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Then I blink, and it’s as if I’m waking up from a stupor, as if I’d lost all sense of time. How long have I been sitting here? I shiver and wrap my arms around myself. The sun is sinking below the treetops, sending bloodred streaks across the sky. A chill evening breeze sweeps in, and now I’m really feeling cold. I stretch my back and listen for any sounds, but I can no longer hear Alex’s bellowing voice or Smilla’s cheerful giggling. The only sound is the loon’s desolate call, now from a distance. I shudder. Shouldn’t they be done playing their pirate game and exploring the island by now? But then I think about how excited Smilla was. She probably won’t be ready to give up this adventure any time soon. They’re probably walking all around the island. Maybe they’re playing hide-and-seek on the other side at this very moment. Maybe that’s why I can’t hear them anymore.

I close my eyes and think about how they roughhoused with each other in the kitchen this morning. I think about Alex’s energy and his patience, which allow him to keep playing for such a long time. Long after other fathers would have grown tired. Come on, honey, let’s go back to the boat. Mama’s waiting. Alex would never say that. He’s a good father. I open my eyes. Again I lean over the side and feel my gaze drawn to the darkening surface of the water.

Good father.

Good father.

Good father.

When I straighten up, there’s still not a sound. No voices, no laughter. Not even a loon. I sit there for a while, not moving, just listening. Then, suddenly, I know. There’s no need to take an anxious walk around the island, no need to go searching or to desperately shout their names. I don’t even have to stand up and get out of the boat to know.

Alex and Smilla are not coming back. They’re gone.

2

Of course I go look for them, in spite of my conviction that it won’t do any good. Alex’s dark-blue sweatshirt is folded up and lying in the stern. I grab it and stand up to pull the boat in. Uneasiness slithers down my spine. With a clumsy movement that’s halfway between a step and a jump, I go ashore. I shout Alex’s name, then Smilla’s. No answer. My arms feel stiff as I pull the sweatshirt over my head. The fabric has a masculine scent that envelops me. It smells like Alex.

I feel a sharp stab in my gut but ignore the pain and start heading up the slope. I haven’t gone more than a few steps when my chest tightens and I’m breathing hard. It’s steeper than I thought. My body feels heavy and sluggish, refusing to cooperate, but I grit my teeth and force myself to continue, climbing upward. My foot slips in a muddy patch, and I have to put out my hand to keep from falling and sliding backward down the hill.

Finally I manage to reach the top. I try shouting again but can muster only a hoarse croak. My throat burns, protesting the strain, and my chest feels two sizes too small. Even though I make a great effort, my lungs are unable to supply the air that’s needed. It feels like I’m trying to scream in the middle of a nightmare. My stomach cramps convulsively, wave after wave. I make another attempt to yell, but my body doubles over. Bending down, I emit a loud belch and then a dirty yellow sludge comes pouring out of me. My legs tremble and I totter to one side, then the other before dropping to my knees.

I wipe my mouth on the sleeve of the sweatshirt. I stay on the ground for a moment, as if felled by some superior foe. I push the thought away. Foe? Superior? No! I get back on my feet. My body still feels weak, but at least it’s obeying. Instead of trying to shout again, I focus on surveying the island. There aren’t many open spaces. Between scattered leafy trees and juniper bushes, I see waist-high grass and underbrush. There’s no place that would allow easy passage. Especially for a four-year-old girl. I don’t see Alex and Smilla anywhere.

I stumble forward, knowing what I have to do, but not sure which way to go. In one spot the grass has been pushed aside, and the ground looks trampled. So I head in that direction, following what I imagine are the tracks of a man and a little girl eager to play. Once in a while I pause to call their names, though not really expecting an answer. A perfunctory feeling comes over me, as if I’m acting in accordance with some preordained plan. I’m simply behaving the way I know I ought to behave, doing what I have to do. As if I’m playing a role.

The silence hovers, heavy and ominous, among the trees until, suddenly, there’s a rustling in the grass just a few feet away. I flinch and instinctively clench my fists. Then I catch sight of a hedgehog scurrying away as fast as its little legs can go. When I look up again, the grass in front of me no longer shows any sign of being pushed aside or trampled. There’s no indication that a man and a little girl have gone this way. I spin around to look behind me. Then forward again. And off to the sides. But there’s no trace of people having passed this way, or even of my own path. I’m standing in a sea of tall grass. Silent and motionless, it surrounds me on all sides.

A wave of dizziness crashes over me, and I cover my eyes and stretch out one arm to keep my balance. Just as I take my hand away from my face and open my eyes, the last scarlet rays of the sun sink behind the treetops across the lake. I’m alone in an unfamiliar place, alone with the silence and the darkness that is now rapidly descending. I choose a direction at random and start moving through the inhospitable terrain.

A man and a little girl go ashore on a small island and don’t come back. What could have happened? I tell myself there could be any number of plausible explanations. Maybe they got caught up in a game and forgot all about the time, or maybe they simply… Frantically I try to come up with other possible scenarios. Perfectly natural reasons. Innocent and benign. But the problem is that none of them can explain why Alex and Smilla are still missing, and why they don’t respond to my calls. I open my mouth to shout again, and I’m shocked at the hysteria I hear in my own voice.

As I stumble onward, I train my eyes on the ground and the trees. My feet move faster, and my movements become more disjointed. I proceed aimlessly, no longer aware in which direction I’m going or where I’ve come from. I’m so stressed that I can’t orient myself properly. Nowhere do I see any trace of human life. A sob rises from my chest. Smilla!

At that instant, I catch sight of something. I stop, noticing a trembling that spreads through my whole body. I see a rock a couple of yards up ahead. And then, a short distance from there, something else. A dark object. Even though I don’t immediately understand what I’m looking at, I know with every fiber of my being it’s not part of the vegetation. It belongs to a person. Slowly, filled with dread at what I might find, I approach and crouch down in the grass. It’s a single black shoe, tattered and worn. The tiny holes that once held shoelaces now gape. The tension in my chest eases a bit: I’ve never seen this shoe before. It doesn’t belong to Alex or Smilla. That much I know. Not understanding why, I hold out my hand, sensing how it’s slowly but surely being sucked down toward the shoe. As if my fingers are being controlled by some outside force, a force rising up from the ground beneath my feet.