The Lost Village

by Sten, Camilla

  “OK,” I agree.

  THEN

  Elsa shifts restlessly in her seat. The church pews are hard and worn, and in recent years her hips have started aching whenever she sits in the same position too long. Her mother had always complained about her hips, knees, and ankles, but Elsa had never thought it would happen to her, too.

  Oh well. She isn’t so very old. Nor is it so strange that she would get a sore backside after sitting on a dry wooden plank for an hour.

  “… how many people actually give thought to Jesus’s deeds in their daily lives?” she hears the pastor ask the congregation. “Many of those who call themselves Christians do little to live up to the name. It is easy to let oneself be distracted by the toils and troubles of everyday life, and to forget…”

  This sermon seems to be dragging on a bit. The church is full to the rafters, which is, of course, nice to see—many of the people she can see in the front pews are faces she doesn’t often see in church, a happy mix of youths and single older men—but she is concerned that Pastor Mattias is being too long-winded for their tastes. Einar tends to always keep himself to forty, forty-five minutes—short and concise. He realizes that Sunday isn’t a day of rest for anyone in Silvertjärn, whatever the Bible may have to say on the matter.

  Although, it has to be said, nowadays most days are days off for folk in these parts.

  Elsa can feel her stomach tying itself in knots. But she shakes her head: she can’t think like that. It’s going to be all right. She will figure something out, just as she always does. She’ll sit down and write to her cousin down in Skåne. You never know—he might be able to find Staffan a job at a factory or the like.

  As unbearable as the idea of leaving Silvertjärn is, Elsa has also noticed herself beginning to fall prey to the gloom hanging over the village like fog.

  It’s rather cold in the church. Spring’s raw, biting chill has found its way in through the large windows. Elsa wraps her shawl around herself more tightly.

  “… it is not that Jesus loves only the worthy; but that the only way to prove one’s worthiness is to merge with Christ. Every human soul has the opportunity to merge with the divine. What sort of person would renounce such an opportunity? One who has already turned their back on God. One who has already chosen to surrender themselves to mortal filth, mortal pleasures. The soul that chooses to follow the true path is pure and clear as water, but he who allows himself to be tempted and seduced becomes dark, dirty, and coarse, like ash.”

  Elsa frowns. The pastor’s voice has started to intensify, and his impassioned words soar up to the ceiling and echo back down. When he raises his voice and throws out his hands he sounds almost bewitched. But the color of his face is even and light, and his eyes gleam bright and silvery.

  Elsa leans in to Staffan and whispers:

  “Rather hard in tone, don’t you think?”

  But before Staffan can answer, Aina shushes her sharply. Elsa recoils at her daughter’s blazing look: Aina’s eyes are brimming with a concentrated rage. Elsa scrabbles to find a response, but Aina has already turned back to the altar, her face transformed from rage to adoration. She looks completely spellbound.

  Elsa looks wide-eyed at Staffan, but he simply shrugs and shakes his head. Didn’t he see what just happened? Perhaps not. Staffan never has been the most perceptive of men.

  She looks around the church. On closer inspection, she realizes that Aina isn’t the only one gazing at the pastor with a look of spellbound devotion; a number of the people around her look exactly the same—in fact, many seem to be hanging on the pastor’s every word.

  The knot Elsa now feels in her stomach is different from the one she feels when thinking about the mine, or about Staffan, or about moving away. It’s sharper. More alarming.

  Perhaps she ought to pull the pastor aside for a quick chat. They have had a fair bit of contact now, after all, since he helped her with poor Agneta Lindborg in her final days, and with Pär Nilsson when he was left to raise little Elinor on his own, and no idea what it meant to be a parent.

  Pastor Mattias does seem a reasonable man. Aina has taken something of a fancy to him, yes, but she’s young, and he is rather dashing. It isn’t his fault that his handsome face and natural charisma have turned a few heads among the congregation.

