The Christmas Lights

by Karen Swan

  At a fast clip, she began to march, arms swinging – past the stabbur and the haybarn, the cabins behind her. The ground was on an incline here, the valley already beginning to bowl upwards to the peaks, moss-covered boulders bobbling the land. A great grey owl called from the low branch of a birch tree and she heard the scrabble of squirrel claws scampering up trunks as she passed by. The sky was far from dark – rather it was dim, as though a tint had fallen over the earth, and she could see almost perfectly, stumbling only a couple of times in her haste, her heart pounding.

  She used her hands to help her climb near the top as she scrabbled up the last sections, pulling herself up to her full unimpressive height as she finally made it and looked down onto the neighbouring valley. The lake where Ashi fished shimmered like a silver plate, the pale moon like a pearl globe on its surface. Shaped like a kidney bean, a small tree-dotted island sat towards the back of it from here, the cluster of winter fruit trees her grandfather had planted sixty-five years before reaching back from the dimpled edge of the shore.

  Signy squinted again, looking for a movement or sound to catch her attention. Had they come here to drink? The stream that led off from it ran directly down to the seter. Her body felt taut and primed, animalistic itself, as she scanned the dusk. She was hunting a hunter and she felt the pulse of the natural world beat through her; she belonged to this and it belonged to her.

  A splash came to her ear and she braced, dropping down to her knees out of sight. But the noises that followed were not lupine and she pressed herself yet further down onto her stomach as a small blue rowing boat edged out of the dark shore into the moon rays, the strong certain stroke of oars breaking the glassy surface as it headed for the glistering centre.

  The voices carried like torches in the night – bright and flickering, drawing the eye; chattering and excited, catching the ear. Their faces were too far to see from here but as he rowed to the centre of the lake, the moonlight caught on his white shock of blonde hair.

  No!

  Signy gasped, feeling the tears spring and blurring her wolf-sharp night vision; she brushed them away hotly, her breath ragged with anger as she watched the girl stand and pull her dress over her head. And for a second, she just stood there, legs astride for balance, gloriously naked and bathed in moonlight. The lambent beams stroked over her pale skin as her breasts and belly, hips and legs gleamed like Rodinesque marble. He stared up at her like she was a goddess, his fingers fumbling at his own shirt as he couldn’t rip his eyes off her. And then she swung her arms up into a point and curved into the water, the ripples from her splash making the boat rock.

  ‘Wait for me!’ he shouted as he wriggled out of the shirt, leaning back to undo his trousers and pull them off as she began swimming away with graceful strokes.

  Signy gasped as he stood and balanced too, the moon hitting him like a spotlight. She had never seen a naked man before and her eyes widened that he should look like that. In the next instant, he was also in the water, surfacing briefly to whip his hair back before chasing after her, slicing through the water with a dedication and concentration that could only result in one thing. Success.

  She would be his.

  Nothing else mattered. And certainly no one.

  * * *

  ‘Signy?’ Bo stood over her, the cup of coffee and two pills in her hands. ‘It’s me, Bo. I’ve brought your coffee.’

  She put them down on the table and walked over to the fire, prodding at the almost-out ashes before selecting the best log and setting it on top. Then she drew the curtains, sighing at the view. ‘It’s snowing again.’

  Actually, it was snowing so hard it was almost dizzying to watch, huge fat flakes whirling and twirling like pirouetting ballerinas and obscuring the waterfall on the other side of the fjord. Everywhere she looked was white – the sky, the ground, the forest – as the trees’ branches dropped low below the weight, shedding their loads in sporadic, startling bursts as squirrels scampered or birds landed upon them. The thick grass roofs had lost their tussocky textures now, swollen into smoothness, and even the smoke from their non-stop puffing chimneys was lost in the snowscape.

  ‘I know you’re not dead,’ she said with a smile, coming back to the bed and looking down upon the old woman. Her eyelids were shut but Bo could see her eyes moving behind them. ‘And I know you’re not asleep either.’

  Signy’s eyes opened, immediately pinning Bo with her hard, accusing stare.

