The Memory Theater

18

Journeyman smiled as Dora came down the steps of the carriage. The others sat by a huge fire, wrapped in blankets. She looked at the fur Journeyman offered her. It didn’t smell like any animal she had ever seen.

A handful of stars pricked the black sky. They were on a beach, a thin strip of sand lit by a luminous ocean on one side and guarded by gnarled trees on the other. Shapes moved in the water, emerging so briefly that Dora didn’t have time to see what they were. She turned back to Journeyman.

“I don’t need it,” she said.

Thistle was talking to Nestor, who sat in his armchair like an old king on a throne, a thick fur over his shoulders.

“She was thrown out of the Gardens. And I want to find her. Will you help me?” Thistle said.

“That way lies death, boy,” Nestor said. “She will overpower you.”

“I don’t care,” Thistle said. “I have to try.”

Director and Nestor looked at each other for a long moment. Then Journeyman spoke up.

“Ghorbi called in her favor,” he said. “We should help them.”

Apprentice raised a hand. “I agree.”

Director nodded. “It’s your favor to return, Nestor, but I would say this is the right time.”

Nestor made a disgruntled noise. “Three against one.” He looked at Thistle and Dora. “Fine. It’s a consensus. We will help you.”

Thistle let out a sigh.

“Now,” Director said, “do you have something of hers?”

Thistle shook his head.

“Hmm.” Director pursed her lips. “Has she been in contact with you? Mixing bodily fluids? Anything of hers that may have rubbed off on you?”

“Thistle,” Dora blurted. “She carved you with her nails.”

Thistle’s face reddened. He glared at Dora.

Director put a hand on Thistle’s shoulder. He stepped out of her reach.

“Please show us,” Director said.

“It’s private,” Thistle said.

“I know,” Director said. “But if we can see, we can perhaps find Augusta.”

Thistle looked at the people gathered around him. He turned and walked down the beach with stiff steps. Director made to go after him.

Dora stepped in her way. “Leave him alone. He’s thinking.”

Dora waited until she thought Thistle might have had time to consider things. Then, as Apprentice and Journeyman began preparing dinner, she went looking. She saw a line of footprints and followed them. After a little while, she heard a skipping noise, like pebbles on stone. She walked up a low dune; in the hollow beyond stood the ruins of an amphitheater. Thistle sat cross-legged in the middle, playing with something that looked like old bones. He looked up as Dora approached.

“Do you still want to be alone?” Dora asked.

“No,” Thistle said.

Dora sat down next to him. Thistle dropped the bones, leaned his head on her shoulder, and wept. When he was down to only sniffles, Dora wiped his cheeks with her sleeves.

“There,” she said. “All better.”

Thistle let out a short laugh. “No makeup to smudge anymore.”

“I won’t let them harm you,” Dora said.

“I don’t think they would. It’s just hard.”

“I know.” Dora stood and helped Thistle up.

They climbed the amphitheater’s steps and then descended the dune on the other side. Thistle held Dora’s hand tight as they walked up the beach to where the carriage waited, light spilling out from its open front. The air smelled of spices and frying fish.

The troupe turned their heads as Dora and Thistle walked toward them. Neither Director nor Nestor spoke, but they sat up very straight in their seats.

Thistle stopped next to the fire. Without speaking, he rolled up his left sleeve. The thick leaves and stems shone against his arm. The thistles weren’t pretty; they were jagged and warped. Thistle rolled up his other sleeve, then held out his arms, hands clenched into fists.

“Here they are,” he said.

“May I touch them?” Nestor asked.

Nestor held out one hand, palm down. Thistle took it and hesitantly placed it on his forearm. His own hands were trembling.

Nestor closed his eyes. Then he nodded and removed his hand.

“It will work,” he said. “Her essence is all over these.”

Thistle quickly rolled his sleeves back down and stuck his hands into his armpits.

Nestor smiled at Thistle. “Thank you, lad. I know that was very difficult.”

Thistle nodded curtly.

“Because she left her mark, she is inextricably linked to you,” Nestor said. “We can trace your scars back to her. However…” He paused.

“However?” Thistle said.

“All places have time, just not always the same time,” Nestor said. “I cannot tell you exactly when you will find her. We are operating at a different scale out here. A long time may have passed since Augusta left the Gardens.”

“It doesn’t matter. So long as I find her,” Thistle said.

Nestor looked up at Director, who nodded.

“Colleagues!” Director announced. “We shall perform a montage.”

The troupe packed everything into the carriage and closed the wall. Inside, they arranged the sofa and armchairs in a circle. Apprentice rolled out the flat map in the center; Director and Nestor came carrying the canopy and set it on top. They spent a long moment fiddling with the canopy’s legs.

“Ready?” Director said.

“Ready,” Nestor replied.

They let go of the canopy and stood up. It hummed to life. Inside, the multitude of spheres and discs that hung from strings in the canopy’s ceiling lit up. Little clouds and swirls moved between them.

“Please, have a seat.” Director sat down in the nearest armchair.

Dora and Thistle sat on the sofa. An excited-looking Apprentice plonked herself down next to Dora. She was holding a small lyre.

Nestor stepped into the circle. He was dressed in heavy robes that left his right shoulder and arm bare, and wore a crown set with rows of horns. His beard and hair had grown into long corkscrew curls. His eyes, when he turned his head to the audience, were fixed on a point far away.

“I am the creator, the omniscient, the lord of stories. I will tell you of how Augusta Prima of the Gardens was found.”

Apprentice plucked a quiet rain of notes from the lyre.

Nestor closed his eyes. “The Troupe traveled through creation, searching for the villain that had caused such grievous harm to their young friends. At first they knew not where Augusta had gone, for the worlds are many. But then young Thistle showed where Augusta had marked his flesh and created a connection to herself. And so the Troupe set sail, letting young Thistle’s scars lead them to their goal. And here they are, soaring through the cosmos.”

A shining blob, a wheel of sorts, blinked into existence in the map. It floated through the arrangement of spheres and discs, up and down, in loops and spirals. Looking at it made Dora feel queasy. She glanced at Thistle, who was rubbing his left forearm, and put her hand over his to stop him. He leaned his head against her shoulder but didn’t relax.

“They skirted formless shoals, planet nurseries, wastelands, and primordial pools. They saw a city of brass, a city of rain, a city of clay. Finally, artwork called to maker: this was where the Troupe made port.”

The little wheel stopped at a small swirled sphere close to the bottom of the map and hovered there. Nestor bowed and backed out of the circle. Apprentice put down her harp.

“Here we are,” Director said.

She pointed at the sphere. “That there is Earth. And those”—she pointed to a protrusion on the surface of the sphere—“are the Gardens. Like a boil.”

The protrusion looked like it was pulsing.

“Anyway, that’s not where we are going,” Director said. “We have arrived at our destination.”

Apprentice and Journeyman folded the carriage wall aside.

19

Nils’s plate was full with pölsa and potatoes.

“I don’t trust you to eat well,” Johanna of Avastugan’s farm said.

Nils chuckled. “I don’t eat as well as you,” he said, and put the first forkful in his mouth.

Johanna’s pölsa was famous. The balance of innards, meat, barley grain, and onions was perfect, and the potatoes she served with it were small and tender. She had even put a slice of fried pork on the side. Nils thought to himself that he could eat her pölsa every day of the week.