  Elsa will ask him to tone things down a little—perhaps even let Einar take the next sermon. That will probably be enough. Just a small change of course. She has helped many villagers to make those over the years, for the sake of keeping the peace.

  The sermon seems to be finally reaching its conclusion, thank goodness. They sing a quick psalm together, and then the congregation stands as one. Elsa touches Staffan’s arm.

  “I’ll just have a quick word with the pastor. Take Aina home with you, I shan’t be long.”

  Staffan nods, but when he turns around he raises his eyebrows quizzically.

  “Where’s the girl got to?” he asks.

  Elsa looks around. She spots Aina’s long dark hair in a group that has formed around Pastor Mattias at the altar. There must be twenty or thirty people crowding into that space.

  She’s never seen anything like it.

  Or has she? Small observations start to stir in Elsa’s mind; things she has seen and heard but never given a second thought until now.

  Aina’s behavior has been slightly strange of late, hasn’t it? Quieter, more abrupt? And there’s been rather a lot of talk of Pastor Mattias, hasn’t there—of how good he is, how much he’s doing for the parish, how he’s driving the evil from Silvertjärn? Evil. As though that were something one might discuss of a normal afternoon.

  Elsa pulls back her shoulders and shakes away her worry. It’s all fine. She can handle this. She always does.

  She walks toward the altar only to find herself stuck at the back of the group that has gathered before Pastor Mattias. Elsa clears her throat politely, but no one budges; no one even looks at her. She can’t hear what the pastor is saying; he’s having some sort of quiet, whispered conversation with one of the young ladies up at the front. Then he places his hand on her head.

  It’s little Lena, Elsa realizes with a jolt. Aina’s friend Lena. And she’s crying silent tears, staring up at the pastor in wide-eyed enchantment.

  Something inside Elsa breaks.

  “Pastor Mattias!” she says loudly. Her voice sounds shrill, but it cuts through the murmurs and babbles before her.

  The pastor looks up and sees her. It’s rather odd: the corners of his mouth are pulled up into his usual mild smile, but his eyes are cold as stone.

  “Might I be able to have a word, Pastor?” Elsa asks, not allowing herself to feel intimidated. When all’s said and done, she has nothing to fear from this boy or his little flock. Elsa knows every single person in Silvertjärn, and Pastor Mattias has only been here a few short months. She just needs to show him how things are done in Silvertjärn, that’s all.

  At first the pastor doesn’t respond. The silence expands. Elsa becomes uncomfortably aware that every eye between her and the pastor is glued on her.

  “Of course, Fru Kullman,” he says eventually. “What is it that you should like to discuss?”

  “Shouldn’t we perhaps go into the chapel to talk?” Elsa asks.

  The pastor watches her, his gaze calm and unbroken.

  “Here is fine,” he says.

  Elsa swallows. She refuses to let herself be intimidated, but it’s hard not to be affected by all the eyes that seem to be tracking her every move.

  “I just wondered if it might be nice to have Einar do the sermon next week?” says Elsa. “He’s been with us so long, after all, and, as engaging as you are, it would be good to hear from Einar, who has been our spiritual guide all these years.”

  Pastor Mattias pulls that strange, cold little smile again.

  “Einar has chosen to step down, Fru Kullman,” he says. “He has moved south to live with his sister. For the sake of his health.”

  Elsa
blinks.

  “His—his s-sister?” she repeats, hearing herself stutter but unable to stop doing it.

  “Yes,” says Pastor Mattias. “We shall all miss him dearly, of course. But before leaving, Einar assured me he had every confidence in me.”

  Elsa can’t think what to say.

  “Was there anything else, Fru Kullman?” the pastor asks.

  “Yes,” says Elsa, and swallows again. Her throat feels dry as dust. “I—”

  The pastor interrupts her.

  “In that case I wish you a good day, Fru Kullman,” he says. His eyes are glistening. “See you next Sunday.”

  It isn’t a push, just a shift. As though the crowd takes a small step backward, and Elsa suddenly loses her footing.