  Bo frowned, the smile dying on her lips. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I don’t like people who upset my grandson.’ Without her teeth in, the words were muffled but Bo understood her perfectly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me,’ she said, holding her arms up and out and waiting wordlessly for Bo to hoist her into a seated position.

  ‘I don’t understand . . . What has he said to you?’ Bo asked a minute later, as she finished arranging the pillows behind her and straightening the blankets.

  ‘Nothing. He did not need to.’ She reached over to the glass and put her dentures back in, rolling and stretching her cheeks a few times to get them into position. Finally, she smacked her lips together. ‘But I know him well and I know when he has been hurt.’

  The word vibrated within her. ‘Signy, I haven’t hurt him. I wouldn’t.’ She couldn’t. It was blindingly clear that she was inconsequential to him.

  ‘I know that look on his face and he had it yesterday when he brought you back here.’ She regarded Bo with a fierce look. ‘I thought you were different.’

  Bo tried to catch up; he had looked as impenetrable as ever to her. ‘Well . . . well, how do you know it wasn’t one of the others that upset him? He’s been spending his whole days with them and I’m sorry to say he really hasn’t gone out of his way to be friendly with anyone. He doesn’t join in with their conversations or jokes.’

  ‘Pah! He doesn’t care about them; they are an irrelevance. He doesn’t waste emotion on things or people that don’t matter. My God, if life has taught him one thing, it has been that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Signy shot her a sharp look. ‘Never you mind. But I know what I’m talking about. You don’t get to my age without learning a thing or two, and I know about people – who you can trust; who’s good; who’s worth it. And I can see he likes you. He trusts you. And he doesn’t trust many.’

  ‘With all due respect, he hardly knows me.’

  ‘Doesn’t he?’ The question was like a probe and Bo swallowed, remembering the confidences she had shared with him, telling him things she hadn’t told Zac – but only because it had felt safer being one step removed. It had almost been like telling a counsellor or therapist. ‘Do you think that every person who comes into your life, you will need to spend years getting to know?’ Signy asked. ‘Pff! Some – the special ones – come already matched. You fit together like pieces in a puzzle. Don’t ask me why, they just do. And it is so with you and Anders; I knew it when I heard you talking together from my chair.’

  Bo looked down, feeling her heart knocking against her ribs for there was a slant of truth in the old woman’s words: she did feel she knew him better than a week’s acquaintance would ordinarily suggest. He was easy to be around and she could sit in silence with him, which was always an issue for her; silences had made her jumpy ever since . . . ever since that night. But they also clashed. He hurt her with his brusque manner and careless words, and though he and she might recognize something in each other, it wasn’t necessarily good. She felt judged by him, as though she disappointed him in some way. ‘I think you’re reading too much into it,’ she said quietly. ‘He’s been very kind to me but he has made it perfectly clear that ours is a professional relationship. We’re not friends, nor does he want us to be.’

  ‘You are mistaken.’

  ‘No, we had a disagreement the other night and that’s why he was upset. He’s angry with me, not hurt by me.’

  ‘People disagree all the time; it means n
othing. If you ask me –’

  But Bo hadn’t, she thought.

  ‘– You are allowing your opinions of him to be swayed by your friends. They do not understand him, he doesn’t play their way, therefore they do not like him. But I wonder – would you care so much about their feelings if you knew they didn’t care about yours?’

  Bo felt a wave of indignation rise up in her at that. What was she insinuating? That they’d all been having a better time here without her? She remembered the photographs on Lenny’s camera – they certainly hadn’t been moping about, missing her. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Of course my friends care about me.’

  Signy’s eyebrow hitched up. ‘I have watched you from my windows, all of you. There is not much more for me to do, after all. I see everything,’ she said enigmatically.

  Oh, great, Bo thought to herself. Now she was the all-seeing eye? ‘Well, luckily for me, I’m used to being watched. We all are, it’s in the job description,’ she said tightly, all out of patience for this conversation now. Like her grandson, Signy had managed to offend, insult and hurt her. Was it a family gift? She walked over to the door again, wishing she hadn’t bothered coming round. So much for being kind to the elderly. ‘Drink your coffee while it’s hot. Anders will be here in twenty minutes.’

