The Memory Theater

by Karin Tidbeck

  “I would like to go now, please,” Dora said.

  “We will,” Grandmother said. “But the cows need attention.”

  “What do you do with the milk?” Dora asked.

  “We keep some; we give some away to our cousins,” Grandmother replied. “There are more of us living here in the mountains.”

  Outside, the snowy landscape was dazzling in the sunlight. Grandfather was chopping wood on a block next to the cave opening. He nodded at Dora and Grandmother as they carried the crock to a snowdrift. Grandfather put the ax down.

  “Is it time?” he asked.

  “It is,” Grandmother replied.

  She patted Dora’s shoulder. “Let’s get you something to travel in. Shoes, for one.”

  “No shoes,” Dora said. “I don’t like shoes.”

  Grandmother looked at Dora’s feet and pursed her lips. “Let me at least give you a shawl. For my own peace of mind.”

  She went down into the cave. She must have been prepared, because it was only a moment later that she emerged with a birch-bark knapsack and a triangular shawl which she laid over Dora’s shoulders, then crossed over her chest and tied at the small of her back. Grandmother tied another shawl over her own shoulders and shouldered the knapsack. Grandfather put on a long moleskin coat.

  “Let’s get the skis, then,” he said.

  “What are skis?” Dora asked.

  Grandmother and Grandfather exchanged glances.

  “I’ll fetch the snowshoes,” Grandfather muttered.

  * * *

  —

  It took some time to get used to the woven frames that Grandfather strapped to Dora’s feet. After a while, she could let herself sink into the rhythm of the wide-legged walk. She listened to the creak of snow under their feet, the rustle of fabric, the steady breaths, sometimes syncopated by an animal shrieking about its territory. Some of the gnawing fear dissipated. Worrying about Thistle on the way was pointless.

  They plodded down into the valley, through the pine forest, and up the other side where the mountain lay bare between tufts of old grass and heather. They went through the pass and down into the next valley. On the way, Grandmother sung something in a dialect Dora didn’t understand but whose notes, at once sad and joyous, sent shivers down her arms.

  “I don’t suppose you ever learned the songs of your people?” Grandmother asked in the silence that followed.

  “No,” Dora replied. “I don’t know if I have a people. My father abandoned me.”

  “Perhaps your mother, then?”

  “I don’t know if I have a mother,” Dora said. “I came from the earth.”

  “Then the earth is your mother,” Grandmother said, “and that’s a good mother to have.”

  She pointed north. “The most lovely music I have heard is that by our saajvoe cousins. They don’t quite sing like we do; they jojk.” The word was soft and wistful in her mouth.

  “You don’t jojk about animals or moods or the sun over the mountains. Do you see? The song is the thing. A fox jojk is the fox. A happiness jojk is happiness.”

  “I want to hear it,” Dora said. “Can you do it?”

  Grandmother shook her head. “I would never presume to. That song belongs to the saajvoe. Perhaps you will meet them one day.”

  * * *

  —

  They passed the silent rockslide and walked down into the next valley. In the last light from the sun, a farm came into view. Sounds came from inside the barn. As Dora drew closer, she saw that the yard in front of the house was stained crimson. A trail led from the yard and up the stairs to the front door.

  “Odd,” Grandmother said.

  “I’ll check on the animals,” said Grandfather.

  “Good,” Grandmother said. “Dora, with me.”

  Grandmother walked up to the front door of the house and banged on it three times.

  “Nils! It’s Grandmother come to visit.”

  There was no reply. Grandmother opened the door.

  The thick smell of blood shoved itself into Dora’s nose.

  “Nils?” Grandmother called, and went into the kitchen.

  “Oh dear,” she said from inside.

  Dora stepped into the kitchen with her.

  Thistle was curled up on the kitchen bench. Dora couldn’t tell if he was breathing. She shoved past Grandmother and knelt down next to him. She brushed stray locks out of his face. He groaned. He was breathing, but just barely. Grandmother set her satchel down and knelt next to Dora.

