Jagannath

Reindeer Mountain

Cilla was twelve years old the summer Sara put on her great-grandmother’s wedding dress and disappeared up the mountain. It was in the middle of June, during summer break. The drive was a torturous nine hours, interrupted much too rarely by bathroom— and ice cream breaks. Cilla was reading in the passenger seat of the ancient Saab, Sara stretched out in the back seat, Mum driving. They were travelling northwest on gradually narrowing roads, following the river, the towns shrinking and the mountains drawing closer. Finally, the old Saab crested a hill and rolled down into a wide valley where the river pooled into a lake between two mountains. Cilla put her book down and looked out the window. The village sat between the lake and the great hump of Reindeer Mountain, its lower reaches covered in dark pine forest. The mountain on the other side of the lake was partly deforested, as if someone had gone over it with a giant electric shaver. Beyond them, more shapes undulated toward the horizon, shapes rubbed soft by the ice ages.

“Why does no one live on the mountain itself?” Sara suddenly said, pulling one of her earphones out. Robert Smith’s voice leaked into the car.

“It’s not very convenient, I suppose,” said Mum. “The hillside is very steep.”

“Nana said it’s because the mountain belongs to the vittra.”

“She would.” Mum smirked. “It sounds much more exciting. Look!”

She pointed up to the hillside on the right. A rambling two-storey house sat in a meadow outside the village. “There it is.”

Cilla squinted at the house. It sat squarely in the meadow. Despite the faded paint and angles that were slightly off, it somehow seemed very solid. “Are we going there now?”

“No. It’s late. We’ll go straight to Aunt Hedvig’s and get ourselves installed. But you can come with me tomorrow if you like. The cousins will all be meeting to see what needs doing.”

“I can’t believe you’re letting the government buy the land,” said Sara.

“We’re not letting them,” sighed Mum. “They’re expropriating.”

“Forcing us to sell,” Cilla said.

“I know what it means, smartass,” muttered Sara and kicked the back of the passenger seat. “It still blows.”

Cilla reached back and pinched her leg. Sara caught her hand and twisted her fingers until Cilla squealed. They froze when the car suddenly braked. Mum killed the engine and glared at them.

“Get out,” she said. “Hedvig’s cottage is up this road. You can walk the rest of the way. I don’t care who started,” she continued when Cilla opened her mouth to protest. “Get out. Walk it off.”

They arrived at Hedvig’s cottage too tired to bicker. The house sat on a slope above the village, red with white window frames and a little porch overlooking the village and lake. Mum was in the kitchen with Hedvig. They were having coffee, slurping it through a lump of sugar between their front teeth.

“I’ve spoken to Johann about moving him into a home,” said Hedvig as the girls came in. “He’s not completely against it. But he wants to stay here. And there is no home here that can handle people with… nerve problems. And he can’t stay with Otto forever.” She looked up at Cilla and Sara and smiled, her eyes almost disappearing in a network of wrinkles. She looked very much like Nana and Mum, with the same wide cheekbones and slanted grey eyes.

“Look at you lovely girls!” said Hedvig, getting up from the table.

She was slightly hunchbacked and very thin. Embracing her, Cilla could feel her vertebrae through the cardigan.

Hedvig urged them to sit down. “They’re store-bought, I hope you don’t mind,” she said, setting a plate of cookies on the table.

Hedvig and Mum continued to talk about Johann. He was the eldest brother of Hedvig and Nana, the only one of the siblings to remain in the family house. He had lived alone in there for forty years. Mum and her cousins had the summer to get Johann out and salvage whatever they could before the demolition crew came. No one quite knew what the house looked like inside. Johann hadn’t let anyone in for decades.

There were two guest rooms in the cottage. Sara and Cilla shared a room under the eaves; Mum took the other with the threat that any fighting would mean her moving in with her daughters. The room was small but cosy, with lacy white curtains and dainty furniture, like in an oversized doll’s house: two narrow beds with white throws, a writing desk with curved legs, two slim-backed chairs. It smelled of dried flowers and dust. The house had no toilet. Hedvig showed a bewildered Cilla to an outhouse across the little meadow. Inside, the outhouse was clean and bare, with a little candle and matches, even a magazine holder. The rich scent of decomposing waste clung to the back of the nose. Cilla went quickly, imagining an enormous cavern under the seat, full of spiders and centipedes and evil clowns.

