The Quarry

Öland 1958

When the elves have made fru Jansson so ill that she is unable to work for the remainder of the school year, the supply teacher, fröken Ernstam, is allowed to stay with the class. Vendela likes her very much, and so do the rest of the pupils. She comes from Kalmar and has new ideas about teaching. She seems young and modern; sometimes she leaves her desk and walks around the classroom, and she refuses to play the pedal organ.

A week after she has taken over the class, fröken Ernstam tells the class that they will be going on a spring trip to Borgholm next Friday; they will be visiting the harbour and the castle, but they will also have the opportunity to spend some time in the shops around the square. The trip will be a kind of encouragement, a treat before they begin preparing for the important end-of-year exams.

A buzz of anticipation runs through the classroom, but Vendela remains silent.

She can’t go, of course. The cows have to be taken care of, and besides, everyone has to take two kronor for their train fare. It’s not exactly a fortune, but she hasn’t got it, and she has no intention of asking her father for extra money. She knows he hasn’t got any, he’s said so several times.

But within a week the issue of money for the trip is sorted out; on Tuesday she is able to borrow two fifty-öre pieces from her best friend Dagmar, and on Thursday — yet another miracle — she is walking home past Marnäs church when she suddenly spots a shiny two-kronor coin that someone has dropped on the gravel. So now she has enough money for the trip, and some to spare.

There is only one more problem: Rosa, Rosa and Rosa.

With the coins in her hand, she stops by the elf stone. She stands there, looking at the hollows in the stone.

They are empty, of course.

Vendela places a fifty-öre coin in one of the hollows and wishes that she might be spared the job of leading the cows home and milking them the next day. One day off a year — that’s not too much to ask, surely?

She stays by the stone for a little while, gazing at the coin. Afterwards she can’t remember what she was thinking about — maybe she wished for something else.

A better life, perhaps? Did she wish that she could get away from the farm, away from her father and the Invalid upstairs, away from the island? That she could escape to another world where she would have no duties, and where money wouldn’t be a problem?

Vendela can’t remember. She leaves the coin in the hollow and sets off across the grass without looking back.

She goes out to the meadow when she gets home, and the cows lift their heads when they see her. Rosa, Rosa and Rosa form a line and begin lumbering towards the gate, and Vendela lifts her stick. But she doesn’t hit them today; her head is full of thoughts. She walks behind the cows, wondering how her wish will be granted.

That night she is woken by the sound of the cows bellowing in the darkness. They sound terrified, and a strange crackling noise is mingled with their cries.

Vendela sits up in bed; she can smell smoke. Through the blind she can see a flickering glow outside. A yellow light around the barn that just keeps on growing, making the rest of the yard melt into one with the dark forest. She hears feet thundering up the stairs, and a shout: ‘The barn’s on fire!’

It’s Henry’s voice. She hears his steps crossing the floor, then the door is flung open. ‘It’s on fire! Get out!’

Vendela gets out of bed, and Henry pulls and drags and carries her down the stairs and out into the cold night air. She ends up on the wet grass, looking around in confusion; that is when she sees that the barn is ablaze. The flames are forcing their way out through the walls, sending sparks whirling up into the night sky. The fire has already begun to lick at the gables.

Henry is standing over her, barefoot and wearing only his nightshirt. He turns away. ‘I have to go and get Jan-Erik!’

He rushes back into the house.

‘Jan-Erik?’

No reply.

The cows are still bellowing, louder and more long-drawn-out than she has ever heard — they can’t get out.

The flames writhe across the ground, scrambling up the barn and colliding with each other beneath the roof like red breakers, and Vendela feels as if her legs are paralysed. She can’t move. She sits there on the grass watching her father emerging from the house with a big bundle of blankets in his arms.

Henry drops the bundle on the grass.

Vendela can hear the sound of wheezing. Two arms push the blankets aside, a face with white eyes appears, blinking, then a mouth with white teeth smiles at her.

The Invalid is sitting there on the grass, just a metre away from her. They sit and stare at one another, and all they can hear is the sound of creaking and cracking as the roof of the barn begins to collapse.

In the glow of the fire Vendela can see that the Invalid is not old at all. The Invalid is just a boy, perhaps five or six years older than she is. His legs are long and thin.

But he is sick. Vendela can hear that he has thick phlegm in his windpipe, and there is something wrong with his skin; his face is red and swollen even when the glow of the fire is not illuminating it, and he has long, bloody scratches on his cheeks and forehead, as if an animal has attacked him. The upper part of his body is also red and covered in sores. But he’s still smiling.

Between two and three years — that’s how long the Invalid has been living on the farm without Vendela knowing who he is. Can he talk? Does he understand Swedish?

