by Karen Swan
She shivered as she turned the corner to the back of the house, the dark still waters of the fjord stitched to the end of the terrace and stretching away like a bolt of silk. The mountains on the opposite side of the bay were as perfectly reflected as a mirror, so that she could even see the birds flying high above the town. A white-breasted dipper was standing in the shallows, a blue kayak tethered with an orange nylon rope to one leg of the ramshackle jetty, a gull sitting at one end of it. A pristine silence framed the view as though the world was being held in a glass vial.
The log store was attached to the small storehouse on the left-hand side of the path. It was like a miniature version of the house and exceptionally pretty, with a red door and a window beside it. Was there . . . ? She looked around. Was there any way to carry the logs?
She peered in the shed, hardly able to move for all the equipment in there: rubber suits in various sizes dangled from hangers on a wire, kayak oars stood bunched in a corner, mountain bikes balanced on racks . . . She saw a rough suede log sack lying limply across one of the saddles and grabbed it.
Loading it up, she staggered back into the house and with audible groans of effort disgorged the load into the large wicker basket. It was a job that would have been made significantly easier if she’d changed into shoes that actually fitted, but she nonetheless repeated the unwieldy process three times, until the basket was full and logs were spilling onto the sitting room floor.
With a sigh, finally feeling she had earned her rest, she took the log sack back to the shed, tossing it carelessly onto the bike again and making to leave. But something made her stop. She felt . . . watched. Not alone.
Heartrate spiking, she looked more carefully around the small space. ‘Hello?’ Her voice sounded timid. Ridiculous. It was probably just a mouse. Or weasel. Lenny had told her they had lots of weasels out here. ‘Is someone there?’
But then she saw it, in the shadows, just peering between the limp arms of the rubber suits – a face. Pale and hauntingly beautiful, the woman appeared to be almost swimming out of the dark, as though surfacing from the fjord’s own icy depths. In the absence of colour, of light, the finer details of her appearance were unclear, but there was a directness in her gaze that was both intimate and challenging.
Bo pushed the wetsuits along the wire and stared at the portrait. It was propped up on a workbench, the woman’s gaze hypnotic. Disconcerting. Bo felt like the woman was looking right back at her, which was ridiculous – she knew that; but after a few moments, as she pulled the suits back again, restoring everything to its original state, and as she walked back up the path, hunched over and shivering in the cold, she felt the woman’s gaze still upon her, calling her back. What was it about the portrait that had unnerved her?
In the house she stood motionless for a moment, feeling rattled. She didn’t want to abuse Anders’ trust or violate his privacy . . . and yet her feet moved anyway, taking her upstairs to the bedroom and the bedside cabinet; feeling bad, she opened the drawer. The photograph he had snatched from sight lay there, radiating a pull she couldn’t quite understand. Sinking onto the bed and taking her time, she studied it with a scrutiny that hadn’t been possible in his presence, with a temperature, with Zac.
It was definitely her. The same woman in the portrait. Clearly his girlfriend.
For the second time in half an hour she felt, if not quite envious of another woman, certainly challenged. And, again, she didn’t know why. Was it just curiosity? Sheer nosiness? After all, why should such a striking portrait be hidden from sight in a storage shed and yet the same woman’s photograph be kept beside his bed? Why have this image out, but not that one? And who was she? Bo found it hard to conceive that there could be a woman out there who knew Anders in the way she knew Zac. He seemed so absolute in his reserve, one-dimensional almost. She couldn’t imagine him having a tickle fight with someone or brushing their hair as they sat in the bath. She hadn’t even heard him laugh. A smile was shocking enough.
Replacing the photo, she went downstairs and brought up Instagram, doing a search under his name. He had told her he had an account for the business, but what about personally?
Oh.
It had a hit. One Anders Jemtegard.
She clicked on it, feeling a giddy kick of victory as she saw those true-blue eyes and knew it was him. He looked different, though – his hair was short and he was clean-shaven, his face not as angular as it was now. He looked younger, more innocent somehow. His expression wasn’t guarded, his body language more expansive.
He only had eighty-two followers; he was following twelve, and he had posted a sum total of nineteen photos – most of which seemed to have been taken in a city, not a mountain in sight. But they had real warmth to them, they felt honest – not edited or filtered or stylized. They hadn’t been taken by a professional photographer or curated. They were amateur snapshots depicting a happy life, or rather a happy couple – for the woman, definitely his girlfriend, was in most of them too. There was one image in particular that Bo couldn’t stop looking at: the two of them were sitting in a park, a colourful striped rug stretched out between them. Anders had one knee up and his girlfriend was leaning back on it, her hands over her stomach and laughing wildly at something; he was laughing too but gazing down at her with a tenderness that was almost painful to witness. Bo clocked the date, in faint type, in the bottom corner. It had been taken on 15 August 2013. It was the penultimate photograph. The last, she saw, had been taken eleven days later at a concert – bright lights drenching a distant stage, hands in the air, their heads angled together but only their eyes visible as they attempted a selfie.
