The Memory Theater

by Karin Tidbeck

  The light went out. The voices and bells disappeared. The tunnel gaped at her.

  “I’m looking for my brother,” Dora called into the emptiness. “That’s all I want.”

  Silence.

  “He’s hurt,” Dora continued. “He needs me.”

  Nothing happened. Dora sat down on a boulder with her back to the cave. Her eyes prickled.

  “You seem lost,” someone said behind her.

  Dora turned her head. The light from the cave had returned, and revealed a broad-shouldered woman. Her skirt and the long shawl tied across her chest were red. Under the embroidered headscarf, her face was strong-jawed and stern. Then she smiled, and her features folded into laugh lines.

  She bent down. “Don’t cry, girl. Now, tell me what you call yourself.”

  “Dora.”

  “Well met, Dora. You may call me Grandmother.”

  “That’s not a name,” Dora said.

  Grandmother smiled again. “You’re right, it’s not. We don’t hand our names out just like that.”

  “Why did you disappear?”

  “We had to have a look at you first,” the woman replied. “Of course, then you told us why you were here. We’ve decided you’re a good sort.”

  Grandmother held out her hand. Dora took it, and Grandmother helped her upright without effort. Then she turned and walked down the tunnel at a brisk pace. Something like a tail peeked out from under her skirt. At the bottom of the slope, the tunnel widened into a chamber lit by lanterns hanging from the ceiling. Four fat white animals lay or stood on the straw-covered floor, chewing cud. One of them wore a large silver bell that clanked as it stuck her head into the long feeding trough that ran the length of the chamber. The air was warm and close and smelled of dung, but it was a safe smell.

  “Move over, Stjärna.”

  Grandmother slapped the hindquarters of the beast standing in the middle of the space. Stjärna took a step to the side and went over to sniff Dora with her wet muzzle.

  “Don’t mind the cow; she’s just curious,” Grandmother said over her shoulder.

  Dora patted Stjärna’s neck. She seemed content with this and walked over to the feeding trough.

  “Do you always keep them in here?” Dora asked.

  “Only at night and in winter,” Grandmother replied. She moved across the chamber to an opening on the other side, waving for Dora to follow. “This used to be a mine. The miners moved out, so we moved in.”

  The next tunnel bent to the right and opened into another chamber that was a little larger than the first. There was a roaring fireplace, next to which stood a four-poster bed. Around the large table in the middle of the room were chairs and a wood-framed sofa. By the fireplace stood a man in moleskin trousers and a long waistcoat the same color as Grandmother’s shawl. He turned around as Dora and Grandmother came in.

  “Dora, this is Grandfather,” said Grandmother, and took off her scarf.

  Grandfather gave Dora a slight bow, then walked closer. He was as weathered as Grandmother, with gray hair that curled around his ears.

  “Good evening, Dora,” he said.

  The lines around Grandfather’s eyes were not from laughing, and they didn’t soften much when he smiled.

  “She’s looking for her brother,” Grandmother said.

  Grandfather nodded. “And where did you lose him?”

  “We fell down the mountain, and when I woke up he wasn’t there. Is he here? He needs me,” Dora said.

  Grandfather and Grandmother exchanged glances.

  Then Grandmother said, “We saw a girl-shaped stone on the mountain. There was a girl corpse there, too. We didn’t touch it. You don’t look like a ghost, so you must be the stone girl.”

  “There was no one there who could have been your brother,” Grandfather said.

  “I have to go to him,” Dora said.

  “Dora,” Grandfather said. “It has been a while. That was in harvest season. It is winter now, although it came too early.”

  “What?” Dora said, and her head buzzed. “So he could be dead. On the mountain.”

  “Or not,” Grandmother replied. “A man lives not far from there. He might have taken the boy in. I don’t know; we haven’t seen him for some time. We’ll visit him tomorrow.”

  “You should sit down, Dora,” Grandfather said. “You must be starving. There’s no use worrying about your brother now.”