‘What’s your name?’

He opens his mouth and laughs, but doesn’t answer.

‘My name’s Vendela. What’s yours?’

‘Jan-Erik,’ he says eventually, but his voice is so quiet and muted that she can barely hear it through the fire. He carries on laughing.

‘Who are you?’

‘Jan-Erik.’

Henry is still running around the yard, sometimes clearly visible in front of the flames, sometimes completely invisible in the darkness. When the fire reaches out and grabs hold of the gables of the house, he pumps a bucket full of water and goes upstairs to damp down the wood and beat out any sparks.

Vendela’s paralysis eases, and she begins to move. She does just one thing right tonight: she goes over to the hens’ enclosure next to the barn and opens the rickety gate. The hens and chickens come flapping into the yard, tumbling over one another, followed by the cockerel. They gather in a dense huddle in the darkness, out of danger.

‘Ring the fire brigade!’ shouts Henry.

Vendela dashes into the kitchen and rings the fire brigade in Borgholm. She is put through to Kalmar, and it takes a long time to reach someone and explain where the fire is.

When she comes back outside, the Invalid is still sitting on the grass, and Henry is still running back and forth between the barn and the water pump.

But it’s all too late. The fire is roaring through the loft and across the walls along the animals’ stalls, and in the end Henry slows down. He takes a deep breath, one long, heavy sigh.

Vendela can only stand outside and listen as the bellowing from inside falls silent.

Cooked meat: the night is filled with the smell of charred beef.

Vendela can feel the heat of the fire, but she is still freezing cold. She doesn’t want to stay out here.

‘Father... are you coming inside?’

He doesn’t seem to hear her at first, then he shakes his head and answers quietly. ‘It’s not the fire’s fault.’

Vendela doesn’t understand what he means.

After almost an hour the fire brigade turns up with two vehicles from Borgholm, but all they can do is prevent the fire from spreading. It is impossible to save the barn.

Several hours after midnight, when the fire-fighters have left but the yard is still thick with smoke, Henry is sitting out on the steps in the cold. He has carried the Invalid back to his room, but refuses to go inside. Vendela goes out to him one last time.

‘Who’s Jan-Erik, Dad?’

‘Jan-Erik?’ says Henry; he seems to consider the question before answering. ‘Well, he’s my son, of course... your brother.’

‘My brother?’

He looks over his shoulder at her. ‘Didn’t I tell you?’

Vendela stares at him. She has hundreds of questions, but asks only one. ‘Why doesn’t he have to go to school?’

‘He’s not allowed,’ says Henry. ‘They said it would be a waste of effort. It’s impossible to educate him.’

Then he reverts to staring into the darkness.

Vendela goes back inside and takes herself off to bed. She lies there as stiff as a board.

Perhaps Henry is up all night, because when he wakes his daughter at seven o’clock the next morning, he is still wearing the same clothes.

‘School,’ is all he says. Then he adds, ‘I let you have a lie-in today... No need to do the milking any more.’

Only when Vendela hears his words does she become aware of the smell of smoke in the room, and then she remembers the fire during the night. Then she remembers the Invalid. Jan-Erik.

Henry stops in the doorway as he leaves the room. ‘Don’t you worry about what’s going to happen. I’ve got the insurance policy and a receipt for the premium, so everything will be all right.’

Then Vendela remembers one last thing: the school trip is today. The class is going to Borgholm on the train.

She can go with them. She’s got the money for the fare, after all, and the cows are no longer a problem.

An hour later she is walking across the empty alvar, but gives the elf stone a wide berth, keeping her eyes fixed firmly ahead. She doesn’t want to see it any more, but the questions come anyway.

What did she actually wish for as she stood by the stone the previous day? She can barely grasp what she has done, and she doesn’t want to think about what the elves have done for her.

The children gather, ready to set off for the railway station, all smiles and eager chatter. Vendela does not smile, and she speaks to no one. She can still smell the smoke in her nostrils.

She goes to Borgholm on the train with her class and sits in a carriage with Dagmar and the other girls, but she still feels as if she is back on the alvar. Utterly alone. And she recalls nothing of the visit to Borgholm; in the shadow of everything that happened during the night, the day simply slips away.

When she gets home after the school trip, three hours after the cows would have needed milking, the yard is full of people.

The police are there — two constables from Marnäs are walking around inspecting the site of the fire. The gable at one end of the house has been blackened by the fire, and the barn is gone. All that’s left are the stone foundations. They look like a rectangular swimming pool full of ash, with charred planks of wood and roofing tiles sticking up out of the grey mess. There are three bodies lying beneath the covering of ash, their legs rigid, and the stench of burnt meat hangs over the whole yard.

