“We’ll have to get back to the vans,” I say, shuffling the papers into a neat pile and taking off my rucksack to put them inside. “Abandoned buildings aren’t safe in heavy rain. It can be too much on the joints—the weight from the water can make them collapse.”
Emmy nods.
“I’ll let the others know,” she says.
She walks over to the doorway without waiting for a reply.
“Guys,” she shouts to the others in the church. “We have to get back to the vans.”
“Why?” I hear one of the guys shout back.
“It’s not safe in the rain,” she says. “Pack up so we can get going.”
They don’t seem to protest. Of course they don’t: Emmy said it. People do as she says because she expects no less.
I have always envied her that.
I close the zipper on my rucksack, and get it on just in time to see the sky outside the window flare up.
A real spring storm. So typical that it would happen on one of my five days. But with any luck it won’t last long. They normally pass over pretty fast.
“Ready?” Emmy asks from the other side of the door.
“Yes,” I reply, pulling up the hood of my jacket as the thunder rumbles above us.
NOW
The rain is clattering against the roof of the van. It’s chilly here in the back, much colder than it has been, but I’ve wrapped myself up in a blanket. I’m sitting in the light of one of our small, battery-powered lamps. Tone’s asleep in the tent, so I’ve started drafting a blog post about the first day. I wonder if she would mind us taking a picture of her ankle? I know it might not be in the best taste, but it gives everything credibility, makes it feel more tangible.
If not, the shots of the broken step will have to do. With any luck we can get them this afternoon, once the rain has stopped. We’ll need to go back to the school to try to find Tone’s walkie-talkie, anyway.
I’ve been staring at the same sentence for what must be ten minutes now. The sound of the rain lashing against the roof is strangely soothing, and I yawn into the back of my hand. I can understand why Tone’s asleep. I would absolutely love to be, too. I’m not getting anywhere with this.
I feel the rucksack at my feet calling out to me.
Why not take a look at the papers from the church? I mean, they’re part of the job, too. They’re a story. Just because that’s more appealing to me right now than writing blog posts and putting together a production schedule doesn’t mean it’s not important.
I close my laptop, reach for my rucksack, and unzip the bag slowly and carefully, so that the small raindrops on the outside don’t make it onto the papers.
The sheets of paper are so thin between my fingertips that I’m almost too scared to take hold of them. Will they get destroyed by the oil on my skin? Archivists and librarians tend to wear gloves when handling old papers like this, but I don’t have any with me. And I’m so eager to read them that my hands are shaking.
The divine
To let the divine light in
There is no fear before God. Only love.
The top few sheets match the one Emmy and I were looking at in the church. They look like sermons that Pastor Mattias has written, cut and edited, seemingly churning out draft after draft, polishing his ideas like any good writer. The language is turgid but compelling.
I turn the pages.
The next page must have been written at a different point in time. There are no crossings-out here; everything is written in one great sweep, and the handwriting is different, too. It’s bigger, more sprawling, as though written in a rapturous frenzy.
God has always demanded sacrifices of His own; salvation is neither cheap nor easy. The true path may lead us through darkness, but it is only in daring to walk through the valley of the shadow of death that we can be reborn, pure and new, on the other side; only by sinking down into darkness that we can find the light.
The true path is neither sweet nor seductive. The true path is not straight, but winds. It is an arduous path, for it separates the faithful from the lazy and weak, the worthy from the unworthy.
Meanwhile, beside that path, the Devil lies in wait. He walks among you, masked by innocent faces and gentle voices. And he will whisper in your ear: “Follow me. Choose earthly pleasures, these gleaming, short-lived distractions. Who cares about eternity?”
You must find his servants among you. They will surely appeal to the evil within you, implore and beseech you, but you must temper your hearts and listen to God’s voice alone. Heed not the lies that drip like honey from their lips, that coil around your hearts only to weigh them down. Steel yourselves against these lies, and follow the true light.
You are His warriors. You are his chosen ones. But you must choose Him. You cannot lie back and expect salvation; your place in the Kingdom of Heaven is not assured. You must let go of your worldly lives, dare to travel through the darkness in order to see the light. You must be willing to see his enemies for what they truly are, and strike them down with a divine strength and wrath.
I lick my dry lips and turn the page. Lightning strikes outside, and I see the bolt through the little Plexiglas window between the driver’s seat and the back. I count slowly—one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four Mississippi—then the rumble comes from above, quick and ruthless. The storm must be right over us.
The pages are muddled up, as though someone has just thrown them together. The next page isn’t the continuation of the hastily written sermon. At first I don’t even understand what I’m looking at. It looks like something a child has drawn. Incoherent scribbles. Some of the shapes look like clumpy stick figures.
It makes me uneasy to think a child could have been there in that room, with the person writing what was on those pages.
The words make me think of poor, battered Birgitta Lidman. An outsider, an outcast, even before Pastor Mattias arrived. Were these the words that turned them against her?
Grandma’s voice echoes in my head.