  Dora’s head was still buzzing, but her stomach rumbled in reply. Grandfather smiled.

  They sat her down in one of the chairs by the table and draped a thick shawl over her shoulders, even though Dora protested she didn’t feel cold. Grandfather put a large wooden bowl of porridge in the center of the table and handed Grandmother and Dora a spoon each, then made a little pit in the middle of the bowl. Grandmother lifted the lid on a box sitting on the table and dug out a large lump of butter, which she dropped into the pit.

  “Go on,” Grandmother said, and gestured at the bowl, where the butter was melting into a little puddle.

  Dora glanced at the little tip of tail that peeked out from beneath Grandmother’s skirt, and for a moment forgot about Thistle.

  “What are you?”

  Grandfather laughed, an unexpected sound. “We’re vittra, my dear. The hidden folk. What about you?”

  “I don’t know what I am,” Dora replied.

  “She does have an odd accent,” Grandmother remarked. “Are you from very far away, then?”

  “I don’t know how far it is,” Dora said.

  She brought the spoon to her mouth. The porridge tasted of oats and honey and salty butter, and it settled comfortably in her stomach.

  “Who is the man you talked about?” Dora said after she had swallowed.

  “Nils Nilsson,” Grandfather said. “Honest fellow.”

  “A little odd,” Grandmother filled in. “Fairy blood, I always thought. His wife was a good woman, too. She borrowed Stjärna when their sons were little. Never have I seen someone take such good care of a cow.”

  Dora put the spoon down. “Please take me there. Now. I need to know if he is alive.”

  Grandmother put her hand on Dora’s. “No rush, dear. We’ll take you there in the morning. We can’t cross the mountain at night. If your brother was lost on the mountain, he is already dead. But if someone found him, he’s all right, and it can wait until tomorrow.”

  Grandmother and Grandfather let Dora have the butter in the middle. They asked her where she came from, and Dora told them of the Gardens and their masters, and how she was grown from a seed, or at least that’s what Ghorbi had told her. And she told them about Thistle, her brother, a stolen child. Grandmother and Grandfather listened in silence, with raised eyebrows.

  “Well,” Grandfather said. “That’s a strange story.”

  Grandmother nodded. “Indeed.”

  Dora yawned. She was still anxious, but so tired.

  “You need to sleep, properly this time. Turning to stone is no way to sleep,” Grandmother said.

  They unfolded the kitchen bench for her and bedded her down among blankets that smelled of sheep. Dora drifted off to the low sound of Grandmother and Grandfather talking.

  24

  Nils set off when it was still dark. He made the hour-long walk over to Andersson’s, where he borrowed the horse and cart. Then he went into the village and bought what he needed. Goods for the coming winter, and some fancy things. Let people talk.

  By the time Nils finally returned, unloaded the cart, and put the horse in the stable, the boy had almost managed to knock the door off its hinges. But the house was sturdy.

  “Why are you doing this?” the boy sobbed from inside.

  “I can’t have you leave,” Nils replied. “I bought sweets. We’re going to have a party.”

  *
* *

  —

  A party needed decoration, and this place was a dull one. Nils went through chests and cupboards, and eventually found old tablecloths and dresses. They made for fine curtains and drapes. He nailed them to doors and walls, adjusting them until he was satisfied. There were no flowers to find this time of year, but he went out and cut some birch branches that he nailed to the ceiling and adorned with some of the Christmas decorations from the attic. It began to feel festive. He found his best suit. It was not very well cut, and the fabric was dull. But he found some leftover paint from the barn with which he drew gaudy swirls of flowers over the back of the jacket. Then he put it on. There was something in the jacket’s breast pocket, and he drew it out. A golden locket: a watch. Elna had given him this for their wedding. He hadn’t seen it for a long time. The engraved flowers on the lid tickled his fingers. He briefly held it against his cheek, feeling the metal warm to his skin, then put it back. A wash and a shave, and he was ready for the party.

