by Karin Fossum
Theo’s voice could be heard clearly through the mobile’s speaker. ‘All’s well.’
‘Can you repeat that?’ Hannes asked, smiling at Wilma.
‘All’s well.’
‘And you’re not afraid or anything? You haven’t heard any scary sounds in the woods?’
At that, Theo’s laughter rolled through the room. ‘No scary sounds, and I’m not afraid.’ His boy’s voice was soft and clear as a bell.
‘Could you call us when you reach the water?’
‘OK, captain.’
Hannes ended the conversation and put his mobile on the table.
‘I will tell you one thing,’ Wilma said. ‘Bears have been spotted as far south as Ravnefjell. It was in the paper.’
Hannes Bosch tugged at his hair. ‘Ravnefjell! He’s just going to Snellevann. Honestly, Wilma,’ he said and took her hands. ‘Are you afraid that Theo will run into a bear? You’re not quite yourself. Did you take too many painkillers?’
He couldn’t help but laugh, because now he thought she had completely lost it. She pulled her hands from his.
‘I hate it when he leaves the house,’ she admitted. ‘When he’s out of my control. It drives me crazy.’
Hannes touched her cheek. ‘I know,’ he whispered.
At that moment Hannes Bosch felt carefree. ‘It’s a dangerous world out there. People drop like flies. Let’s sit on the porch and drink a bottle of wine before the bear gets him.’
Theo stopped at St Olav’s Spring.
The water glinted, and was almost silver fresh.
The spring was marked with a small sign that outlined its brief history. His father had read it to him many times. He stood there for a while paying respect, because the water in the source was holy, and to him the water had its own special shine. St Olav was a holy man, Theo thought, and his spring was too. So if I drink from it I’ll also be holy. He drank big gulps of the fresh water, and he thought it tasted good. Some believed the water had healing powers, and he felt it too — that his energies were renewed.
He pushed on. The holy water had given him new powers, he was certain. He used his eyes and ears, but everything seemed quiet and sleepy. Nature seemed to have settled down, and took no notice of the little boy with big feet who walked the path. Sheep manure and cow dung dotted the trail, and he had to be careful not to step in it. He walked in a zigzag, hummed a song. Wondered whether he should call his father, but decided against it. There’s got to be a limit, he thought. When Lars Monsen’s out in the wild he doesn’t make calls all the time. Ha! he thought, and quickened his pace. One two, one two, one boot and one shoe. Let the snakes come, I’m wearing good shoes.
When he had found a rhythm, he kept it, marching the trail at a good clip. The rhythm stuck with him and gave him speed and strength, and his thoughts focused on one thing: reaching the water. It’s actually quite easy being a man of the wilderness, he thought, once you’ve made up your mind. And you have to have the right equipment. He felt for the hunting knife to make sure it was still on his belt. When a bird fluttered up from the brush, he started. His heart jumped, but his nerves quickly settled.
The final few metres he walked barefoot.
Over the rocks down to the water. He found a fine place to sit, approaching close enough to the edge that his white toes reached the water.
That water is bloody cold, he thought. That’s what his father would have said, if he sat at his side with his toes in the water. His trainers stood neatly beside him with his socks stuffed inside, like two balls of white cotton. He shrugged off his rucksack and opened it, set his lunch with the three slices of bread next to his shoes. On the other side he put his Thermos with blackcurrant squash, and finally Optimus Prime. Because he’d run the last bit, he was out of breath.
I’m in the wilderness, he thought, and I’m really tough.
On his way up he had carried a strong willow branch. Now he snatched the hunting knife from his belt. He struggled slightly getting it out of the sheath. How quiet everything was. Even the tiniest sound was clear, a mosquito humming over the water, rustling leaves and heather. There probably aren’t any snakes, he thought, looking around. His toes were a tempting offering, perhaps, round and a little like marzipan such as they were. But nothing disturbed him as he sat at the water’s edge. Everything was beautiful and silent. He whittled and whittled on the willow branch. The wood smelled so good.
