It is at this precise point that I find it hardest to recall exactly what happened—but I’ll try to explain it all the same. Håkan was sitting in front and said he had just spied an enemy skiff we needed to ram. He ordered full sail, commanded the crew to stand by with the grappling irons, and he went astern to fetch the crossbow, which was lying in the middle of the raft. By this time, the waves were fairly high and it was dusk as well. Now I remember better: darkness had started to fall, except in the direction the sun had set, where the sky was still red—and Håkan stood up and walked astern to fetch his crossbow. The whole surface of the raft was quite slippery and slithery, and I saw him stagger and step to the side; and then he lost his balance. It all happened right in front of me. Håkan’s silhouette swaying and toppling over against the deep pink horizon. I remember it clearly. And I remember equally clearly his face in the water; I could see he was scared and embarrassed at the same time (scared because he couldn’t swim very well, embarrassed because he had been so clumsy).
There was a heavy swell on the lake. I held my hand out to him. It was just as the light was fading; poor visibility, extremely cold water, a deep pink streak where the sun had set. Håkan’s face, down there in the water, smiling, as if he were thinking: Damn it, how stupid of me! And I stretched out my hand to him.
The next thing I remember must have been quite some time later. An hour perhaps, probably more. I was sitting aft. Håkan was sitting at the bow end, on the forward platform. He was sitting with his back to me, huddled up. Huddled up, as if he was freezing cold. When I looked around on the raft, I realized we must have lost a lot of our things in the confusion when Håkan fell in. The sail was gone. The bits of wood that were supposed to be paddles were gone. The pole to push ourselves along with was gone. The entire raft was empty, apart from the nailed-down food container with emergency provisions, because I was sitting on that—and apart from Håkan and me, sitting hunched up, at either end of the raft.
And yet the most remarkable thing was something else; and I have thought long and hard about this since, and come somehow to the conclusion that there is a gap in my memory somewhere. The remarkable thing was that the wind had stopped, totally. It was utterly calm: the waves had subsided, the water was like a mirror. It was completely still and completely dark. It felt like the middle of the night, but the moon had risen. It was shining. The moon was almost full, the night was black, the water flat; but the moon was shining. It looked so strange. In the shimmering path of moonlight reflecting on the lake was a silent raft, almost a wreck, and on it two boys crouched; the water was like silver, still and absolutely soundless.
We must be in the middle of the lake, I thought. When I turned, I saw the lights from home, small white dots, far away, like tiny white pinpricks in black velvet. I looked at the moon. Then back at the water, at the curious white moonlight and the raft in the middle of the shimmering moon path, at Håkan’s rigid back. It felt like a dream, so strange, the quietness so deep I didn’t dare to break it. I wanted to speak to Håkan, but instead I said nothing.
We sat in silence, for a long, long time.
I don’t know what I was thinking about. I know I tried to work out what had happened, how Håkan had fallen in, how he had climbed back up, why he was sitting there, so silent. Why the wind had stopped. Why the waves had dropped. Why the moon was shining. I must have thought about how we would get home. We had nothing to row with, no sail, no wind.
I must have felt cold, but I have no recollection of that. I remember the peculiar stillness, the motionless black water, the moon, the raft in the middle of the moon path, the silence, the pitch-black night around us.
An hour or so passed, perhaps. Then I heard the faint sound, as if from an immense distance, of oars. The sound didn’t come from home, but from due east, which was odd, because there were no houses in that direction. But it was the stroke of oars, no doubt about it. I sat with my head turned to the east, staring straight out into the inky blackness, but could see nothing.
The stroke of oars came closer and closer. He was rowing slowly. Splish. Splash. I couldn’t see anything. Nearer and nearer. Then, all at once, a boat appeared against the reflection of the moon on the water, the silhouette slowly slipping into the moon path. As it came towards us, I could see the back of the man who was rowing.
I stood up and could see that Håkan was on his feet too. We stood still, staring at the boat gliding towards us.
“Hello,” I shouted, over the water, “please, come and help us!”
The man in the boat didn’t turn round. He didn’t look at us. He simply let the boat glide silently up to us and lifted the oars. Water dripping from the oars, the boat gliding, as in a dream, the man not turning round—I remember it so well. Why didn’t he answer?
And then he reached us. Came to rest beside the raft. And only then did he turn around.
I saw his face in the moonlight. I didn’t recognize him. I had never seen him before. He had dark hair, a thin face, he didn’t look at me. He looked only at Håkan. He was not from these parts, but he had come to help us. And he stretched his hand out to Håkan, and Håkan took his hand and stepped carefully into the dinghy and sat at the stern. Neither of them said a single word. And I stood still and watched them.
The rowing boat then slowly moved off, so imperceptibly I didn’t understand what was happening at first. But the man had sat down, sat down at the oars. And started to row. Håkan sat in the stern, his back to me, and he didn’t move, didn’t look at me. The man started to row, and the boat slowly disappeared in the darkness.
I couldn’t call out. I stood still, turned to stone. I must have stayed there like that for a long time.
What I remember of this is so confused, it’s difficult to recount. I must have sat down on the platform at the back. I must have been extremely cold. I know that I opened the box with emergency provisions, I ate. I lifted out the tin of treacle, the syrup I didn’t actually like; I ate it. I dipped my fingers in and put it in my mouth; it tasted sweet. I sat on the platform at the back and watched dawn breaking, watched the light creeping in over the lake, the morning mists rising and lifting, until finally it was light.
And then the boats came.
It was Grandfather who arrived first. Later on, they said they had been searching and calling for a long time, but I hadn’t answered. I told them I hadn’t heard their shouts. Grandfather arrived first. I stood up, my face sticky with the treacle that had run down my chin. Grandfather took my hand and lifted me into the boat; my face was covered in treacle, but I was perfectly calm. I remember I lay down flat on my back in the bottom of the boat, lay still, staring straight up, while they wrapped blankets around me, and Grandfather started to row, very fast, as if in a great hurry. I was lying in the bottom of the dinghy. My lips and chin were sticky with the treacle that had run down my neck. Grandfather was rowing. I lay there, looking at his face.
I must have been very ill after this. I remember being in bed with a fever, dreaming such strange dreams. Sometimes I was bathed in sweat; other times I slept and was woken by my own screams. They came in and sat with me: Mama was there, Grandfather and Grandmother, and Annika. Many days must have passed; I don’t know how many.
Until one day I was well. It happened so quickly, it was like switching on a light. First very ill. Then—all at once—I woke one day and was completely well.
Grandfather was sitting with me.
“What happened to the raft?” I asked. “Did you bring it ashore or is it still out there?”