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

sign of him, so perhaps he was off balance and susceptible to a chat.

It was four o’clock in the afternoon, and the sound of an axe chopping wood echoed across the inlet. Simon nodded to himself. Anders was obviously hard at work, and that was a good thing. The dull sound of a lump of wood being repeatedly thumped against the chopping block suggested that he had made a start on the dry fir.

Well, that will give him plenty to do.

The village was deserted in the soft afternoon light. The school children had gone home, and were probably having something to eat. Simon looked down towards the jetty and remembered that day long ago when he had stepped ashore for the first time. Astonishingly little had changed. The wooden boats around the jetty had become fibreglass boats, and some kind of transformer station stood there humming quietly at the end of the jetty, but otherwise everything looked just the same as it had done then.

The waiting room had been torn down and rebuilt. The boathouses were listed as cultural heritage these days, and thus remained unchanged, the diesel tank was still there spoiling the track up to the village, and the sea buckthorn perhaps looked a little better, but was still in exactly the same place. These things had seen him step ashore, had seen him almost drown, and now they saw him walking through the deserted village kicking pebbles along in front of him as he went.

You know more than me. A lot more.

He was so absorbed by his own feet that he didn’t notice there was a light on in the mission house until he was virtually on top of it. It was only in exceptional cases that the mission house was used at any time other than a Saturday morning, when a small flock of the older residents gathered to drink coffee and sing hymns to the accompaniment of a treadle organ.

The curtains were closed and the chandelier on the ceiling, the pride and joy of the mission house, was visible only as a pale blotch. Simon went up to the window and listened. He could hear voices, but not what was being said. He thought for a moment, then went around the side and opened the door.

The village council. I’m part of this village as well.

The sight that met his eyes as he walked in was in no way remarkable. A dozen individuals aged between sixty and eighty were sitting on chairs in a loose huddle beneath the votive nave. He knew or recognised every one of them. There was Elof Lundberg and his brother Johan. There was Margareta Bergwall and Karl-Eriksomething-or-other from the south of the village. There was Holger. And Anna-Greta. Among others.

The conversation stopped the second he opened the door. Every face turned towards him. They looked neither caught out nor embarrassed, but their expressions made it very clear that his intrusion was not welcome. He looked at Anna-Greta, and saw something different in her face. A hint of pain. Or a prayer.

Go away. Please.

Simon pretended not to notice anything; he just walked in and said cheerfully, ‘So what are you all cooking up, then?’

Glances were exchanged, and the unspoken agreement seemed to be that Anna-Greta should be the one to respond. When a few uncomfortable seconds had passed without her saying a word, Johan Lundberg said, ‘A Stockholmer wants to buy the mission house.’

Simon nodded thoughtfully. ‘I see. And what are you thinking of doing?’

‘We’re wondering whether to sell.’

‘Who is this Stockholmer? What’s his name?’

When no reply was forthcoming, Simon went over to the group, pulled up a chair and sat down.

‘Carry on. I think this is interesting as well.’

The silence was suffocating. A faint clicking sound came from the old wooden walls, and a petal drifted down from the wilting flowers on the altar. Anna-Greta scowled at him and said, ‘Simon. You can’t be here.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because…you just can’t. Can’t you accept that?’

‘No.’

Karl-Erik stood up. He was the most well-preserved of those present, and a pair of still muscular arms protruded from his rolled-up shirt sleeves. ‘Well, that’s the way it is,’ he said, ‘and if you’re not prepared to leave of your own free will, then I’ll just have to carry you out.’

Simon stood up as well. He hadn’t much to offer in comparisonto Karl-Erik, but he looked him in the eye anyway and said, ‘You’re welcome to try.’

Karl-Erik raised his bushy eyebrows and took a step forward. ‘If that’s the way you want it…’ Without any definite purpose in mind, Simon closed his hand around the matchbox in his pocket. Karl-Erik angrily shoved a couple of chairs out of his way, working himself into a rage.

Anna-Greta shouted ‘Karl-Erik!’ but it was no longer possible to stop him. He had a glint in his eye, and a task to see through. He stepped up to Simon and grabbed hold of his jacket with both hands. Simon lost his footing and hit Karl-Erik’s chest with his head, but he didn’t let go of the matchbox.

With his forehead pressed against his opponent’s ribs, he asked the water in Karl-Erik’s blood, the water in his tissues, to hurl itself upwards. The strength in Simon’s request was not as great as when he had held Spiritus in his bare hand, but it was more than enough. Karl-Erik staggered, let go of Simon’s jacket and put his hands up to his head. He reeled backwards a couple of steps, then leaned forward and threw up all over the antique rug.

Simon let go of the matchbox and folded his arms across his chest once more. ‘Anyone else?’

Karl-Erik coughed and retched, threw a venomous look at Simon and retched a little more, then wiped his mouth and hissed, ‘What the fuck do you…’

Simon sat down on his chair and said, ‘I want to know what you’re discussing.’ He looked from one to the other. ‘It’s the sea, isn’t it? What’s happening to the sea.’

Elof Lundberg rubbed a hand