  “Help me turn him on his back,” Grandmother said.

  Thistle’s eyelids fluttered; he let out a high whimper. The whole front of his shirt and trousers were stiff with gore. Grandmother lifted Thistle’s hands from his belly. It was such a little wound to make so much blood come out.

  “Thistle?” Dora said. “Thistle.”

  Thistle’s eyes opened very wide.

  “You were dead,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

  Dora shook her head. “I’m sorry I took so long. I feel asleep.”

  Thistle’s mouth trembled. “You…fell asleep.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Dora said, and buried her face in his hair.

  “Grandmother will take care of you now,” she said.

  Thistle’s eyes went from Dora to Grandmother, who was rummaging in her backpack.

  “Who is she?”

  “She’s a good person,” Dora said. “She’ll help you.”

  “Don’t let her hurt me.”

  “I won’t,” Dora said.

  She held Thistle as Grandmother cleaned his wound.

  “It’s deep,” she said. “We’ll need good magic for this.” She pointed to a bucket on the floor. “Go outside and fill this with snow.”

  When Dora came back inside, Grandmother had stoked a fire in the stove and was mashing something with a mortar and pestle. She pointed at Dora to set the bucket down next to the stove, and scooped some snow out of it into a copper pot.

  “Dora,” Thistle whispered from the kitchen bench.

  Dora knelt down next to him. He was shivering. She sat down on the floor next to the sofa and cradled his face in her hands. He had a beard, now, scraggly and redder than his hair. His forehead was very cold. He stared back at her, and his eyes were wild.

  “He said you were dead,” Thistle said again. “But it wasn’t him. It was Augusta.”

  Dora shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

  “He was Augusta in disguise,” Thistle said. “It was her. And she kept me here. Told me you were dead. I grieved. I gave up.”

  “But I’m not,” Dora said. “I’m not. I was a stone.”

  Thistle frowned. “What?”

  Dora shrugged. “I was a stone. Where is she?”

  “Gone,” Thistle said. “Gone.”

  He closed his eyes and seemed to fall asleep.

  “Thistle,” Dora said, and shook his shoulder.

  “That’s not my name,” he mumbled.

  * * *

  —

  Grandmother came over to the kitchen bench, mortar in her hands. She knelt down next to the sofa.

  “This will hurt, my dear,” she told Thistle. “Dora, hold his hands.”

  Dora held on as Grandmother scooped sharp-smelling goop out of the mortar and packed it into Thistle’s wound. Thistle didn’t scream but went stiff and started to shiver violently. Grandmother covered the poultice with a strip of cotton and bound it tight around his waist. Then she laid a hand on the poultice and started to sing. It was a low, muted song that wound in circles and spirals, in that dialect that Dora didn’t understand. Thistle’s arms gradually relaxed.

  “There,” Grandmother said. “That’ll draw the bad fluids out and heal the wound.”

  Thistle’s face had go
ne from sickly to slightly rosy, and he seemed to breathe easier. Grandmother nodded to herself.

  “He’ll be all right in a while,” she said.

  The front door opened, and there was a stomping and scraping noise as Grandfather kicked snow from his boots. He came into the kitchen and exchanged glances with Grandmother.

  “The cows were alone in there for a while,” he said. “I had to milk them. There’s a horse, too. I don’t know whose it is.”

  “Nils is gone,” Grandmother said. “It seems he hurt this boy badly.”

  “He said it wasn’t Nils,” Dora said. “He said it was Augusta.”

  Grandfather frowned.

  “Not now,” Grandmother said. “We’ll need to take this boy home.”

