. Nowhere for his thoughts to poke and prod, widen the crack, work things out. It was just impossible. He went up and sat down with Anders and Cecilia, giving them a hug and saying a few words from time to time, until in the end it was completely dark and the mopeds began to spiral their way back towards the lighthouse.
Domarö and time
During the course of this story it will be necessary occasionally to jump back in time in order to explain something in the present. This is regrettable but unavoidable.
Domarö is not a large island. Everything that has happened remains here and influences the present. Places and objects are charged with meanings that are not easily forgotten. We cannot escape.
In the scheme of things, this is a very small story. You could say it would fit in a matchbox.
What the cat dragged in (May 1996)
It was the last week in May and the perch were plentiful. Simon had a simple method of fishing. He had spent several years experimenting with his nets, laying them out in different places, and had come to the conclusion that all this travelling around was unnecessary. It worked just as well if he tied one end of the net to the jetty and towed the other end out with the boat. Easy to lay and even easier to empty. He hauled the net in from the jetty, and could usually disentangle the fish he didn’t want on the spot and throw them back in the sea.
This morning’s seven perch were in the fridge, cleaned and ready, and the dace he had released had swum off. Simon was standing by the drying rack picking bits of seaweed out of the nets, while the gulls finished their meal of fish guts. It was a bright, warm morning, the sun was beating down on the back of his neck and he was sweating in his overalls.
Dante the cat had been following him all morning; he never seemed to learn how extremely unusu
al it was to find herring in the net. The odd herring he had been given was sufficient to keep the flame of hope burning in his head, and he always followed Simon down to the jetty.
Once Dante realised that no herring had managed to entangle themselves in the net this morning either, he had settled down on the jetty to glower at the gulls fighting over the fish guts. He would never dare to attack a gull but no doubt he had his fantasies, just like every other living creature.
Simon unhooked the net and rolled it up so that it wouldn’t become brittle in the sun. As he made his way down to the boathouse to hang it up, he could see that the cat was busy with something out on the jetty.
Or rather, fighting with something. Dante was jumping back and forth, up in the air, batting with his paws at something Simon couldn’t see. It looked as if the cat was dancing, but Simon had seen him play with mice in the same way. And yet this was different. The game with mice and frogs really was a game, in which the cat pretended his prey was harder to catch than it actually was. This time it looked as if the cat was genuinely…afraid?
The fur on his back was standing up, and his jumps and tentative attacks could only be interpreted as an indication that he was dealing with something worthy of respect. Which was difficult to understand, since nothing was visible from a distance of twenty metres, and Simon’s eyesight was good.
He twisted the net to avoid tangles, laid it down on the ground and went to see what the cat was doing.
When he got out on to the jetty, he still couldn’t see what was making the cat so agitated. Or…yes, the cat was circling around a bit of rope that was lying there. This wasn’t like Dante at all; he was eleven years old and no longer deigned to play with balls or bits of paper. But obviously this piece of rope was great fun.
Dante made a sudden attack and got both paws on the piece of rope, but was hurled backwards with a jerk, as if the rope had given him an electric shock. He swayed and fell sideways, then flopped down on the jetty.
When Simon got there the cat was lying motionless next to the furthest bollard. The thing he had been playing with wasn’t a piece of rope, because it was moving. It was some kind of insect, it looked like a worm of some sort. Simon ignored it and crouched down next to the cat.
‘Dante, old friend, what’s wrong?’
The cat’s eyes were wide open and his body shuddered a couple of times as if racked by sobs. Something trickled from his mouth. Simon lifted the cat’s head and saw that it was water. A stream of water was trickling out of the cat’s mouth. Dante coughed and water spurted out. Then he lay still. His eyes stared blankly.
A movement in Simon’s peripheral vision. The insect was crawling along the jetty. He bent over it, studying it more closely. It was completely black, the thickness of a pencil and about the same length as a little finger. Its skin shone in the sunlight. Dante’s claws had made a scratch in one place, revealing pinkish flesh.
Simon gasped; looked around to see a coffee cup that had been left behind on the jetty. He grabbed it and upended it on the insect. He blinked a couple of times and ran his hands over his face.
It’s not possible. It can’t be…
This insect was not to be found in any insect book, and Simon was probably the only person for miles around who knew what it was. He had seen one before, in California forty years earlier. But that one had been dead, dried. If it hadn’t been for what had happened to the cat, it would never even have occurred to him.
Dante.
The original Dante, the one after whom all Simon’s cats were named. The magician, the greatest of them all. After decades spent touring and making films, he had settled down on a ranch in California. Simon had been granted an audience with him there when he was twenty-four years old and a promising talent.
Dante had shown him around his museum. Handmade props from different eras: the Chinese fountains that were his star turn for some years, the substitution trunk in several different versions, water-filled chests and cupboards from which Dante had escaped in circus rings all over the world.