When she got back, she found Sara already in bed, listening to music with her eyes closed. Cilla got into her own bed. The sheets were rough, the pillowcase embroidered with someone’s initials. She picked up her book from the nightstand. She was reading it for the second time, enjoying slowly and with relish the scene where the heroine tries on a whalebone corset. After a while she took her glasses off, switched off the lamp and lay on her back. It was almost midnight, but cold light filtered through the curtains. Cilla sat up again, put her glasses on and pulled a curtain aside. The town lay tiny and quiet on the shore of the lake, the mountain beyond backlit by the eerie glow of the sun skimming just below the horizon. The sight brought a painful sensation Cilla could neither name nor explain. It was like a longing, worse than anything she had ever experienced, but for what she had no idea. Something tremendous waited out there. Something wonderful was going to happen, and she was terrified that she would miss it.

Sara had fallen asleep, her breathing deep and steady. The Cure trickled out from her earphones. It was a song Cilla liked. She got back into bed and closed her eyes, listening to Robert sing of hands in the sky for miles and miles.

Cilla was having breakfast in the kitchen when she heard the crunch of boots on gravel through the open front door. Mum sat on the doorstep in faded jeans and clogs and her huge grey cardigan, a cup in her hands. She set it down and rose to greet the visitor. Cilla rose from the table and peeked outside. Johann wasn’t standing very close to Mum, but it was as if he was towering over her. He wore a frayed blue anorak that hung loose on his thin frame, his grime-encrusted work trousers tucked into green rubber boots. His face lay in thick wrinkles like old leather, framed by a shock of white hair. He gave off a rancid, goat-like odour that made Cilla put her hand over her nose and mouth. If Mum was bothered by it, she didn’t let on.

“About time you came back, stå’års,” he said. He called her a girl. No one had called Mum a girl before. “It’s been thirty years. Did you forget about us?”

“Of course not, uncle,” said Mum. “I just chose to live elsewhere, that’s all.” Her tone was carefully neutral.

Johann leaned closer to Mum. “And you came back just to help tear the house down. You’re a hateful little bitch. No respect for the family.”

If Mum was upset, she didn’t show it. “You know that we don’t have a choice. And it’s not okay to talk to me like that, Johann.”

Johann’s eyes softened. He looked down at his boots. “I’m tired,” he said.

“I know,” said Mum. “Are you comfortable at Otto’s?”

Cilla must have made a noise, because Johann turned his head toward her. He stuck out his hand in a slow wave. ”Oh, hello there. Did you bring both children, Marta? How are they? Any of them a little strange? Good with music? Strange dreams? Monsters under the bed?” He grinned. His teeth were a brownish yellow.

“You need to go now, Johann,” said Mum.

“Doesn’t matter if you move south,” Johann said. “Can’t get it out of your blood.” He left, rubber boots crunching on the gravel path.

Mum wrapped her cardigan more tightly around herself and came inside.

“What was that about?” Cilla said.

“Johann has all sorts of ideas.”

“Is he talking about why we have so much craziness in the family?”

“Johann thinks it’s a curse.” She smiled at Cilla and patted her cheek. “He’s very ill. We’re sensitive, that’s all. We have to take care of ourselves.”

Cilla leaned her forehead against Mum’s shoulder. Her cardigan smelled of wool and cold air. “What if me or Sara gets sick?”

“Then we’ll handle it,” said Mum. “You’ll be fine.”

What everyone knew was this: that sometime in the late nineteenth century a woman named Märet came down from the mountain and married Jacob Jonsson. They settled in Jacob’s family home, and she bore him several children, most of whom survived to adulthood, although not unscathed. According to the story, Märet was touched. She saw strange things, and occasionally did and said strange things too. Märet’s children, and their children in turn, were plagued by frail nerves and hysteria; people applied more modern terms as time passed.