Johanna sat down across the table. Her kitchen was nothing like Nils’s kitchen; the floor had been scrubbed until it shone and the curtains in the window were washed and ironed. She was very well-kept herself, short but strong, with deep laugh lines and quick, efficient movements. Every once in a while, Nils came down to her farm for supper or fika. Slightly more often now that her husband had passed. Johanna had confessed, no, openly stated that she felt lonely too now that her daughters had also left. We need company, you and I, she had said.

“How are your boys?” she asked.

“Nothing new,” Nils said. “Olof and Erik are both doing well. They send letters now and then. They haven’t had leave all summer, and they’re bored, but that’s all right. Bored is better.”

Johanna nodded. “Better than the alternative. I’m glad I had only girls.”

They ate in silence for a while. Then Johanna said, “Do you think the war will come here?”

“Who knows?” Nils said. “Norway is occupied. We’re only a day’s walk from the border. All the Germans have to do is move east.”

“My sister sent me a letter,” Johanna said. “She said her youngest doesn’t have any shoes. And that they barely have enough to eat. I might smuggle some things across the border. I did it this spring. I can do it again.”

“You would be putting yourself in danger,” Nils said.

“Eh,” Johanna replied. “Who’s going to suspect an old woman?”

Johanna was thrifty and resourceful. She sent cream and meat to her daughters in Stockholm by mail, even though it was prohibited. She labeled the packages books. Apparently one of the packages had started bleeding once, but the ladies at the post office in Stockholm had laughed about “gory crime novels” and let it through. Everyone helped one another out in these times.

“There,” Johanna said, and pushed her plate away. She put a piece of her precious tobacco under her lip. “That’s better.”

Nils mopped the remaining pölsa from his plate with a piece of bread. “Thank you, Johanna. Delicious as always.”

“Did you know Berit found a downed parachute the other day?” Johanna said. “Pure silk. Us neighbors divided it between us. Everyone’s wearing fancy blouses for church now. Why don’t you come to church sometime?”

“You know I’m not much of a churchgoer,” Nils mumbled.

“It’s not just about God,” Johanna said. “Who has time for God? I have work to do. But you get to meet people.”

Nils shrugged. “I’m not much of a people person either.”

“You get to meet me,” Johanna said, and smiled.

Sometimes Nils thought about asking Johanna for more than just friendship. She was a good woman. But he didn’t know how to ask. Perhaps she was asking him, now. It made him flustered.

“I have to go,” he said, and stood up. “I have to make it home in time for milking.”

Johanna looked a little disappointed but nodded. “Cows won’t wait.”

She waved him off as he climbed onto his bicycle and started his journey back home. It was a long way to go, and it was uphill, but he was full of pölsa and good company.

Johanna was right; Nils was lonely. It was difficult to work up the will to do the cooking and housework for just one person. There were no lodgers this year—the tourists had stopped coming. Nils had only been down to the village below a few times to get mail and buy necessities. Sometimes the couple that called themselves Grandmother and Grandfather came to visit, strange folk from the other side of the mountain. Nils had never quite figured out what they were. It would have been impolite to ask. He hadn’t seen them for months now.

He might be going a little stir-crazy. A couple of weeks ago he had caught a fever, fainted, and woken up on the kitchen floor. What if he had become really ill? No one would have found him for weeks. After that fall, there were the dreams. He dreamed that he was a woman; he dreamed of a timeless garden, of riches and luxury he had never seen; he dreamed that he danced in the twilight. And then he dreamed about walking through a city, and catching a train, and walking out onto the bog, where he met a man who looked very much like himself. Then he would wake up, unsure of who he was.

And sometimes he found himself standing between the privy and the house, or on his way to the barn, not knowing how long he had been there, humming a strange tune to a beat he had never heard before: one-two-three-four-five, one-two-three-four-five-six, one-two-three… and there was a dance that came along with it, but his feet were too heavy, his legs too stiff. His mouth warped the tune into something plain. Then the song would be gone again, elusive like smoke. As if he had been someone else, once. Someone powerful.

Elna, had she still been alive, would have frowned at him and told him to stop being ridiculous. She was good like that. Had been good to him for twenty-four years, since he first came to the village and caught her eye. There had been a harvest feast. They had danced all night, and Elna had joked that he must be one of the fair folk to dance so well. But he had said no, he was Nils Nilsson, and that was all. She had smiled at him and said that was good enough for her. Olof and Erik, when they arrived, had her eyes.

Now Nils was on his own until his sons came home or the Germans knocked on the door. In the meantime, he would go about his chores. And perhaps go see Johanna a little more often.

20

The house-carriage sat on a blunt hilltop, its stairs unfolded. Mountains lay low and wide against the horizon. Between the mountains, Dora could see flat woodland and bogs, and hundreds of little lakes. Patches of snow dotted the slopes. The world looked hazy, as if it were raining, but no drops fell on the carriage’s roof. Somehow, Dora knew what those bogs would feel like under her feet; she knew their scents and their sounds, and the animals they hid. She knew that the stream running into the valley below would taste like ice and stone.

“Does this look right?” Director said.

“It looks like home,” Dora said.

Thistle shaded his eyes with his hand. “How do we know Augusta is here?”

Director shrugged. “According to you, she is. Somewhere close, at least.” She pointed. “There’s a farm down there. It’s a start.”

Thistle stared at the landscape, clenching his fists.

“What will you do once you find her?” Journeyman asked.

“Ask her for my name back,” Thistle said.

“That’s it?”

Thistle nodded.

“And you think she’ll just answer?”

“It’s the only chance I have.”

“Fair enough.” Journeyman looked doubtful.

Dora stepped out of the carriage, down the stairs, and onto the rock.

“Stop!” Apprentice shouted. “We’re not there yet! We’re only backstage. All the people are frontstage.”

Dora quickly climbed back up.

“What?” Thistle said.

“We move through the backdrop of the universe,” Director said. “We need to lift the veil so that you can go through.”

Nestor joined them on the stairs. He had shrunk, as had his beard, and he was once again the kindly old gentleman.

“Here we are,” Nestor said. “At the right place, hopefully at the right time. Keep in mind what I said.”

Thistle nodded. “I just want to find her,” he said.

“Very well,” Director said. “Let us send the children on their way.”

“Can I go?” Apprentice said. “Just to have a look.”

“You have work to do,” Director replied.

Apprentice made a whining noise. “Please. I won’t be a minute. Just a peek.”

“No,” Director said firmly.

Apprentice looked at Nestor, who shook his head. “Don’t look at me. Director said no.”

Apprentice pouted and kicked the couch.

There was a rustle from inside the carriage. Journeyman came out with an armful of pipes and flutes.

“Are these appropriate?” he asked.

“Very,” Director said. “I’ll take the aulos.”

“Crumhorn, please,” Nestor said.

Journeyman shared out the instruments to the others: a strange double flute for the Director, a long curved wooden flute for Nestor, and a tin whistle for Apprentice. He kept a long birch-bark trumpet for himself.

“What do we do if we need to find you again?” Thistle said.

“Go to the crossroads and ask for us,” Director said. “Very simple.”

Journeyman walked over to where Dora was standing. He tentatively held out his arms. Dora stepped into his embrace and rested her chin on his shoulder. She ran her hand down his back and felt the hum of myriad possible shapes waiting under his skin. He smelled like he had by the pool in the woods: urgent, musky.

Journeyman drew a shaky breath and held her closer. “I wish you would stay.”

Dora closed her eyes and ran a hand through his hair, cradled the back of his head.

“I know,” she said. “Thank you.”

“It’s time to go.” Thistle’s voice, his touch on her arm.

Dora extricated herself from Journeyman’s embrace. His face was wet. He held on to one of her hands.

