The Girl in the Woods. Camilla Lackberg
The bullet slammed into one of the targets nailed to a tree in the forest glade behind their yard.
‘Good,’ said James curtly.
Sam had to force himself not to smile. This was the only thing for which he ever received praise. It seemed his only talent as a son was being a good shot.
‘You’re getting better and better,’ James told him, giving a satisfied nod as he peered over the rims of his sunglasses.
He wore aviator shades. Sam thought his father looked like a parody of an American sheriff.
‘See if you can hit the target from a little further away,’ said James, motioning for Sam to back up.
Sam moved away from the tree.
‘Steady your hand. Exhale at the precise moment you squeeze the trigger. Focus.’
James had trained elite Swedish military units for years, and Sam knew his father was a highly respected professional. That he was also a cold bastard probably added to his reputation, but it made Sam long for the next time James would be deployed abroad.
The months when James was away, often to unknown destinations, seemed like a breath of fresh air to Sam. Both he and his mother were more relaxed. She laughed more, and Sam loved seeing her happy. As soon as James stepped in the door, the laughter vanished, and she went out running more often. She lost weight, but instead of looking healthier, she just looked stressed. Sam hated that version of his mother as much as he loved the happier one. He knew he was being unfair, but she was the one who had chosen to have a child with that man. Sam refused to call him Father. Or Pappa.
He quickly fired off a few shots. He knew his aim was right on.
James nodded with satisfaction.
‘Hell, if only you had a backbone, I could make a fine soldier out of you,’ said James, chuckling.
Helen came into the backyard.
‘I’m going out for a run,’ she called to James and Sam, but neither of them answered.
Sam thought she’d already left. She usually went running right after breakfast in order to avoid the worst heat of the day, but it was nearly ten o’clock.
‘Back up another couple of metres,’ said James.
Sam knew he’d be able to hit the target, even at that distance. He’d been practising at greater distances during the periods when James was away. But for some reason he didn’t want to show his father exactly how good a shot he was. He didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of thinking his son had inherited something from him. He didn’t deserve any credit. Everything in Sam’s life was in spite of James, not thanks to him.
‘Nice!’ his father shouted when he made the next series of shots.
That was something Sam hated. The way James would switch to English, speaking with a distinct American accent. He had no American ancestors; his grandfather had been a fan of James Dean when he was young. But James had spent so much time with Americans that he’d picked up their accent. Thick and mushy. Sam found it embarrassing every time James failed to speak Swedish.
‘One more time,’ said James in English, as if he could read Sam’s thoughts and wanted to provoke him.
Sam aimed the gun at the target and pulled the trigger. Bullseye.
‘The girl was inside the big house yesterday. And you know what I have said about that, Elin!’
Britta’s words were spoken harshly, and Elin bowed her head.
‘I will speak to her,’ she said quietly.
Britta swung her legs over the side of the bed.
‘We are receiving a special visitor today,’ she went on. ‘Everything must be perfect. Have you washed and starched my blue dress? The silk brocade?’
She stuck her feet into the slippers next to the bed. Their warmth was welcome. Even though the vicarage was a more splendid house than any Elin had ever seen, it was still cold and draughty, and the floor was ice-cold in the wintertime.
‘Everything is ready and waiting,’ replied Elin. ‘We have scrubbed every nook and cranny of the house, and Boel from Holta arrived yesterday and has already begun to prepare the food. She will start by serving stuffed codheads, followed by capon with gooseberries as the main course, and bread custard for dessert.’
‘Excellent,’ said Britta. ‘Harald Stake’s envoy should be served a meal befitting a lord. After all, Harald Stake is the governor of the county of Bohuslän, and he has been ordered by the king himself to speak to the vicars about this plague of witchcraft. Only a few days ago, Preben told me of a witch who has been imprisoned in Marstrand.’
Britta’s cheeks had flushed crimson with indignation.
Elin nodded. People could talk of nothing else these days. The recently formed witchcraft council had busied itself imprisoning witches all over Bohuslän and soon the trials would begin. All over Sweden, strong measures were being taken against this wickedness. Elin shuddered. Witches and sorcerers. Travels to Blåkulla, witch mountain, and alliances with the devil himself. It appalled her that such evil existed so close to home.
‘I heard from Ida-Stina that it is because of you that Svea of Hult is now with child,’ said Britta as Elin helped her dress. ‘Whatever it is you did for her, I want you to do the same for me.’
‘I can do only what my maternal grandmother taught me,’ said Elin, tightly lacing Britta’s bodice in the back.
She was not surprised by the request. Britta was nearing twenty, and she and Preben had been married for two years, yet her belly had not yet swollen with child.
‘Do whatever you did for Svea. It is time for me to give Preben a child. He has started asking when this might happen.’
‘I made Svea a herbal mixture from one of Grandmother’s recipes,’ said Elin, as she began brushing Britta’s long hair.
The two sisters were very different in appearance. Elin had inherited her mother’s blond hair and pale blue eyes. Britta had dark hair, and her dark blue eyes were like those of the woman who had taken Elin’s mother’s place even before she died. Gossiping tongues in the village still whispered that Elin’s mother Kerstin had died of a broken heart. Even if this were true, Elin wasted no time thinking about it. Their father had died a year ago, and Britta was the only one who could save her and Märta from death by starvation.
‘She also taught me certain words to speak,’ said Elin cautiously. ‘If you are not opposed, I could prepare the mixture for you and say the appropriate prayers. I have everything I need to brew the concoction. I dried plenty of herbs during the summer so that I would have enough to last the winter.’
Britta waved her slender white hand dismissively.
‘Do as you please. I need to give birth to a child for my husband or risk bringing misfortune upon us.’
Elin was about to say in that case perhaps it would be a good idea for her to share the marriage bed with him. But she was wise enough to keep quiet. She had seen the consequences of arousing Britta’s ire. For a moment she wondered how a man as kind as Preben could have married someone like Britta. No doubt their father had had a hand in it, eager as he was to see his daughter make a good match.
‘You may go now,’ said Britta, standing up. ‘I am sure there must be countless things you need to attend to before Stake’s envoy arrives. And speak to that girl of yours, or I shall have to let the rod do the talking.’
Elin nodded, though her sister’s threat of beating Märta made her blood boil. So far Britta had not lifted a hand against the girl, but when she did, Elin knew she would not be able to answer for her actions. She