Why had he not posted anything after then? Had they broken up? He seemed a completely different person in those photographs to the man she knew now, and she had an instinct that something had happened to him. Changed him.
But what?
Chapter Fourteen
Lodal, June 1936
Signy held her breath as the crown was laid on her head. The girls gave a collective gasp as Margit adjusted her hair and pulled her costume straight.
‘There,’ she whispered, looking back at her little sister proudly, her eyes shining with unusually vivid intensity.
‘Do I . . . ? How do I look?’ Signy asked her, apprehension lurching like nausea as she heard the crowd gathered outside, waiting.
‘Like a princess.’
It wasn’t true of course. Real princesses didn’t wear lace-up boots or have sunburn on their cheeks but Signy beamed anyway, wishing she could see herself fully; the only mirrors up here were the back of spoons and the lake on a still day. It felt strange not to be in the loose, gauzy cottons of her summer dresses and her hands ran over the tight velvet bodice, her fingers rippling over the dense red and gold embroideries; the thick, full black skirt all but obscured by the pristine white apron that cloaked it. But it was the crown – made of birch twigs and blossoms – that really marked her out as special tonight: the Midsummer bride.
‘Are you ready?’ Margit beamed, leading the way to the door. ‘Your groom awaits.’
With a proud nod, Signy let her sister open the door and she walked out of the cabin to the waiting villagers all gathered around, seeing how the happiness shone in her mother’s eyes to see her toeing the line for once and looking appropriate in traditional dress. It was an honour bestowed upon the youngest girl and she felt her heart swell as the village cheered her out. Her groom, Johan Muldal, the blacksmith’s youngest son, looked on in trepidation. A year younger and three inches shorter, even than her (which was really saying something), he had run scared from her ever since she had thrashed him for kicking the heads off some Black Vanilla orchids that everyone in the village knew were rare.
But she took the nervous hand he held out now and as the fiddler began to play, they both followed him over the grassy path, beyond the cabins, past the hayricks and down to the dell by the stream. Behind her, Signy could hear Kari and Ashi giggling, Brit, Sofie and Margit all
talking in excited voices as they were shadowed in turn by the boys and young men who also made up the procession. Some of the villagers were carrying flaming torches, not for the light – for even at almost midnight the sky was still lit, a pale blonde with violet threads – but to ignite the bonfire the men had worked all day to assemble. It was taller than a house, drier than a desert, a steeple pointing to the gods to bring abundance and good harvest to the valley. The animals had all been gathered into the closed pens for the night, away from the roar and light and searing heat, and Signy had been so excited she had even let Stormy get away with raiding some wild carrot left over from an old vegetable plot on the way down from the pastures today.
They stood before the unlit fire, the village swelling in a crowd around them as the parson mock-married them to symbolize new life and the new season, offering up prayers and thanks. As he finished his proclamations, a great cheer went up and the men threw their torches like spears into the steeple. In a rush, it went up, great flames tapping the sky, vying for brilliance, sheer blinding brightness.
Signy gasped, feeling the thrill of fear as she felt the heat almost immediately, the villagers’ faces glowing in the light. The fiddler began to play again. Johan dutifully took her hand and spun her – or did she spin him? – and she felt her heart swell as everyone else began to dance around the fire in whirling couples – her parents, Margit and Brit, Kari and Ashi, Sofie and . . .
Nils.
He was turning her with practised deftness, a bewitched smile on his face as she twirled prettily beneath his fingers, her dark hair flying out like a witch’s cape. She too was in traditional dress – the heavy black dress with corseted bodice, her apron beautifully, intricately embroidered with red and blue flowers. But she had cast off her shawl now and for the first time, Signy saw how the scoop of her neckline dipped dramatically lower than anyone else’s, revealing a daring sweep of smooth, velvety skin. Signy’s eyes narrowed at the sight of her rising and falling bosom as she and Nils danced on and on – Sofie’s father would never have modified it as such, but as the tailor’s daughter, she had learnt at his knee and was an accomplished needlewoman herself.
Had he seen? Signy could not find Sofie’s father in the crowd of onlookers, but as she and Johan circuited the fire, she saw other eyes were on Sofie too – some scandalized, others appreciative.
The music finished in a flurry of bow strikes and with a cursory, but careful, head bob to her very relieved groom – her crown was less comfortable than it was beautiful and threatened to topple with every turn – Signy took it off and ran to find the other girls before the next dance began.
The beer was already flowing, some aquavit too, and she could see the older women filing to and from the stabbur bringing out the food for the feast: cured mutton leg, boiled ham, smoked salmon and pickled herrings, potatoes, flatbreads, cheese, jams . . .
‘Hey,’ she panted, finding Kari picking up thick bunches of bird cherry branches.
‘Hey, want to help?’ Kari thrust an armful towards her. ‘The trolls won’t be casting any spells over our cows this summer.’
‘You don’t actually believe that,’ Signy grinned as Kari loaded her up.
‘I have no idea what I think, but just in case,’ Kari shrugged, walking up to the stables. ‘I believe in covering all bases.’
