Thin Ice

by Mikael Engström

  They took the quick route down to the lake and out onto the ice, where there was no snow. The sledge glided quickly and easily through the darkness. Its runners whooshed and their cheeks stung from the speed. Strange glowing lights flickered over the sky. Magical green and yellow curtains.

  UFOs, Mik thought, but Bengt said calmly, ‘The northern lights. It’s the earth’s magnetic field meeting the solar wind.’

  Lake Selet was big, bigger than it looked from his attic bedroom window. Not very wide, but long.

  Bengt stopped. ‘Here’s my first hook.’

  It was a hole hacked in the ice with a stick resting across it and a line attached to the stick. Bengt used the axe to hack at the ice that had formed overnight, then felt the line. It jerked in his hand.

  ‘Oh, yes, we’ve got one. Not too big, but lively.’

  Bengt pulled a wriggling pike up onto the ice and hit it on the head with the back of the axe. He baited the hook again with another roach that he had killed first by throwing it onto the ice. It was cruel, he said, to bait the hook with a living roach.

  ‘Yes, if it’s dead it can’t be in any pain,’ said Mik. But he thought, if it’s dead then it’s dead.

  ‘Roaches don’t understand anything anyway,’ said Bengt. ‘They don’t even know they exist.’

  ‘But think if it does, and the pike too.’

  ‘Jesus chose fishermen for his disciples. This kind of cruelty is allowed.’

  They glided over the ice to the next hook. Bengt chopped away the thin ice, felt the line and looked at Mik.

  ‘This is a big one. Do you want to do it?’

  Mik nodded and Bengt gave him the line. It swung heavily and the tugs were frighteningly strong.

  ‘Hold on,’ said Bengt. ‘Show who’s in charge.’

  Mik looked down into the black water. The line moved round and round in the hole, scraping away ice at the edges. Suppose it wasn’t a pike? Perhaps it was something quite different. Anything at all could be down there in the dark water. Bumps and jerks could be felt on the line; something was tugging hard. Something wanted to pull him down into the darkness. There was water on the ice; it was slippery, and he slid towards the hole.

  ‘Put some effort into it,’ said Bengt. ‘If you can only get him to turn his head up, he’s yours. But you have to be quick before he turns away again.’

  Mik pulled. The line rushed round and round. It was a tough battle.

  ‘You’ve got him now, only the last bit left.’

  Large wide jaws appeared in the hole. Teeth and a yellow eye with a black pupil. The jaws smacked in the air and hissed.

  ‘A dragon!’ shouted Mik. ‘It’s a dragon.’

  ‘Now, pull the line over the ice and he’ll come up nicely.’

  The pike slid up over the edge and slithered about on the ice. Swam without getting anywhere. It was enormous and its back was as thick as a giant python. Bengt hit it over the head with the axe. The pike quivered and then lay still. There was blood on the ice and Mik stopped cheering.

  ‘Put it in the box.’

  Mik lifted his catch. It was heavy. Imagine if Tony could see him now. Imagine if Tony could see what an incredible ice dragon he’d caught. There was not enough room for it in the box. Its head and tail hung out.

  The next two hooks were empty. There were only the pale roaches staring with dead eyes.

  ‘Look,’ said Mik, pointing across the ice. ‘There’s someone over there.’

  In the dim light they saw a dark figure on a kick sledge.

  ‘That’s Bertil,’ said Bengt. ‘He’s got his hooks along the other side. Blasted poacher. These are my waters.’

  Muttering, Bengt steered the sledge to the next hole.

  Mik slid about on the ice. It was all shiny and flat. He lay down and stared through it. Trapped, frozen bubbles hovered like planets. He put his tongue against the ice. It was cold and tasted of nothing. Then he stood up, ran for a bit and then skidded along on the soles of his boots. The glide was fantastic. He ran and skidded with his arms outstretched to keep his balance. Further and further out. He was just about to pick up speed again when he felt something strange. Bouncing. Mik looked down at his feet.

