Astrid and Veronika (21 page)

 

But the following morning Veronika woke up to the sound of rain. She looked out the window but there was no view; she could hardly see Astrid’s house through the heavy downpour. It rained all day and towards the evening it shifted, as if reducing its force in order to last longer. Dressed in raincoats and boots, the two women went for their daily walk but the day in the forest had to be postponed for three days.

Then, finally, clear skies. They left it another day, to allow the ground to dry out a little. It was early and the air had not yet warmed when Veronika knocked on Astrid’s door. She stood on the porch waiting, and filled her lungs with the clean air. The smell of autumn was distinct now after the rain. Wet leaves, bark. Sand and clay.

‘It’s not that either of us will need the jam for the winter,’ Astrid had said with an odd little smile, her eyes locking with Veronika’s. ‘It’s just that I think it is one of the nicest things to do here. And I think you should know.’ She had paused, as if wanting her words to sink in before she continued. ‘If the weather is good, we can take lunch. And we will visit all my secret places, where the berries grow in abundance. We may even find some mushrooms, though it’s a little early.’

As Veronika took another deep breath of the glassy air, she knew it would be a perfect day. Astrid opened the door, her basket in her hand and wearing her cut-off boots. Veronika had a small backpack with their lunch. They set out across the fields and into the forest, where the semi-darkness underneath the dense firs was still and cool. The terrain sloped upwards and Astrid walked slowly. Veronika’s eyes were on the old woman’s back. Although her steps were slow, they seemed confident, as if she were in her own element. She seemed to find sure footing naturally and she moved with grace and purpose.

The dark forest gradually thinned as they reached higher ground. Eventually it gave way to tall pines, seemingly nourished only by the white moss that covered their roots. The trunks stretched straight and branchless towards the sky and the air was filled with a smell of resin and pine needles. The moss was dotted with the small red berries and they began to pick. The berries grew in clusters and they could sit down comfortably and pick from one spot for quite a while. Veronika focused on her task, the sun warm on her back now. When she looked up she found Astrid lying back on the moss, looking up at the sky.

‘Thank you, Veronika,’ she said.

Veronika smiled. ‘What for?’

‘Oh, for all of this,’ Astrid said. ‘All of it.’

Their baskets heavy with berries, they walked on and again entered the forest. Beside a large block of granite, Astrid stopped. She stretched out her hand and patted the moss that covered the stone. ‘This is it. My praying stone. Where I used to stop, when I still believed that prayers mattered.’ She stood still for a moment, lost in thought, her hand resting on the stone. Then they continued, Astrid leading the way through the dense forest. Veronika could see no path, and although Astrid kept holding branches aside for her to pass, they were both scratched on their arms as they pressed forward.

Then, abruptly, the forest ended. They parted the branches and stepped out into bright sunshine. And it was just as Astrid had described it. A circle surrounded by a solid wall of trees. Soft grass, silky and shiny in the sun, the colour of dry flax, sprinkled with wild strawberry plants, their leaves yellowing. It was strangely still, not a breath of wind, soothingly warm and absolutely peaceful. Above, the sky rose glassy blue and without a speck. They sat down on the grass. Veronika took a berry from her basket and let the tart freshness fill her mouth. They were both silent.

Later they unpacked their lunch, sandwiches and coffee, and ate, taking their time. The sun warmed here in the shelter of the trees and they removed their jackets and lay down on them. Veronika looked up into the achingly clear sky. The rest of the world felt distant, unreal. She closed her eyes.

Suddenly she felt Astrid’s hand on her arm. ‘Look,’ the old woman whispered. The sun had sunk a little lower in the sky and the shadows from the trees had advanced into the clearing. Veronika’s eyes followed Astrid’s gaze. A large grey bird flew soundlessly across the blue circle above. An owl. Astrid put her finger across her lips and whispered a soft ‘Shhhhh’. The bird swept back and forth over their heads several times before disappearing into the darkness of the trees. They sat up and Astrid turned to Veronika and smiled. ‘Time to go,’ she said.

On the way back, Astrid took a different route, where thick moist moss covered the ground, giving a misleading impression of softness. Underneath, there were deep crevasses and stones, and they had to watch their step. Astrid kept her eyes on the ground and when she suddenly stopped and bent down, she had found a patch almost covered in bright orange mushrooms.

‘Ah, look here,’ she said. ‘Milkcaps, saffron milkcaps.’ From her pocket she produced a small knife and began to cut off the mushrooms. ‘Nobody else picks these,’ she said, without looking up. When she finally stood, she had a small heap of mushrooms in her basket, on top of the dark red lingon berries. ‘Look,’ she said, holding up one mushroom. ‘They bleed when you cut them.’ She broke of a piece of the hat and drops of dark red sap collected along the edge. ‘Looks like blood. Perhaps that’s why people don’t like them.’ She returned the mushroom to the basket and wiped her fingers on her trousers. ‘Appropriate for a witch, though,’ she said with a little smile.

They continued and Astrid found more mushrooms and filled her basket to the rim. When they left the forest and slowly made their way over the meadows down towards the houses, the sun had sunk below the rim of treetops, colouring the sky over the village a pale pink, softened by the mist rising from the river.