Her name was Birgitta, but she was of meagre gifts, as we used to say in those days. At some point they started calling her names. Her mother had died a few years before, and on her deathbed she had asked my mother to look after Birgitta. My mother, being the sort of person who always wanted to help, agreed.
Birgitta was a tall, ungainly woman, with straggly hair and small dark eyes that never looked straight at you. Sometimes, before her mother died, you would see the two of them in the village together, but after her mother left her alone in this world, Birgitta stopped leaving her hut. Before I moved away, my mother and I would take it in turns to take a basket of food up to Birgitta each day. The basket always contained exactly the same things, for it was very important to Birgitta that nothing ever change.
Between her grunts, her evasive eyes, and her habits, Birgitta could be quite unnerving. At times she could fly into a rage, when she would get so frenzied that she would even do herself harm. I remember one instance, when Mother and I brought her a table and two chairs that Mother had managed to convince one of the village boys to make for her. They were a little crooked and uneven, but we thought them better than nothing (at the time the only furniture Birgitta had in her hut was a bed and chamber pot). But Birgitta was quite beside herself; she started shaking her head and rocking back and forth on the spot, and then her grumbling grew to a bellow, and she started flailing around wildly. She gave Mother a real wallop, but the one who came out of it worst was her: she smacked her head against the wall, giving herself a great big gash in the forehead.
Was her hut where Pastor Mattias believed that evil lurked?
Was it on these pages that it began, the process that would end with Birgitta Lidman being bound to a pole in the village square and stoned to death?
It’s inconceivable to me that people would listen to that turgid, flowery language about supernatural and evil. But someone did listen.
Aina listened.
I make to turn t
he page, but lightning flashes across the sky, followed by a crack of thunder after only two counts. I flinch and then laugh, embarrassed, despite there being no one there to see it.
I put those sheets down beside me and reach for the folders that are wedged in at the top of my rucksack. I have to coax them out, and they’re so heavy that they almost slip from between my fingertips.
Grandma’s own research covered hundreds of pages. I’ve selected the most important information for the summaries I’ve given the others, but I had to leave most of it out: she had saved every single article ever written about Silvertjärn and the disappearance. Much of it is worthless: speculation, false leads, articles that just rehash what others had already written.
But some of it did surprise me.
NOW
I put the folders down on the floor next to me and thumb through them to find the one I want: MATTIAS ÅKERMAN. It lies beneath SKANDIJÄRN REPORT, ’92.
I have no idea how Grandma managed to get hold of a copy of the mining company’s report. The group that bought the company in the early 2000s rejected my request for a copy right off the bat, so when I found a yellowed but fully legible copy in Grandma’s files, it felt like I had stumbled across a goldmine.
But that wasn’t all I found in Grandma’s archive.
The folder labeled MATTIAS ÅKERMAN is so old that the cardboard is almost fraying. I’ve copied and replaced most of the other folder labels, but Grandma hand-wrote this one, and I couldn’t quite bring myself to throw it away. Her handwriting is neat and pragmatic. I run my fingers over the faded pencil text before opening it.
The first press clipping is short and almost illegible. It’s the copy of a brief notice in a local newspaper.
Nils and Edda Åkerman are pleased to announce the birth of their son, MATTIAS ÅKERMAN, born September 12, 1928. The christening will take place in Forshälla Church on Sunday, September 23.
I don’t know how Grandma tracked him down. I have no idea where she picked up his trail, or if she was even sure that she had found the right person. I only found her archive after her first stroke, and by then it was already too late.
I thought we would have more time. I guess that’s always the way.
The next clipping isn’t from the press. It’s the copies of some hospital records for a Mattias Åkerman, then eleven years of age. According to these, a Mattias with the same date of birth was admitted to hospital three times in the years 1939 and 1940: once for a broken rib, once for stomach pains, and once for a broken arm. The cause of his complaints is never explained, simply that he was treated and then sent home.
In the first two records, Nils Åkerman is listed as the guardian present. In the third—the one relating to the broken arm—that field is left empty. I don’t know if it’s down to laziness, or if it means something. Grandma has written “Living with uncle?” in the margin beside it.
The next clipping is a death notice. It looks like it comes from the same local paper, from late May 1940.
EDDA ÅKERMAN has passed away after a short illness. She is mourned by her husband, NILS ÅKERMAN.
Her funeral will take place in Forshälla Church this coming Saturday, June 5.
The notice features a dark, blurry image of a washed-out face. The features are difficult to make out, and the eyes are simply two darker spots in a white oval. She doesn’t appear to be smiling.
In the margin Grandma has written: “Already moved? No son mentioned.” And then, underneath:
“Cause of death?”
That question is not answered.
After that comes the timeline. I have no idea whether these are simply educated guesses, or if Grandma based it on information that has since disappeared somewhere in her files.
09/12 1928: Born to parents Nils and Edda Åkerman in Forshälla, Blekinge.
1928–?: Early childhood spent with parents. Unclear when he moves, or why. Possible causes: Death of mother. Financial problems. Early violent tendencies.
1939–1940: Hospitalized at least three times for fractures and possible internal bleeding. No further investigations made.
