His voice isn't shaking any more. He's just angry now.
The boy suddenly jumps down from the rock and Joel
feels sure there's going to be a fight. If the rock is his, he
will have to defend it. But instead the boy undoes the
straps fastening the snowshoes to his boots.
'Would you like to try them?' he says.
Joel looks at him. Is he being serious?
'That rock is mine,' he says again.
'I've no intention of taking it off you,' says the boy.
'Are you going to try the snowshoes or aren't you?'
Joel fastens the straps round his boots.
It's a remarkable feeling, being able to walk on the
snow. It makes him twice as tall. If I have a pair of
snowshoes on, I'm as big as a grown-up, he thinks.
'They were very good,' he says as he returns them.
'They really were very good.'
'What else are you called, besides Joel?' the unknown
boy suddenly asks.
How on earth does the stranger know that he's called
Joel?
'Gustafson,' he replies. 'But how do you know my
name's Joel?'
'It's carved into the rock,' says the boy. 'It must be
you if you say the rock belongs to you.'
Joel had forgotten that. Scratching his name into the
rock last autumn, with a rusty old nail.
'What about you?' he asks. 'Apart from Ture?'
'Swallow. But I'm a nobleman and so I'm called von
Swallow. Ture von Swallow.'
'Eh?' says Joel. 'Surely nobody can have a name like
that? And why don't you go to school? Why have you
moved here? Where the hell do you live?'
'My dad's the new district judge,' says Ture. 'We live
over the courthouse. I don't need to go to school because
it's in the middle of term. Dad fixed that. I'm working at
home. But I start school in the autumn. Or so they think.
I'll have run away by then. It's not possible to live here.
So I shall run away.'
He takes off one of his gloves and checks his watch.
'In one week, three days, seven hours and nine
minutes from now I shall run away,' he says. 'Just in
case you're interested.'
Joel gapes at him.
Not that he has his mouth wide open. It's an invisible
mouth inside him that's gaping.
He's never heard a lie like that before. First the boy
with the snowshoes claims that he's a nobleman and is
called Swallow. Then he says he's going to run away
and gives the exact time. Joel would never be able to
think up a lie like that. The boy with the snowshoes must
be somebody pretty special.
'Why?' he asks. 'Why are you going to run away just
then?'
'Because there's a train leaving for Orsa at that time,'
says the boy with the snowshoes. 'Because Dad will be
busy with the sessions then. Nobody will notice me
carrying out my suitcase. There's a lot of stuff I need to
take with me. That's why it's important that nobody sees
me. I could really do with somebody to help me carry it.
Maybe you could do that?'
'Of course I could,' says Joel. 'I've thought about
running away as well.'
What a lie, Joel thinks. He lies so convincingly that it
almost seems true.
'Show me something exciting,' says the boy. 'If there
is anything exciting to show round here.'
Joel trudges after Ture, who is taking big strides on
top of the snow.
Perhaps he'll give me his snowshoes if I help him to
run away, Joel thinks.
That's not true, of course. But still . . .
They get as far as the bakery, and it's starting to get
dark already.
Out of the blue, Joel knows what he is going to do.
'There is a secret,' he says. 'But it's at night. Only at
night. Maybe you'll be asleep then?'
'I'll be there,' says Ture.
Joel thinks.
Opposite the courthouse are the marshalling yards.
There are always goods wagons waiting to be connected
to some train or other the next day.
'I'll be waiting for you next to the goods wagons,' he
says. 'At midnight. But I shan't wait long.'
'What happens at night?' asks Ture.
'It's not sure that anything will happen at all,' says
Joel. 'But there's a secret society.'
'I'll be there,' says Ture. 'My room is in the attic, but
I can set up a ladder.'
Joel is in a hurry now. The potatoes ought to have
been boiling on the stove already. Samuel will soon be
home. And he has to prepare for tonight as well. Being
the only member of a Secret Society is one thing. Not
being alone any more will be something completely
different.
'See you, then,' he says. 'I have to go home now.'
