A Faraway Island (11 page)

“But
you must understand that Svante didn’t mean any harm,” Britta says on their way home that day. “He can’t help being stupid. Just imagine what it must be like to be repeating sixth grade for the second time and still not know your multiplication tables! He doesn’t know anything about Hitler, either. I’m sure he honestly thought you’d be happy to get something that reminded you of home.”

Stephie stops abruptly. “You’re the one who doesn’t see!” she screams at Britta. “You’re just as stupid as Svante. You know nothing about it. Absolutely nothing at all!”

Britta looks offended. “But I do,” she begins. “I know Hitler is evil. My father says so, but—”

“Your father doesn’t know anything,” Stephie interrupts. “My father’s been in a labor camp, but you probably don’t even know what that is.”

She’s not being fair, she knows that. So she doesn’t wait for Britta to answer, just takes off, running along the side of the road at full speed.

“Wait!” Britta shouts after her. “Stephie, wait!”

She begins to run, too, catching up with Stephie just before she reaches the crossing where they go in separate directions.

“See you tomorrow,” she says, “at Sunday school?”

“No.”

“Jesus will be angry if you don’t come,” says Britta accusingly.

Stephie looks Britta right in the eye. “Jesus doesn’t exist,” Stephie says, putting all her father’s authority into her voice. “He couldn’t care less about me, or about you, or about anyone else, for that matter.”

Britta blinks. Her bright eyes grow large, and tears well up in them. She takes a couple of steps back.

“Of course He exists,” she cries. “Jesus lives and He loves me. But He doesn’t care about you, because you’re a vicious person. You’re—you’re not a real Christian!”

The minute Britta is out of sight over the top of the hill, Stephie wishes she’d behaved differently. Not because Britta’s friendship is important to her. She’s actually tired of Britta’s endless know-it-all talk about Jesus. And she’s tired of jumping rope, too.

But if she doesn’t have Britta for a friend, then she’s all alone. Alone at recess, alone walking back from school. And what if Britta tells her mother what Stephie said, and she tells Aunt Märta? Then Aunt Märta will realize Stephie hasn’t really been redeemed. That she’s only pretending to
believe that Jesus is the son of God, which is kind of like lying. Maybe even worse.

Should she turn around and run after Britta? Tell her she didn’t mean what she said and apologize? No, it’s too late. Britta’s house is just over the rise. Surely she’s already home, sitting with her mother in the kitchen, telling her all about her school day. Telling her about Stephie, Svante, and the picture of Hitler. About their quarrel on the way home. About what Stephie said about Jesus. Britta’s mother may already have lifted the receiver and asked the operator to connect her with Aunt Märta.

It begins to rain. Stephie passes Auntie Alma’s house. She imagines the kitchen, warm and cozy. Nellie and the little ones are surely sitting around the table, eating sweet rolls hot out of the oven. In every single one of the houses she passes there are people, families of people talking to each other, caring about each other. She’s the only one who’s completely alone.

When the village houses are behind her, Stephie is unprotected from the wind. Gusts press the rain down on her, hard. She pushes into the wind, hands over her face to keep the drops off. When she gets to the thicket, it’s not quite so bad, but then comes the long, open downhill path, and the wind takes her breath away.

She ought to run the last stretch toward home, hurry inside and take off her wet clothes, rub herself dry on one of Aunt Märta’s rough linen towels until her skin stings. On cold, rainy days like today Aunt Märta usually has hot milk for her when she comes in from school.

Stephie passes the house right by and goes down to the
shore. The stones are wet and slippery. There are big heaps of rotting seaweed. Balancing awkwardly, she makes her way toward the thin strip of sand by the water’s edge. A wave comes at her before she can pull back. Her stockings are soaked all the way up to the knee. Her shoes are full of water.

It’s not good to have wet, cold feet. You can get pneumonia and die.

If she died, would anyone on the island except Nellie be sorry? she wonders. Who would write the news to her mother and father? Would Uncle Evert bury her here on the beach, like the sailor in a song Auntie Alma sometimes sings? When the sailor didn’t come home as he’d promised, the girl he loved went down to the beach and drowned herself in the waves. The sailor had an anchor inscribed on her grave marker, instead of a crucifix.

The song is called “The Grave on the Beach.” It isn’t really a spiritual, but it is a very pretty, very sad song.

The water is black and icy cold today. It was probably summer when that girl drowned.

Stephie goes to the boathouse door and tugs at it. It isn’t locked.

Inside are the scents of fish and pitch. Unfamiliar barrels and boxes line the walls.

Black fishnets are suspended on poles up near the ceiling. There’s a broken oar, an old three-legged stool, and other objects Stephie can’t quite distinguish in the dark. She finds a folded tarp, sits down on it, and unties her wet shoes. Then she pulls a corner of the tarp over herself and lies down….

Someone is shaking her by the shoulder.

“Stephie,” Uncle Evert’s voice commands. “Come to, girl.”

Stephie opens her eyes. Uncle Evert is leaning over her, slapping her cheeks gently. When he sees her eyes open, he stops.

“What in the world are you doing in here?” he asks. She can’t tell if his tone is angry or concerned.

“I fell asleep,” she answers foolishly. “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.”