The whole forest, when it came to it, is edible, he thought, the foliage, the grass, the heather, bark and berries. He heard a sound in the distance and leapt up to peer towards the trail. It grew louder and he thought it was a motor. A tractor, perhaps, or a car. The sound came and went, and his imagination began to run wild. That never happened when he walked along a road, Theo thought, because cars drove past all the time. He sat down again, putting the branch down. He drove the knife back into its sheath and began to eat. Of course there were others in the forest. There was nothing to worry about. Just then, he heard voices — no doubt some men cycling the trail. He stood to have a look and one of them waved. Theo waved back. Wow, he thought cheerfully, it’s swarming with people.
He sat. With an enormous appetite he devoured the Swiss sausage and salami. His mother had baked the bread, and what he loved most about it was the crust. Though he was sated after the first two slices, he forced himself to eat the third. A hiker needs his calories. Once again he pulled out the knife and resumed whittling the branch. He fashioned a spear to a point, like an awl. He had to take care not to cut his finger, or accidentally drive the knife into his thigh. If something like that happened, he knew he wouldn’t be allowed to go on any more solo hikes. What excited him most was the thought of coming home and reporting to his parents everything that had happened. Well, OK, nothing had happened so far, but there was still a chance that something could. And if it didn’t, he could easily invent some minor story to make it more interesting. Wasn’t there an eagle circling high up in the sky, on the hunt for prey? Wasn’t there a big trout jumping out of the water? He saw the rings quite clearly; they spread slowly and prettily over the water. When it came down to it, anything could happen, Theo thought, and waved the sharp stick. With the stick he stirred the water as you stir a pot. The silence at the water’s edge and the spreading rings put him in a sleepy trance.
He fell out of reality. Into another, dreamlike landscape that seemed familiar to him. Here, too, there was a little forest lake and a trout leaping from the water. But suddenly a man paddled into view on his right. Theo blinked sleepily, disbelieving what he saw.
Wasn’t that Lars Monsen in his green canoe?
Lars pulled his oars into the boat. The canoe continued to glide, soundlessly like a knife, through the water and towards the bank where Theo sat. Lars’s curly hair had grown wild, his eyes narrow slits, the irises sharp and black like flint. The boat rammed the rocks with a little thunk.
‘Well, well, boy. You’re out trekking,’ Lars Monsen said. ‘Have you been out long?’
Theo shook his head. He sat with the willow spear across his knees and gazed devoutly at his hero. ‘I had thought about going to Ravnefjell,’ he said cheerfully. ‘But I ran out of provisions.’ He pointed at the rolled-up wax paper which lay at his side. There were only crumbs left.
‘Bad planning,’ sneered Lars Monsen. His teeth were sharp and white.
Theo nodded. The green canoe had some deep scratches in the bow where it had scraped the rock. His equipment was packed in two leather sacks at the end of the boat. In addition, he had a rifle and a fishing rod.
‘Did you catch any trout?’ Theo asked.
‘Yup. Got two big ones at the tip of the cove early this morning.’
They sat in silence for a while. Lars Monsen had a cap on his head. Now he pulled the brim down so that his eyes remained in shadow.
‘So you’re on your way back?’
‘Yes,’ Theo replied. ‘I figure I’ll be home in an hour. Will take a longer trip tomorrow. I’ll take more p
rovisions then.’
‘Where’s your tent anyway?’ Lars asked. He narrowed his eyes at Theo.
‘Eh, the tent,’ Theo stammered. ‘No, this is just a one-day trip,’ he said, embarrassed. ‘But I’ll get myself a tent, and a canoe,’ he said quickly. ‘One like yours.’
He put his lunch paper in his rucksack. He wasn’t the kind of person who left a mess in the wilderness.
‘I met a teddy bear up here,’ Lars Monsen said and pointed.
Theo opened his mouth in fright. ‘What? A bear?’
‘Yup,’ Lars said. ‘Or rather, three bears. A fat mama bear and her two cubs. Damn, she was a giant, you should have seen her. Shaggy as a bumblebee, heavy as a hippo. There’s fresh bear scat in the whole area.’
Theo’s heart transformed from a small hard muscle into something hot and fluid that flowed through his body.
‘I shouted some swear words at her,’ Lars Monsen laughed. ‘Which was a little too much for Mama Bear. Ladies don’t like it when you’re rude. It was up near Ravnefjell,’ he added. ‘You’re not going that way, are you? You’re going south, to Saga, down through Glenna?’