Alone of all her siblings, Cilla’s mother had no symptoms. That was no guarantee, of course. Ever since Cilla had been old enough to understand what the story really meant, she had been waiting for her or Sara to catch it, that, the disease. Mum said they weren’t really at risk since Dad’s family had no history of mental illness, and anyway they had grown up in a stable environment. Nurture would triumph over nature. Negative thinking was not allowed. It seemed, though, as if Sara might continue the tradition.

Sara was sitting under the bed covers with her back to the wall, eyes closed, Robert Smith wailing in her earphones. She opened her eyes when Cilla shut the door.

“Johann was here.” Cilla wrinkled her nose. “He smells like goat.”

“Okay,” said Sara. Her eyes were a little glazed.

“Are you all right?”

Sara rubbed her eyes. “It’s the thing.”

Cilla sat next to her on the bed, taking Sara’s hand. She was cold, her breathing shallow; Cilla could feel the pulse hammering in her wrist. Sara was always a little on edge, but sometimes it got worse. She had said that it felt like something horrible was about to happen, but she couldn’t say exactly what, just a terrible sense of doom. It had started about six months ago, about the same time that she got her first period.

“Want me to get Mum?” Cilla said as always.

“No. It’s not that bad.” said Sara, as usual. She leaned back against the wall, closing her eyes.

Sara had lost it once in front of Mum. Mum didn’t take it well. She had told Sara to snap out of it, that there was nothing wrong with her, that she was just having hysterics. After that, Sara kept it to herself. In this, if in nothing else, Cilla was allowed to be her confidante. In a way, Mum was right: compared to paranoid schizophrenia, a little anxiety wasn’t particularly crazy. Not that it helped Sara any.

“You can pinch me if it makes you feel better.” Cilla held out her free arm. She always did what she could to distract Sara.

“Brat.”

“Ass.”

Sara smiled a little. She looked down at Cilla’s hand in hers, suddenly wrenching it around so that it landed on her sister’s leg.

“Why are you hitting yourself? Stop hitting yourself!” she shouted in mock horror.

There was a knock on the door. Mum opened it without waiting for an answer. She was dressed in rubber boots and a bright yellow raincoat over her cardigan. “I’m going to the house now, if you want to come.”

“Come on, brat,” said Sara, letting go of Cilla’s hand.

The driveway up to the house was barely visible under the weeds. Two middle-aged men in windbreakers and rubber boots were waiting in the front yard. Mum pointed at them.

“That’s Otto and Martin!” Mum waved at them through the window.

“I thought there were six cousins living up here,” said Sara.

“There are,” said Mum. “But the others aren’t well. It’s just Otto and Martin today.”

They stepped out into cold, wet air. Cilla was suddenly glad of her thick jeans and knitted sweater. Sara, who had refused to wear any of the (stupid and embarrassing) sweaters Mum offered, was shivering in her black tights and thin long-sleeved shirt.

The cousins greeted each other with awkward hugs. Otto and Martin were in their fifties, both with the drawn-out Jonsson look: tall and sinewy with watery blue eyes, a long jaw and wide cheekbones. Martin was a little shorter and younger, with fine black hair that stood out from his head like a dark dandelion. Otto, balding and with a faraway look, only nodded and wouldn’t shake hands.

This close, the old house looked ready to fall apart. The red paint was flaking in thick layers, the steps up to the front door warped. Some of the windowpanes were covered with bits of white plastic and duct tape.

Mum waved towards the house. “Johann’s not with you?”

Martin shrugged, taking a set of keys from his pocket. “He didn’t want to be here for this. All right. We’ll start with going through the rooms one by one, seeing what we can salvage. Otto has pen and paper to make a list.”

“You haven’t been in here until now?” said Mum.

“We’ve been cleaning a little. Johann only used a couple of the rooms, but it was bad. The smell should be bearable now.”

Otto opened the door. Johann’s unwashed stench wafted out in a sour wave. “You get used to it.” He ducked his head under the lintel and went inside.

Johann had used two rooms and the kitchen on the ground floor. Neither Cilla nor Sara could bring themselves to enter them, the stench of filth and rot so strong it made them gag. By the light coming in through the door, Cilla could see piles of what looked like rags, stacks of newspapers, and random furniture.

“There was a layer of milk cartons and cereal boxes this high on the floors in there,” said Martin, pointing to his knee. “The ones at the bottom were from the seventies.”

