He can lie down in that room and keep guard.
Sara tucks him up under a blanket. Not in an offhand
fashion, as if she were in a hurry to get back to the
kitchen and his father. She tucks him in as if she really
did want to do it properly.
'You're a nice boy,' she says. 'Your dad can be proud
of you.'
Joel lies there listening to the conversation in the
kitchen. They're still talking about Evert.
We'll be going home soon, he thinks. Soon . . .
When he wakes up he has no idea where he is. Then
he sees that his dad is lying beside him on the sofa, fast
asleep. But he's not naked, he's in his underclothes, his
long johns and a vest that looks like a fishing net.
Somebody must have undressed Joel as well. And put
him in a flannel nightshirt . . .
He sits up slowly, being careful not to wake his father.
Sara is in her own bed, her head next to the wall.
They didn't want to wake me up, he thinks. He lies
down again. He has one of his dad's arms under his head.
They didn't want to wake me up. That's the only
reason we're still here. But for that we'd have been at
home now.
Suddenly he is wide awake. Ture will be waiting for
him by the goods wagons!
He sees his dad's watch on a chair. The hands are
luminous. He takes a close look, being careful not to
wake Samuel: a quarter to two. Ture will have been
waiting in vain.
Joel feels his stomach turn over. What will he be able
to say? How will he be able to explain why he didn't
turn up?
He snuggles down again, next to his dad.
Four Winds Lake, he thinks. I'll tell Ture about the
trip I had with Simon Windstorm. Then he'll be bound
to understand why I couldn't come.
Joel stares at the hole in the window. He thinks about
the dog somewhere out there in the night.
The dog on its way to a star . . .
Who is that, playing music for him?
Joel is dreaming about the rowing boat on Four Winds
Lake. Now it's no longer winter. The boat is bobbing
among the little ripples and Joel is lying on the bottom,
which smells of tar, and gazing up at the blue sky.
But who's that playing?
The music is coming from somewhere or other.
Somebody he can't see is playing a piano made of
crystal glass. The tune keeps repeating itself, over and
over again, getting weaker all the time, slower . . .
He wants to stay in the boat but he finds himself
rising up towards the blue sky, as if his body were being
forced up by Four Winds Lake, and soon he's hovering
high above the boat which he can see a long way down
below. . .
Then he opens his eyes and the tune accompanies him
out of the dream. On his chest, just under his chin, is a
musical box. Sara has put it there. A little man made of
wood is clashing two cymbals. He's standing on the lid
of the red musical box.
Joel watches the little wooden man's arms moving
more and more slowly, just as the tune is fading away . . .
Sara is standing in the kitchen doorway, smiling at
him. She's wearing her working clothes, the black skirt
and white blouse.
'Time to get up,' she says.
'Where's Samuel?' asks Joel.
But he doesn't need to ask. His father has already
been working in the forest for several hours. Sawing and
chopping while the snow-covered trees stand all round
him, waiting to be felled.
'You were fast asleep,' says Sara. 'He didn't want to
wake you up last night. You were sleeping like a log.'
Logs don't sleep, he thinks. Logs don't breathe, don't
laugh, don't sleep. A log can't think, can't speak. A log
is just a log . . .
He tumbles out of bed and gets dressed. There is a
bowl of porridge waiting for him in the kitchen.
It feels odd, not having to make my own breakfast, he
thinks as he eats.
Sara is standing in front of a wall mirror, combing her
hair. She fixes it behind her ears with two hairpins.
He notices that her ears stick out slightly. Not a lot,
but it's noticeable. And she makes no effort to hide
the fact.
'That was a terrific alarm clock,' he says.
As he leaves she pats him on the cheek.
'You'll have to hurry up now,' she says. 'It's late.'
He takes the short cut through the churchyard, but
doesn't jump over Nils Wiberg's family grave.
He decides to say that he's had a bad cold when Miss
Nederström asks him why he hasn't been at school. If he
snorts through his nose before entering the classroom, it
will get blocked up. Then Miss Nederström will be able
to hear that he's had a cold.
