There is a pole beside Thea which reminds her of the one next to the Gallows Oak. The information board is lying on the ground, overgrown with grass. With a little effort she manages to lift it. The first part of the text is barely legible, but she manages to work out that the strange, humanoid trees are hawthorn. She remembers what Dr Andersson told her the other day – that Tornaby got its name from the hawthorn, once regarded as a sacred tree.
The rest of the text is easier to read.
The stone circle probably dates from the sixth century, marking a grave or possibly a meeting place of some kind. At this time the castle forest was an island, surrounded by extensive marshlands, which made it suitable for religious ceremonies.
The central stone is older than the rest. On the top there is a small bowl-shaped hollow, common during the Bronze Age. It was probably used during fertility rites, when grains of corn or small figures made of twigs were ‘sacrificed’ in the hollow to ensure a good harvest. The custom lived on in the area until the mid-nineteenth century. The stone is still referred to locally as the sacrificial stone.
The smooth surface of the stone is dark with dampness. The hollow is about ten centimetres wide and maybe half as deep. The dew has formed a small puddle in the bottom.
Thea takes out the Polaroid. Steps back. The background in the photograph looks slightly different. The trees aren’t so tall or overgrown. The stone, however, is exactly the same. She moves around until she finds the precise angle from which the photograph was taken. She half-closes her eyes, pictures Elita standing on the stone, David and his three friends on either side of her. The spring sacrifice and her four attendants. Five people in total.
But there must have been a sixth person present – the photographer. Unless the camera had some kind of automatic timer, of course.
She looks closely at the picture, trying to see if there’s a shadow from the person behind the camera, but the image is too pale, the colours faded.
A sound interrupts her train of thought, another branch snapping, but this time she can tell where it’s come from. Among the trees, more or less opposite the point where she emerged into the glade. She is just about to call Emee when she hears more noises, branches scraping against clothing, a faint metallic click.
She sees a movement among the hawthorns and realises she’s holding her breath. A dark silhouette appears through the mist. A man pushing a bicycle. He is on his way into the glade, eyes fixed on the sacrificial stone. He doesn’t seem to have noticed her, not until he’s almost there. He stops dead, drops the bicycle. The colour drains from his face, his eyelids flicker, and for a second she thinks he’s going to faint.
‘Hi, Bertil,’ she says. ‘What are you doing here?’
29
Walpurgis Night 1986
I’m sure you’ve heard about the other girls who died in the forest. Isabelle who drowned in the moat, and Eleonor who fell off her horse and broke her neck.
Soon it will be Elita’s turn.
Beautiful women dead that by my side. Once lay.
Isn’t that lovely?
There’s something appealing about dying when you’re at your most beautiful, don’t you think?
The young man loved to ride. Loved the feeling of controlling something so big and strong, yet as sensitive as a horse. He himself was short and had been born with a cleft palate, which still gave him problems with his speech. He had to make an effort to master certain letters, just as he had to make an effort to control his involuntary twitching. But on horseback none of that could be seen. Up here he raced along. Agile, complete.
He loved to ride, and he loved the land: the meadows, the pastures, the forest, the marsh. It all belonged to him, as far as the eye could see. Or it would belong to him. Soon.
His father was getting old now. He was a hard man, a man who never talked about his love for the land, but about crops, yield and tenancies. Practical matters. Things that could be counted and measured.
His father feared no one, apart from God. The only time his expression softened somewhat was when they prayed together in the chapel. Prayed for the young man’s mother. For her immortal soul. Asked God to forgive her weakness.
Sometimes the young man could feel his father’s eyes on him. Studying him closely, as if he were searching for something in his face or movements. A feature, a gesture of some kind. But every time his father seemed disappointed.
Over the years the young man had realised why. It was because he was his mother’s son. Because he was different.
Elita was waiting by the Gallows Oak, just as she’d promised. He galloped up to her, made the muscular stallion stop right by her feet, thanks to a combination of perfectly executed movements with the reins and his legs. Elita’s expression didn’t change. She was just as good a rider as he was – maybe even better, which was one of the reasons why he loved her.
As always he was struck by how lovely she was – the coal-black hair, those eyes, the olive skin.
‘I’ve got something for you.’
She held out an envelope. He took it, felt the square card inside.
‘Are you ready for tonight?’
He nodded. Nelson did a little pirouette, his hooves digging into the soft ground. He was a thoroughbred, the most difficult horse to ride, but also the most beautiful, the fastest, the strongest.
‘What’s that?’
The young man pointed with his crop to the paint tin by the oak tree. As usual he kept his sentences short so that his speech impediment would be less noticeable.
‘A little offering.’
She smiled in a way that irritated him. He’d opened up to her, confided his deepest secrets to her, and yet she insisted on teasing him.
‘To whom?’ His voice sounded more brusque than he’d intended. Nelson snorted. Performed another little pirouette.
Elita’s smile broadened. She pointed up at the nodular growths on the tree trunk that resembled a face.
‘To him. The Green Man.’
She tipped her head back and laughed. Her teeth were so white, so perfect. Like his mother’s pearl necklace.
For a brief moment the young man wished he could own her. Lock her up in a box, as his father had done with the necklace. Preserve the memory of her, equally untainted and precious.
‘Are you worried?’
The young man shook his head, but as usual she saw straight through him. She grabbed the reins, stroked Nelson’s forehead, which instantly calmed the stallion. Then she looked up at him with those eyes that reminded him so much of his mother’s.
‘Don’t worry, Hubert,’ she said softly. ‘Everything will be fine.’
30
Thea gets Bertil to sit down on one of the stones. Her father-in-law is still as white as a sheet. His lips are constantly moving, whispering the same two words over and over again. She leans closer to hear what he’s saying.
‘Poor girl, poor girl, poor girl . . .’
‘What girl? Do you mean Elita Svart?’
The name makes him fall silent. He lowers his eyes.
‘What are you doing here, Bertil?’
No response.
‘Does Ingrid know you’re out on your own?’
Nothing.
He’s wearing a shirt, jacket and checked pyjama bottoms. Wellingtons on his feet. No coat, in spite of the cold morning air. His legs are shaking, his lips turning blue.
Thea takes off her own coat and wraps it around his shoulders, then gets out her phone and calls David. It rings six times, then goes to voicemail. She tries again, with the same result. His phone is clearly switched on, so either he can’t hear it or he’s ignoring her.