“I don’t think he ate much else,” Otto filled in. “He refuses to eat anything but corn flakes and milk at my house. He says all other food is poisoned.”

Otto, Martin, and Mum looked at each other.

Mum shrugged. “That’s how it is.”

Otto sucked air in between pursed lips, the quiet .jo that acknowledged and ended the subject.

The smell wasn’t as bad in the rest of the house; Johann seemed to have barricaded himself in his two rooms. The sitting room was untouched. Daylight filtered in through filthy window panes, illuminating furniture that looked hand-made and ancient: cabinets painted with flower designs, a wooden sofa with a worn seat, a rocking-chair with the initials O.J. and the date 1898.

“It looks just like when we were kids,” said Mum.

“Doesn’t it?” said Otto.

Cilla returned to the entryway, peering up the stairs to the next floor. “What about upstairs? Can we go upstairs?”

“Certainly,” said Martin. “Let me go first and turn on the lights.” He took a torch from his pocket, lighting his way as he walked up the stairs. Sara and Cilla followed him.

The top of the stairs ended in a narrow corridor, where doors opened to the master bedroom and two smaller rooms with two beds in each.

“How many people lived here?” Cilla peered into the master bedroom.

“Depends on when you mean,” Martin replied. “Your grandmother had four siblings altogether. And I think there was at least a cousin or two of theirs living here during harvest, too.”

“But there are only four single beds,” said Sara from the doorway of another room.

Martin shrugged. “People shared beds.”

“But you didn’t live here all the time, right?”

“No, no. My mother moved out when she got married. I grew up in town. Everyone except Johann moved out.”

“There are more stairs over here,” said Sara from further away.

“That’s the attic,” said Martin. “You can start making lists of things up there.” He handed Cilla his torch, a pen and a sheaf of paper. “Mind your step.”

The attic ran the length of the house, divided into compartments. Each compartment was stacked with stuff: boxes, furniture, old skis, kick-sleds, a bicycle. The little windows and the weak light bulb provided enough light that they didn’t need the torch. Cilla started in one end of the attic, Sara in the other, less sorting and more rooting around. After a while, Mum came upstairs.

“There’s a huge chest here,” said Sara after a while, pushing a stack of boxes to the side.

Cilla left her list and came over to look. It was a massive blue chest with a rounded lid, faded and painted with flowers.

“Let me see,” said Mum from behind them.

Mum came forward, knelt in front of the chest, and opened it, the lid lifting with a groan. It was filled almost to the brim with neatly folded white linen, sprinkled with mothballs. In a corner sat some bundles wrapped in tissue paper.

Mum shone her torch into the chest. “This looks like a hope chest.” She carefully lifted the tissue paper and uncovered red wool. She handed the torch to Cilla, using both hands to lift the fabric up. It was a full-length skirt, the cloth untouched by vermin.

“Pretty,” said Sara. She took the skirt, holding it up to her waist.

“There’s more in here,” said Mum, moving tissue paper aside. “A shirt, an apron, and a shawl. A whole set. It could be Märet’s.”

“Like what she got married in?” said Cilla.

“Maybe so,” said Mum.

“It’s my size,” said Sara. “Can I try it on?”

“Not now. Keep doing lists.” Mum took the skirt back, carefully folding it and putting it back into the chest.

Sara kept casting glances at the chest the rest of the morning. When Cilla caught her looking, Sara gave her the finger.

Later in the afternoon, Mum emptied a cardboard box and put the contents from the hope chest in it. “I’m taking this over to Hedvig’s. I’m sure she can tell us who it belonged to.”

After dinner, Mum unpacked the contents of the hope chest in Hedvig’s kitchen. There were six bundles in all: the red skirt with a matching bodice, a red shawl, a white linen shift, a long apron striped in red and black, and a black purse embroidered with red flowers. Hedvig picked up the purse and ran a finger along the petals.

“This belonged to Märet.” Hedvig smiled. “She showed me these once, before she passed away. That’s what she wore when she came down from the mountain,” she said. “I thought they were gone. I’m very glad you found them.”

“How old were you when she died?” said Sara.