“Don’t forget me,” he said.

She shook her head.

“It had to happen sometime,” Director mumbled behind her.

“At least it was someone kind,” Nestor mumbled back.

“Now, stand back,” Director said in a louder voice, and waved Dora and Thistle toward the edge of the stage.

“How does this work?” Thistle asked.

“It’s a musical number,” Nestor said cheerfully. “The music that moves the world.”

“One, two, three,” Director said, and raised the double flute to her mouth.

The collected sound from the four instruments was deafening, a warped tune that bounced around the walls of the theater. The noise invaded Dora’s body, its vibrations beating against her chest. Thistle grabbed her arm, and she looked down at him. He pointed at the landscape.

The haze that had obscured the mountainside was lifting; beyond, a yellow sun turned snow patches and lakes into shards of light that left spots on Dora’s vision. Dora looked back at the troupe. Director nodded. Dora took Thistle’s hand and descended the stairs. She caught Thistle as he jumped down onto the rocks. The noise from the company was still too loud for them to speak. They walked down the hill, into the sun, and the music ended abruptly.

A hand that wasn’t Thistle’s patted Dora on the shoulder, and she turned around. It was Apprentice, flute in hand, an exhilarated smile on her face. Behind them, the carriage had disappeared from view; there was just the mountain.

“Ha!” Apprentice shouted. “I did it!”

“What?” Dora said.

“I wanted to have a look,” Apprentice said. “I’m having a look!”

“I thought you weren’t supposed to,” Thistle said.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Apprentice said. “I’m just sightseeing.”

She put the tin whistle to her lips and played a little victorious tune.

The air trembled, and then the ground.

Apprentice’s eyes widened. “Maybe I shouldn’t have played it on this side.”

The mountain moved under their feet.

21

Nils was in the barn, resting his forehead against Svana’s warm flank as he milked her, when he heard the sound of thunder. He went outside and looked up at the clear sky. Then he saw it: a massive cloud of dust rising up from the side of Koryggen Mountain. A rockslide. He should go and have a look when he was done.

He went back into the barn and milked Rosa as well, then emptied the bucket into the milk can and went outside to put the can to cool in the stream. The cows were happy to leave the barn and go graze in the paddock.

Nils ate his breakfast as quickly as he could, then took his bicycle out of the shed. He rode west up the mountain and through the pass between it and the hill next to it, where the road ended at an old abandoned barn. He leaned his bicycle against the wall and walked up the slope. It wasn’t long before he spotted the rockslide.

Some of the boulders were as big as his privy, but mostly there was smaller rubble. Among the rocks, a blue shape. It did look like someone. Nils made his way over the rocks, careful lest he disturb them again.

At first, Nils thought it was in fact two people, the smaller one curled up against the bigger. When he looked again, it was just an unconscious boy in blue coveralls next to a vaguely human-shaped boulder. His right leg was soaked with blood, and his face was covered in cuts. His eyes fluttered open, and he whispered something in a hoarse voice. A little ways off, Nils saw a hand sticking out of the rubble. Nils rolled one of the rocks aside. A smashed face framed by tangled hair stared blindly into nothing.

“Help,” the boy mumbled.

Nils left the other body and moved closer to the boy.

“Don’t worry,” Nils told him. “We’ll sort you out. I’m Nils. What’s your name?”

The boy looked up at him but said nothing.

The boy stiffened as Nils got his hunting knife out of his belt, but relaxed a little when Nils merely cut his pant leg open. The wound was deep, right across the shin, but the bone didn’t seem to be broken.

“How did you end up here?” Nils asked.

The boy didn’t respond.

Nils carefully took off the boy’s boot and felt his foot. It was warm and pink. He nodded to himself.

“Good,” he said. “Your leg will be all right.”

“Please don’t hurt me,” the boy said.

“Of course not,” Nils replied. “Now let’s see if we can get you up.”

“My sister,” the boy whispered.

“Where’s your sister?” Nils said.

“She was here…” The boy trailed off.

The other body.

The boy didn’t need to know about that right now.

“Don’t you worry about your sister,” Nils said.

Nils took his scarf and put a makeshift bandage around the boy’s leg. Nils put the boot back on, then helped the boy sit up.

“Let’s get you indoors,” Nils said.

The boy was heavier than he looked, but Nils managed to get him onto the rack of his bicycle. He wrapped the boy’s arms around his own waist, told him to hold on tight, and trudged homeward.

Elna had never let anything go to waste. Half the chest of drawers in the attic was filled with scraps of old bedsheets and clothes too worn to mend. Elna would turn sheets into pillowcases and the pillowcases into handkerchiefs and, when that didn’t work, wraps. She had kept the bandages that she’d wrapped around their sons’ navel stumps when they were born. Even after she died, Nils couldn’t bring himself to throw them away. They were so soft that Nils could barely feel them in his hand. He plucked what cobwebs he could find from the windowsills and corners—cobwebs prevented wounds going bad, he knew that much—and went back downstairs.

The boy wept as Nils cleaned his leg, but he made no noise, just gripped the bed frame until it creaked. When the wound was clean, Nils squeezed the edges together and covered them in cobweb, then wrapped the leg with the old bandages.

“There,” he said. “All done. Now let’s hope there won’t be an infection.”

He cleaned up the boy’s face. The cuts were many but shallow, and looked like they would heal on their own.

“I’ll need to feel your belly,” Nils said. “Make sure nothing’s broken in there.”

As he tried to unbutton the boy’s clothes, the boy resisted.

“Very well,” Nils said. “I understand modesty. Let me at least feel it.”

The boy lay back, eyes still fixed on the wall. Nils lightly prodded his abdomen and then his ribs. The boy wasn’t coughing blood and his belly wasn’t hard.

Nils nodded to himself. “You will be all right. We just need to make sure to keep that leg clean.”

He unfolded a blanket and draped it over the boy, then added a sheepskin.

“Where is my sister?” the boy asked.

Nils couldn’t bring himself to say it. “She’s outside,” he said instead, which was true.

“I need her.”

“I’ll tell her you asked for her.”

“Good,” the boy said, and promptly fell asleep.

The boy slept all day. Nils went about his daily tasks, mulling the whole thing over. He should really go down to the village right away, ask about the boy he had found. But he couldn’t just leave the boy alone. It could wait until tomorrow. And the girl wasn’t going anywhere.

In the evening, Nils bedded down on the kitchen bench and listened to the boy’s breath. Outside, the meadows and moors lay quiet save for the occasional small animal noise. This was the best time of year, the best time of day, when everything was alive but asleep; the sun just below the horizon, and the sky alight. It was the perfect light for dancing, had he been young. Nils hummed his song, one-two-three-four-five, one-two-three-four-five-six, tapping his knuckle on the wooden armrest, but he couldn’t fathom where he’d learned the tune.

22

The boy was sitting up in bed when Nils entered the chamber the next morning. There was nothing left but to tell the truth.

“I’m sorry, lad,” Nils said. “Your sister is dead.”

The boy stared at him. “You said she was on the mountain.”

“She was. I saw her,” Nils replied. “She didn’t survive.”

The boy’s eyes emptied of all life, and his face went slack.

“I couldn’t tell you yesterday,” Nils continued. “You were too weak.”

“Where is she?” the boy whispered.

Nils hesitated, then said: “She’s buried on the mountain.” It wasn’t a lie, after all.

“I want to see,” the boy said. “I need to see.”

“It’s too far,” Nils said. “Your leg needs to heal. Soon.”

