Harbor by John Lindqvist (classic novels for teens txt) 📕

Johan stood there gazing after them with the expression of a foundling left to rely on the kindness of strangers. If Simon had needed any proof that Anna-Greta was the unofficial leader of the village, he had it now.

As the boat began to swing around to head for Nåten, Johan raised his hand feebly in farewell, straddled his moped, kicked it into life and set off back towards the village.

Anna-Greta and Simon stood leaning against the rail as they swung away from Domarö, towards the mainland. The bay was busy, dotted white with gulls taking off one by one or in groups, flying around in circles then coming in to land once again.

‘What do you think all that was about?’ asked Simon.

Anna-Greta was gazing out to sea. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘And I don’t want to know, either. Have you seen how many gulls there are? I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many.’

The boat carved its way through a throng of white bodies that paddled or flew away at a leisurely pace. It really was unusual to see so many.

Wedding guests, thought Simon. And here come the happy couple.

He put his arm around Anna-Greta and let his thoughts turn to the mainland.

Duel

This time there was no room for doubt: it was arson. As they worked to put out the fire, the smell of petrol had been noticeable, and when the worst was over they had also found the can. Someone had set the fire in the Wahlgrens’ summer cottage, and it was a small step to assume it was the same person who had set fire to the Grönwalls’ place.

For a while during the night it had looked as though things might go very badly. The fire had taken hold in the conifers in the Wahlgrens’ garden, and sparks and burning fragments were being carried inland. Before the fire service arrived, a panic-stricken decision had been taken to fell a number of trees that might otherwise have led the fire up into the forest. It had been a dry autumn, and if the fire caught in the tops of the fir trees, it could be a disaster. The flames would spread through the forest all the way down to the old village, not stopping until they reached the sea.

Three men worked with chainsaws to fell some forty fir and pine trees that ran along a spur from the forest, an arm that was just dying to grab hold of the fire. It was the kind of feat about which songs are sung. But such songs are no longer sung, and at best Karl-Erik, Lasse and Mats had a small mention in the local newspaper to look forward to.

The report should, however, mention that they had to work fast, that the trees could not be felled in the direction of the fire, and that they also had to make sure the trees did not fall on to any of the cottages in the area, which meant they had to fell every single tree with precision, and of course all this was done in darkness, with little more than the light of the street lamp and the fire itself to help them.

Who would have taken on such a task, and who succeeded?

Why, Karl-Erik, Lasse and Mats!

OK, so they nearly knocked down the Carlgrens’ outhouse, and those people from Örebro might have lost a few panes of glass from their greenhouse, but by and large nobody could have done a betterjob and the three musketeers, wielding chainsaws instead of rapiers, were the heroes of the night. Since the fire was under control, they could go home and sleep as long as they pleased. They had done their part, and more besides.

That was how they were greeted when they turned up the following day to chop up the felled trees, ‘Here come the three musketeers again!’

But Mats was the only one who grinned and tossed out a reply. Lasse’s expression was grim, and Karl-Erik looked furious, to put it mildly. It was as if the memory of the previous night’s co-operation had been blown away. What happened next could only be described as incomprehensible, an event not unlike that business in Söderviken with Gustavsson and the swan.

Gustavsson used to feed a swan. It came back to him year after year, accepting pieces of bread from him and providing him with a little company. As soon as you met Gustavsson he would start talking about that swan, how beautiful and clever it was, what a good friend it had become.

And then one day Gustavsson took his shotgun down to the bay and shot the swan, fired a blast at its neck so that the head flew off. Afterwards he had been inconsolable, unable to come up with any explanation for his behaviour, except that he had got it into his head that he was going to shoot the swan.

However, this incident with Karl-Erik was more extensive in that it went on for longer than the time it took to load a shotgun, take aim and fire. And it wasn’t only Karl-Erik—Lasse was seized by the same irrational behaviour.

The morning’s work of removing branches and chopping up the trees proceeded more or less as normal, although Mats did say later that there was something slightly odd about Karl-Erik and Lasse. They had each kept themselves to themselves, working in silence. When they took a break to have a drink of water and eat their sandwiches, they sat a long way from each other.

After their break all three of them put on their ear protectors, started up their saws and set to work again. Mats was working his way through the root of one of the thicker fir trees. Progress was slow, and the saw got very hot. Therefore, when he had finished he switched off the saw, took off his ear protectors and began to sharpen the chain.

Lasse’s saw was