He decides that he's had a temperature of 38.6
degrees. In order to be believed, he must avoid sounding
vague. Not 38 degrees, but 38.6.
To his surprise, however, she doesn't ask and the
school day passes without anything unusual happening.
Otto has fallen ill again, and Joel hopes that he's
going to be off school so long that he has to repeat the
year again next year. It's a nasty thought, but Joel
doesn't care if Otto has to spend the rest of his life
repeating the year.
On the way home he calls in at the grocer's. Svenson
is sitting on a chair behind the counter and has a
headache.
'Potatoes,' says Joel. 'And milk. A box of matches.
And a jar of pickled herring.'
Svenson groans as he stands up. He blinks hard at
Joel, as if he were finding it hard to stay awake.
'Tell your dad he'd better come in and pay his bills
pretty soon now,' he says. 'It's a month since he last
paid.'
Joel promises to pass on the message, but he reckons
Svenson can wait for another month. The first priority
is buying an electric cooker, and then The Flying
Horse. His dad won't have enough money for much
more than that.
When he gets home he sits down at the kitchen table
and writes up his logbook.
He writes about Simon Windstorm and Four Winds
Lake. Simon Windstorm has just been released after being
captured and held a prisoner for ten years by natives in
Sumatra. They go for a walk together round the shore of the
remarkable island called Four Winds Island. . .
Then he sits on the window seat in the hall, waiting
for his father to come home.
It's been thawing. The sun has already gone down,
but melted snow is still dripping down from the roof.
He's worried about seeing Ture later tonight. He
hopes Ture won't turn up. He'd prefer to be on his own,
looking for the dog, always assuming he goes out at all.
Joel thinks about his Secret Society. It hasn't turned out
as he'd envisaged. There again, he's not really sure what he
had in mind when he first started it all. The only thing that
is absolutely sure is the dog. The dog that ran down the
street in the middle of the night, and looked round, as if it
were frightened of something. That's where it all started.
I must find that dog, Joel thinks.
It's important. Why it's important, I don't know. But
what I do know is that I have to find it before it vanishes
when it reaches its star . . .
He doesn't know why he thinks it's going to run off into
space. Possibly because it sounds fascinating? Possibly
because it can be a sort of password? Or a magic spell?
Why do you sometimes have thoughts you don't
understand? he wonders.
As if there was somebody else inside your head,
choosing thoughts for you.
He breathes onto the windowpane and writes his
name in the mist.
Joel isn't a bad name. Otto is a bad name. Joel is good
because it's not all that common, but not too uncommon
either. There's only one other boy at his school called
Joel, but there are definitely ten called Tore and maybe
as many as twenty called Margareta.
Joel thinks up two rules. He jumps down from the
window seat and takes his logbook out of
Celestine
's
glass case.
Rules for Joel Gustafson, he writes. Rules that must
always be obeyed.
You don't need to be best, but you must never be
worst, he writes. That's rule number one.
If you think something is bad you must look for something
that is worse, he writes. When you find something
that's worse, whatever it was that felt bad won't seem
quite so bad any longer. That's rule number two.
He thinks that the rules are a bit long, but he can't
think of a shorter way of expressing them. Sometimes it
seems as if there aren't enough words.
He hears the front door close with a bang down
below, then his father's footsteps coming up the stairs.
Joel has forgotten all about the potatoes. He stuffs the
logbook into his pocket and starts putting firewood in
the stove. His father is coughing and clearing his throat
in the hall as he takes off his jacket.
'I think I'm getting a cold,' he says as he comes into
the kitchen and sits down on a chair. Joel helps him off
with his boots. Samuel smells very strongly of sweat
today.
'Phew, what a stink!' he says, pulling a face. 'We'd
better gather together all our dirty linen tonight.'
Joel's dad has an old, worn-out sailor's kitbag that
they use for dirty washing. When it's full he takes it to a
widow called Mrs Nilson who launders it. She lives in
the same building as Svenson's grocery shop.
After dinner Samuel brings out the big zinc bath. Joel
boils some water on the stove, and has to go downstairs
twice for more firewood.
