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

above the altar. His eyes, deep-black and matte, almost look like they’re jeering. And his lips … don’t they look twisted into a disgusting, slick grin?

“We can’t just leave her out there,” I say.

I tear my eyes from the figure to look at Emmy. She shakes her head. Neither of the others say anything.

“She’s probably scared. Terrified. And she’s all alone. She could hurt herself, she could…” I gulp.

“What do you want us to do, Alice?” Emmy asks. “Comb Silvertjärn? We won’t find her if she doesn’t want to be found. And she’s dangerous. It isn’t safe.”

“She’s not dangerous!” I explode.

Some small, logical part of me knows this isn’t the best way to convince them, but I can’t help it. How can they just leave her out there? How can they see a monster in a sick, lone woman who doesn’t even know what she’s doing?

“She blew up our vans, Alice!” Emmy says. Now she seems to have lost her patience, too. “It’s because of her that we’re stuck here!”

“You don’t know that,” I say, shaking my head. “You don’t know that, you’re just guessing.”

“Well, we wouldn’t have to do that if you’d cared to tell us your partner’s disturbed.”

“She’s not disturbed,” I say. My voice is shaking. I try to swallow it down, steady myself. Hold in the anger, anchor myself to it. “She’s not disturbed. She’s sick. This is just an episode, and it…”

It’s my fault.

Emmy just shakes her head.

“We’re staying here,” she says. “We’re waiting it out.”

My teeth are clenched so hard my jaws hurt.

“No,” I say.

“OK,” says Emmy. “Then we’ll take a vote.”

She looks at the others.

“Hands up who votes to stay here till the police arrive.”

I look at the other two. Robert raises his hand slowly, almost timidly. Max furrows his brow when he looks at me, but then raises his hand, too.

For a moment I’m about to say something about the breaths I heard in the van, the ones still echoing, shallow and scratchy, in my head.

But would they even listen to me now? Even if Emmy thought there was someone here before, why would she listen to me now, when I didn’t listen to her then? Or would they just think it was Tone in that van, even though every fiber of my being is telling me it wasn’t?

I don’t even know that there was anything there myself: it could have been a moment’s madness, a figment of my imagination, born of Silvertjärn’s whispers in my ear.

I say nothing.

“So there we have it,” says Emmy.

 NOW

I’m slumped down on one of the old Windsor chairs in the chapel. The seat cushion is moldy and half-disintegrated, and only the traces of a once-dainty floral pattern remain. The legs creaked when I dropped down onto it, but they held.

Outside the window the sun has started its listless voyage down to the horizon, and my tired eyes have been following its journey. I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here, but it can’t be more than an hour.

I closed the door behind me when I came in, and so far no one has come after me. I’m not sure if I’m disappointed or not. The stillness in here is soothing, comforting; there’s nothing for me to rage against here. But at the same time this silence offers nothing to distract me from my thoughts.

My thoughts of Tone. Of Silvertjärn. And, ashamed as I am to say it, of my film—the one that will never get made now. Perhaps that shouldn’t be playing on my mind when my whole world has capsized and nothing makes sense anymore, but it is. That one dream has been pushing me on for almost twenty years. And to suddenly lose it, when I was so close to making it happen, is like looking down at my legs only to find a bloody stump where one once was.

The creak of the door behind me is enough to make me start and look around.

“How are you holding up?” Max asks.

He’s holding a half-empty bottle of water. Before I can answer, he comes in and closes the door behind him.

“I thought you might want some water,” he says, taking a few cautious steps toward me.

I feel uneasy being so much lower than him, so I get out of my chair. Max stops and gives me a quick smile, then holds out the water bottle.

I hesitate but then take it, and drink thirstily. It’s warm and tastes of plastic, but it rinses the dry film from my mouth and throat, making me suddenly aware of how hungry I am.

“I had it in my rucksack,” says Max. “A couple of protein bars, too, if you want.”

I put down the bottle.

“What do you want, Max?” I ask.

My question comes out harsher than I’d intended, but I don’t regret it.

“I just wanted to check you were OK,” he says.

“No,” I say. “I’m not OK. None of this is OK. You can go now. Here.”

I try to hand him the bottle, but he refuses to take it. There’s some tension around his mouth, and his big, sorry cow eyes look out at me from under a furrowed brow. His eyebrows are very thin, I notice. I’ve never realized that before. They look expressionless, like the painted lines on a doll’s face.

“Are you mad at me?” he asks.

All I can do is stare.

Mad?” I say, with a scratchy laugh that edges toward a sob.

“Alice, please,” he says, taking a few steps toward me, but I shake my head.

“Mad doesn’t even come close,” I say. “I don’t get how you could do that, Max. Of everybody here…” My lips sting and fail me. I swallow.

“Of everybody here I thought you were the one I could trust, Max. OK? I thought that no matter what, at least I’d have you.”

When Max speaks, his voice is soft and reasoned. It’s a sharp contrast to my unsteady, emotional words.

“I had to say something, Alice,” he says. “I had no choice. You know I’d never want