  26

  Thistle wasn’t light anymore; he had put on muscle. But Dora carried him all the way back to the mine, through the night lit by Grandmother and Grandfather’s lanterns. They brought the horse and the cows, too; the animals followed without protest. Then Dora bedded Thistle down by the fireplace and let him sleep. She sat on the floor next to him, watching. She shook her head when Grandfather asked if she wasn’t going to rest. She had had enough sleep. While Grandfather and Grandmother went to bed, Dora sank back, letting her breathing slow down, concentrating on Thistle’s right hand in hers. It had calluses now, and dirt under the fingernails. He would need a bath. He had always been so mindful about bathing.

  Grandmother and Grandfather got up again after what seemed like no time at all, and Grandmother checked on Thistle’s wound and said it looked all right. Then she asked Dora to help her with breakfast while Grandfather went to take care of the cows. They moved Thistle into the armchair by the fire. Dora sat down next to him and spooned buttered porridge into his mouth, because his hands were shaking so much he couldn’t feed himself. He was still clammy and sickly-looking, but his eyes had lost the crazed gleam of the day before. He didn’t speak until the bowl was empty.

  “I was supposed to take care of you,” he said, and his voice was creaky. “Not the other way around.”

  “Not in the outside world,” Dora said. “You taught me how to live in the Gardens. Now I’ll protect you here.”

  “I mourned you. I missed you so much,” he said, and his voice broke.

  Dora took his hand. “I’m here now,” she said.

  Thistle held out his arm, and she lifted him into her lap. He rested his head on her shoulder, breathing in deep sighs. Dora smoothed down his hair and kissed the top of his head.

  “It was Augusta,” Thistle said into her shoulder. “It was her the whole time. She made me teach her the song to the crossroads. But I got my name back.”

  “What’s your name?” Dora asked.

  “Albin,” he mumbled. “It’s Albin.”

  “It’s a good name,” Dora said.

  “I remember everything now,” he said. “When she gave me my name…it all came back. My parents, who they are. My village. Where it is. I know the way now.”

  He raised his head, casting a glance around the room. Grandmother stood in the doorway. She gave Albin a gentle smile.

  “I could tell you to trust us, but that wouldn’t reassure you,” she said.

  “I’ll watch over you,” Dora told Albin. “Until you’re healed.”

  Albin looked at Grandmother, then Dora.

  “Only until I’m better,” he said.

  Dora nodded. “Only until you’re better.”

  * * *

  —

  They stayed with Grandmother and Grandfather while the days shortened and snow piled up around the mine’s entrance. Dora helped Grandmother and Grandfather with the last preparations for a long winter; Grandfather taught her to ski and snare grouse. One day Albin stepped out of the mine, and soon enough he too had his first go at skiing. He talked more and smiled again. Sometimes he would talk about his parents, but hesitantly, as if the memories would break when he spoke them out loud: My father taught me how to whittle wood. My mother has eyes like that. We had an apple tree and a dog.

  He would let only Dora come near him. If their hosts took offense, they didn’t show it.

  One evening, Albin sat down beside Dora where she was peeling potatoes next to Grandmother.

  “I’m ready,” he said. “I want to go home.”

  Dora looked at him. Albin reached out and rubbed his thumb over Dora’s cheek.

  “You still manage to get dirt everywhere,” he said with a grin.

  Dora smiled back at him.

  Albin’s smile softened a little. “You’ve changed, though.”

  “How?”

  “I can’t put my finger on it.” He leaned back. “You seem happier. Like you belong here.”

  “Do you know where you’re going, then?” Grandmother asked.

  “We’re following my name,” Albin said. “I can feel it calling me. Home. Where I came from. I know the way now. It’s south.”

  Grandmother and Grandfather wouldn’t let them leave without a birch-bark satchel each, stuffed with food and with a woolen blanket on top.

  “Off you go, then,” Grandfather said, and his voice was thick.

  “Good luck,” Grandmother added.

  Grandfather gave Dora a tight hug, then held his arms out to Albin, who blinked and offered his hand instead. Grandmother put her arms around Dora. She seemed smaller somehow.