‘I’ll clean the mushrooms and we can have mushroom omelette for dinner,’ Astrid said. ‘If you like,’ she added with a quick look at Veronika. ‘And before dinner we can clean the berries and make the jam. Let’s carry the little cooker outside.’ She put her basket down on the porch steps. ‘I’ll open the window and go and get the extension cord.’

‘I’ll run over and get some wine, then,’ Veronika said.

While the sun set, they cleaned the berries, which ran through their fingers, dry and shiny. They had both picked cleanly and there was just the odd pine needle or small leaf to remove. When they had gone through both baskets, Astrid’s large pot was half filled with berries. She added the sugar and placed the pot on the stove. The sweet smell of the boiling jam filled the air as they sat back with their wine glasses. Astrid began cleaning the mushrooms, dropping one at a time into a bowl while the scraps landed on the towel that covered her lap. She looked very comfortable, working swiftly and expertly, tossing the clean mushrooms into the bowl with a flick of her wrist.

‘You were right,’ Veronika said. ‘It’s been a perfect day.’

Astrid looked up and smiled. ‘I thought you would like it.’ She looked up at the sky, intensely dark blue now, with a tinge of purple. ‘There is nothing quite like it. Perhaps it is a human instinct, this urge to harvest before the winter. Picking berries and mushrooms. Preserving. Preparing. I have always found it so very satisfying.’ When she had finished cleaning the mushrooms she picked up the towel from her lap and stood to shake it. ‘And it is my favourite season, autumn. Some see it as the end of the year. Death. But to me, it has always felt like the beginning. Pure and clean, with a lack of distractions. Time to set your house in order and prepare for winter.’ She sat down again, leaning back against the wall and turning the wine glass between her stained fingers. ‘And it is. My house is in order,’ she said.

They stayed on the porch, and when the air grew chilly and the mist began to rise, Astrid went inside, returning with two woollen blankets. They wrapped themselves and sat comfortably in the gradually deepening darkness. Veronika looked up into the sky and as her eyes adjusted she watched the intensely blue-black void fill with stars.

All Saints Day. The first Saturday in November. Veronika was in the kitchen, lighting a fire in the stove. The weather had turned cold, but the last few weeks had been still and gentle. The landscape looked as if it had been softened by a kind hand, with light snow on the ground and a thin veil over the sky. There had been sun, but it sat low in the sky, pale and filtered through fog that lingered throughout the day.

Her packing was almost completed. She had arrived with little luggage and she hadn’t added much, yet the process felt like a major undertaking, associated with intense and disparate feelings that she could neither fully understand, nor control.

She was driving to Stockholm the following morning to meet her father. She had made no further plans, but she had talked to him briefly about New Zealand. ‘It’s one of the few places I have not yet seen,’ her father had said. ‘I have never been to New Zealand.’ He had said nothing further and she had not responded. She felt she needed more time to decide if she wanted company on the trip. And she thought he understood.

Packing, which was a process she normally dreaded and deferred to the last minute, felt different this time. Still an upheaval, a major task, yet somehow filled with purpose, even an element of anticipation. Although her plans were still not fully developed, her actions were conscious and deliberate. She was ready, and she was in charge.

Yet, here at the table with her coffee, looking out the window at Astrid’s house, she was overcome by entirely different feelings. The consequences of her imminent departure suddenly surfaced in a rush. It had weighed like a distinct physical pain that she had carried with her constantly, but submerged, at the back of her mind. Going about her preparations, she had woken up with the subconscious awareness of a lingering sadness. Now she marvelled at the realisation that her mind could contain such contrasting feelings simultaneously. She realised that she had made the house and the village her home. That for the first time she was facing a departure that would be tinged with sadness.

She looked across to Astrid’s house, and although she could see no sign of life, the house itself seemed alive. Slowly, she stood and went upstairs to finish packing. Her suitcase sat open on the bedroom floor, beside two boxes containing her books and CDs. She pulled out the drawer of the bedside table and picked up the few items inside: a clasp for her hair, her small notebook, a pen. And then underneath, the small diary Astrid had given her for her birthday. She sat down on the bed and opened the book. She had taken it out a couple of times before, but each time she had returned it to the drawer unopened. It had felt as if she needed more time, a different perspective, to be allowed inside the pages. Now she carefully opened it, initially not reading, just looking at the script. The handwriting was strong and driven and some pages had small drawings in the margin. There were sketches of plants and birds. Some pages seemed to have been written in several stages, as if the writer had returned to them with additional comments or second thoughts. Towards the latter part of the diary entire paragraphs were crossed out, the ink obliterating the underlying text. Veronika slowly turned back to the beginning and started to read.

Veronika turned several pages.

Veronika lowered the book onto her lap and looked out the window. She felt as if she could hear the words in her hands, as if somehow they reached her from the silent building outside her window.

The following couple of pages had been torn out and Veronika let her fingers run along the ragged edges of the lost paper.

Veronika flicked the pages over to the very last legible words.

There was no full stop and the remaining half-page was crossed out in ink that had obviously wet the page and made the pen rip the paper in places. Veronika closed the book and sat for a moment, looking across to the other house. Then she pulled out the red fleece jacket from her suitcase. She wrapped the soft material gently around the diary and placed the bundle underneath the top layer of clothes in the case.

When she had finished upstairs she went down to the kitchen again and sat at the table for a while. The room lay in semi-darkness as daylight was already receding, but she could see that Astrid had turned on the lamp over her kitchen table.