  Signy stared over at her, watching her disengagement with an expression that might – in certain lights – look like regret. ‘He is not what you think,’ she said, more softly now.

  Bo was quiet for a moment. ‘But who ever is?’ she said with a shrug before closing the door.

  Chapter Eighteen

  He arrived at the farm as if by stealth – it was impossible to predict how he would travel: as Zac had mocked the first morning, it might be by land, sea or air. Not that she was watching for him. The falling snow was simply mesmerizing and she sat side-on on one of the chairs by the window, her knees tucked under her chin, watching the flurries, snow falling upon snow. It felt like the world was filling up, the hard angles of the mountains now rubbed out, even sound itself becoming rounder, plumper, softer. The view over the fjord would have been utterly perfect were it not for the numerous brown beer bottles sticking out of the snow on the windowsill. ‘Nature’s fridge,’ Lenny had said when she’d asked him about them.

  ‘Hey, man,’ Zac murmured, glancing up from the table. He was writing up the latest blog post. ‘Coffee’s made if you want some.’

  ‘No thanks,’ Anders said, stamping his feet on the mat to dislodge the snow. Bo deduced he must have arrived by skidoo; she’d have heard the helicopter and seen him come over the ridge from the water. He pushed his hood off, sending another shower of snow onto the floor, and unzipped the jacket, his gaze catching Bo’s as she sat by the window.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, giving a weak smile and wondering if Signy had told him they’d had words this morning. She reached for some small talk, something to hide their uneasiness with each other. She didn’t want Zac to know about the argument. How could she explain it to him when she still didn’t understand it herself? Being upset by the troll had been one thing, but why had she turned on him? Why did it matter what he did or didn’t think about her? ‘. . . No helicopter today?’

  ‘Visibility is too poor. I took the skidoo.’

  Zac looked up again. ‘Ah! The new one we financed for you?’

  Anders shrugged. ‘It’s good.’

  ‘So then our being here isn’t all bad. We’ve brought you some good cheer.’ A note of sarcasm edged the words like a frill and Bo knew her fiancé was frustrated by Anders’ impermeability. He was used to befriending everyone he met and he was almost affronted that Anders had rebuffed his attempts at friendship.

  Anders looked at nothing in particular. ‘It is fine that you are here. And I think you are coping surprisingly well with the basic facilities.’

  ‘High praise! Well, I did tell you – we’re wanderers, not tourists.’

  Anders nodded like he didn’t care either way, coming further into the room. ‘So I have a different plan for today,’ he said, standing like he was about to give a sermon. ‘It does not involve waterfalls or caves but I think you will like it.’

  ‘Yeah? I’m intrigued. Spill.’

  Anders looked confused. ‘. . . What?’

  ‘Spill. Spill the beans,’ Zac said, attempting to clarify. ‘Tell us.’

  ‘Oh.’ Anders looked wrong-footed by the colloquialism and, Bo thought, momentarily vulnerable. He was so used to being in control. ‘Well, I need to get my grandmother her Christmas tree so I thought you could come with me and we will get you all one too. For here.’ He indicated the cabin. ‘I assume you will want one? Christmas is in five days.’

  Bo bit her lip. Was it really only five days to Christmas? She had lost track of the dates since her accident and falling sick, and the remoteness of the farm meant that with no shops or TV, they were fully out of the festive loop. She realized she hadn’t done any shopping at all. Was it too late to send a parcel home? When was the last shipping day from here? Her mind began to race . . .

  ‘You want us to go shopping for trees?’ Zac asked disappointedly, as though Anders had suggested going for a pedicure together instead.

  Anders didn’t move but Bo could see the suppressed sigh ripple through him. ‘We would not buy it. I meant we get it from the forest. We cut it down ourselves.’

  ‘Oh!’ Zac’s eyes widened. That changed things entirely. ‘Are you allowed to do that?’

  ‘Of course. This is my family’s farm. We own the land and whatever is on it.’

  Zac looked over at Bo, excitement all over his face. ‘That sounds pretty fucking A, wouldn’t you say, babe?’

  Sometimes Bo thought he was twenty-six going on twelve. ‘I would.’

  ‘I mean, how – what’s the word? Higgle?’

