The Lost Village by Sten, Camilla (reading women TXT) 📕

and general anxiety. If you think about how hopeless people here must have felt after the mine shut, it could have been something similar.”

“But it still doesn’t explain where they went,” says Tone. “Just like the migration theory.”

“No,” I agree, “if they just took off then a lot doesn’t add up. Some people have suggested it could have been a gas leak of some sort—methane gas in the earth’s crust released by mining activity. But the mining company that came here in the nineties checked the air quality and found nothing. And, even if that did explain why everyone died simultaneously, it doesn’t explain the baby, or why the only body they found here was Birgitta’s, who clearly didn’t die of suffocation. It was a hot summer that year, so if it had been a gas leak then there would have been corpses rotting on the streets when the police arrived.”

Max grimaces slightly at the thought.

I look at Tone.

“Have I forgotten any?” I ask.

“Those are all the big ones,” she says. “But I’ve always had a soft spot for the Russian invasion theory.”

“Oh! Yes!” I say. “That’s hilarious. Apparently the Soviet Union were doing some sort of dress rehearsal for a Swedish land invasion, and kidnapped the entire village.” I shrug. “Though, I have to say, I can’t pinpoint any actual holes with that one. I almost hope it’s true. Just imagine the scoop!”

Emmy laughs. That same flash of recognition, of warmth.

I push it down.

“So what we’re saying is there’s no good explanation?” Robert hums.

“Yeah,” I say. “Hence the mystery. Almost nine hundred people, lost without a trace. No one knows if they’re alive or dead, or if they killed themselves, got sick, or left the place voluntarily. No one knows why poor Birgitta Lidman was stoned to death. And no one knows whose was the baby in the school, or why she got left behind.”

A strange, heavy silence falls after I say this, as if the reality of the mystery hits us all at once. The wind that sweeps over the square isn’t a spring breeze; it’s still cold and raw from winter. It runs straight through my clothes, makes the hairs on my neck stand on end.

“But they must be dead, don’t you think?” Emmy asks quietly, in a tone of voice at odds with her usual loud, defiant self.

I swallow.

“I think so,” I admit. “But I don’t know how or why. So I’m hoping we can find something. Some sort of indication.”

A half truth. I’m hoping we can find more than some small indication: I want an answer. We aren’t a courtroom, I don’t need proof, just something that points in one direction. An unsent letter, fossilized tracks leading out into the forest …

I doubt we’ll find it, but I can’t quite bring myself to give up hope.

Max nods. Tone doesn’t make a sound. When I look at her ankle, I can see that her pant leg has traveled up slightly, and that the skin above the support bandage is red and swollen. She hasn’t eaten her toast; a sad, half-eaten slice of charred bread lies cooling on the ground next to her.

“So then we have a goal for tomorrow,” Emmy says, sounding more like her usual self. She stands up and holds out a hand to Robert, who takes it and pulls himself up.

“I’m gonna hit the sack,” she says. “See you tomorrow.”

Robert nods at the rest of us and follows her off toward the van.

Max looks at me, his eyebrows raised.

“Jeez,” he says, quietly, so that it doesn’t carry to Emmy and Robert. “It’s not even nine o’clock.”

I look at Tone. Her mouth is a taut line, the dark circles under her eyes like the sweep of a dirty fingerprint.

“You know, maybe we could all do with some sleep?” I say. “It’s been a long day.”

Tone says nothing.

“What do you think?” I ask her, and she looks up, confused, as though hearing me for the first time.

“Sleep?” she repeats. “Yeah. That might be an idea.”

I get up, roll up my camping mat and hold my hand out to Tone. It’s not enough: I have to put my arm around her waist and hoist her up. It’s harder than I had expected, and she leans into me heavily.

“Good night, Max,” I say over my shoulder, to his lone silhouette by the fire. “Sleep well.”

I see him watch us as we go, then put another log on the fire.

By the time I’ve helped Tone into the tent and zipped up the door behind us I can feel some sweat under my arms, but in the dim light of our electric lantern it’s clear that Tone is dripping with it. My stomach turns when I see how bloodless her face is.

I brush my teeth while she silently pulls off her jeans and puts on long johns to keep warm through the night, every single movement sending a visible jolt of pain through her leg.

I stick my head out of the tent to spit out my toothpaste, and give a start when I find Max standing at the door.

“Sorry!” he says softly, a tentative smile on his lips. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I say, wiping my mouth. “What is it?”

“Could I borrow some toothpaste?” he asks. “I can’t find mine.”

I look over my shoulder into the tent and fumble around for my and Tone’s huge toiletry bag, which we’ve crammed full with everything from Band-Aids to toothpaste and shampoo.

“Knock yourself out,” I say, handing it to him. “Wait, does that mean you haven’t brushed your teeth since we got here?”

Max grins mischievously while rummaging around for the toothpaste. When he finds it, he squeezes half of the tube into his mouth, says a thick “thanks”, and hands the bag back to me.

I laugh.

“Go to bed, you sicko,” I say, then blow him a kiss before pulling my head back into the tent. I put on my thick socks and look up at Tone.

“Look…” I start.

“What is