Rites of Spring, Anders Motte [reading diary .TXT] 📗

it up, brushed off the dirt.

Elita, in a white dress with her hair loose. She was standing on a stone with her eyes closed, hands folded across her chest, holding two antlers. Long silk ribbons were attached to her wrists, and two small figures in animal masks stood on either side of the stone – four in total, clutching the ends of the ribbons. Arne was sure he’d seen a similar picture somewhere else, but where?

He stared at the photograph, held it close to his eyes so that he could pick out every tiny detail. Something about the image made him feel weird. Dizzy, feverish, sick, all at the same time.

Elita had written beneath the picture:

To Arne. Walpurgis Night 1986. Come to the stone circle at midnight.

Then three more words.

His heartbeat pulsated through his whole body. Reached his throat, his temples, his stomach, his crotch, repeating the words she’d written.

The spring sacrifice

The spring sacrifice

The spring sacrifice

27

‘They boarded up her house – can you imagine that, Margaux? Blocked up every opening and took away the access road. Why would anyone do that? What secrets were they trying to seal up inside?’

David is himself again by the evening. He cooks dinner, lights candles, opens a bottle of decent red wine. He doesn’t mention the altercation with the builder, and nor does Thea. The TV piece on the restaurant is due to be broadcast tonight. Thea is nervous, but tries not to show it.

‘How was work today? Are you starting to get to grips with everything?’ David asks.

‘Oh yes – I now know the history of Tornaby all the way back to pre-Christian times! Today Dr Andersson told me about the old count and the Bokelund Foundation. And about poor Hubert over in the west wing, who was robbed of his inheritance. By the way, I saw him the other night – I forgot to mention it.’

‘Hubert?’

She nods. ‘He was peeping out from behind a curtain when I was looking for Emee. Isn’t it a bit odd that he hasn’t called round to say hello? Shouldn’t we go and introduce ourselves?’

David pulls a face.

‘Hubert’s . . . different. I’ve only met him once since it was agreed that we were going to rent the castle. He’s something of a recluse, plus I think he’s away quite often.’

‘Can he afford that? According to the doctor the count only left him a pittance.’

‘I’ve no idea – you’d have to ask my mother. Madam Chairman can account for every krona that passes through the foundation. Nothing escapes her eagle eye, I can promise you that.’ He smiles, pours himself another glass of wine.

Thea leans back in her chair. She’s missed this David. He’s attractive too, especially when he relaxes. She tries to remember the last time they made love, and concludes that it was much too long ago.

Outside the window the moat is in darkness. Some of the lamps on the bridge have been fixed, but on the other side the night is impenetrable. She wants to bring the conversation back to Elita Svart. She wonders how to do it, then decides to come straight to the point.

‘I found something in the forest the other day.’

‘Oh?’

‘A photograph. I’ll show you.’

She fetches the Polaroid from her jacket pocket and places it on the table in front of him. ‘That’s you, isn’t it? You, Nettan, Sebastian and Jan-Olof.’

David stiffens. ‘Where did you find this?’

‘In an old paint tin inside the Gallows Oak,’ Thea says eagerly. ‘Someone must have pushed it through the hole in the face.’

David is ashen.

‘It’s exactly like the old pictures of the spring sacrifice in the Folk Museum,’ Thea goes on. ‘Was it Elita who persuaded you to dress up? Where did you get the masks from?’

She pushes the photograph closer to his plate. Only when she meets his eyes does she realise she’s gone too far.

‘Take it away,’ he hisses. ‘I don’t want to talk about Elita fucking Svart – haven’t you got that yet? I’ve got other things to think about, like how we’re going to bring this massive project in on budget and on time. Don’t you realise how much is down to me? How many people are monitoring every little thing I do?’

He shoves the picture away.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . .’

‘You saw what happened yesterday. How upset Dad got when you mentioned Elita. Mum too, although she didn’t show it.’

‘I’m sorry, David. You’re right.’

She removes the photograph and tops up their glasses, but the pleasant atmosphere is gone. They both make an effort, but they can’t get it back.

They sit down on the sofa and watch the TV report, everything from the drone shots to the interview. It’s a warm, positive piece, just as David had hoped, yet he seems dissatisfied. Meanwhile Thea tries to suppress her anxiety at having appeared on TV, tells herself that she was on screen for no more than a minute or so, almost thirty years have passed, no one will recognise her.

Later they have sex anyway, but the feeling from earlier just isn’t there, and it becomes a series of dutiful, mechanical movements.

David stays in her bed for exactly as long as politeness demands, then retires to his own room, blaming an early meeting.

Thea lies there staring at the ceiling. The damp patch seems to have grown since this morning. The edges have become more irregular, as if it’s slowly expanding into the room.

Maybe it’s a sign? However much you renovate and clean, all it takes is a tiny little crack in the façade for the dampness to seep in and begin the destruction.

28

‘Dreams are strange, aren’t they? They transport us through time, open doors to things we thought we’d forgotten. Things we’ve put behind us.

‘Do you dream, Margaux? I so want to believe that you do. Happy dreams.’

She is in a forest. Conifers, anthills, self-seeded birch. Their house is in a dip right at the bottom of the slope. She, her big brother and his friends are playing up