“Wet as a drowned cat,” Uncle Evert comments as he lifts the tarp off her. “Why on earth did you come to the boathouse?”

“I’m sorry,” she repeats, though she’s not really sure what she has to be sorry for.

Uncle Evert lifts her up and carries her all the way to the house, over the slippery stones and up the path.

“I can walk,” Stephie tells him. “I’m not sick.”

But she’s glad Uncle Evert doesn’t put her down. It feels safe just to be lying in his arms. When she was very little, before Nellie was born, her papa used to carry her in his arms when she was falling asleep. Gently she leans her head on Uncle Evert’s shoulder.

“What in the world?” Aunt Märta asks, too, when Uncle Evert comes into the kitchen with Stephie and lays her on the wooden kitchen bench. “Where did you find her?”

“Lying in the boathouse,” Uncle Evert tells her. “Did something happen?”

“Not that I know of,” Aunt Märta replies. “Where are your shoes, Stephie?”

“I forgot them down there,” she whispers. “I took them off. They were so wet.”

“But what did you go to the boathouse for?” Uncle Evert asks. “Was somebody mean to you?”

“Yes,” Stephie whispers. “Well, no, not exactly mean …”

That’s all she can get out in Swedish.

“What a strange child,” she hears Aunt Märta say while she is helping her out of her coat and sweater. Stephie’s so cold she’s shivering and her teeth are chattering.

“She’ll have to have a hot bath,” Aunt Märta continues. “You go into the front room, Evert.”

Uncle Evert leaves the kitchen, shutting the door behind him. Aunt Märta heats water on the stove and pours it into the big tub. Stephie tries to unhook her stockings from her garters, but her fingers are too stiff. Aunt Märta has to help her.

The bathwater feels burning hot. As her cold body begins to thaw, her skin aches and prickles. She undoes her damp braids, letting her hair float on the surface of the water.

Aunt Märta brings towels and Stephie’s nightgown. She helps Stephie dry her back, but leaves her to work through her snarled hair herself. Her mother used to comb it gently and part it down the middle. It’s terribly knotted now: Stephie struggles with the comb. It hurts. She can’t be bothered to unsnarl any more; she just brushes the top layer over the worst of the tangles.

Neither Uncle Evert nor Aunt Märta asks her any more questions. Stephie drinks hot milk with honey and goes to bed.

The next morning she has a cold and is allowed to stay home from Sunday school. She ends up having to miss school the whole of the following week.

Uncle Evert stays home, too. There’s a big storm, with winds so strong the
Diana
can’t be at sea. Uncle Evert amuses Stephie with seamen’s tales, and plays tic-tac-toe with her.

She stiffens every time the telephone rings, but it’s never Britta’s mother calling.

By
the time Stephie is well enough to go back to school, it’s snowing. Big, wet flakes fall to the ground and melt.

Svante doesn’t touch her braids. That’s something, anyway.

At recess, Britta takes Stephie aside. Stephie can tell from the look on her face that she has something important to say but that she’s trying to drag out the suspense for as long as possible.

Stephie watches the snowflakes whirl. She has no intention of asking Britta what’s on her mind. If Britta has something to say, let her come out with it.

Britta clears her throat. “I have decided to forgive you,” she says solemnly. “If you honestly repent. I’m sure if you do, Jesus will forgive you, too.”

“Thank you,” says Stephie, trying to look repentant.

“Mamma says we must judge kindly and show forbearance,” Britta goes on. “You have lived your whole life in the Kingdom of Sin. It’s not your fault.”

The Kingdom of Sin! Stephie opens her mouth to protest, but Britta continues.

“I want to help you find the true way,” she says. “May I come home with you after school?”

“I’m not sure …,” Stephie falters.

“My mother’s already asked your aunt,” Britta says. “It’s all right with her.”

“Oh,” Stephie mumbles. Things have been going on behind her back, but she can’t figure out what.

After school they walk to Aunt Märta’s together. Britta chatters about Sunday school, about the new song they learned when Stephie was absent, about the approaching holiday season, beginning with Lucia.

“What’s Lucia?” Stephie asks.

“Don’t you know?” Britta responds in surprise. “That’s when we celebrate the Queen of Light.”

This answer doesn’t tell Stephie very much.

“Who’s the Queen of Light?”

Britta explains excitedly all the details of the festival of Lucia.

“One girl in the class is elected Lucia. And six others are her handmaidens. Everybody votes.”

“Who will it be?”

“Someone pretty,” Britta says, and Stephie notes a tiny sigh. “And with a good singing voice.”

Vera has a good voice. And she’s pretty, too.

“We always choose Sylvia,” Britta tells her.

They’re on the last uphill. Britta’s lagging behind. “Slow down, I’ve got a stitch in my side,” she complains.

Suddenly Stephie has the urge to tease Britta. Instead of slowing down she speeds up.

“Wait up!” Britta shouts.

Stephie doesn’t stop until she reaches the crest of the hill. She gazes out at the ocean. In the distance there’s the blinking of a lighthouse. She sees a white flashing light, and if she steps to the side she can see a red one, too. Uncle Evert has explained to her that the boats have to follow the white light. If they’re off course they see the red one, a warning against heading toward the cliffs and the shallows.