  The boy made no attempt to fight as Nils unlocked the door and entered the bedchamber, just sat in a corner of the room, staring.

  “Are you hungry?” Nils asked.

  “Who are you?” the boy said quietly. “Who are you really?”

  Nils tilted his head. “Whatever do you mean? I am as you see me.”

  “Yes, you are as I see you. I see someone else than the man who took me in.” The boy’s stare was forward, too forward, the stare of someone who needed to be chastised.

  Nils blinked. Someone else than the man who took me in. Perhaps he was. Yes, he was. Something had been growing inside him, something strange yet familiar. Something old. It was right. He knew what to say; the words rolled off his tongue.

  “You’ll want to be nice, my sweet,” Nils replied. “I want a nice party. Just you and me. We’ll dance!”

  He took a couple of dance steps, clapped a rhythm with his hands: one-two-three-four-five, one-two-three-four-five-six. The boy put a hand over his mouth.

  “You—” he said through his fingers.

  Yes. Nils slapped the boy with the back of his hand. The boy let out a muted cry and crawled farther into the corner.

  “That’s no way to address me, lad,” Nils said. “What do we say?”

  “My lord?” the boy whispered. “I beg your pardon, my lord. I did not mean to offend. Please forgive me.”

  The boy bowed his head and held his hands out, palms up, in a gesture that was so, so familiar. And there, on his wrist, a scar peeked out. Nils knew what that was. It would be a stem, a flower stem, curling up around the boy’s arm and on across his shoulder and chest. Such a beautiful flower.

  Nils tilted his head. “I know you,” he said.

  He bent down, tore the boy’s shirt open, and recognized his own handiwork. And, finally, the boy.

  “Thistle,” he said. “I know you. You’re all grown up.”

  “Augusta,” Thistle breathed, then screamed.

  * * *

  —

  Nils went to the hallway mirror and studied his own face. Deep lines crisscrossed his skin, and his eyes were watery. His mouth was full of teeth with receding gums. His hair looked dull and was going gray. Everything was too worn, too big, too base.

  He was not supposed to look like this. She was not supposed to look like this. She, Augusta of the Gardens. This body was strong, yes, but awkward and heavy and old. Joints and tendons ached and complained. A couple of teeth felt loose. It was a body that wouldn’t last. Augusta remembered herself now, and Phantasos. He had come here to live out his life as a mortal man. He had found Elna, married her, raised two boys. He had abandoned who he once was. And then Augusta had come along. She had killed him, and he had cursed her to live out his life. And maybe she would have, had not Thistle found her. He had recognized her, but it had not turned her back into her old self. One of your own, Phantasos had said. It had to be one of her own. How had Thistle found her?

  The cows were lowing in the barn. They wanted milking, of course. Menial work, not fit for a lady of Augusta’s standing. She ignored the noise and went inside the kitchen. Thistle didn’t talk back when she told him to put the feast in order.

  On the kitchen table, Thistle laid out the things Augusta had bought in the village: soft bread and honey; little cakes, ham, tiny sausages; a bottle of spirits. He was a good boy. She allowed him to sit at the table, even have a taste of the bread. He sat slumped on his stool, legs squeezed together, hugging himself.

  “How did you get here?” Augusta said conversationally.

  “I ran away, my lady,” Thistle mumbled.

  Augusta paused. “You ran away?”

  Thistle nodded.

  “If you found your way out, you can find your way back in. How? Tell me how.” Augusta leaned closer and grabbed him by his collar. “Mnemosyne cast me out. She had no right. You will answer my question.”

  “I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you!” Thistle said quickly. “Ghorbi took us to the crossroads. We…traveled from there.”

  “Ghorbi, eh,” Augusta said, and twisted his collar a little.

  Thistle nodded in reply.

  “So if I go to this ‘crossroads,’ I can go to the Gardens from there?”

  “I reckon so, my lady,” Thistle replied.

  “And how does one go to the crossroads?” Augusta tightened her grip.

