The Lost Village, Sten, Camilla [spanish books to read .txt] 📗

past few months, ever since the poor dear got the news. Elsa normally sees her on a Wednesday, as it’s so convenient to pop by after one of the Wednesday lunches hosted by the pharmacist’s wife.

Nothing much ever gets done at those lunches; in essence they’re just a chance for some of the village ladies to get together and chew the fat, sip coffee from dainty little cups, and feel a fleeting sense of superiority. But it’s all harmless fun, and goodness knows the women of Silvertjärn feel all the better for having something to do. Elsa can’t deny that even she enjoys these sessions, although sometimes she does have to put her foot down when their chitchat becomes a little too barbed.

Insinuations about the paternity of the schoolmaster’s youngest child won’t do anyone any good. Elsa herself had been to visit him and his poor wife when the boy was refusing to take the breast, and she has rarely seen a father more doting—however red that boy’s hair might be.

It’s a hot afternoon, unusually close for April, and as Elsa walks she can feel herself start to perspire beneath her blouse. She likes to take the path down by the river’s edge; it’s nice and even underfoot, and if you look up you can see the lake shimmering in the distance. The meltwater has started to stream and ripple below the riverbank, and it’s enough to make you want to stop for a paddle.

Not that Elsa does that, of course. How it would look if she were to pull up her skirt and start splashing around, like a little girl without a care in the world? That really would give the village women something to gossip about!

It’s when Elsa smiles at this thought that it first strikes her that something is off, for when she looks around to see who might catch her would-be frolics in the river, she realizes that no one is there.

The river is lined with houses. It’s the old heart of Silvertjärn, and Elsa has a soft spot for this part of the village. When she and Staffan first moved to Silvertjärn, back when she was scarce more than a child herself, they had lived in one of the new buildings the mine had constructed. It had been a cold, soulless place, and Elsa is convinced that those cracked white walls were the reason why her first pregnancy was so difficult. She had made sure that they had moved away as soon as they could.

The houses down here by the river are older, with more personality, and Elsa knows everyone who lives down this way. Without boasting or bluster, Elsa can honestly claim to know everyone in Silvertjärn, but the area between the church and the river is her own, which means she goes the extra mile for those who live here. She likes to pass by the house with the sloping roof on the corner to say hello to Pia Etterström and her twin boys; to stop outside Emil Snäll’s porch and ask how his gout is treating him; to pause to admire Lise-Marie’s rosebushes.

But today not one person has stopped or waved.

Despite the warm weather, there’s not a soul to be seen in gardens or out on front steps, and not a single window is open. No one has bustled outside to say hello after seeing Elsa pass, even though she can see movements behind the kitchen curtains and closed windows. Everyone seems to have locked themselves away.

Her stomach turns.

In days to come, Elsa will wonder if some part of her already knows—before she sets off into a run, before she gets home, sweaty and disheveled, to find Staffan sitting at the kitchen table, his face empty with shock.

But no, she doesn’t know. She hasn’t realized, hasn’t guessed. She could never have guessed.

So when Staffan says with the voice of a sleepwalker …

“They’re shutting down the mine, Elsie. We found out today. They sent us all home.”

… she faints on the spot for the first and only time in her life.

 NOW

I’ve never seen Silvertjärn with my own eyes. I’ve pictured it, sure, based on Grandma’s stories, spent late nights googling like a woman possessed, searching for some kind of description, but I’ve found next to nothing.

I turn around when I hear the click of Tone’s camera. She’s holding it up to her eyes, so half of her face is hidden.

What we should have done is filmed the view as we drove out of the forest. That would have made for a powerful, attention-grabbing opening, which is what you need when you’re applying for funding. No matter how much we post on Instagram or try to direct people to the Kickstarter page, the hard truth is we’ll need a grant to make the documentary I’ve envisaged. Without some form of state funding, we don’t stand a chance.

But I’m convinced we’ll get the money in the end.

I mean, who could resist this?

The light is pouring down onto the dilapidated buildings, steeping them in reds and oranges. It’s surprising how well they have lasted, in spite of everything. They must have built things differently back then. Even so, the decay is still visible from up here. Some of the roofs have fallen in completely, and nature has started to reclaim the land in earnest; it’s hard to make out where the buildings end and the forest begins. The streets are empty and overgrown, and the rust-withered train tracks jut out of the station and into the forest like a punctured artery.

It’s beautiful, but in an almost obscene way, like an overblown rose about to shed its petals.

The clicks stop. I look back at Tone, who has lowered the camera.

“Get any good shots?” I ask.

“With a view like this, even an iPhone could get a good shot,” she replies.

She walks over to me and pulls the images up on the small rectangular screen. We’ve agreed that Tone will be in charge of photographs. Unlike Emmy, Emmy’s friend, and