Theo raised the branch from his lap. He seemed to be on shaky ground. ‘I’ve got a spear,’ he stuttered, ‘and a hunting knife.’
He pulled the knife from its sheath and brandished it, then saw Lars’s rifle lying in the green canoe. That’s what he needed. So he could have blown off the head of the mama bear and her cubs.
Lars Monsen smiled. He threw his curly head back and burst into laughter so booming it rang across the water, making the birds flutter up, and sending squirrels scampering through the heather in fright.
‘So you’ll poke a stick at the mama bear,’ he sniggered. ‘Did you make that spear in woodwork at school? That’s the funniest thing I’ve seen all day. Yes, Mama Bear will be scared, I’ll bet.’
He grasped the oars with both hands and paddled off. The green canoe gained speed. Theo heard his laughter until the canoe was beyond the headland. I’ve got to get home, he thought, confused, and gathered up his things. He put on his socks and trainers, and stuffed everything in his rucksack. I can’t sit here any longer doing nothing. Lars Monsen. How terrific to see him paddling around Snellevann. But still, Theo thought, even if it was one of his silly daydreams, it was lousy of Lars Monsen to frighten him that way. Talking about bears and stuff, when everyone knows there weren’t any bears this far south. Theo put on his rucksack and got back to the trail. He tried to walk calmly, but couldn’t find a rhythm. Then he began to run, and a cold, sudden wind put the woods in motion. He grew agitated and rushed along, gasping, certain that something was about to catch him. Someone on the edge of the trail was observing him, and something terrible waited further ahead.
Hannes Bosch was an optician, as his father Pim had been before him, and he had a sense for light and refraction — everything that was the eye’s delight. He raised his glass of wine up to the sun and admired the deep, red colour through the crystal. Wilma sat with a newspaper on her lap. She glanced at her husband, and noticed that he had put his feet on the table.
‘Your feet,’ she commented, ‘are heavy as rocks.’
‘They may be heavy,’ he said, ‘but I can stand upright, whether the sea is calm or stormy.’ The wine had made him light-headed; he felt good, and happy. ‘When it comes to you and all your attributes, I keep my mouth shut,’ he laughed. ‘I’m not looking for trouble.’
They sat in the hammock. Wilma put her newspaper down, leaned her head against his shoulder and sighed. When the sun was low, as it was now, it was warmest. She could smell Hannes, his fine scent, could hear his heart beating calmly and evenly.
‘You’re never afraid,’ she said and turned her head to look into his mild, grey eyes.
He rumpled her hair, a thick, strawberry-blonde mane smelling of shampoo. ‘Not before I need to be,’ he said. ‘And right now I don’t need to be. I’m sitting here in the sun with you, and I have wine in a crystal glass.’
‘But why hasn’t he called?’ Wilma said.
Hannes tugged at a lock of her hair, twining it round his finger. ‘Maybe he’s trying to tell us something. That he’s not afraid. It’s a demonstration. We shouldn’t spoil it for him by fussing.’
Wilma manoeuvred in under his arm. ‘You’re so confident,’ she said. ‘I’m glad. That’s why I want to be with you for ever. But you’re only human, you make mistakes too.’
‘Not often,’ Hannes said. He let the mild red-wine buzz lead him far away. Wilma’s lock of hair felt like silk string between his fingers.
‘What if he’s actually afraid,’ Wilma said, ‘but too proud to admit it? So he walks the trail alone, his heart in his throat. Being tough for us. Maybe hoping we’ll call him so he’ll be spared the humiliation. That’s another possibility.’
Hannes got up from the hammock. Walking a few paces with a mixture of determination and gravity which made the wooden boards creak with each step, he fished his mobile out of his pocket and called Theo. While he waited, he began crooning. ‘Joy to the World, the Lord is come. Let earth receive her King!’
‘Why are you carrying on like that?’ Wilma laughed at her singing husband.
‘It’s his ringtone. I think it’s from Handel’s Messiah. ‘Joy to the World’. You probably know it. He took a few more steps. Wilma followed him with her eyes.
‘He’s not answering?’