The boy didn’t scream or cry; he sagged back against the pillow and stared into empty space.

He didn’t speak for a few days after that. He didn’t drink or eat on his own, but opened his mouth for the spoonfuls of gruel that Nils fed him. Nils sat by the bed and read to him from the books his sons had once enjoyed: Gulliver’s Travels, Robinson Crusoe, The Wonderful Adventures of Nils. If the boy listened, he didn’t show it, but Nils persisted.

Nils was true to his word. When the wound on the boy’s leg had closed, he brought him outside for the first time. They walked to a pile of rocks on the nearest hill, Nils supporting the boy on his arm. It was a tourist spot, really; hikers would place a rock at the top as a sign that they had been there. They had done so for decades, and the pile was high enough to look like a little cairn.

“This is where you can mourn your sister,” he told the boy.

The boy sat down by the rocks, face just as empty as it had been for the last week. He was motionless until the sun started to dip toward the horizon and a cold wind blew in.

After that, the boy showed no sign of wanting to leave; he showed no sign of wanting anything. He sat in the kitchen or on the bench outside the house. Nils knew that he should have reported the event to the authorities, but something stopped him. If he did, they would take the boy away. And Nils very much wanted to keep the boy. There was just something about him.

August segued into September. Nils didn’t mind the boy’s apathy. He fed him, made sure he was warm, made sure he bathed every now and then. The boy refused to let Nils see him without clothes, though, always keeping his sleeves rolled down and his shirt well tucked into the trousers Nils had given him. Nils let the boy wash himself in the bedchamber with the door closed. The boy wouldn’t shave, would in fact shy away from anything that looked like a knife, and grew a scraggly auburn beard.

He seemed to like the cows. He started following Nils into the barn in the mornings; at first, he merely stood by the wall and watched as Nils milked the cows. Then one day he put a hand on Rosa’s neck, and she let him. After that, whenever Nils had been in town or to see Johanna, he would come home to find the boy in the barn, quietly running a brush over a cow’s flank.

The boy wouldn’t talk about his past, or give his name, and Nils didn’t press the issue. He would talk when he wanted to. These things could take time. From the looks of it, he had been to hell and back.

In October the boy was still there, a quiet presence. Nils had put off checking on his sister’s body for so long that it by now seemed pointless. She would be devoured by birds and foxes. It was the way of things. Neither had he told Johanna or anyone else about the boy. He found that it wasn’t hard to keep that particular secret.

The day came when the boy sat down on a milking stool of his own accord. After that, he took over the morning milking. Nils showed him how to make cheese and filbunke from the milk. It turned out that the boy was a fast learner. He went from sitting by the stove for hours every day to spending just the evenings there. He still wouldn’t smile, but there was a different air about him, as if he had started to breathe properly.

But there were changes that came with the boy’s recuperation. Nils found a cache in the bedroom where the boy had squirreled away some things: a spare shirt, socks, a box of matches. As if he was planning to go somewhere. When confronted with this, the boy merely shrugged and said that they might come in handy. Nils put them back in their original places. But after that, when going into the room, he would find things: a rope under the mattress, clean socks in a corner. The boy merely watched as he took the things away. Nils had to do this again and again. It was like this with boys. You had to be consistent.

Temperatures had dropped dramatically in the past week, and the first snow lay in thick drifts around the house. Nils and the boy had potatoes and the last of the salted pork for supper, washed down with barley coffee. Nils pushed his plate away.

“I’m going into the village tomorrow,” he said. “We need to stock up for winter.”

“Take me with you,” the boy said.

Nils glanced at him. “Why?” he asked.

“I just thought it was time,” the boy replied. “I think my sister would have wanted me to go on.”

“Go on to do what?” Nils asked.

“There’s someone I need to find.”

“Who?”

The boy wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Someone,” he said.

“And do you think that this someone is in the village?”

“No, but it’s a start.”

“There’s nothing there to see,” Nils said. “Just some houses and a general store.”

“I think it’s time for me to go see it. I have things to do.”

“You’re better off staying here,” Nils said.

“But I want to—”

“I said no!”

The boy shrunk back, and Nils realized he had been shouting.

“I have to try,” the boy said, very quietly. “It’s time.”

“We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

The boy went out to milk the cows. Nils washed the dishes. Why had he been shouting? Why was it so important to keep the boy here? It just was. But this anger didn’t feel like him. Nils had never raised his voice to anyone in his life. He tried to shrug it off, sharpened a pencil, and wrote a shopping list. He’d have to borrow Andersson’s horse and cart if he wanted to get everything home in one go. Maybe see Johanna on the way into town. She would be happy to make him lunch. He should talk to Persson about borrowing his bull while he was in town, too. It was time to have at least Svana covered.

Nils couldn’t really afford to feed another mouth. Except maybe if the owner of that mouth earned his keep. The boy could certainly earn his keep, if only he’d stay.

If only he’d stay. But he’d want to leave as soon as he saw the village.

After all Nils had done for him, the boy had no right to leave. He belonged to this house now. There was that thought again. Why was it important to keep the boy? He just had to. Nils folded up the list, put it in his breast pocket, and picked up a worn sock from the mending basket.

The boy came back inside, bringing the smell of night air and cow dung. He drank the barley coffee Nils had made, sat in silence on the kitchen bench for a while and watched Nils darn the sock, then went to bed.

It wasn’t long before the breaths in the bedchamber lengthened. Nils got up from the kitchen bench and quietly locked the door. Then he went outside, closed the chamber’s window shutters, and barred them with a plank.

The air was cold and clear. Faint waves of green light swept across the sky. It reminded him of something. It made him want to dance. Perhaps the boy would be in a better mood if they had a little party. A real party, with sweets and wine and dancing.

Back in the kitchen, he made himself a fresh cup of barley coffee. He made a new list of things to buy in the village. Sweets and wine. Let them wonder. He didn’t care. Should he see Johanna? Perhaps not. It was too important to get food for the feast.

They were going to have a feast, the boy and he.

23

The smell of rock. Hard things digging into her back. Dora opened her eyes and saw nothing.

She lay on her side, embedded in something heavy. She could breathe but it was hard to move. Heart pounding, she flexed her arms and legs; they creaked and popped, as if she had lain still for a long time. Dora reached upward with a grunt, digging through the cold mass until her hand suddenly felt nothing. She gathered her legs under her and pushed herself upright.

Dora was standing on a mountainside, in a hollow that had filled with snow. The mountainside above looked like it had collapsed, and she herself was at the edge of the rocks that had spilled out from its wound. The shape of the rockslide was softened by the blanket of snow that covered everything. Below, warped and angry-looking trees dotted the slope.

“Thistle?” Dora called. “Apprentice?”

There was no reply. A few steps away, something like a twig stuck out of the snow. Dora climbed over the rubble toward it. Her limbs were so stiff it hurt. How long had she lain there?

The twig was a near-skeletal arm, wrapped in tatters of blue cloth. Its fingers were missing. Dora flung the rubble aside. Half-covered by a large stone lay a corpse dressed in blue coveralls. Long strands of dark blond hair clung to its skull. Those were Apprentice’s coveralls. That was her ruined face, eyes eaten away, lips receded from her teeth.

“Apprentice?” Dora said.

Apprentice’s corpse stared back at her with empty sockets. She had been so happy about going on an adventure. No more adventures for her now.

“I’m sorry,” she said to Apprentice. “I hope it was quick.” Then she called out, “Thistle?”

The rounded hilltops looked soft, as if smoothed down by giants. A carpet of fir trees covered the valley’s bottom. The cloud cover was thin and low.

