Chapter 183
The crew lying in a row on blankets round the sleeping freckled lantern-girl, each with one hand on Mingus, who lies in the middle, calm, chin on his paws. Mörda kneeling at the girl's head. Ögar sitting watch, blindfolded, with Pim.
to Kompis, lying down beside her.
rising and falling. ba-dum… ba-dum…
And one by one the crew's eyes close. Kompis's last.
Then, slowly, colour: green. Blue. Summer.
A small northern village on a hillside above a lake: seven wooden houses, red and ochre, turf on the roofs, a well, a fence, birch trees, a jetty with a rowing boat. Morning sun. Bees. Washing on a line. Smoke from one chimney, someone baking. Snöberga, the way it was the morning before.
standing at the edge of the village in the dream, solid and bewildered. Vigolas turning in a circle. Öde looking at the turf roofs, aching. Isa listening to the bees.
seven, freckled, barefoot, in a blue smock, running down the path past them with a stick, not seeing them, laughing. Her eyes aren't milky here. They're bright brown. Siv.
beside Kompis, watching the girl.
From the next house, a door banging open, two boys tumbling out after Siv. The older one, eight, in a far too big grey hoodie, sleeves flopping over his hands, a serious, careful face and steady hands: little Kompis. (Adult Kompis, watching, makes a sound like being punched.)
coming out last, running to catch up, small legs going like mad. In his fist, a little whittling knife with a worn birch handle, and a half-carved lump of wood.
A summer path between turf-roofed houses, birch leaves bright with sun, and running straight toward the reader, mid-stride, mid-laugh, a five-year-old boy: a mop of brown hair bleached lighter at the tips by summer, a cowlick sticking straight up, his big brother's warm brown eyes, a sunburned nose, a gap where his two front teeth should be, laughing so hard his eyes have gone to slits. His brother's old hand-me-down boots too big on his feet. In one fist a little birch-handled knife held carefully point-down the way he was taught. In the other, a lumpy carved wooden dog.
His face is whole. Every freckle. Every line. Drawn with total love.
And in the margin of the spread, small, adult Kompis on his knees in the dream-grass, both hands over his mouth.
tears running down his face into his beard, not wiping them.
stopping on the path right in front of the kneeling grown man, tilting his head. In Siv's dream, he can see him: just a big stranger crying on the path.
holding up the lumpy carved dog proudly.
in the dream too, sitting beside Kompis in the grass, golden in somebody else's memory, wagging at the little boy. Lillebror's face lights up.
Little Kompis shouting from down the path: "LILLEBROR! Puppies!" and the small boy turning and running after him, waving the wooden dog, gone round the corner of a red house.
watching him go, not following. He stays on his knees in the grass. Mingus leans against him.
standing round him in the dream, silent. Rougeina has her hand on his shoulder. Vigolas is crying openly and not hiding it. Smurjan's three shadows are standing very close together. Isa is perfectly still, listening to the bees, as if to keep the morning from moving.
looking at the seven houses, quietly memorising them: the turf roofs, the well, the jetty, the birches.
The light changes. The sun is suddenly lower, far too fast, dream-fast. The bees go quiet. And on the far horizon, beyond the lake, a thin line of smoke, and a line of figures in grey walking up the shore road with torches.
sharp, turning.
on the path, stopping, seeing the smoke. Her face freezing in a seven-year-old's terror. Every night, the same moment.
scrambling over to her before he can think, kneeling in front of the dreaming child.
The dream folding up like paper.
The crew jerking awake in a row on their blankets, gasping. Mingus sitting up in the middle, sneezing. And the freckled lantern-girl sitting up, rubbing her milky eyes.
her blind face turning toward Kompis, a beat of confusion, then knowing.
reaching out with both small hands, finding his face, his beard, his wet cheeks, learning them like Ögar does.
sitting a little apart, her floating hair settling.
Calm. Wrecked and calm. He closes his eyes, and behind them, for the first time in years, there's a face behind the door.
opening his eyes, standing up, turning toward the Marka moored at the ledge, toward Drekk standing at the rail.
steady, certain, eyes gold.