  The ice was moving, in waves. Immediately in front of him was open water. A perfectly round hole in the ice, a few metres across, filled with black water. Like a huge well. The northern lights and the stars glimmered on the surface. A perfect mirror image of the sky. He moved carefully, went a little closer. The surface swayed and the image of the sky buckled and twisted. It looked as if the stars were hovering deep below the water. A well with stars in it. He went carefully closer, his feet gliding. The tiniest movement and small waves trembled over the edges, as if the well was speaking to him, answering his movements.

  How deep was it? How far down were the stars? Endlessly far away? As far down as it was up to the sky.

  ‘MIK!’ yelled Bengt over the ice. ‘Get away from there! It’s dangerous, you could die.’

  Mik stared down into the well of stars. Backed away carefully.

  ‘There are stars here,’ said Mik. ‘There are stars down there.’ And then he thought he saw something huge move past in the dark water.

  Bengt stopped the sledge and waited at a safe distance.

  ‘Be thankful you’re so small and light, otherwise you would have been dead by now. There are strong currents out there and the depth of the lake bed suddenly changes from eight metres to three. The current is treacherous and you don’t stand a chance. It’ll pull you under the ice. You’ll be dragged far away up the lake and stay there until spring, staring up through the ice.’

  ‘Like Lena’s dog?’

  ‘I hacked Decca free a kilometre further up. And I don’t want to do the same with you.’

  ‘I saw something massive. I saw a whale. Stars and a whale.’

  ‘There’s nothing there. You saw the sky, the northern lights, and you’ve got to watch out for that swift water hole. Now you know where it is. Later in the winter even that will freeze over, but only thin ice. Then you can’t see it so you must know where it is.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Take your position from the high ridge on the other side and the church up towards the village. Then the mast up there on the mountain and the boat-house. If you’re standing where those points meet, you’re in trouble.’

  Bengt removed his mittens, undid the belt around his waist and slipped off his sheath knife. He handed it to Mik.

  ‘Here, take this knife. You can have it. It has saved me when I’ve fallen through. You stab it into the edge and pull yourself up.’

  It was a fine knife with a bone handle and a leather sheath.

  ‘Promise you’ll always have it in your belt when you’re out on the ice.’

  Mik promised.

  They drew up the remaining lines and headed for home. The box on the seat was full of pike. Mik stood on the runners in front of Bengt. On the horizon there was a thin blue line over the mountain. A weak dawn that struggled and pushed against the black sky.

  ‘Don’t say anything to Lena about what happened at the ice hole. That you were out there.’

  ‘I won’t say anything.’

  ‘Good.’

  In school, during break, Mik told Pi how he had caught the big pike. The others stood around them and listened. He showed how he had pulled as if his life depended on it, because at any moment the pike could drag him under the ice. A dangerous fight, which the pike was winning. A battle of life and death.

  ‘That’s cruelty to animals,’ said the girl who had never been on an escalator.

  ‘No, Jesus fished for pike.’

  ‘Where?’ said Filip. ‘Here in our lake or what?’

  ‘I don’t know where they fished.’

  ‘You’re disturbed,’ said the girl who had never been on an escalator.

  ‘Go on,’ said Pi. ‘I want to hear.’

  Mik continued his battle with the pike that had now become a dragon.

>   ‘An ice dragon!’ he shouted. ‘And then I fell into the hole but got myself out, hanging on to it by its neck. It bit me and I bashed its head in with the axe.’

  He whirled round and round to show them, lay in the snow and writhed and hit out. Imitated the death throes of the dragon. Rubbed snow in his face and then lay motionless in the snow, arms and legs outstretched.

  Pi laughed, but Filip said, ‘You’re lying.’

  ‘Who cares?’ said Pi. ‘He’s good at telling the story.’

  ‘What?’ said Oskar. ‘You mean you can lie as long as you’re good at telling the story?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Pi and pulled off her mitten, crouched down and stuck her hand under the ear flap of Mik’s hat. She rubbed his ear lobe between her index finger and her middle finger.

  He turned hot all over. They looked into each other’s eyes. She smiled.

  Mik thought the snow had melted all around him and he had trouble breathing. Pi rubbed; Mik turned redder.

  ‘He’ll be fainting soon,’ said Filip.

  ‘He’s holding his breath on purpose,’ said Filip. ‘To show off.’