'Where do you live?' asks Ture.
'You'll find out tonight,' says Joel.
It's only when he's bounding up the stairs that he
remembers he was supposed to collect a kilo of coffee
from the shop.
He unlocks the door and before he's even taken off his
boots he checks to see how much coffee is left in the tin
on the shelf over the stove. Enough for one more day, so
he can breathe again. His dad would have gone through
the roof if they'd run out of coffee.
He can go and get the coffee himself, Joel thinks, as
he sits down on the cold floor in the dark entrance hall.
I haven't got time. Being responsible for a Secret
Society means that you only seldom have time to boil
potatoes.
Joel curses the kindling in the stove that refuses to
light. He runs through all the swearwords he knows,
forwards and backwards, but still he can't make the
wood catch fire. He starts running through his range of
swearwords once again, at top volume; but he calms
down when old Mrs Westman starts bashing on her
ceiling with her walking stick.
At last it starts burning. Joel gives the potatoes a
quick scrub, and pours some water and a pinch of salt
into the big pan. Four big potatoes for Dad, three little
ones for himself.
Then he goes to the showcase and carefully lifts up
Celestine
and takes out his logbook. Samuel might turn
up at any moment, so he doesn't have much time before
the heavy footsteps start echoing up the stairs.
He's caught on to the fact that it's easier to think when
he writes. And there's an awful lot of things he needs to
make up his mind about.
Just what should he tell Ture?
The Secret Society hasn't exactly done very much.
Can he really admit that he's the only member? He
thinks about what Ture has said, about what's going to
happen in a week's time.
Joel has never seriously thought about running away.
You have to know where you're going to when you run
away. You have to have a plan, some special aim in mind.
If he knew the whereabouts of his mum, Jenny, he
could have set out to discover what she looked like.
If he'd had a telescope like Ture, he could have hidden
behind a bush and spied on her. No doubt she is so like
him that it would be like examining yourself in a mirror.
Children do not take after their parents, he decides, as
he puts another piece of firewood into the stove. It's the
parents who take after their children.
The only times he's thought of running away have
been when he's been angry with his father. That time
when he was given a stool instead of a kite, he thought
about wandering off into the forest and lying down in
the snow to die. His dad would find him the next
morning when he set out into the forest to work.
He listens for footsteps on the stairs, then sits down at
the kitchen table again. I'll have to use my imagination,
he thinks. I'll have to make up whatever doesn't exist
for real.
If Ture is going to run away next week, he'll never
find out that what Joel tells him isn't true.
He writes down the names of his classmates that he
likes: they can become members of The Secret Society.
The ones he doesn't like, such as Otto, will be excluded.
They have committed serious acts of treachery and been
forced out of the society.
He also writes down the name on the grave he
generally jumps over in the cemetery. Nils Wiberg is a
member of the society who died in mysterious circumstances.
Then he remembers Rev. Sundin, the old dean,
who died last year, the day after the end of term. He can
also be a member who died in unusual circumstances.
And the judge who died on the steps outside Stora
Hotellet! What was his name? Törnqvist? He can also be
a dead member.
He suddenly recalls what Ture had said. About living
over the courthouse, and his dad being a district judge.
That means he must be the replacement for Törnqvist,
he decides. Now I have something I can show Ture. The
icy step he slipped on and broke his neck.
That was as far as he got, as the front door banged and
he could hear footsteps approaching up the stairs.
He listens to the stamping of his father's feet. What
do they sound like today?
It's quite loud, but he doesn't sound angry or weary.
They're not bottle-steps today, more like storytelling-steps.
Real seafarer's strides.
Even so, there's something not quite right about them.
There seems to be a sort of echo.
Joel hurriedly replaces the logbook under
Celestine
and sticks a fork into the biggest of the potatoes.
The flat door opens and Joel understands why the
footsteps sounded so odd.
His father is not alone.
Behind him is a woman in a red hat, black overcoat
and rubber overshoes. Joel recognises her immediately.