“It was in twenty-one, so I was fourteen. It was terrible.” Hedvig shook her head. “She died giving birth to Nils, your youngest great-uncle. It was still common back then.”

Cilla fingered the skirt. Out in daylight, the red wool was bright and luxurious, like arterial blood. “What was she like?”

Hedvig patted the purse. “Märet was… a peculiar woman,” she said eventually.

“Was she really crazy?” Cilla said.

“Crazy? I suppose she was. She certainly passed something on. The curse, like Johann says. But that’s silly. She came here to help with harvest, you know, and she fell in love with your great-grandfather. He didn’t know much about her. No one did, except that she was from somewhere northeast of here.”

“I thought she came down from the mountain,” I said.

Hedvig smiled. “Yes, she would say that when she was in the mood.”

“What about those things, anyway?” Sara said. “Are they fairies?”

“What?” Hedvig gave her a blank look.

“The vittra,” Cilla filled in helpfully. “The ones that live on the mountain.”

“Eh,” said Hedvig. “Fairies are cute little things that prance about in meadows. The vittra look like humans, but taller and more handsome. And it’s inside the mountain, not on it.” She had brightened visibly, becoming more animated as she spoke. “There were always stories about vittra living up there. Sometimes they came down to trade with the townspeople. You had to be careful with them, though. They could curse you or kill you if you crossed them. But they had the fattest cows, and the finest wool, and beautiful silver jewellery. Oh, and they liked to dress in red.” Hedvig indicated the skirt Cilla had in her lap. “And sometimes they came to dance with the local young men and women, even taking one away for marriage. And when a child turned out to have nerve problems, they said it was because someone in the family had passed on vittra blood… ”

“But did you meet any?” Sara blurted.

Hedvig laughed. “Of course not. There would be some odd folk showing up to sell their things in town, but they were mostly Norwegians or from those really small villages up north where everyone’s their own uncle.”

Sara burst out giggling.

“Auntie!” Mum looked scandalized.

Hedvig waved a hand at her. “I’m eighty-seven years old. I can say whatever I like.”

“But what about Märet?” Cilla leaned forward.

“Mother, yes.” Hedvig poured a new cup of coffee, arm trembling under the weight of the thermos. “She was a bit strange, I suppose. She really was tall for a woman, and she would say strange things at the wrong time, talk to animals, things like that. People would joke about vittra blood.”

“What do you think?” said Sara.

“I think she must have had a hard life, to run away from her family and never speak of them again.” Hedvig gently took the skirt from Cilla and folded it.

“But the red…”

Hedvig shook her head and smiled. “It was an expensive colour back then. Saying someone wore red meant they were rich. This probably cost Märet a lot.” She put the clothes back in the cardboard box and closed it.

Cilla stayed up until she was sure everyone else had gone to bed. It took ages. Sara wrote in her journal until one o’ clock and then took some time to fall asleep, Robert Smith still whining in her ears.

The cardboard box was sitting on the kitchen sofa, the silk paper in a pile next to it. Cilla lifted the lid, uncovering red wool that glowed in the half-dawn. The shift and the skirt were too long and very tight around the stomach. She kept the skirt unbuttoned and rolled the waistline down, hoisting it so the hem wouldn’t trip her up. She tied the apron tight around her waist to hold everything up, and clipped the purse onto the apron string. The bodice was too loose on her flat chest and wouldn’t close at the waist, so she let it hang open and tied the shawl over her shoulders.

It was quiet outside, the horizon glowing an unearthly gold, the rest of the sky shifting in blue and green. The birds were quiet. The moon was up, a tiny crescent in the middle of the sky. The air was cold and wet; the grass swished against the skirt, leaving moisture pearling on the wool. Cilla could see all the way down to the lake and up to the mountain. She took her glasses off and put them in the purse. Now she was one of the vittra, coming down from the mountain, heading for the river. She was tall and graceful, her step quiet. She danced as she went, barefoot in the grass.

A sliver of sun peeking over the horizon broke the spell. Cilla’s feet were suddenly numb with cold. She went back into the house and took everything off again, fished her glasses out and folded the clothes into the cardboard box. It was good wool; the dew brushed off without soaking into the skirt. When Cilla slipped into bed again, it was only a little past two. The linen was warm and smooth against the cold soles of her feet.