“Thistle!” she called again. “Thistle! Thistle!”

A fat white bird on the ground stared at her and wandered off.

Dora walked around the rockslide in a spiral, lifting rocks, searching for traces of Thistle. There were none. No tracks in the snow except for hers. She returned to where Apprentice lay and picked her up. Only the blue coveralls held the body together.

“I’m sorry,” she said to Apprentice. “It won’t be a proper funeral.”

Dora walked to a flat area, put Apprentice down, and dug into the snow with her fingers until she felt hardened dirt. Even frozen, this earth felt familiar. The smell, the feel. It told her that even though it would soften for her, the soil here was too meager for a burial.

Not too meager for her birth. Dora had first come to consciousness in a place like this.

“Wake up,” a voice had said. “Wake up, child.”

And Dora had woken up, climbed out of the soil that smelled and felt just like here. Long hands had caught her. The morning sun had warmed her skin. The tall woman had looked down at her with burning eyes.

“Look at you,” Ghorbi had said. “You’re perfect. Let’s get you to your father.”

Dora shook off the memory and picked up Apprentice again, trudging through the snow away from the rockslide. She would find better ground for Apprentice while searching for Thistle. She would go into the valley. Thistle would have done the same.

Wading through the snow was slow going, but the work made the stiffness go away. Dora’s breath left her mouth in thick clouds. Frost gathered on her eyelashes. Apprentice’s hair swayed in the wind. There were no sounds except those that Dora made, and even those were muted by the snow. She made her way past twisted birch trees that glittered with ice; then the pine forest took over as she came to the bottom of the valley. The snow cover was thinner here, which made it easier to walk. A tree had fallen over, its roots pointing into the sky. Dora dug into the hollow underneath, into the cold ground, and lay Apprentice down. She adjusted Apprentice’s body so that she almost looked asleep. A flat rock under her head and her hair untangled, and it was done. Dora lifted her hands, and the frozen soil enveloped Apprentice’s body. Apprentice would be part of this land now.

The slope steepened slightly as Dora walked farther in among the trees, into a sharp scent of needles and sap. At the very bottom of the valley, a stream flowed down a rocky riverbed, too swift to freeze in the middle. Dora crouched by a little pool, punched a hole through the ice, and stuck her hands in the water. It tasted like she knew it would, of winter and minerals. If Thistle had come this way, he would have stopped to drink, and he would have complained about the cold water. There was a little wooden bridge. Dora crossed it.

The light gradually waned, but Dora had no trouble finding her way between the trees; her feet and nose and ears told her what her eyes didn’t, as if she was made for finding her way here. She trudged up the other slope, among firs that stood so close together that Dora saw the opening in the mountainside only when the tree line abruptly ended.

Boulders were piled up and scattered around the hole in the rock. The snow on the ground here was patterned with footprints, human and something else. A light glowed inside. And Dora could hear, faintly, the flat clank of bells.

As Dora came closer to the opening, she could sense that it was the flickering sheen of an open fire, accompanied by a rich smell of baking bread that made her stomach twist. The voices of a man and a woman. They were laughing. It wasn’t the demented cackle of lords and ladies, nor the troupe’s eerie giggle. These people laughed like Dora and Thistle did with each other.

As Dora reached the opening, it was as if she could almost see them. The tunnel sloped downward into a cavern with rushes on the floor. There was the heavy sound of a hoof scraping on the ground, deep animal calls, a bell. Dora slipped on a rock. It skipped down the tunnel with a loud noise.

The light went out. The voices and bells disappeared. The tunnel gaped at her.

“I’m looking for my brother,” Dora called into the emptiness. “That’s all I want.”

Silence.

“He’s hurt,” Dora continued. “He needs me.”

Nothing happened. Dora sat down on a boulder with her back to the cave. Her eyes prickled.

“You seem lost,” someone said behind her.

Dora turned her head. The light from the cave had returned, and revealed a broad-shouldered woman. Her skirt and the long shawl tied across her chest were red. Under the embroidered headscarf, her face was strong-jawed and stern. Then she smiled, and her features folded into laugh lines.

She bent down. “Don’t cry, girl. Now, tell me what you call yourself.”

“Dora.”

“Well met, Dora. You may call me Grandmother.”

“That’s not a name,” Dora said.

Grandmother smiled again. “You’re right, it’s not. We don’t hand our names out just like that.”

“Why did you disappear?”

“We had to have a look at you first,” the woman replied. “Of course, then you told us why you were here. We’ve decided you’re a good sort.”

Grandmother held out her hand. Dora took it, and Grandmother helped her upright without effort. Then she turned and walked down the tunnel at a brisk pace. Something like a tail peeked out from under her skirt. At the bottom of the slope, the tunnel widened into a chamber lit by lanterns hanging from the ceiling. Four fat white animals lay or stood on the straw-covered floor, chewing cud. One of them wore a large silver bell that clanked as it stuck her head into the long feeding trough that ran the length of the chamber. The air was warm and close and smelled of dung, but it was a safe smell.

“Move over, Stjärna.”

Grandmother slapped the hindquarters of the beast standing in the middle of the space. Stjärna took a step to the side and went over to sniff Dora with her wet muzzle.

“Don’t mind the cow; she’s just curious,” Grandmother said over her shoulder.

Dora patted Stjärna’s neck. She seemed content with this and walked over to the feeding trough.

“Do you always keep them in here?” Dora asked.

“Only at night and in winter,” Grandmother replied. She moved across the chamber to an opening on the other side, waving for Dora to follow. “This used to be a mine. The miners moved out, so we moved in.”

The next tunnel bent to the right and opened into another chamber that was a little larger than the first. There was a roaring fireplace, next to which stood a four-poster bed. Around the large table in the middle of the room were chairs and a wood-framed sofa. By the fireplace stood a man in moleskin trousers and a long waistcoat the same color as Grandmother’s shawl. He turned around as Dora and Grandmother came in.

“Dora, this is Grandfather,” said Grandmother, and took off her scarf.

Grandfather gave Dora a slight bow, then walked closer. He was as weathered as Grandmother, with gray hair that curled around his ears.

“Good evening, Dora,” he said.

The lines around Grandfather’s eyes were not from laughing, and they didn’t soften much when he smiled.

“She’s looking for her brother,” Grandmother said.

Grandfather nodded. “And where did you lose him?”

“We fell down the mountain, and when I woke up he wasn’t there. Is he here? He needs me,” Dora said.

Grandfather and Grandmother exchanged glances.

Then Grandmother said, “We saw a girl-shaped stone on the mountain. There was a girl corpse there, too. We didn’t touch it. You don’t look like a ghost, so you must be the stone girl.”

“There was no one there who could have been your brother,” Grandfather said.

“I have to go to him,” Dora said.

“Dora,” Grandfather said. “It has been a while. That was in harvest season. It is winter now, although it came too early.”

“What?” Dora said, and her head buzzed. “So he could be dead. On the mountain.”

“Or not,” Grandmother replied. “A man lives not far from there. He might have taken the boy in. I don’t know; we haven’t seen him for some time. We’ll visit him tomorrow.”

“You should sit down, Dora,” Grandfather said. “You must be starving. There’s no use worrying about your brother now.”

Dora’s head was still buzzing, but her stomach rumbled in reply. Grandfather smiled.

