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

noticed before. She rubs away some of the green algae so that she can read the text.

OAK – QUERCUS ROBUR

The oak is one of Scandinavia’s largest trees, and can be found from Skåne all the way up to Gästrikland. This particular tree is known as the Gallows Oak, although it is unclear whether it was actually used for executions. According to an investigation carried out in 1998, its age is estimated at over nine hundred years old, which makes it the oldest tree in the castle forest, along with the hawthorn grove by the stone circle. The nodular growths on the trunk are known as burls, and are probably caused by a genetic defect that makes the wood fibres grow in the wrong direction in relation to the trunk itself.

Approximately three metres from the ground there are two large burls and a hole, which together give the impression of a man’s face, familiarly known as the Green Man. According to a local legend, the Green Man is a creature who takes on human form on certain nights during the spring, and rides through the forest to chase away the winter and the darkness. This same legend says that spring gifts should be inserted in the Green Man’s mouth in order to hasten the return of life.

Thea gazes up at the trunk; the formation is easy to find. Two protruding oval shapes side by side, with swollen edges and a smooth centre, and below them a black, circular hole. It definitely resembles a warped male face with empty eyes and a gaping mouth.

A patch of wood anemones is growing right beside her. Without really knowing why, she picks a few and tucks them into her pocket. She stubs out her cigarette, places her foot on the lowest burl, pushes off and grabs the next one with her hand. She hasn’t climbed a tree since she was a little girl, but she remembers the technique her big brother taught her. Use your hands to hold on, your legs to push. She doesn’t weigh much, and her back, arms and shoulders are strong.

The pale bark is coarse and rough, full of nooks and crannies that she can use. It doesn’t take her long to reach the creepy face. She stares into its dead eyes and suddenly feels ridiculous. This is something Margaux would do. Thea’s forte is being sensible and logical, focusing on things that can be measured and organised. She loves jigsaws, always knows where the emergency exits are, keeps a rucksack packed with the essentials just in case the worst happens. Used to keep, she corrects herself. Until the worst actually happened.

Thea takes the wood anemones out of her pocket and pushes them into the Green Man’s mouth. The hole is bigger than it looked from the ground, and her fist easily fits inside. She feels an edge, as if the thick trunk is partly hollow. She extends her arm as far as she can, closes her eyes and thinks of Margaux. Tries to summon up every detail of her face. Her dark fringe, her eyes, the tiny freckles on her nose. Her smile.

Then she drops the flowers.

To the return of life.

A gust of wind passes by, bending the treetops and sending up swirls of dry leaves from the ground. It carries with it the smell of electricity, of a storm. Thea shivers.

Somewhere deep in the forest, Emee begins to bark.

3

Walpurgis Night 1986

Dear readers!

Every narrative must have a beginning, a middle and an end. This is my beginning.

My name is Elita Svart. I am sixteen years old. I live deep in the forest outside Tornaby.

By the time you read this, I will already be dead. But let’s take it from the start, shall we?

Arne Backe realised almost straightaway that the garage foreman was messing with him. The fat bastard leaned across the counter speaking loudly enough for his two colleagues, who were doing an oil change on a Volvo 245, to hear every world.

‘What did you say your name was?’

‘Police Constable 2971 Backe, Ljungslöv police. I’ve come to pick up a radio car.’

Arne stroked his moustache in a way that he imagined made him look older and more experienced.

‘Have you indeed.’ The foreman ran a fleshy finger down the page of his ledger. ‘A radio car for the Ljungslöv police. Do you really need one? I thought you mostly drove tractors out there in the sticks.’

Arne could hear the two grease monkeys laughing behind him, but he didn’t bother turning around. Instead he rapped on the counter with his knuckles.

‘Keys. I’m in a hurry.’

‘In a hurry! Why would you be in a hurry? Do you have to get home to do the milking? Or are you helping Hans Holmér to solve the murder of Olof Palme?’

More laughter, louder this time. The foreman straightened up and produced a bunch of keys, which he dramatically placed on the counter in front of him. He obviously intended to draw this out for as long as possible.

Arne was used to people trying to wind him up. He was twenty-two years old, the youngest officer at the station in Ljungslöv. A newly qualified kid, wet behind the ears, who was only allowed to make the coffee, man the reception desk and run errands. Lennartson, the chief of police, had very reluctantly organised a lift to Helsingborg in the mail van so that Arne could pick up the new radio car. Lennartson always adopted a particular expression when their eyes met, a mixture of irritation and distaste that Arne had seen way too often. It seemed to be something he evoked in others, something he couldn’t do anything about.

He gritted his teeth. In the summer a fresh batch of newly qualified officers would arrive at the station, and he would move up a notch. Get out on the streets like a real cop. Until then he just had to put up with Lennartson’s grimaces and his colleagues’ teasing. However, this guy and