It's Sara, who works as a waitress in the local bar. Big-breasted
Sara, who wanders around balancing trays and
beer bottles and is always laughing so that you can see
the big gap in her bottom teeth.
That slut! What's she doing here?
Joel has occasionally been in the bar to sell copies of
the local weekly paper. He's watched Sara weaving her
way among the tables carrying bottles and a rag. If
anybody gets drunk or tries to grope her breasts, she
shouts for the ill-tempered bouncer Ek, who's always
fluttering around like a bat outside the Gents. Between
them they eject the drunkard or the groper. Joel has seen
such goings-on as he's moved from table to table, trying
to sell newspapers.
He doesn't know what her surname is. But he doesn't
like her. Her breasts are too big and she smells of
perfume, beer and sweat. There have actually been
occasions when he's thought it's a good job she isn't his
mother.
But here she is now, standing in the hall and laughing
just as loud as she does in the bar.
Why is she here? Joel asks himself uneasily. Why is
she hanging up her overcoat and taking off her
overshoes? And why is she still wearing that red hat?
They come into the kitchen and Joel notices straight
away that his father smells of beer. Beer and sweat and
wet wool.
But he's not drunk. He isn't swaying and his eyes are
not red. But his hair is standing on end, and Joel doesn't
like it when his father looks like that.
That slut Sara is still wearing her waitress outfit, he
sees. White blouse with a beer stain in the middle of one
of her enormous breasts. Black skirt with a little hole in
one of the seams.
Joel is getting more and more worried.
This is the first time his father has ever brought
somebody back home after a day working in the forest.
Joel has always thought that his dad's friends are
sailors plying the various oceans. Friends who are
waiting for him to drop that axe, pack his sailor's chest
standing in the hall, and set out once more for the
endless seas.
How could he bring this slut back home with him?
'Sara's come back with me for a cup of coffee,' says
Samuel, patting Joel on the shoulder.
'There isn't any coffee,' says Joel quick as a flash.
'What do you mean by that?' Samuel asks. He's
smiling all the time.
'We've run out,' says Joel. 'I didn't have time to go to
the shop. There's enough for you tomorrow morning.
But not for her.'
'Never mind,' says Sara with a laugh. She pats his
cheek.
That's when Joel decides he is going to kill her. It will
be the next mission for The Secret Society, once they've
found the dog that headed for a star.
'So you are Joel, then,' she says. 'Haven't I seen you
in the bar now and then, selling newspapers?'
Joel doesn't answer.
Samuel shakes the coffee tin. Strangely enough he
doesn't seem to be angry. He ought to be. Inviting
somebody back for coffee only to find that Joel has
forgotten to call at the shop as usual.
Can that slut in the red hat really put him in such a
good mood?
He suddenly has an awful thought.
Perhaps his father is going to remarry! In which case
Joel would risk having brothers and sisters with Sara as
their mother . . .
No, that can't be possible. A sailor can't marry a
waitress in a bar.
'A lovely place you've got here,' she says, wandering
round the kitchen and having a good look.
'It's annoying that we don't have any coffee,' says
Samuel, giving Joel a dirty look.
'Oh, it doesn't matter,' she says. Then she pats Joel on
the cheek again. Her hand is big and red and rough.
'How did it go at school today?' she asks.
Joel mumbles something inaudible in reply.
'You're a real misery today, aren't you?' says Samuel,
sitting down on the sofa.
That's a betrayal. Joel is petrified. Whose side is he
on? Is he putting on a show for Sara and her red hat? Is
he letting his own son down?
Sara sits down on Joel's chair and straightens out a
fold in the tablecloth with her big hand.
'You can invite me to coffee another time, Samuel,'
she says.
So she intends coming round again, then? If she does
I shall run away, Joel thinks. Samuel can sit here on his
own, gaping at her red hat.
'I'm going to my room,' says Joel.
He closes the door, goes down on one knee and peers
out at the kitchen through the keyhole.
He's afraid his father is about to disappear. Sara with
the red hat has started to eat him up.