Signy followed after, looking back down the slope to see whether Sofie and Nils were still dancing, but from this vantage all the dancers were silhouetted by the flames; it was impossible to tell who was who. ‘So did you see her?’
‘Who?’
‘What do you mean who? Sofie!’
‘No. Why?’
‘Her dress. It’s indecent! Her father will be so ashamed. I can’t believe you didn’t notice.’
‘I’m sure no one did. All eyes were on you Signy, dearest. You are the Midsummer bride after all.’
Signy glowered. All eyes had most definitely not been on her, Sofie had seen to that. Nils, for one, hadn’t been able to tear his gaze off his dancing partner.
They were at the stables now, Kari ducking low as she walked in and began fastening the cherry branches above the animals. Signy stood by the doorway, arms laden, looking back at the action. She could see her mother helping to carve the mutton, her father standing in a group with some other men, including the sheriff, Martin Omenas.
Mons Bjorstad, the charming stranger she had found in the haybarn, was standing with them too; Omenas was his employer of course, the reason he had travelled here in the first place. None of the girls had seen him since he had stayed over in the spare cabin that night, as he had left for the village early the next morning, but though he had gone almost as quickly as he had arrived, the memory of him had somehow remained, like a shadow on the wall. Several times, Signy had caught her usually diligent sister staring into space as she sat on the milking stool and once, she had come into the cabin to find her touching their father’s guitar, as though it was a cat to stroke.
Still, whatever flirtation they had enjoyed, he wasn’t the reason her sister’s eyes had looked so bright today, her cheeks pinked with feverish anticipation; nor was he why she had brushed her hair so many times Signy joked she would soon be bald. Word had reached the girls that Rag was coming to Midsummer’s after all, and it had been like setting a match to tinder.
In fact, she could see him now, tethering his horse and weaving his way through the crowd, fashionably late. There was a repressed energy to his movements, confidence brimming from him as he was eagerly greeted by his fellow neighbours. ‘Rag is here,’ she muttered.
‘Where?’ Kari asked eagerly, forgetting all about the trolls and evil spirits and popping her head back out to look. She followed Signy’s gesture. ‘Oh! He is even more handsome than before.’
Was he? Signy could see him in profile, his dark silhouette like a cameo against the flames. But it was true – even in outline, he was beautiful: white-blonde hair swept back off a high forehead, straight nose, cleft chin. His presence caused a stir, and not just amongst the girls, Signy saw men responded to him too, as though bowing to his invisible power.
‘Handsome is not enough,’ Signy said with scorn. ‘He is a brute.’
Kari shot her a sideways grin. ‘Oh, you’re not still peeved because he knocked over your snowman, are you?’
‘Of course not! That was years ago,’ Signy huffed, although in truth, it did still rankle and was certainly on her list of reasons not to like him. But still, she watched along with Kari, seeing how the men eagerly grasped his hand and slapped his back, like he was a hero returned and not merely a trainee soldier.
Just a few feet away, Margit was standing with Sofie and Brit, the three of them with their backs to the men as they watched the dancing. The fiddler was working himself into a frenzy as the revellers danced through the night, the flames the real spectacle as the bonfire blazed, unstoppable now.
As the dance ended, another cheer erupted; the beer and high spirits were in full flow. Signy watched on Rag – noticing the girls – made his excuses and wandered over to them. They turned in unison, Brit’s delight at his unexpected return apparent even from this distance.
A few minutes passed, the conversation polite and formal until the fiddler lifted the violin again. Signy saw his hand go out – and Margit take it. They walked into the dancers’ fray, people inclining their heads to watch and comment as the dance began. They all knew it was the match that must happen. Both were of age, both from the two most prominent families.
Signy looked across at Mons. He was watching them too, like the rest of the village.
‘Signy, look,’ Kari breathed, as Margit and Rag set up opposite one another and bowed gracefully, decorously. ‘Aren’t they a beautiful couple? You’re going to have such gorgeous nieces and nephews.’
‘Oh, hush now,’ Signy hissed crossly, looking back at Mons again.
But he had gone.
‘Where is he?’ she frowned.
‘Who?’
> ‘Mons Bjorstad. The clockmaker.’
‘Him? Who cares?’ Kari said dismissively, unable to take her eyes off the dancing couple.
With Mons gone, Signy looked at the dancers again too – Rag had changed over the spring; he had grown more powerful in his physique: his shoulders broader somehow, his rangy legs now more muscular. For sure, he was the most striking man she had ever seen, but he held no interest for her; her eyes sought out only one and she found him with another start. It felt like a jolt to see him now; even though she always made sure she was back from the pastures when the men were due their weekly visit to take back the week’s produce, Nils hadn’t returned to the seter at all since his initial visit checking-up on Sofie’s ‘injury’; Kari had told her their father had needed him on the farm during the ploughing and sowing periods but although the haying had begun, they had been in habølla – the quiet time – for at least a week now; he was free surely?
She watched as he stepped back into the frame, going to stand by Sofie. He said something, something which made her jerk her chin in the air – and then nod. He was asking her to dance again. It was a public statement of interest, people were bound to notice – and comment.