  ‘Hygge,’ she supplied.

  ‘How hygge is that? Cutting down our own tree.’ His eyes brightened further still. ‘And perhaps we could do some logging as well?’ he asked Anders.

  ‘Sure. If that’s your idea of a good time,’ Anders said in typical wry fashion. ‘The stocks are beginning to get low anyway.’

  ‘The fans will lap it up. Me as a Norwegian lumberjack . . . Wait till we tell Len. Hey, Len!’

  ‘Heard you,’ Len’s muffled voice came through the floorboards.

  Bo arched an eyebrow and looked across at Zac. She had presumed Lenny had stayed over in the storehouse with Anna. Unless of course Anna was up there too?

  ‘Like it?’ Zac called.

  ‘Sounds great,’ he replied in a monotone.

  ‘Well, move your ass then and get down here. What are you doing up there anyway?’

  Bo closed her eyes, not wanting to hear the answer. If Anna was up there with him . . . But the sound of the latch turning was answer enough, for a moment later Anna herself was stamping her snowy boots on the mat too. ‘Morning!’

  Uh-oh.

  ‘Coffee’s on the stove if you want some,’ Bo said, knowing this was where it was going to get awkward. It had been a one-night thing after all then, exactly as predicted.

  ‘Thanks. Hey, Anders,’ Anna said, passing him.

  ‘Hey.’

  ‘Want a coffee?’

  ‘No, I’m fine.’

  He looked so awkward, standing stiffly in the room while Anna made herself at home, clattering about confidently, knowing where all the cutlery was kept and which cupboard held the cups.

  Why did he hold himself apart, Bo wondered, just as Lenny’s heavy tread came down the ladder too.

  ‘Morning all,’ he mumbled, looking wild.

  ‘Anna’s getting the coffee if you want some?’ Bo said, watching as he crossed the room and trying to gauge their body language.

  ‘Yeah, thanks,’ he said, throwing her a sarcastic smile as he opened the fridge. ‘Because coffee isn’t actually the drink of the devil.’ He pulled out a bottle of Coke, taking a swig and swallowing down a burp.

  ‘Oh yeah, sorry
,’ she muttered. He never drank coffee, hence his sugar-drink addiction. She’d just been so distracted, scrutinizing him and Anna together . . . She noticed they hadn’t greeted each other yet. And that Anna was keeping her head down as she poured the milk.

  It was definitely off between them.

  ‘So, Anders, we went skiing yesterday,’ Zac said, finishing his post, slamming the laptop shut and tipping back in his chair. ‘Place called Strandafjellet?’

  ‘Yes, I saw. It looked good. Lots of powder.’

  ‘You saw?’ Bo asked, forgetting momentarily that they weren’t ‘officially’ talking.

  He looked across at her and again she felt like he was pushing her, unbalancing her. ‘If you remember, you linked me up to your account so I am now one of your nine million followers.’

  There it was again, that sly disassociation. He followed them but not really. Not because he wanted to.

  ‘Uh, uh, uh. 9.7 million followers,’ Lenny corrected him. ‘And we’re within a fairy’s fart of 9.8.’

  ‘Right,’ Anders said flatly.

  ‘Did you see my action shot of Bo?’ Lenny went on, oblivious.

  ‘Of course.’

  Lenny arched an eyebrow, waiting. ‘. . . And . . . Did you like it?’ Bo knew from his tone what he was thinking: blood; stone.

  ‘It was good.’

  ‘Good?’ Zac laughed. ‘It’s great! Lenny here’s the man! A lot of pro sports photographers couldn’t have got that shot. He had to lie down in the middle of the piste to get the angle right. One missed turn by Bo and she would’ve sliced right into him.’

  ‘Nice,’ Bo said sarcastically, wrinkling her nose. ‘Powerful image right there.’

  ‘That was a dangerous thing to do,’ Anders said sombrely. ‘Other people might not have seen him. It could have caused an accident.’

  Zac, getting up from the chair, groaned. ‘Oh my God, chill the fuck out,’ he part-wailed, part-laughed, throwing his arms around like a gibbon. ‘It was quiet. It was fine. And he got the shot.’