"Amazing!" he shouted. "It's all in one piece. The pin is intact, and take a look at the ornamentation."
Mellgren switched to using an even smaller brush, and with light strokes he swept away the rest of the dirt. He used the handle of the brush to point at the upper portion of the circular brooch.
"What you see here was used to hold the inner shift in place-the thinner garment that he wore next to his skin. If we're in luck, he'll also have a larger circular brooch at his shoulder. It's just a matter of continuing to work."
He gave a nod of encouragement to Steven, who looked both happy and proud.
"Proceed with caution, and don't stand too close to the skeleton. There might be more."
The others returned to their work with renewed zeal. The thought that they, too, might find something noteworthy had energized them. Martina kept on digging. After a while it was time to empty the bucket. She went over to one of the big wooden sieves that were lined up along the edge of the excavation site. Carefully she poured the contents of her bucket into the sieve, which consisted of a rectangular wooden box with a fine-meshed steel screen in the bottom. It was sitting on top of an iron bar, which made it possible to roll the box back and forth. She grabbed hold of the wooden handles on either side and began shaking the box vigorously to sift out the dirt and sand. It was hard work, and after a few minutes, she was soaked with sweat. After she had strained out the worst of the dirt, she meticulously studied what was left in the sieve so as not to miss anything of value. First she found an animal bone and then another. There was also a tiny metal object, probably a nail.
Nothing could be thrown out; everything had to be carefully preserved and documented since no one would be allowed to dig there after them. Once a site had been excavated, it was considered "disturbed" forever after; that was why archaeologists had such a big responsibility to preserve everything that might reveal how human beings had lived in that particular area.
Martina had to take a break for a few minutes. She was thirsty and went to get her knapsack with her water bottle. She sat down on an upended wooden box, massaging her shoulders as best she could and watching the others as she caught her breath. Her teammates were focused on their work, kneeling, squatting, or lying on their stomachs alongside pits, tenaciously searching through the dark soil.
She felt Mark's eyes on her but pretended not to notice. Her feelings were engaged elsewhere, and she didn't want to encourage him. They were good friends, which was enough as far as she was concerned.
Jonas, a likable guy from Skane who wore an earring and a pirate's bandanna on his head, saw that she was giving herself a massage.
"Are your shoulders sore? Do you want me to rub them?"
"Sure, thanks," said Martina in clumsy Swedish. She knew a little of her late mother's peculiar language, and she wanted to get some practice, even though she and everyone around her spoke fluent English.
Jonas was one of her best friends in the group; they got on well together. She appreciated his offer, even though she sensed that it wasn't purely out of concern for her well-being. The attention that certain men in the group paid to her was nice, but not something she especially encouraged.
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 30
He drove the red pickup along the dirt road, sending up clouds of dust. It was very early, about 2:00 a.m. The first rays of the sun were just making their way above the horizon. The whole countryside was asleep, including the cows, who lay close together with their eyes shut in the pastures he drove past. The only movement was a rabbit or two bounding across the fields. He smoked as he listened to the all-night radio station. It had been a long time since he had felt so content.
The narrow dirt road was wide enough for only one car at a time. Here and there it widened so that it was possible to pass cars coming from the opposite direction; the passing zones were marked by blue road signs with a big white M. Not that it was really necessary. No cars ever came from the other direction on this road. Their farm lay at the very end; it was impossible to go any farther. When he was a boy it was not something he thought much about. He probably just assumed that everyone lived more or less the same way. It was the reality that he knew, what he had grown accustomed to.
Every time his childhood home appeared from around the last bend in the road, a touch of that old panicky feeling would arise, as if on command. He felt a pressure in his chest, his muscles tightened, and his breathing grew strained. But the symptoms quickly subsided. He was surprised that it never got any better. After all these years, his body still seemed to react on its own, without any coaxing from him.
The farm consisted of a house that had once been quite magnificent, made of wood and painted yellow; the paint was now peeling off. On one side stood a low, dilapidated barn and on the other a small hay-barn. The remains of a manure heap in the back recalled the time when they'd had animals on the farm. The surrounding pastures were now empty; the last of the livestock had been sold after the death of his parents a year ago.
He parked behind the hay-barn-a precaution that wasn't really necessary, but it was an old habit. He opened the tailgate, took out the sack, and walked briskly across the yard. The barn door creaked, and the air inside smelled musty. Thick layers of cobwebs hung from the ceiling, along with sticky ribbons covered with the black dots of long-dead flies.
The old freezer stood in its customary place, even though it hadn't been used in a long time. Several days earlier he had plugged it in to make sure that it still worked.
Cold air struck him as he opened the lid. The sack fit inside easily. Quickly he closed the lid and then carefully wiped off the exterior of the freezer with soap and a wet rag. It had probably never been this clean before. Then he picked up the bundle of clothes and the rag and put them in a plastic bag.
Behind the barn he dug a deep hole in the ground and stuffed the bag into it. Carefully he filled up the hole, placing some straw and branches on top. Nothing aboveground gave away his hiding place.
All that was left was the truck. He brought out a hose and spent over an hour cleaning it up, both inside and out. Finally he took off the phony license plate and replaced it with the real one. No one could claim that he wasn't thorough.
Then he went inside to make breakfast.
A fresh mist slowly floated over the meadows still damp from the night, weaving its way between the grass and stalks of grain. It caressed the clumps of reeds where a couple of swans were meticulously grooming their white plumage. Several terns were squawking over the bay, and rowboats rocked serenely at their moorings a short distance out in the water. The rotting gray fishing boats at the shore were no longer in use.
It was an uncommonly beautiful morning-one of those summer mornings that would be summoned up as a memory when winter drew its silent dark coat over the island of Gotland.
Twelve-year-old Agnes was awake earlier than usual. It wasn't even eight thirty when she woke her little sister, Sofie. In her sleep-muddled state she was easily persuaded to go for a dip before breakfast. Their grandmother was sitting on the steps, having her coffee and reading the paper. She waved to them as the girls pedaled off with their towels in the bike baskets. The dirt road ran parallel to the beach, a few hundred yards higher up. They had to bike about half a mile before they could turn off to reach the section that was good for swimming.