  “Goodbye, daughter of the earth,” she said as she drew away. “You remind me of my own.”

  She and Grandfather joined hands and walked back into the mine.

  They started out when it was still dark; dawn trickled into the sky as they strapped their skis on. The air crackled with cold.

  Albin pushed himself down the hill. Dora followed in his wake.

  Part IV

  Homecoming

  27

  Augusta walked to the enclosure in the middle of the burnt plain. Her eyes still stung from the wind that had whipped at her as she passed from the hillside into this eerie landscape. The sky had taken on a sickly shade; in its center shone a dark disc surrounded by a bright halo. So this was the crossroads.

  She looked at her hands. They were still Nils Nilsson’s hands, an old man’s hands, coarse from work. She could feel this body weigh on her, an ill-fitting suit made of flesh. You will be Nils Nilsson forever or until one of your own recognizes and names you. Thistle knew, but he was beneath her. He wasn’t one of her own.

  * * *

  —

  The creatures swaddled in lengths of ashen fabric looked very busy at their tables. She tapped the nearest one on the shoulder. It looked up from the orb it was fiddling with.

  “You,” she said. “I need to go to the Gardens.”

  The creature tilted its head and regarded her with enormous eyes that didn’t have proper pupils. It seemed completely hairless, its skin shiny and artificial-looking. A clucking sound came out through its little slit of a mouth.

  “The Gardens,” Augusta repeated. “Show me to the Gardens. Now.”

  The creature rubbed its fingers together and closed its eyes. Then it opened them again and pointed to Augusta’s right, across the plain.

  “There’s nothing there,” Augusta said.

  It snapped its fingers and pointed again. It said something in that clucking voice.

  “Right,” Augusta said. “I’ll walk.”

  * * *

  —

  The ground changed first. Blades of grass shot up in the cracks between the mud plates, then grew into saplings. Shadows wavered in front of Augusta, and she stepped in among them, and they coalesced into tall beech trees. She was walking in a forest. Patches of daylight danced across the path before her. In the distance, the buzz of voices. Something felt off. The trees weren’t birches, and the daylight wasn’t supposed to be there, and there was no danc
ing rhythm. Still, Augusta walked on.

  The trees gave way to a clearing, a hollow in the landscape. A tall, spindly tower rose up against a cerulean sky; around it milled shapes dressed in identical hooded cloaks. Augusta couldn’t see their faces. The buzz of voices was louder.

  When Augusta approached, the crowd parted before her but didn’t otherwise acknowledge her presence. The hoods on their cloaks obscured their features entirely. She couldn’t hear anyone speak, but the faraway voices didn’t recede. It was as if people were talking around her but not close to her. She reached out at random and grabbed a shoulder. The figure whirled around.

  “You,” Augusta said. “Where am I?”

  The figure stood very still. Augusta tried to peek inside its hood, but the figure was shorter than her and the hood hung very low.

  “Show your face,” she said.

  The figure remained impassive. Augusta lifted the edge of its hood. The buzz became louder.

  Where there should have been a face was a blank surface across which little points of light danced in shapes too quick to follow. A mumble emanated from that surface. Augusta leaned closer to listen.

  “Three, nine, seven, one, five,” a woman’s voice intoned. “Three, nine, seven, one, five.”

  The voice was replaced by a loud, artificial-sounding tune. Augusta flinched and dropped the edge of the hood she had been holding.

  “Three, nine, seven, one, five,” the figure said.

  Augusta let go and took a step backward. She bumped into something. She turned around and was met by another figure, so tall that she was staring right up into its hood. There was that same blank space of a face. It emitted a cheerful, plinking tune.

  Augusta shied away from the figure only to crash into someone else, and someone else again. She pushed through the crowd, past bleeping noises and recited numbers, and reached the trees. The beings didn’t seem to have taken any notice whatsoever. The tall spire gleamed.

  She must have been sent to the wrong place. Augusta took a deep breath and sang the song.