  ‘He looks funny,’ said Oskar.

  The bell rang. Pi let go of his earlobe, put on her mitten and ran.

  ‘Don’t get any ideas,’ said Filip. ‘She’ll keep you as her little pet.’

  Mik gasped for air and thought, I’d give anything to be her pet, or anything else of hers.

  It was late. Both Bengt and Bertil had done the evening’s last potty round. Mik took a piece of paper and wrote CHRISTMAS LIST at the top. The light was off and he was sitting in the blue darkness. Mik looked at the words, bit his pen. Doodled in one corner, raised his head and looked out of the window. The hawk owl sat in the tree and the northern lights flickered. The solar wind swept across the magnetic field. Magical curtains in the most amazing colours drew across the sky.

  Mik sat for a long time with the piece of paper in front of him without being able to write anything. What did he want? The hawk owl ruffled its wings, preened its feathers and flew away over the houses where the Selström brothers lived. Mik put pen to paper and wrote. But who should he give the list to?

  Father Christmas?

  God?

  Or Tengil?

  He looked out through the window again. The sun storm had drifted past. The stars were shining behind thin, hazy clouds.

  The stairs creaked. Lena came in with milk and sandwiches. She put the tray on the desk.

  ‘I could hear that you were awake. Are you doing your homework in the dark?’

  ‘No,’ said Mik, putting a hand over his sheet of paper.

  ‘Are you writing letters?’

  ‘No.’

  Lena leaned over the desk and saw the capital letters of the heading.

  ‘I see. Is it what you want for Christmas?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Exciting,’ said Lena and tried to snatch the piece of paper.

  ‘No,’ said Mik and held on to it.

  ‘Well, if it’s a Christmas list I’ve got to see it. You’ll be here over Christmas, and I’m the one who’ll be talking to Santa Claus.’

  She smiled and Mik let go of the paper. Lena read, ‘I want Dad to stop drinking.’

  She stood in silence, not knowing what to say. The stairs creaked. They shouldn’t have done, because no one came up.

  BRAVE AND SCARED

  It was the Christmas holidays. Mik was eating his breakfast, looking out of the window. The snow was falling heavily. You could hardly see the houses where the Selström brothers lived.

  A yellow snowplough with a flashing orange light thundered past on the road outside. Lena was seeing to the wood stove. She put in several armfuls of books.

  ‘Today it’s dirty books for pensioners.’

  ‘Dirty books?’

  ‘Books with naughty bits for old ladies.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound too good.’

  Mik was in a hurry and ate his sandwiches quickly. He was going to meet Pi, Oskar and Filip at the cat factory. Maria’s cat was going to be found. The reward had been increased from one hundred to two hundred kronor.

  ‘By the way,’ said Lena, shutting the stove doors, ‘they rang yesterday to say you’re going home two weeks after New Year.’

  ‘Home?’ said Mik, his mouth full of bread.

  ‘Yes, that’s when school starts.’

  ‘Who’s “they”?’

  ‘Her, that woman from social services.’

  ‘Parrot Earrings?’

  ‘She said that –’

  ‘I don’t want to go home,’ interrupted Mik. ‘I want to stay here.’

  Lena filled the coffee pot with water and placed it on the stove.

  ‘It’s all right with me if you stay.’

  ‘Then I’ll stay.’

  Lena measured coffee into the pot.

  ‘It’s probably not that simple, but –’

  ‘I’m staying,’ said Mik, clearing the table.

  He put on his outdoor clothes fast. Hat, mittens, boots, thermal trousers and the enormous red ski jacket. Dressed for landing on the dark side of the moon. Dressed to survive the next ice age. Dressed to go out of doors in a village called Selet, by a lake called Selet.

  ‘Where are you going?’ said Lena.

  Mik hesitated, his hand on the door handle.

  ‘It’s a business idea.’

  ‘Exciting. What is it?’

  ‘We find things.’

  ‘Such as what?’

  ‘Cats.’

  ‘Well,’ said Lena. ‘Goodness knows we certainly need cat finders. Every cat in the entire village seems to have run away. Yesterday Åkerlund’s disappeared. Their youngest daughter is really upset.’