‘Calm down now,’ Hannes said. ‘His mobile’s probably at the bottom of his rucksack, and he’s a bit clumsy, as you know. I can just see it.’
They waited. Hannes continued to pace, listening to the mobile ring.
‘He’s not answering?’ Wilma repeated. Abruptly she got up from the hammock, which swayed a few times before coming to rest.
‘Maybe it’s in his back pocket,’ Hannes suggested. ‘And he’s fumbling with his small hands. Or maybe he’s absorbed by something. Stay calm, darling,’ he teased. ‘We’ll try again.’
Chapter 27
It was Skarre who called Sejer.
He was so agitated that he could barely speak. Over the years he’d seen so many things: people floating in lakes, or hanging from beams. They had each witnessed tragedies great and small, and they had found methods to help them remain calm. But this was something else, something absolutely hideous.
‘You must come at once!’
Sejer pressed his mobile against his ear. ‘What is it? Where are you?’
Automatically he searched his pockets for his keys, because he knew he would have to get going. He heard Skarre breathing, and other voices further away. Even this background murmur sounded ominous.
‘Where are you?’ he repeated.
‘We’re out in Bjerkås,’ Skarre said. ‘Near Saga on the trail they call Glenna. You need to get here quickly. Sverre Skarning has opened the metal barrier, so you can drive all the way in. We’re at the first fork in the road, it’s called Skillet. There’s a big sign made of wood, with a map. You’ll see us.’
‘OK. What’s the situation?’ Sejer asked.
‘W-we don’t quite know yet,’ Skarre stuttered. ‘We can’t tell what’s happened. But between you and me, something dreadful has occurred here.’
‘Can you be a bit more specific? What’s the situation?’
‘As far as we can see, it’s the remains of a little boy.’
Thirty minutes later Sejer was at Glenna.
He saw them clustered at the fork in the road, milling about. Some had their hands on their heads. Others, perhaps unable to stand any longer, rested on logs gathered at the side of the track. A woman officer sat sobbing into her hands. A police car and an ambulance were parked further along. He opened his car door and got out, caught sight of the big wooden sign. Something lay in the road, and it immediately unsettled him. He felt a violent tug in his belly. Without wanting it to, his heart began to thump. He started walking, but very slowly, staring at the group of eight or ten crime scene officers. As they watched him approac
h, they stepped aside.
A green tarpaulin lay in the road. There was a very modest lump in the centre, indicating that it held quite a small body.
‘Take a deep breath,’ Skarre said. ‘It’s not pretty.’
The thin, synthetic material swished when they pulled the tarpaulin aside.
Sejer gasped. He couldn’t understand what he was looking at. The remains of a little boy, they had said. But what he saw was just a tangle of limbs, a hand, a foot, a blank, staring eye. He noticed a small rucksack with a Kvikklunsj chocolate bar patch sewn on to it. The rucksack was open, and something resembling a toy had fallen out. Shafts of bone stuck out from the flesh like thin, white sticks, the left arm was torn off at the elbow, and parts of the face were gone. A few small, round children’s teeth gleamed against red gums. Sejer could also make out a piece of khaki cloth, shorts possibly, and a white trainer. He glanced around for the match, but he couldn’t find it. The torn-off arm was nowhere to be seen, either. He had to get away, it occurred to him, a simple reflex. He was ready to bound back to the car. Give me something to drink, he thought, right now.
‘Has anyone touched him?’ he said.
The assembled shook their heads. The woman officer who had sat sobbing pulled herself together and wiped away her tears. But her face was filled with pain.
‘Who found him?’
‘Two cyclists out training,’ Skarre said. ‘We sent them away. We’ll talk to them later.’
‘Adults?’
‘Adult enough,’ Skarre said.
‘Did they hear anything?’
‘No. But the boy had clearly been all the way to Snellevann. They saw him on the way up, sitting on one of the rocks eating his lunch.’
‘Was he alone?’
‘Yes,’ Skarre said, ‘they believe he was alone. But he did have this with him.’ He lifted the toy off the ground and gave it to Sejer. ‘Optimus Prime.’
Sejer didn’t understand.
‘It’s a Transformer. You know, one of those toys that changes shape to become something else.’