The Girl Who Died, Ragnar Jonasson [small books to read .TXT] 📗

again, and this time they sang as one, looking angelic in their white dresses, their voices perfectly in time, and even Kolbrún managed to avoid any false notes. It felt as if the holy season had truly arrived in the little church in its tiny village on the edge of the ocean, with the warm, soft glow of the candles, the solemnity of the audience, and the carol resonating in the silence.

Una found herself focusing on Edda. She knew she shouldn’t have a favourite out of her two pupils, but in her heart of hearts she was much fonder of Edda, with whom she had developed more of a rapport, whereas Kolbrún remained something of an enigma.

Edda was looking curiously strained, but there was nothing wrong with her voice as it soared to the rafters:

Glories stream from heaven afar

Heavenly hosts sing …

Abruptly, Edda stopped singing and stared at the audience, straight into Una’s eyes. She seemed to sway.

Kolbrún kept going a little longer:

… Alleluia …

Then she too fell silent and turned her head to look at her classmate. After that she just stood there, frozen into immobility.

Una was slow to react and for a moment it seemed as if no one else had realized that something was wrong. Then she leapt to her feet, but it was too late.

The little girl crumpled and fell with a heavy thud on to the floor in front of the altar.

Una’s eyes rose for an instant to the painting of Christ gazing down from the altarpiece, and now, at last, she could see what Salka meant: it did look as though he were reaching out to his flock, spreading his arms, trying to save Edda.

Kolbrún screamed and ran, presumably into her parents’ waiting embrace, leaving Una alone beside Edda.

The little girl was lying, deathly still, on the floor of the church.

PART TWO

I

All around Una there was a babble of voices.

Shouts.

Cries.

Salka was suddenly there at her side.

‘Edda? Edda?’ She shook her daughter, then lifted her up into a sitting position, where her body hung, limply unconscious. ‘Edda?!’ Salka shrieked.

Guffi now joined them and picked the little girl up in his arms. ‘We need to open the doors, give her some fresh air. It’s far too hot in here. All those bloody candles.’ Holding the child very gently, he set off for the exit.

‘What’s happening? Edda, darling, Edda! Can you hear me …?’ The despair in Salka’s voice was gut-wrenching.

Una still hadn’t uttered a word. Her instinct had been to try to help the girl, though she had no idea what could be wrong with her. Of course, she knew a bit about first aid after her years studying medicine, but it was all more or less theoretical. Now she couldn’t move, just stiffened up and stood there watching helplessly. Her mind was racing, the old Christmas memories rising up, the scenes she had tried so hard to forget. The only person who’d had the presence of mind to take action was Guffi. She didn’t like him, hated him even, but at this moment she was placing all her faith in him, hoping against hope that he would be able to do something for the child.

Then there was that strange yellow colour. From close up, Una had thought there was a yellowish tinge to Edda’s complexion. Perhaps it was her imagination, perhaps her eyes were deceiving her in the unfamiliar light of the candles.

Una watched as Guffi carried Edda quickly but carefully to the door. Kolbeinn held it open and little by little the church emptied until almost everyone was outside, and Una found herself following. Only Guffi’s wife was left behind, alone in her wheelchair, forgotten in all the commotion.

‘Shouldn’t we put her down?’ Kolbeinn asked.

‘Somebody give me a coat,’ Guffi said. Kolbeinn took his off and spread it on the ground, then Guffi laid the child carefully on top of it, and the two men bent over her. ‘She’s still breathing, just about,’ Guffi said.

‘Thank God,’ Una heard a voice say behind her. It was Kolbeinn’s wife, Inga.

Una looked round and saw Salka standing nearby, frozen in horror, watching what was going on without saying a word.

‘Edda? Edda love?’ Guffi said in a firm but kindly voice. He gave the child a wary nudge, then remarked to Kolbeinn: ‘She’s such a strange colour. I don’t understand what’s happened.’

Her liver, Una thought, it must be her liver, but she couldn’t stammer out a word. All she knew was that the girl needed urgent medical attention, but there was no doctor in the village and the nearest one was a long drive away in Thórshöfn.

‘What’s wrong with Edda, Daddy?’ Kolbrún had come up beside her father.

‘Go to your mum, sweetheart,’ Kolbeinn told her, then asked quickly: ‘Are you all right? How are you feeling?’

‘Yes, Dad, I’m fine,’ she said.

It was bitterly cold out there on the pavement in front of the church, but no one seemed to notice. As Edda lay on the ground in her white dress, enveloped in the icy darkness, the warmth of the candles seemed impossibly far away.

Una’s teeth began to chatter with the cold, but all she could think about as she looked at the child’s still figure was the old photo of the girl who had died more than half a century ago.

‘We have to get her to a doctor,’ Kolbeinn said with decision. ‘Or straight to hospital.’

Guffi nodded and lifted up the unresponsive girl in his arms. ‘Will you drive, Kolbeinn? With any luck we’ll catch the doctor at home in Thórshöfn.’

‘I’ll go and fetch the car,’ Kolbeinn said. ‘Inga, you come home with me. You can call ahead to warn the doctor we’re on our way. We need to be sure he’s there.’

‘I’m coming too! I’ve got to come too!’ Salka cried out frantically.

‘Of course you’re coming with us, dear,’ Guffi said.

‘What’s wrong with her?’ Salka asked in a strangled voice. ‘For God’s sake, what’s wrong with her?’

‘It’ll be all right, dear,’ Guffi reassured her. ‘It’ll