Rites of Spring by Anders Motte (hardest books to read txt) 📕

car on the way over, but he was on the phone all the time, so she didn’t get the chance.

In another photograph David must be about thirty. He’s wearing his chef’s whites, standing in the doorway of his first restaurant with his arm around his mother. He looks happy – so does Ingrid. She is looking at her son with such pride.

The best picture is right in the centre of the display: Bertil and Ingrid’s wedding. They’re so young – not much more than twenty. Their faces are smooth, unmarked, but it’s the expression on their faces that moves Thea. They are gazing at each other with so much love that it still, almost forty-five years later, radiates from the frame.

A low, subtly lit display cabinet completes the collection. Cups, plates, vases, bowls, most with the date, the name of the award and some special citation engraved.

‘Look at this, Thea.’

Bertil opens the cabinet and takes out a pewter goblet. It’s not the biggest in the collection, but Thea already knows it’s the most important piece.

‘The national bridge championship in 1980,’ he says proudly. ‘We won the whole thing!’

Thea nods, giving no indication that he showed her the goblet the last time she was here.

‘Fantastic, Bertil.’

He beams, for a moment looking much younger than his sixty-nine years. Then the expression vanishes, replaced by confusion as soon as he puts the goblet back in the cabinet.

‘So how’s it going with . . .’ Bertil frowns, waves his hand.

‘The castle. Very well, I think. David’s working extremely hard.’

Bertil nods, then looks irritated, as if he didn’t mean the castle at all. He shakes his head.

‘You’ll have to forgive me. I’m on new medication, and it makes me a little . . .’ He taps his temple. ‘Shall we sit down?’

He takes one of the leather armchairs, signals to her to take the other.

‘And your job?’ he asks. ‘How are you getting on as . . . ?’

‘Good, thanks – I started today. I’m taking over as the local GP from Sigbritt Andersson.’

Bertil takes a sip of the whisky and soda Ingrid put out for him a little while ago, next to his pipe and ashtray.

‘And you’re happy at Bokelund?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you met the count? Rudolf?’ Bertil shakes his head crossly. ‘No, I mean his boy. Hubert.’

‘No, we’ve only seen each other from a distance.’ Thea thinks of the face she saw at the window during the thunderstorm. The sorrowful man in the west wing.

Bertil nods slowly. ‘Just be careful. A lot of bad things have happened at Bokelund.’

‘Like what?’

Bertil frowns. He suddenly looks irritated again, as if he’d intended to say something completely different.

‘How . . .’ he says after some thought. ‘How’s it going with . . .’ He waves his hand again, as if he’s trying to catch the right words. Thea realises that the conversation has reached its conclusion. Regardless of who David’s father once was, the people he’s met and the things he’s achieved, he is now on his way into the great oblivion. The thought makes her feel very sad.

‘Dinner’s ready!’ Ingrid calls from the hallway with exaggerated cheerfulness. The sound of her voice makes Bertil’s eyes light up.

‘Wonderful! Let me escort you to the table, my dear.’

He gets to his feet and gallantly proffers his arm.

*

They chat their way through the starter. The castle, the preview dinner, the weather, the TV report. Ingrid and David do most of the talking. Bertil sits in silence at the head of the table, concentrating on his food, and Thea doesn’t have much to contribute.

‘So how was your first day at work, Thea?’ David’s mother asks when the main course has been served.

‘Good, thanks. Dr Andersson showed me the surgery, then we made a home visit to Kerstin Miller.’

‘She’s not ill, is she?’ David asks.

‘Just a touch of the flu. I think it will be difficult to stop her from going back to work too soon.’

Thea thinks she sees Ingrid cast an anxious glance at her husband, but Bertil is fully occupied with his meal, and doesn’t appear to be paying any attention to the conversation.

‘I heard an old story while I was out there,’ Thea adds.

‘Oh? What story was that?’ Ingrid asks.

Thea hesitates, then realises she’s said too much to stop now.

‘It was about Elita Svart.’

Bertil drops his fork onto his plate with a crash. His face is ashen.

‘The spring sacrifice,’ he says in an unexpectedly clear voice. ‘Poor child. You must never tell anyone. Never, never, never . . .’

He stops, then bursts into tears.

17

Walpurgis Night 1986

Hoof and horn, hoof and horn. All that dies shall be reborn.

Eva-Britt taught me that rhyme when I was a child. She and Lola always recite it when they’re mixing herbs.

What does it mean? I wanted to know.

It means that death is necessary for new life to flourish, little Elita, Eva-Britt replied.

Many people are frightened by the thought of death, the idea that everything comes to an end. Not me. Nothing ever comes to an end. Now let’s say it together:

Hoof and horn, hoof and horn. All that dies shall be reborn.

Don’t you feel better already?

Per Nyberg and his father found the one-year-old fawn in the enclosure nearest to the castle forest. The carrion crows led them to the right place, a huge flock circling above the cadaver.

The belly was open. The crows and other carrion-eaters had made in-roads, but the wound in the throat was still clearly visible.

‘How many is that?’

Erik Nyberg took off his cap and wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket. ‘Three. The count won’t be pleased.’ He stomped around on the grass, looking for tracks.

‘Do you still think it’s a wolf or a lynx?’ Per wondered.

‘Have you got a better explanation?’ The response was rapid and a little too sharp. Erik paused, crouched down.

‘What have you found?’

No reply. Per went and looked over his father’s shoulder; there were a number of U-shaped indentations in the ground.

‘Hoof prints?’

Erik quickly straightened up, brushed the dirt off his knees.

‘They’re old,’ he muttered. ‘Nothing to do with this.’

He nodded toward the