  “One sings a song,” Thistle wheezed. “I can’t breathe.”

  Augusta let him go. “You will teach me this song.”

  Thistle straightened and rubbed his throat. He paused and swallowed. Then he said, “I propose a trade, my lady. You have something I need. I have something you need.”

  Augusta laughed. “Your name, isn’t it. Did you come all the way here for your name, boy?”

  “I did.”

  Augusta couldn’t help but be impressed. “Very tenacious. And so you thought I’d give it to you.”

  “As a trade, my lady. It’s all I have left.”

  Augusta looked him up and down. The boy was trembling and wide-eyed. “Very well,” she said. “I suppose it’s a fair trade.” She emptied her glass. “Teach me, and you’ll earn your name back.”

  Thistle held out his hand. “Your word,” he said.

  Augusta laughed. “Of course.” She grabbed his hand and held it just tight enough to feel the bones shift. “You have my word that once you have taught me the song to get to the crossroads, you will have your name back.”

  Thistle nodded. “We should probably go outside.”

  “You first,” Augusta said. She put her carving knife in her belt, just in case.

  The sky had cleared. A faint multicolored aurora glimmered to the north.

  “Go on,” Augusta said. “Sing.”

  Thistle started humming. Augusta hummed with him. The sound gradually built into a simple tune, but something that Thistle did made it sound like he was harmonizing with himself. Augusta moved her tongue around in her mouth and adjusted the muscles in her jaw, until she felt a second note reverberate through her skull. Thistle sang a long, long word, and Augusta mimicked him. The song rose and fell, rose and fell. Then Thistle abruptly went quiet.

  “There it is,” he said. “The crossroads.”

  Ahead of them, where the mountainside should be, was a blur. The snowy ground at Augusta’s feet gradually flattened out and faded into cracked mud.

  “You go in, and there are people who will show you the way,” Thistle said.

  “Excellent, boy. Well done.” Augusta started walking.

  Thistle grabbed her sleeve. “You gave me your word. My name.”

  Augusta turned around and looked down at him. “Your name. Of course.”

  She grabbed his jaw with one hand and looked deep into his eyes. “Albin,” she said. “Albin Jönsson is your name.”

&n
bsp; The boy’s eyes filled with tears. He let out a long sigh.

  “That means you are completely free,” Augusta said. “Which also means I am free to kill you.”

  Before the boy could react, she snatched the carving knife from her belt and drove it into his stomach.

  “Thank you for your service, darling,” Augusta said. “Your death will be slow.”

  She let him go, and he sank to the ground with a groan. Augusta turned around and walked into the haze.

  25

  When Dora woke up, the room was empty, with only embers glowing in the fireplace. It was quiet save for the faint sound of Stjärna’s bell upstairs.

  The coveralls she had hung on the back of a chair were gone, replaced by a shift and a woolen skirt and jacket that looked much like Grandmother’s. She put them on; they were almost her size, although the jacket was short in the sleeves.

  A loaf of bread wrapped in linen sat on the table, together with the box of butter. Dora cut herself a thick slice of bread and chewed on it while she walked up the tunnel to the barn. Grandmother was milking the cows with a rhythmic drizzle; she crooned a slow melody, full of trills and strange consonants, so melancholy it made Dora’s heart catch: Lilltåa, tåtilla, kroknosa, tillerosa.

  “Why is it so sad?”

  Grandmother stopped singing and looked up at her. “It’s not sad. It’s how we sing.” She smiled. “It’s a children’s song. Counting the toes on your foot. I sang it to our daughter.”

  “Where is she now?”

  Grandmother’s smile tightened. She patted the cow’s flank. “She snuck down to the village for the Midsummer dance, and a man threw a pair of iron shears over her head. He saw her tail and knew that cold iron would trap her.”

  She stood up and poured the contents of the bucket into a large crock, then put a lid on it.

  “Take the other handle,” she said. “We’ll put it outside to cool down.”