They sat her down in one of the chairs by the table and draped a thick shawl over her shoulders, even though Dora protested she didn’t feel cold. Grandfather put a large wooden bowl of porridge in the center of the table and handed Grandmother and Dora a spoon each, then made a little pit in the middle of the bowl. Grandmother lifted the lid on a box sitting on the table and dug out a large lump of butter, which she dropped into the pit.

“Go on,” Grandmother said, and gestured at the bowl, where the butter was melting into a little puddle.

Dora glanced at the little tip of tail that peeked out from beneath Grandmother’s skirt, and for a moment forgot about Thistle.

“What are you?”

Grandfather laughed, an unexpected sound. “We’re vittra, my dear. The hidden folk. What about you?”

“I don’t know what I am,” Dora replied.

“She does have an odd accent,” Grandmother remarked. “Are you from very far away, then?”

“I don’t know how far it is,” Dora said.

She brought the spoon to her mouth. The porridge tasted of oats and honey and salty butter, and it settled comfortably in her stomach.

“Who is the man you talked about?” Dora said after she had swallowed.

“Nils Nilsson,” Grandfather said. “Honest fellow.”

“A little odd,” Grandmother filled in. “Fairy blood, I always thought. His wife was a good woman, too. She borrowed Stjärna when their sons were little. Never have I seen someone take such good care of a cow.”

Dora put the spoon down. “Please take me there. Now. I need to know if he is alive.”

Grandmother put her hand on Dora’s. “No rush, dear. We’ll take you there in the morning. We can’t cross the mountain at night. If your brother was lost on the mountain, he is already dead. But if someone found him, he’s all right, and it can wait until tomorrow.”

Grandmother and Grandfather let Dora have the butter in the middle. They asked her where she came from, and Dora told them of the Gardens and their masters, and how she was grown from a seed, or at least that’s what Ghorbi had told her. And she told them about Thistle, her brother, a stolen child. Grandmother and Grandfather listened in silence, with raised eyebrows.

“Well,” Grandfather said. “That’s a strange story.”

Grandmother nodded. “Indeed.”

Dora yawned. She was still anxious, but so tired.

“You need to sleep, properly this time. Turning to stone is no way to sleep,” Grandmother said.

They unfolded the kitchen bench for her and bedded her down among blankets that smelled of sheep. Dora drifted off to the low sound of Grandmother and Grandfather talking.

24

Nils set off when it was still dark. He made the hour-long walk over to Andersson’s, where he borrowed the horse and cart. Then he went into the village and bought what he needed. Goods for the coming winter, and some fancy things. Let people talk.

By the time Nils finally returned, unloaded the cart, and put the horse in the stable, the boy had almost managed to knock the door off its hinges. But the house was sturdy.

“Why are you doing this?” the boy sobbed from inside.

“I can’t have you leave,” Nils replied. “I bought sweets. We’re going to have a party.”

A party needed decoration, and this place was a dull one. Nils went through chests and cupboards, and eventually found old tablecloths and dresses. They made for fine curtains and drapes. He nailed them to doors and walls, adjusting them until he was satisfied. There were no flowers to find this time of year, but he went out and cut some birch branches that he nailed to the ceiling and adorned with some of the Christmas decorations from the attic. It began to feel festive. He found his best suit. It was not very well cut, and the fabric was dull. But he found some leftover paint from the barn with which he drew gaudy swirls of flowers over the back of the jacket. Then he put it on. There was something in the jacket’s breast pocket, and he drew it out. A golden locket: a watch. Elna had given him this for their wedding. He hadn’t seen it for a long time. The engraved flowers on the lid tickled his fingers. He briefly held it against his cheek, feeling the metal warm to his skin, then put it back. A wash and a shave, and he was ready for the party.

The boy made no attempt to fight as Nils unlocked the door and entered the bedchamber, just sat in a corner of the room, staring.

“Are you hungry?” Nils asked.

“Who are you?” the boy said quietly. “Who are you really?”

Nils tilted his head. “Whatever do you mean? I am as you see me.”

“Yes, you are as I see you. I see someone else than the man who took me in.” The boy’s stare was forward, too forward, the stare of someone who needed to be chastised.

Nils blinked. Someone else than the man who took me in. Perhaps he was. Yes, he was. Something had been growing inside him, something strange yet familiar. Something old. It was right. He knew what to say; the words rolled off his tongue.

“You’ll want to be nice, my sweet,” Nils replied. “I want a nice party. Just you and me. We’ll dance!”

He took a couple of dance steps, clapped a rhythm with his hands: one-two-three-four-five, one-two-three-four-five-six. The boy put a hand over his mouth.

“You—” he said through his fingers.

Yes. Nils slapped the boy with the back of his hand. The boy let out a muted cry and crawled farther into the corner.

“That’s no way to address me, lad,” Nils said. “What do we say?”

“My lord?” the boy whispered. “I beg your pardon, my lord. I did not mean to offend. Please forgive me.”

The boy bowed his head and held his hands out, palms up, in a gesture that was so, so familiar. And there, on his wrist, a scar peeked out. Nils knew what that was. It would be a stem, a flower stem, curling up around the boy’s arm and on across his shoulder and chest. Such a beautiful flower.

Nils tilted his head. “I know you,” he said.

He bent down, tore the boy’s shirt open, and recognized his own handiwork. And, finally, the boy.

“Thistle,” he said. “I know you. You’re all grown up.”

“Augusta,” Thistle breathed, then screamed.

Nils went to the hallway mirror and studied his own face. Deep lines crisscrossed his skin, and his eyes were watery. His mouth was full of teeth with receding gums. His hair looked dull and was going gray. Everything was too worn, too big, too base.

He was not supposed to look like this. She was not supposed to look like this. She, Augusta of the Gardens. This body was strong, yes, but awkward and heavy and old. Joints and tendons ached and complained. A couple of teeth felt loose. It was a body that wouldn’t last. Augusta remembered herself now, and Phantasos. He had come here to live out his life as a mortal man. He had found Elna, married her, raised two boys. He had abandoned who he once was. And then Augusta had come along. She had killed him, and he had cursed her to live out his life. And maybe she would have, had not Thistle found her. He had recognized her, but it had not turned her back into her old self. One of your own, Phantasos had said. It had to be one of her own. How had Thistle found her?

The cows were lowing in the barn. They wanted milking, of course. Menial work, not fit for a lady of Augusta’s standing. She ignored the noise and went inside the kitchen. Thistle didn’t talk back when she told him to put the feast in order.

On the kitchen table, Thistle laid out the things Augusta had bought in the village: soft bread and honey; little cakes, ham, tiny sausages; a bottle of spirits. He was a good boy. She allowed him to sit at the table, even have a taste of the bread. He sat slumped on his stool, legs squeezed together, hugging himself.

“How did you get here?” Augusta said conversationally.

“I ran away, my lady,” Thistle mumbled.

Augusta paused. “You ran away?”

Thistle nodded.

“If you found your way out, you can find your way back in. How? Tell me how.” Augusta leaned closer and grabbed him by his collar. “Mnemosyne cast me out. She had no right. You will answer my question.”

“I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you!” Thistle said quickly. “Ghorbi took us to the crossroads. We… traveled from there.”

“Ghorbi, eh,” Augusta said, and twisted his collar a little.

Thistle nodded in reply.

“So if I go to this ‘crossroads,’ I can go to the Gardens from there?”

“I reckon so, my lady,” Thistle replied.

“And how does one go to the crossroads?” Augusta tightened her grip.

“One sings a song,” Thistle wheezed. “I can’t breathe.”

Augusta let him go. “You will teach me this song.”