  She gropes around for something to say, but everyone has turned their back on her. No one is looking at her; no one even seems to notice she’s there. Not even the pastor.

  And no, not even Aina, the back of whose glistening, dark-haired head is a stronger, more painful statement than any shove could ever be.

  NOW

  When I step out of the church, I pull my mask down to feel the April sun on my face. It’s strong today, could almost be called blazing, and the warmth it radiates makes the village smell of spring.

  “OK,” says Max. “Was it the parsonage next?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “If that nineteenth-century map is right, then it should be around here somewhere.” I pause.

  “You can take off your respirator masks out here if you want,” I say. Robert shrugs, but Max pulls his down and smiles. It has left a red mark around his mouth, which makes me wonder if mine has done the same.

  This part of the village—the area that was built up between the church and the main square—is older than the identical row houses on the other side. The houses here all vary in size and shape, and they’re also lower, more stout. Hefty clapboard façades painted a faded sunny yellow or Falu red, with peeling white trims. They have resisted the ravages of time better than the row houses, despite being many times as old.

  We managed to do some filming inside the church and get a lot of photos, catching the details we missed the first time around. All in all, it took less time than I had expected. The stress has started to ease a little, even if it’s still a nagging twinge at the back of my mind. No matter how efficient we are today, we’ve still lost twenty percent of our scheduled time, which means we need to prioritize. I’m guessing the contextual shots of the ironworks will have to go. The sad truth is that a deep dive into the collapse of a small mining village won’t quite have the same appeal as the more sensational aspects of the story. The murder. The baby. The pastor.

  At the end of the day, we aren’t here to make a film: we’re here to show why we deserve the money and support we need to make a film. To pique the internet masses’ curiosity enough to make them want to see the final product. It’s all about generating interest—about questions, not answers.

  After today we only have two days left, which feels insane. How has it gone so fast? At the same time, I’m—cautiously—starting to hope this is a sign we might actually do this.

  Two more days. Two days to keep Tone as pain-free as possible; two days to keep an eye on Emmy. Two days to get material that’ll hopefully give us enough traction to find someone to take Emmy’s place on the project. More than one, if need be.

  I can last two days. We can last two days.

  When I see the neat little house it doesn’t look very different from the surrounding cottages, but I can still feel the pulse in my fingertips. I double-check the printout of the old map. Every site has been marked with an ornate-to-the-point-of-illegible hand, and the proportions seem slightly distorted—the river looks longer than it is, and the square lies further east—but the neat little rectangle labeled the CLERGY HOUSE seems to be in exactly the right place to be the building before me.

  “I think this is it,” I say and stop.

  It’s a yellow building with a small porch. The door is shut, and the few wooden steps leading up to it look completely rotted through.

  “I’ll go, Alice,” Max says, then walks around me and puts his foot on the bottom step.

  “No, wait—” is all I can get out before he crashes through it with a cry of shock.

  I put my hand on his shoulder.

  “Are you OK?” I ask.

  “Be careful,” Robert adds, as Max starts to extract his leg from the hole in the step.

  “You can’t put your weight in the middle,” I tell Max, my voice sharp with worry. “That’s where they’re weakest.”

  “So I see,” says Max, attempting a laugh as he pulls up his pant leg to check his thin, white calf. It doesn’t look hurt.

  “Are you OK? Don’t scare me like that,” I say.

  I walk past him and test out the step above the one that has just given way, then cautiously climb, keeping next to the bannister. The stairs creak, but hold.

  I don’t wait for the others before reaching for the door handle. It’s in an ornate, forged bronze style, old-fashioned but beautiful. The house itself may not be big, but it’s clear that someone influential once lived here.

  I pull my respirator mask back on. It feels hot and damp on my face. I push the handle. The door is heavy, but it opens.

  Behind me I hear the click of Robert’s camera as I step into the hall. The ceiling is surprisingly high, with one light—a small, dusty chandelier—hanging from it.