They returned to the family house the following day. Sara decided that wading through debris in the attic was stupid and sulked on a chair outside. Cilla spent the day writing more lists. She found more skis, some snowshoes, a cream separator, dolls, a half-finished sofa bed, and a sewing table that was in almost perfect condition.

Johann showed up in the afternoon. Martin and Otto seemed to think he was going to make a scene, because they walked out and met him far down the driveway. Eventually they returned, looking almost surprised, with Johann walking beside them, his hands clasped behind his back. When Cilla next saw him, he had sat down in a chair next to Sara. Sara had a shirtsleeve over her nose and mouth, but she was listening to him talk with rapt attention. Johann left again soon after. Sara wouldn’t tell Cilla what they’d spoken about, but her eyes were a little wider than usual, and she kept knocking things over.

When they returned to Hedvig’s house, Sara decided to try on Märet’s dress. On her, the skirt wasn’t too long or too tight; it cinched her waist just so, ending neatly at her ankle. The bodice fit like it was tailor-made for her as well, tracing the elegant tapering curve of her back from shoulder to hip. She looked like she’d just stepped out of a story. It made Cilla’s chest feel hollow.

Sara caught her gaze in the mirror and made a face. “It looks stupid.” She plucked at the skirt. “The red is way too bright. I wonder if you could dye it black? Because that would look awesome.”

Cilla looked at her own reflection, just visible beyond Sara’s red splendour. She was short and barrel-shaped, eyes tiny behind her glasses. There were food stains on her sweater. “You look stupid,” she managed.

Mum was scrubbing potatoes in the kitchen when Cilla came downstairs.

“Who’s getting the dress, Mum? Because Sara wants to dye it black.”

“Oh ho?” said Mum. “Probably not, because it’s not hers.”

“Can I have it?” Cilla shifted her weight from foot to foot. “I wouldn’t do anything to it.”

“No, love. It belongs to Hedvig.”

“But she’s old. She won’t use it.”

Mum turned and gave Cilla a long look, eyebrows low. “It belonged to her mother, Cilla. How would you feel if you found my wedding dress, and someone gave it away to some relative instead?”

“She has everything else,” Cilla said. “I don’t have anything from great-gran.”

“I’m sure we can find something from the house,” said Mum. “But not the dress. It means a lot to Hedvig. Think of someone else’s feelings for a change.”

Sara came down a little later with the same request. Mum yelled at her.

Maybe it was because of Mum’s outburst, but Sara became twitchier as the evening passed on. Finally she muttered something about going for a walk and shrugged into her jacket. Cilla hesitated a moment and then followed.

“Fuck off,” Sara muttered without turning her head when Cilla came running after her.

“No way,” said Cilla.

Sara sighed and rolled her eyes. She increased her pace until Cilla had to half-jog to keep up. They said nothing until they came down to the lake’s shore, a stretch of rounded river stones that made satisfying billiard-ball noises under Cilla’s feet.

Sara sat down on one of the larger rocks and dug out a soft ten-pack of cigarettes. She shook one out and lit it. “Tell Mum and I’ll kill you.”

“I know.” Cilla sat down next to her. “Why are you being so weird? Ever since you talked to Johann.”

Sara took a drag on her cigarette and blew the smoke out through her nose. She shrugged. Her eyes looked wet. “He made me understand some things, is all.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m not crazy. Like none of us are.” She looked out over the lake. ”We should stay here. Maybe we’d survive.” Her eyes really were wet now. She wiped at them with her free hand.

Cilla felt cold trickle down her back. “What are you on about?”

Sara rubbed her forehead. “You have to promise not to tell anyone, because if you tell anyone bad stuff will happen, okay? Shit is going to happen just because I’m telling you. But I’ll tell you because you’re my little sis.” She slapped a quick rhythm on her thigh. “Okay. So it’s like this—the world is going to end soon. It’s going to end in ninety-six.”

Cilla blinked. “How would you know?”

“It’s in the newspapers, if you look. The Gulf War, yeah? That’s when it started. Saddam Hussein is going to take revenge and send nukes, and then the U.S. will nuke back, and then Russia jumps in. And then there’ll be nukes everywhere, and we’re dead. Or we’ll die in the nuclear winter, ‘cause they might not nuke Sweden, but there’ll be nothing left for us.” Sara’s eyes were a little too wide.