Thistle straightened and rubbed his throat. He paused and swallowed. Then he said, “I propose a trade, my lady. You have something I need. I have something you need.”

Augusta laughed. “Your name, isn’t it. Did you come all the way here for your name, boy?”

“I did.”

Augusta couldn’t help but be impressed. “Very tenacious. And so you thought I’d give it to you.”

“As a trade, my lady. It’s all I have left.”

Augusta looked him up and down. The boy was trembling and wide-eyed. “Very well,” she said. “I suppose it’s a fair trade.” She emptied her glass. “Teach me, and you’ll earn your name back.”

Thistle held out his hand. “Your word,” he said.

Augusta laughed. “Of course.” She grabbed his hand and held it just tight enough to feel the bones shift. “You have my word that once you have taught me the song to get to the crossroads, you will have your name back.”

Thistle nodded. “We should probably go outside.”

“You first,” Augusta said. She put her carving knife in her belt, just in case.

The sky had cleared. A faint multicolored aurora glimmered to the north.

“Go on,” Augusta said. “Sing.”

Thistle started humming. Augusta hummed with him. The sound gradually built into a simple tune, but something that Thistle did made it sound like he was harmonizing with himself. Augusta moved her tongue around in her mouth and adjusted the muscles in her jaw, until she felt a second note reverberate through her skull. Thistle sang a long, long word, and Augusta mimicked him. The song rose and fell, rose and fell. Then Thistle abruptly went quiet.

“There it is,” he said. “The crossroads.”

Ahead of them, where the mountainside should be, was a blur. The snowy ground at Augusta’s feet gradually flattened out and faded into cracked mud.

“You go in, and there are people who will show you the way,” Thistle said.

“Excellent, boy. Well done.” Augusta started walking.

Thistle grabbed her sleeve. “You gave me your word. My name.”

Augusta turned around and looked down at him. “Your name. Of course.”

She grabbed his jaw with one hand and looked deep into his eyes. “Albin,” she said. “Albin Jönsson is your name.”

The boy’s eyes filled with tears. He let out a long sigh.

“That means you are completely free,” Augusta said. “Which also means I am free to kill you.”

Before the boy could react, she snatched the carving knife from her belt and drove it into his stomach.

“Thank you for your service, darling,” Augusta said. “Your death will be slow.”

She let him go, and he sank to the ground with a groan. Augusta turned around and walked into the haze.

25

When Dora woke up, the room was empty, with only embers glowing in the fireplace. It was quiet save for the faint sound of Stjärna’s bell upstairs.

The coveralls she had hung on the back of a chair were gone, replaced by a shift and a woolen skirt and jacket that looked much like Grandmother’s. She put them on; they were almost her size, although the jacket was short in the sleeves.

A loaf of bread wrapped in linen sat on the table, together with the box of butter. Dora cut herself a thick slice of bread and chewed on it while she walked up the tunnel to the barn. Grandmother was milking the cows with a rhythmic drizzle; she crooned a slow melody, full of trills and strange consonants, so melancholy it made Dora’s heart catch: Lilltåa, tåtilla, kroknosa, tillerosa.

“Why is it so sad?”

Grandmother stopped singing and looked up at her. “It’s not sad. It’s how we sing.” She smiled. “It’s a children’s song. Counting the toes on your foot. I sang it to our daughter.”

“Where is she now?”

Grandmother’s smile tightened. She patted the cow’s flank. “She snuck down to the village for the Midsummer dance, and a man threw a pair of iron shears over her head. He saw her tail and knew that cold iron would trap her.”

She stood up and poured the contents of the bucket into a large crock, then put a lid on it.

“Take the other handle,” she said. “We’ll put it outside to cool down.”

“I would like to go now, please,” Dora said.

“We will,” Grandmother said. “But the cows need attention.”

“What do you do with the milk?” Dora asked.

“We keep some; we give some away to our cousins,” Grandmother replied. “There are more of us living here in the mountains.”

Outside, the snowy landscape was dazzling in the sunlight. Grandfather was chopping wood on a block next to the cave opening. He nodded at Dora and Grandmother as they carried the crock to a snowdrift. Grandfather put the ax down.

“Is it time?” he asked.

“It is,” Grandmother replied.

She patted Dora’s shoulder. “Let’s get you something to travel in. Shoes, for one.”

“No shoes,” Dora said. “I don’t like shoes.”

Grandmother looked at Dora’s feet and pursed her lips. “Let me at least give you a shawl. For my own peace of mind.”

She went down into the cave. She must have been prepared, because it was only a moment later that she emerged with a birch-bark knapsack and a triangular shawl which she laid over Dora’s shoulders, then crossed over her chest and tied at the small of her back. Grandmother tied another shawl over her own shoulders and shouldered the knapsack. Grandfather put on a long moleskin coat.

“Let’s get the skis, then,” he said.

“What are skis?” Dora asked.

Grandmother and Grandfather exchanged glances.

“I’ll fetch the snowshoes,” Grandfather muttered.

It took some time to get used to the woven frames that Grandfather strapped to Dora’s feet. After a while, she could let herself sink into the rhythm of the wide-legged walk. She listened to the creak of snow under their feet, the rustle of fabric, the steady breaths, sometimes syncopated by an animal shrieking about its territory. Some of the gnawing fear dissipated. Worrying about Thistle on the way was pointless.

They plodded down into the valley, through the pine forest, and up the other side where the mountain lay bare between tufts of old grass and heather. They went through the pass and down into the next valley. On the way, Grandmother sung something in a dialect Dora didn’t understand but whose notes, at once sad and joyous, sent shivers down her arms.

“I don’t suppose you ever learned the songs of your people?” Grandmother asked in the silence that followed.

“No,” Dora replied. “I don’t know if I have a people. My father abandoned me.”

“Perhaps your mother, then?”

“I don’t know if I have a mother,” Dora said. “I came from the earth.”

“Then the earth is your mother,” Grandmother said, “and that’s a good mother to have.”

She pointed north. “The most lovely music I have heard is that by our saajvoe cousins. They don’t quite sing like we do; they jojk.” The word was soft and wistful in her mouth.

“You don’t jojk about animals or moods or the sun over the mountains. Do you see? The song is the thing. A fox jojk is the fox. A happiness jojk is happiness.”

“I want to hear it,” Dora said. “Can you do it?”

Grandmother shook her head. “I would never presume to. That song belongs to the saajvoe. Perhaps you will meet them one day.”

They passed the silent rockslide and walked down into the next valley. In the last light from the sun, a farm came into view. Sounds came from inside the barn. As Dora drew closer, she saw that the yard in front of the house was stained crimson. A trail led from the yard and up the stairs to the front door.

“Odd,” Grandmother said.

“I’ll check on the animals,” said Grandfather.

“Good,” Grandmother said. “Dora, with me.”

Grandmother walked up to the front door of the house and banged on it three times.

“Nils! It’s Grandmother come to visit.”

There was no reply. Grandmother opened the door.

The thick smell of blood shoved itself into Dora’s nose.

“Nils?” Grandmother called, and went into the kitchen.

“Oh dear,” she said from inside.

Dora stepped into the kitchen with her.

Thistle was curled up on the kitchen bench. Dora couldn’t tell if he was breathing. She shoved past Grandmother and knelt down next to him. She brushed stray locks out of his face. He groaned. He was breathing, but just barely. Grandmother set her satchel down and knelt next to Dora.

“Help me turn him on his back,” Grandmother said.

Thistle’s eyelids fluttered; he let out a high whimper. The whole front of his shirt and trousers were stiff with gore. Grandmother lifted Thistle’s hands from his belly. It was such a little wound to make so much blood come out.