  Once we’re inside the front door, as if by silent agreement Robert turns into the little kitchen, while Max and I go through the door opposite. A bedroom, timeworn and a little cold. There’s nothing in there but a bed with a starched, yellowed sheet and a large wardrobe. There aren’t even any curtains over the slanting window frames. When I kneel down and look under the bed, I see two empty, brown glass bottles.

  “Must have been Einar’s,” I say, taking a picture.

  “Einar?” asks Max, as I stand up and brush off my knees.

  “The pastor before Mattias,” I reply. “I haven’t found any trace of him. He must have disappeared along with the rest.”

  We walk back into the hall, where Robert meets us.

  “Anything interesting?” I ask him.

  He shakes his head.

  “Pretty cold,” he says. “The bedroom?”

  “Empty,” I say. “Is this something we should be spending time on? In terms of filming?”

  Robert rubs his chin so that the stubble scratches against his fingers, then shakes his head.

  “Maybe later,” he says. “Could be some nice background for the film. A nice detail. But I don’t think it’s worth using in the preliminary pitches.”

  “No,” I agree, relieved to have had my own suspicions confirmed. “I’ll let the others know. We can always have an early lunch and take another look at the schedule.”

  I snap my walkie-talkie out of my belt and lift it to my lips.

  “Alice here,” I say, pressing the talk button. “Emmy, are you there?”

  I hear my words echo robotically from the walkie-talkie in Robert’s pocket. I release the button and wait, but nothing comes.

  “Emmy,” I repeat. “This is Alice. Can you hear me?”

  Nothing.

  “Emmy?” I ask again.

  “Could be the walls,” says Robert, squinting up at them. “They seem to work in here, between the three of us, but maybe the signal can’t get outside? That can happen sometimes.”

  I nod, even if my worry doesn’t quite want to give in. It sounds plausible enough.

  We walk back to the front door, and as soon as I have one foot on the porch I try calling her again.

  “Emmy,” I say. “Hello? Can you hear me?”

  Nothing—nothing but the weak, melodic murmur of the line.

  I swallow.

  “Could she have put it down somewhere?” I ask Robert.

  I’m hoping he’ll shrug and tell me not to worry in his steady, humming voice, but he doesn�
��t. A line has appeared between his eyebrows, and he pulls his own walkie-talkie out of his pocket.

  “Emmy?” he says.

  No reply.

  “Do you think something happened?” Max asks, giving voice to what we’re all thinking.

  I shake my head, trying to convince myself when I say: “I’m sure it’s nothing, it’s just—I mean, they’ve been acting up ever since we got here. It’s probably like the phone signal.”

  I look at Robert. His eyes meet mine, and I’m sure we’re thinking the same thing.

  “I think we should head back,” he says quietly, and I nod.

  “OK,” I say. “There’s nothing more to see here, anyway.”

  I should really stay behind to get some more shots of the exterior, but the sudden clump in my belly makes me shove my phone back into my pocket and start walking briskly back toward the square. It’s only when the straps start to chafe against my face that I realize I’m still wearing my respirator mask. I pull it down sharply.

  We pass a road sign. It’s rusted and paper-thin, and only parts of the name are visible.

  SO TREET

  I hear Max panting behind me, jogging to keep up. The road we’re on turns in toward the main road, and the square appears before us. The well-trodden, overgrown country road turns into a cobbled street.

  “Where—” I say, stopping still. Then I start to run.

  One of the vans has gone. It’s the first thing I see—the asymmetry makes it stick out like a sore thumb: suddenly there’s only one where once there were two.

  “Emmy!” I hear Robert call out, his voice cracking slightly on the last syllable.

  No reply.

  I slow down as we reach the square and look around, in the vain hope that they’ve just moved it.

  “Where the fuck are they?” Max asks behind me.

  Robert runs over to the other van and tears the door open. I manage a few split seconds of hope before I see there’s nobody in there.