“Okay,” Cilla said, slowly. “But how do you know all this is going to happen?”

“I can see the signs. In the papers. And I just… know. Like someone told me. The twenty-third of February in ninety-six, that’s when the world ends. I mean, haven’t you noticed that something’s really really wrong?”

Cilla dug her toe into the stones. “It’s the opposite.”

“What?” There was no question mark to Sara’s tone.

“Something wonderful,” Cilla said. Her cheeks were hot. She focused her eyes on her toe.

“You’re a fucking idiot.” Sara turned her back, demonstratively, and lit a new cigarette.

Cilla never could wait her out. She walked back home alone.

On midsummer’s eve, they had a small feast. There was pickled herring and new potatoes, smoked salmon, fresh strawberries and cream, spiced schnapps for Mum and Hedvig. It was past ten when Cilla pulled on Sara’s sleeve.

“We have to go pick seven kinds of flowers,” she said.

Sara rolled her eyes. “That’s kid stuff. I have a headache,” she said, standing up. “I’m going to bed.”

Cilla remained at the table with her mother and great-aunt, biting her lip.

Mum slipped an arm around her shoulder. “Picking seven flowers is an old, old tradition,” she said. “There’s nothing silly about it.”

“I don’t feel like it anymore,” Cilla mumbled.

Mum chuckled gently. “Well, if you change your mind, tonight is when you can stay up for as long as you like.”

“Just be careful,” said Hedvig. “The vittra might be out and about.” She winked conspiratorially at Cilla.

At Hedvig’s dry joke, Cilla suddenly knew with absolute certainty what she had been pining for, that wonderful something waiting out there. She remained at the table, barely able to contain her impatience until Mum and Hedvig jointly decided to go to bed.

Mum kissed Cilla’s forehead. “Have a nice little midsummer’s eve, love. I’ll leave the cookies out.”

Cilla made herself smile at her mother’s patronizing remark, and waited for the house to go to sleep.

She had put the dress on right this time, as well as she could, and clutched seven kinds of flowers in her left hand — buttercup, clover, geranium, catchfly, bluebells, chickweed, and daisies. She stood at the back of the house, on the slope facing the mountain. It was just past midnight, the sky a rich blue tinged with green and gold. The air had a sharp and herbal scent. It was very quiet.

Cilla raised her arms. “I’m ready,” she whispered. In the silence that followed, she thought she could hear snatches of music. She closed her eyes and waited. When she opened them again, the vittra had arrived.

They came out from between the pine trees, walking in pairs, all dressed in red and white: the women wore red skirts and shawls and the men long red coats. Two of them were playing the fiddle, a slow and eerie melody in a minor key.

A tall man walked at the head of the train, dressed entirely in white. His hair was long and dark and very fine. There was something familiar about the shape of his face and the translucent blue of his eyes. For a moment, those eyes stared straight into Cilla’s. It was like receiving an electric shock; it reverberated down into her stomach. Then he shifted his gaze and looked beyond her to where Sara was standing wide-eyed by the corner of the house in her oversized sleeping t-shirt. He walked past Cilla without sparing her another glance.

The beautiful man from the mountain approached Sara where she stood clutching the edge of the rain barrel. He put a hand on her arm and said something to her that Cilla couldn’t hear. Whatever it was, it made Sara’s face flood with relief. She took his hand, and they walked past Cilla to the rest of the group. The fiddle players started up their slow wedding march, and the procession returned to the mountain. Sara never looked back.

Cilla told them that Sara must have taken the dress, that she herself had gone to bed not long after the others. She did tell them of Sara’s doomsday vision and her belief that she could tell the future by decoding secret messages in the newspaper. When the search was finally abandoned, the general opinion was that Sara had had a bout of psychotic depression and gone into the wild, where she had either fallen into a body of water or died of exposure somewhere she couldn’t be found. Up there, you can die of hypothermia even in summer. Cilla said nothing of the procession, or of the plastic bag in her suitcase where Märet’s dress lay cut into tiny strips.

She kept the bag for a long time.