1940?–1944: Leaves parental home and moves in with his uncle, Gustaf Larsson. Unclear when the move happens: mother’s death notice suggests before her death in June 1942, but there is no concrete evidence of Mattias living with the Larssons before 1944.
June 1942: Mother, Edda Åkerman, passes away in early June. Mattias would have been thirteen. Unclear if still living with parents, or with uncle at the time. Cause of death unclear.
10/21 1944: First evidence that Mattias is officially living with his uncle Gustaf and his family. See national registration records. The same record states that Gustaf’s wife, Berit, and daughters Linnea (b.1934) and Sofia (b.1936) both live at the same address. See also marriage license and birth certificates.
May 1946: Linnea admitted to hospital. Her mother, Berit Larsson, is the guardian present. The records state that she has previously complained of abdominal pains. She has bruises on her left arm and on both thighs, but does not want to state where these came from. The nurse deems no treatment to be necessary, and sends her home with a warning to be more careful in her play.
November 1946: Linnea admitted to hospital for the second time. Berit Larsson once again listed as the guardian present. Linnea is brought in after losing consciousness due to particularly heavy menstrual bleeding. When examined, the bleeding turns out to be an early miscarriage. Linnea refuses to give the father’s name. She is kept in hospital for three days for observation.
July 1947: National registration records reveal Mattias is no longer registered at the Larsson family address, nor with his father, Nils Åkerman. No trace of him elsewhere.
02/16 1951: Mattias Åkerman is arrested in Stockholm for vagrancy, and fined. Fines don’t appear to have been paid.
07/09 1953: A young man described as “of average height, with blond hair and gray eyes, wearing a ripped shirt and patched-up trousers” is arrested on suspicion of the sexual assault of a young girl in Falun. Gives his name as Mattias Larsson, but is unable to provide any formal identification. He is released the next day, after the victim claims to be unable to identify the perpetrator with any certainty. Exact nature of the assault not stated. Dubious as to whether this is Mattias Åkerman, but the physical descriptions match, and the name Mattias Larsson could be a nod to his uncle’s surname.
June 1955: a Mattias Åkerman applies to study for the clergy. Application rejected.
June 1956: a Mattias Åkerman applies to study for the clergy. Application rejected.
Grandma’s timeline ends here.
A few more documents follow after that—birth certificates for Sofia and Linnea, and hospital records for Linnea. The first of these features pictures of her bruises—no more than blurry, dark patches on thin white limbs.
I have scoured these documents many times, read the articles and national registration records, and studied the hospital records and the concise police reports. I don’t know how Grandma came to be so convinced that Mattias Åkerman was the man who would later become Pastor Mattias. Perhaps she came across his name through his rejected applications to join the clergy, or perhaps she simply felt that he matched that profile. However hard I searched, I couldn’t find any clear link to him in her papers.
Much remains unclear, but it would be easy to weave a story from the few reliable facts she did find: a violent childhood that appears to have culminated in him moving in with his uncle; a mother who died before her time; an unstable youth growing up with two younger cousins. Those girls must have idolized him—a beautiful older cousin, a sort-of older brother and secret crush in one.
One who took advantage of his status. And of them. Until it all came to light and he was cast out onto the street.
A few years as a drifter, small misdemeanors. The suspicion of another, albeit unspecified, sexual assault on a young girl in Falun. Unsuccessful attempts to join the clergy.
And then, one fine
day, he turns up in Silvertjärn, with his exotic, lilting Blekinge dialect and mysterious past, to become the village’s savior and prophet.
It’s impossible to know if this is all true. But it feels as though there may be a grain of truth in there. And it’s hard not to wonder what that might mean. What Aina’s adoring, almost obsessive love might have led to.
I picture Silvertjärn on that August afternoon: the sweltering heat; that inexplicable emptiness; that lone baby in an empty room on the second floor of a deserted school.
I’ve scoured Tone’s face for similarities to my grandma’s, wondered if her narrow eyes could contain something of my grandma’s steady gaze.
Could the baby have been Aina’s daughter?
I’ve never quite allowed myself to ask that question.
The rain is still pitter-pattering against the windshield. How long can it go on for?
The sky above flashes again, and I see Max walking past the other van toward me, his figure doubly blurred through the windshield and the Plexiglas behind the driver’s seat. He’s wearing a thick jacket and walking fast, hardly more than a silhouette in the darkened storm light.
He’s probably bored out of his mind and after some company, I think, and feel a twinge of irritation deep in my gut. We’re here to work, this isn’t a camping trip. I can’t entertain him whenever he feels understimulated.
I hear footsteps approach and then stop by my back door. I realize I’m being harsh. For all I know, he might want to discuss the project or something.
I wait for him to knock, but none comes.
A few seconds pass. The rain starts to pound so heavily against the roof of the van that the noise is overpowering. All I can hear are my own breaths and the clatter of rain on metal.
Is he just going to stand out there?
I sit up and shuffle over to the back door to open it, but then wait.
The hairs on my neck are standing up. Why?
The Lost Village Page 11