  ‘I’m sure we’ll find it,’ said Mik.

  ‘Come home at lunchtime. One o’clock would be good.’

  Home, thought Mik as he walked through the falling snow. He missed Tony; of course he did. He missed Ploppy. He missed the smell on the staircase in the flats.

  The snowflakes fell in their thousands, millions, billions. He walked with his face looking up at the sky and poked out his tongue. The flakes landed, cold, and melted.

  Home?

  He didn’t miss his school. He didn’t miss Lisa Nordahl and her sweaty green chair. He didn’t miss the clink of bottles. He didn’t miss Solna Swimming Centre. The list of what he didn’t miss could be made long. He had decided. He had moved here. Left home. Parrot Earrings could say what she liked. Dead or alive, he wasn’t going to leave here.

  The snowflakes made him dizzy. He lowered his gaze and there stood Gustavsson’s dog. Mik crouched down, took off his mittens and made a handful of damp snow.

  ‘You want an ice ball in the eye?’

  Maria’s house was the drab colour of faded wood and was on the outskirts of the village. The chimney leaned and a few roof tiles were missing. The TV aerial was rusty. There were no curtains in the windows, no pot plants, nothing. The windows were only empty staring holes. There was no satellite dish.

  Pi held the cat in her arms.

  ‘You’ve got a hole in your trousers,’ said Oskar.

  ‘I missed,’ said Mik.

  ‘What?’

  ‘With the ice ball.’

  Filip stood silently, looking as if he had a mouth full of red ants.

  ‘What’s up with you?’ said Pi and gave him a shove.

  ‘We should never have taken her cat.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Pi. ‘It got lost. We’ve found it; we’re good at that.’

  ‘I’m not going in,’ said Filip.

  ‘Then you can forget about the money,’ said Pi.

  ‘I don’t care about the money. She’s totally mental. It’s a haunted house.’

  Filip’s mobile started ringing. He answered and said he had to go home to eat.

  ‘How very convenient,’ said Pi. ‘What are you having? Baby food?’

  ‘I’m not scared of anything, but my lunch is a
ctually ready.’

  Filip left. Oskar kicked hesitantly about in the snow and said, ‘Do you have to go in to get the money?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Pi.

  ‘But if I stay out here and wait, what do I get then?’

  ‘A hatful of snow,’ said Pi.

  ‘Then I’m not doing it either.’

  Oskar ran and caught up with Filip and they disappeared into the falling snow.

  Mik realised that now was his chance to show Pi how brave he was. He mustn’t let it go by. Whatever he had to face in that house, he would not flinch. He would stand up straight and die, if necessary.

  The hall was large and dark. A wide staircase wound up to the first floor. Weird pieces of string ran the length of the walls.

  ‘Hello!’ said Pi and continued walking in.

  The string criss-crossed every room as if a mad person had put up several miles of washing line.

  Or a spider, thought Mik, a spider that has made an enormous web. There were things hanging from the strings. Dried flowers, perhaps, or some kind of fruit. It was hard to see. He entered a large room and looked for a light switch but couldn’t find one.

  Pi had disappeared and he hurried to the next room. There stood an old woman wearing a peculiar dress covered with embroidery in gold and red.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, smiling.

  They weren’t flowers hanging in the strings. Mik screamed. They were dead pigeons hanging in bunches, tied by the feet. Bouquet after bouquet of dead, dried pigeons which made your skin crawl and your leg muscles twitch.

  ‘Pigeons,’ said Mik.

  ‘No, angels,’ said the woman. ‘I catch angels.’

  Mik shot towards the door. He got tangled up in the strings. Tore at them, was trapped and fell. Feathers floated down around him and he got a mouthful. He spat, hissed and whirled his arms. Made it to the door and threw himself out.

  He didn’t stop until he had come to the main road. He filled his mouth with snow, washing his tongue free of feathers. But he couldn’t get rid of the disgusting taste. It was as if he had chewed on a mummy. Bloody hell, how he had run! Pi would hate him now. He was a coward. He had missed his chance.

  Mik looked up towards the house and waited. After a while Pi came out. She had the reward money and handed a hundred-kronor note to Mik.