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

sizes, those buildings, these streets. The meadow, the flowers, the bushes. Our gaze lingers on details, and if we are standing in a forest in the autumn, we become tongue-tied if we try to describe the richness around us. All this exists on land.

But the sea. The sea is something completely different. The sea is one.

We may note the shifting moods of the sea. What the sea looks like when the wind is blowing, how the sea plays with the light, how it rises and falls. But still it is always the sea we are talking about. We have given different parts of the sea different names for navigation and identification, but if we are standing before the sea, there is only one whole. The sea.

If we are taken so far out in a small boat that no land is visible in any direction, we may catch sight of the sea. It is not a pleasant experience. The sea is a god, an unseeing, unhearing deity that surrounds us and has all imaginable power over us, yet does not even know we exist. We mean less than a grain of sand on an elephant’s back, and if the sea wants us, it will take us. That’s just the way it is. The sea knows no limits, makes no concessions. It has given us everything and it can take everything away from us.

To other gods we send our prayer: Protect us from the sea.

Whispers in your ear

Two days after the storm, Anders was standing down in the wormwood meadow inspecting his boat. It was upside down on blocks, and it was a depressing sight. There were good reasons why he had got it for nothing five years ago.

Since there was no system for the disposal of worn-out plastic boats, they were either left lying around, or given away to someone in need. The last resort, if you were really determined to get rid of the wretched thing, was to tow the boat out into the bay, drill holes in it and let it sink. Anders’ boat looked as if it might be ready for that final journey.

There were cracks all over the hull, and the engine mounting was split. The fibreglass around the rowlocks was so brittle that it would probably splinter if you attempted to row. Anders did actually have an engine, an old ten-horsepower Johnson up in theshed, but he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to get it started.

The boat was really beyond repair, it was just a matter of having some kind of vessel, something to put in the water so he didn’t have to borrow Simon’s boat when he wanted to stock up on supplies.

He walked out on to the jetty, mainly to see if it was strong enough to bear his weight. Oh yes. Some of the planks were rotten and a log had come loose from the lower section, but the jetty would probably last for another couple of years at least.

A light breeze was blowing from the south-west, and he had to cup his hand around his lighter in order to light a cigarette. He blew smoke into the wind, pulled out the plastic bottle of diluted wine, took a couple of swigs and listened to the sighing of the wind in the reeds in the inlet. It was only eleven o’clock in the morning, but he was already pleasantly mellow, able to contemplate without a trace of anxiety the green reeds rippling in the breeze.

Without the wine he would probably have started imagining things. Sigrid’s body had been found in the reeds a couple of days earlier. There was no end to what he might have been able to come up with to scare himself witless. Simon had told him it was as he suspected. Sigrid had been lying in the water for less than twenty-four hours when he found her. Where she had been lying before that, no one knew.

A couple of forensic technicians in waders had prodded around in the reeds. Anders had stood at the bedroom window watching them, but it hadn’t looked as if they had found anything that might solve the mystery. They had left trampled reeds behind them and returned to the mainland.

After checking the piece of chipboard he had nailed over the broken window, Anders went inside, poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table. The number of beads on the tile had now reached a good hundred. Apart from the very first ones, he hadn’t put one single bead there himself. It happened at night, after he had gone to bed.

He was still waiting for a message, and the beads gave him nothing.Apart from the white patch, only blue beads were used.

He could feel Maja’s presence in the house more strongly with each passing day, but she refused to give him a clear indication. He was no longer afraid, but rather comforted by the certainty that something of his daughter lingered on in the world. He had her with him, he talked to her. The constant level of slight intoxication prevented him from gathering his thoughts, made him receptive.

There was a knock at the door. After three seconds it opened, and Anders could tell from the footsteps that it was Simon.

‘Anyone home?’

‘In the kitchen. Come in.’

Anders glanced around quickly to make sure he hadn’t left any wine bottles out. All clear. Just a carton of grape juice, standing innocently on the worktop.

Simon walked into the kitchen and sat down without ceremony. ‘Have you got any coffee?’

Anders got up, poured a cup and put it down in front of Simon, who was sitting contemplating the bead tile.

‘New hobby?’

Anders made a dismissive gesture and caught his own cup, which wobbled but didn’t tip over. Simon didn’t notice. His gaze was turned inward, and it was obvious he had something on his mind. He sat there for a while running his finger over the surface of the table, drawing invisible shapes,