“Thistle?” Dora said. “Thistle.”

Thistle’s eyes opened very wide.

“You were dead,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

Dora shook her head. “I’m sorry I took so long. I feel asleep.”

Thistle’s mouth trembled. “You… fell asleep.”

“I’m so sorry,” Dora said, and buried her face in his hair.

“Grandmother will take care of you now,” she said.

Thistle’s eyes went from Dora to Grandmother, who was rummaging in her backpack.

“Who is she?”

“She’s a good person,” Dora said. “She’ll help you.”

“Don’t let her hurt me.”

“I won’t,” Dora said.

She held Thistle as Grandmother cleaned his wound.

“It’s deep,” she said. “We’ll need good magic for this.” She pointed to a bucket on the floor. “Go outside and fill this with snow.”

When Dora came back inside, Grandmother had stoked a fire in the stove and was mashing something with a mortar and pestle. She pointed at Dora to set the bucket down next to the stove, and scooped some snow out of it into a copper pot.

“Dora,” Thistle whispered from the kitchen bench.

Dora knelt down next to him. He was shivering. She sat down on the floor next to the sofa and cradled his face in her hands. He had a beard, now, scraggly and redder than his hair. His forehead was very cold. He stared back at her, and his eyes were wild.

“He said you were dead,” Thistle said again. “But it wasn’t him. It was Augusta.”

Dora shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“He was Augusta in disguise,” Thistle said. “It was her. And she kept me here. Told me you were dead. I grieved. I gave up.”

“But I’m not,” Dora said. “I’m not. I was a stone.”

Thistle frowned. “What?”

Dora shrugged. “I was a stone. Where is she?”

“Gone,” Thistle said. “Gone.”

He closed his eyes and seemed to fall asleep.

“Thistle,” Dora said, and shook his shoulder.

“That’s not my name,” he mumbled.

Grandmother came over to the kitchen bench, mortar in her hands. She knelt down next to the sofa.

“This will hurt, my dear,” she told Thistle. “Dora, hold his hands.”

Dora held on as Grandmother scooped sharp-smelling goop out of the mortar and packed it into Thistle’s wound. Thistle didn’t scream but went stiff and started to shiver violently. Grandmother covered the poultice with a strip of cotton and bound it tight around his waist. Then she laid a hand on the poultice and started to sing. It was a low, muted song that wound in circles and spirals, in that dialect that Dora didn’t understand. Thistle’s arms gradually relaxed.

“There,” Grandmother said. “That’ll draw the bad fluids out and heal the wound.”

Thistle’s face had gone from sickly to slightly rosy, and he seemed to breathe easier. Grandmother nodded to herself.

“He’ll be all right in a while,” she said.

The front door opened, and there was a stomping and scraping noise as Grandfather kicked snow from his boots. He came into the kitchen and exchanged glances with Grandmother.

“The cows were alone in there for a while,” he said. “I had to milk them. There’s a horse, too. I don’t know whose it is.”

“Nils is gone,” Grandmother said. “It seems he hurt this boy badly.”

“He said it wasn’t Nils,” Dora said. “He said it was Augusta.”

Grandfather frowned.

“Not now,” Grandmother said. “We’ll need to take this boy home.”

26

Thistle wasn’t light anymore; he had put on muscle. But Dora carried him all the way back to the mine, through the night lit by Grandmother and Grandfather’s lanterns. They brought the horse and the cows, too; the animals followed without protest. Then Dora bedded Thistle down by the fireplace and let him sleep. She sat on the floor next to him, watching. She shook her head when Grandfather asked if she wasn’t going to rest. She had had enough sleep. While Grandfather and Grandmother went to bed, Dora sank back, letting her breathing slow down, concentrating on Thistle’s right hand in hers. It had calluses now, and dirt under the fingernails. He would need a bath. He had always been so mindful about bathing.

Grandmother and Grandfather got up again after what seemed like no time at all, and Grandmother checked on Thistle’s wound and said it looked all right. Then she asked Dora to help her with breakfast while Grandfather went to take care of the cows. They moved Thistle into the armchair by the fire. Dora sat down next to him and spooned buttered porridge into his mouth, because his hands were shaking so much he couldn’t feed himself. He was still clammy and sickly-looking, but his eyes had lost the crazed gleam of the day before. He didn’t speak until the bowl was empty.

“I was supposed to take care of you,” he said, and his voice was creaky. “Not the other way around.”

“Not in the outside world,” Dora said. “You taught me how to live in the Gardens. Now I’ll protect you here.”

“I mourned you. I missed you so much,” he said, and his voice broke.

Dora took his hand. “I’m here now,” she said.

Thistle held out his arm, and she lifted him into her lap. He rested his head on her shoulder, breathing in deep sighs. Dora smoothed down his hair and kissed the top of his head.

“It was Augusta,” Thistle said into her shoulder. “It was her the whole time. She made me teach her the song to the crossroads. But I got my name back.”

“What’s your name?” Dora asked.

“Albin,” he mumbled. “It’s Albin.”

“It’s a good name,” Dora said.

“I remember everything now,” he said. “When she gave me my name… it all came back. My parents, who they are. My village. Where it is. I know the way now.”

He raised his head, casting a glance around the room. Grandmother stood in the doorway. She gave Albin a gentle smile.

“I could tell you to trust us, but that wouldn’t reassure you,” she said.

“I’ll watch over you,” Dora told Albin. “Until you’re healed.”

Albin looked at Grandmother, then Dora.

“Only until I’m better,” he said.

Dora nodded. “Only until you’re better.”

They stayed with Grandmother and Grandfather while the days shortened and snow piled up around the mine’s entrance. Dora helped Grandmother and Grandfather with the last preparations for a long winter; Grandfather taught her to ski and snare grouse. One day Albin stepped out of the mine, and soon enough he too had his first go at skiing. He talked more and smiled again. Sometimes he would talk about his parents, but hesitantly, as if the memories would break when he spoke them out loud: My father taught me how to whittle wood. My mother has eyes like that. We had an apple tree and a dog.

He would let only Dora come near him. If their hosts took offense, they didn’t show it.

One evening, Albin sat down beside Dora where she was peeling potatoes next to Grandmother.

“I’m ready,” he said. “I want to go home.”

Dora looked at him. Albin reached out and rubbed his thumb over Dora’s cheek.

“You still manage to get dirt everywhere,” he said with a grin.

Dora smiled back at him.

Albin’s smile softened a little. “You’ve changed, though.”

“How?”

“I can’t put my finger on it.” He leaned back. “You seem happier. Like you belong here.”

“Do you know where you’re going, then?” Grandmother asked.

“We’re following my name,” Albin said. “I can feel it calling me. Home. Where I came from. I know the way now. It’s south.”

Grandmother and Grandfather wouldn’t let them leave without a birch-bark satchel each, stuffed with food and with a woolen blanket on top.

“Off you go, then,” Grandfather said, and his voice was thick.

“Good luck,” Grandmother added.

Grandfather gave Dora a tight hug, then held his arms out to Albin, who blinked and offered his hand instead. Grandmother put her arms around Dora. She seemed smaller somehow.

“Goodbye, daughter of the earth,” she said as she drew away. “You remind me of my own.”

She and Grandfather joined hands and walked back into the mine.

They started out when it was still dark; dawn trickled into the sky as they strapped their skis on. The air crackled with cold.

Albin pushed himself down the hill. Dora followed in his wake.