When the guided tour was over, Simon had pointed to a small glass display case standing in a corner. There was a pedestal in the middle of the case, and on it lay something that looked like a piece of a leather shoelace. He asked what it was.
Dante had raised one eyebrow dramatically in a well-practised gesture and had asked Simon, in the Danish of his childhood, to what extent he believed in magic.
‘You mean…real magic?’
Dante nodded.
‘I would have to say that I am…an agnostic, in that case. I haven’t seen any proof, but I don’t discount the possibility. Does that sound reasonable?’
Dante seemed happy with the answer, and removed the glass top from the case. Simon realised he was expected to take a closer look, and did so. He was able to see that the leather shoelace was in fact a dried-out insect that resembled a centipede, apart from the fact that it had only a small number of legs.
‘What exactly is it?’
Dante looked at Simon for so long that it began to feel awkward. Then the magician nodded as if he had reached a tacit decision, replaced the glass cover, took out a leather-bound book and began to leaf through it. Brightly coloured pictures flickered before Simon’s eyes until eventually Dante stopped at a particular page and held out the book.
The picture, which covered the entire page, was hand painted. It depicted a worm-like insect, skilfully painted so that the light shimmered on its black, shiny skin. Simon shook his head and Dante sighed before closing the book.
‘It’s a Spiritus, or spertus as you say in Sweden,’ he said.
Simon looked at the glass case, at the magician, at the case once again. Then he said, ‘A real one?’
‘Yes.’
Simon leaned closer to the glass. The dried-out creature inside certainly didn’t look as if it possessed any extraordinary powers. Simon looked at it for a long time.
‘How can it be dead? I mean, it is dead, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know, in answer to both your questions. It was in this condition when I received it.’
‘How did that come about?’
‘I’d prefer not to go into all that.’
Dante made a gesture, indicating that the audience in the museum was over. Before dragging himself away from the display case, Simon asked, ‘Which element?’
The magician gave a wry smile. ‘Water. Naturally.’
Coffee was consumed, polite phrases were exchanged, then Simon left the ranch. Two years later Dante was dead, and Simon read in the paper that his belongings were to be auctioned. He considered a trip to California to bid for the object in the glass case, but for one thing he was in the middle of a tour performing at outdoor venues, and for another it would be too expensive, once you factored in the cost of the journey. He decided not to bother.
During the years that followed he sometimes thought about that meeting. Colleagues who heard that he had met Dante wanted to know everything. Simon told them stories, but left out the thing he remembered most clearly: Dante’s Spiritus.
It could have been a joke, of course. The magician had been famous not only for his magic skills, but also for his clever way of marketing himself with crowd-stopping public performances. He had created an aura of mystery around himself. His appearance, the goatee and the dark eyes, had for several decades been the accepted image of a magician. The whole thing could be a lie.
One thing that suggested this was not the case was the fact that Dante had never stated publicly that he owned a Spiritus; Simon had never heard anyone mention it. Dante was happy to add fuel to speculation that he had entered into a pact with the Devil, that he had formed an alliance with the powers of darkness. All good PR, of course, and utter nonsense. But the magician’s final reply that day in the museum had guided Simon’s speculations towards a different version, one which made a liar of Dante in a different way.
Simon believed Dante had been lying when he said that the Spiritus was already
dead when it came to him.
Water. Naturally.
Dante was most acclaimed for his magic involving water. He was a match for Houdini in his ability to escape from various water-filled vessels and containers. It was said that he could hold his breath for five minutes—at least. He was able to move water from one place to another, a trick that involved a large amount of water appearing where none had been a second before.
Water. Naturally
If Dante had owned a Spiritus of the element water, everything was easy to explain: genuine magic, which Dante had merely limited to prevent people suspecting what was really going on.
Or perhaps the powers of the Spiritus were limited? Simon did some reading around the subject.
His agnostic inclination gradually gave way to a belief in the fantastical, at least when it came to the Spiritus. It seemed as if a few people, over the course of history, had actually owned the genuine article. Always a black insect of the kind he had seen in Dante’s museum, whether it was a question of earth, fire, air or water.
He tried to find out what had happened to the Spiritus he had seen but he got nowhere. He bitterly regretted that he hadn’t taken the chance to travel over while the opportunity was still there. He would never get to see a Spiritus again.
Or so he thought.
His gaze moved between the dead cat and the coffee cup. It was an ironic twist of fate that Dante should find a Spiritus for him, and die as a result.
A few hours later Simon had put together a wooden box, placed Dante inside and buried it by the hazel thicket where the cat used to sit watching the birds. Only then did his excitement over the Spiritus begin to give way to a slight sense of sorrow. He was not a sentimental man, he had had four different cats with the same name, but still an epoch was going to the grave with this fourth Dante. A small witness who had wound his way around Simon’s legs for eleven years.
‘Goodbye, my friend. Thank you for all those years. You were a fine cat. I hope you’ll be happy wherever you end up. I hope there’ll be herring for you to fish out with your paws. And someone who…is fond of you.’
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