Rosa, Rosa and Rosa. But Vendela doesn’t want to think about their names at the moment.

The neighbours have also gathered. People from Stenvik and even further afield have come to look at the remains of Henry the widower’s barn, and some of them have actually brought milk and sandwiches for the unfortunate family. Henry smiles and says thank you through gritted teeth, and Vendela bobs a curtsy, her cheeks burning. Then she creeps away. She goes into the empty kitchen and up the stairs, but when she tentatively tries the door of the Invalid’s room, it is locked.

‘Jan-Erik? It’s Vendela.’

No reply, not even laughter. All is silent behind the door.

She goes back downstairs and looks out of the kitchen window.

One of the men who has come from Stenvik is tall and slim, and he is looking around with a thoughtful expression. He speaks sympathetically to her father, then stands by the barn when the police suddenly call Henry over.

Vendela watches through the window as her father shows them around the ruins and points out the dead cows.

The police carry on looking. Henry comes inside to Vendela, who is still gazing out of the window. She sees the tall man from Stenvik come over and speak to the police after a while, pointing towards the barn, then at something down on the ground.

The policemen listen and nod.

‘I don’t know what they’re doing out there,’ Henry mutters. ‘They’re cooking something up between them.’ He looks at Vendela. ‘You’ll have to support me,’ he says. ‘If they start asking questions.’

‘Questions?’

‘If there’s a problem. You’ll do that, won’t you? You’ll support your father?’

Vendela nods.

In the twilight half an hour later the policemen make their way up the steps, bringing the smell of smoke into the kitchen with them. They flop down at the table and look at Henry.

‘Tell us what you know, Fors,’ says one of them.

‘I don’t know much.’

‘How did it start?’

Henry places his hands on the kitchen table. ‘I don’t know, it just started. I’m always unlucky, always. There’s something cursed about this place.’

‘So the fire woke you up?’

One of the policemen is doing the talking, the other is just sitting in silence, staring at Henry.

He nods. ‘At about midnight. And my daughter too.’

Vendela dare not even look at the police officers, her heart is pounding so hard it feels as if it’s trying to burst out of her chest. This is the twilight hour, and the elves will be dancing in circles in the meadows.

‘We think it started in two places,’ says the talkative policeman.

‘Oh yes?’

‘Yes. In the east and west gable end. And that’s rather peculiar, actually, because it has rained quite a bit. The ground is damp, after all.’

‘Somebody lit candles there,’ says the other one. ‘We found lumps of wax in the mud.’

‘Oh yes?’ says Henry.

‘And you could smell paraffin as well,’ says the first policeman.

‘That’s right,’ says the other one. ‘I could.’

‘Could we have a look at your shoes, Fors?’

‘My shoes? What shoes?’

‘All of them,’ says the policeman. ‘All the shoes and boots you own.’

Henry hesitates, but the officers escort him into the porch and go through all his shoes. They pick them up one by one, and Vendela can see them studying the soles.

‘It could be this one,’ says the first policeman, holding up a boot. ‘What do you think?’

The other one nods. ‘Yes, it’s the same pattern.’

His colleague places the boot on the kitchen table and looks at Henry. ‘Do you have any fuel in the house, Fors?’

‘Fuel?’

‘Paraffin, for example?’

‘Well, I suppose it’s possible...’

‘A can?’

Vendela listens to her father and thinks about the fire wriggling along like a snake, as if it were seeking out a path across the ground and up the wall of the barn, as if it knew where it was going.

‘A bottle,’ Henry says quietly. ‘There’s probably a half-full bottle of paraffin around somewhere.’

The policemen nod.

‘I think that’s it,’ says the first one to his colleague.

‘Yes.’

There is a brief silence, but then Henry straightens his back, takes a deep breath and says just one word: ‘No.’

They look at him in surprise as he goes on. ‘That’s not it. I had nothing to do with the fire. Anybody could have poured paraffin around. I was indoors all evening, until the fire started. My daughter here can confirm that, she’ll give you her word of honour.’

Suddenly the men are looking at Vendela. Her whole body goes cold.

‘That’s right,’ she says eventually, and begins to lie for all she is worth. ‘Dad was indoors... He sleeps in the room next door to mine and I always hear when he goes outside, but he didn’t go anywhere.’

Henry points at the boot on the kitchen table. ‘And that’s not mine.’

‘It was in your porch,’ says the first policeman. ‘So who else would it belong to?’

Henry says nothing for a few seconds, then he goes over to the stairs. ‘Come upstairs with me,’ he says. ‘I’d like to show you something.’