His dad settles into the bath with his knees up under
his chin. Joel always has to laugh whenever he sees him
hunched up like this, barely able to move.
'What's so funny?' asks Samuel.
'Nothing,' says Joel.
Then he gives his dad's back a good scrubbing.
'Scrub harder,' says Samuel. 'I think I've got bark all
over my skin after chopping down so many damned
trees. Scrub harder . . . '
Then it's Joel's turn. His dad gives him a good scrubbing
as well, and cuts his nails. Then they sit in front of
the stove to dry out, wrapped up in towels.
'This is something we won't be able to do when we
have an electric cooker,' says Samuel. 'Maybe we could
crawl into the oven to dry instead.'
Then he becomes serious.
'I'm going to see Evert's mother tonight,' he says. 'I
have to pass on my condolences.'
When they've finished drying themselves, Samuel
takes his black suit out of the wardrobe. He's hardly ever
worn it. They both examine it closely under the kitchen
light, making sure there is no sign of any moth-holes.
'I bought this suit in England,' says Joel's dad. 'In a
place called Middlesbrough. I bought it off a Chinaman
who came on board our ship while we were in port. I
thought it was too expensive, but it's worn well.'
He shows Joel a label sewn into the jacket's inside
pocket.
'There you see,' he says. 'Made in England. Your dad
doesn't get dressed up in any old rubbish.'
Joel has to help fasten his dad's tie. He gets it wrong
over and over again until he remembers exactly how to
tie the knot. His father is puffing and complaining
because his shirt is too tight.
'The suit's fine,' he says. 'It comes from England. But
this shirt is some botched job by a useless tailor in
Västergötland. It's much too tight.'
'Maybe it's the wrong size,' says Joel.
'Size and size,' says his dad. 'A shirt ought to fit,
that's all there is to it.'
Then he dips his comb into some water and combs his
unruly hair. Joel holds the shaving mirror so that his dad
can check the back of his head.
'Do I look all right?' he asks eventually.
Joel walks round, inspecting him. He's not used to
seeing his father dressed up. He wonders how many
other boys have dads with a suit bought in England.
'I was wearing this suit when we got married,' says
Samuel. 'Jenny, your mother, and me. I could have
shown you, but she took the wedding photo with her.'
'Why do you never tell me about her?' asks Joel.
'I will do,' says his dad. 'But not just now. I have to go.'
'Will you be coming back home?' asks Joel.
'Of course I'll be coming back home,' says his father.
'I shan't be long. But she's sitting all on her own now,
Evert's mum, crying her eyes out. We're all going to see
her, all of us who used to work with him. Bosses from
the forestry company have already been. Obviously, we
have to go and visit her. Evert's dad didn't have to see
his son die. He passed away a few years ago.'
He falls silent. Joel helps him on with his boots.
'Wave, won't you?' shouts Joel as his dad goes down
the stairs.
When he emerges into the street, Samuel pauses and
looks up at the window where Joel is perched. They wave
to each other, then Samuel walks off down the street.
Joel carefully lifts
Celestine
out of her glass case and
blows the dust away from her sails and the railings. He
finds a dead fly in one of the holds. When he pokes it out
with a match stalk, one of its wings falls off. The fly
makes him think of Evert.
He doesn't want to. Not now. He shudders at the
thought that he'd planned to go and lie down in a
snowdrift and freeze to death.
He banishes the thought and puts
Celestine
back in
her case. Then he picks out one of his dad's rolled-up
sea charts and spreads it out on the kitchen table. He
reads all the names and the depth soundings, and works
out suitable routes for the ship he is captain of.
All this exists, he thinks. All this is lying in store for
me. If Dad doesn't want to come with me, I'll go there
myself one of these days . . .
He rolls up the chart and returns it to its place. Then
he snuggles down in bed and carries on dreaming about
the sea that's waiting for him out there . . .
He wakes up when his dad comes back home.
'How did it go?' he asks when Samuel looks in on him.
'Are you awake? I thought you were asleep.'