A Bridge to the Stars

7

When Joel wakes up next morning and goes to the kitchen, he sees that Samuel has not been at home all night. The stove is cold and there is no dirty coffee cup in the sink.
He is gripped by fear once again. It's a monster inside his stomach. An animal with vicious teeth and sharp claws, a beast eating its fill inside frightened people.
Joel decides to go out, lie down in the forest and die.
Samuel is not going to return.
He has gone away just like his mother did, and left Joel behind. He didn't even bother to take his son down to Mrs Westman's and leave him there.
He tries to convince himself that this isn't the case, and that he's only imagining it, but to believe that he'd have to ignore the cold stove and the coffee cup that isn't where it usually is.
He can't do that. There's a limit to how far he can go to fool himself.
He gets dressed and goes out into the street. It's colder again and steam comes out of his mouth when he breathes.
He can't go to school. That's out of the question. Everybody would be able to see by looking at him that Samuel had abandoned him and moved in with Sara, the waitress in the local bar. He makes up his mind to go so far into the forest that he won't be able to find his way back, and so can't have any second thoughts.
The forest is most extensive to the north, he knows that. There are also a lot of deep ravines and black tarns there. Lots of people have lost their way in that part of the forest and never returned. Now he'll become one of them. The difference being that he'll get lost on purpose.
He goes up the hill to the railway station, thinking that this is the last time. He turns round halfway up and surveys his own footprints. He remembers that his name is carved into the rock down by the river.
That will still be there when he's gone.
What has happened seems so unfair. How can you blame yourself when you can't choose your own parents?
And why would Sara want to choose Samuel? Or is it Samuel who's chosen her?
Perhaps he thinks I've been a bad mum to myself, Joel muses.
Maybe he thinks I've been just as bad as Jenny.
He stops when he comes to the road leading to Simon Windstorm's house.
Perhaps he can have a taste of Simon's soup before he goes to get lost in the forest? If it's true that it will enable him to see into the future, he'll be able to find out what happens after he's dead.
He walks through the dense fir trees, follows the lorry tracks and finds himself in the forecourt. Rusty machines, dismantled motor cars and power-looms are lying around everywhere, part-covered in snow.
It's like a cemetery, he thinks. Although the gravestones are rusty machines and don't have names carved on them.
He looks at the dilapidated house. There is no smoke coming out of the chimney, not a sound to be heard.
He approaches one of the windows and peers inside. The Old Bricklayer is sitting at a table, reading a book. He has a pen in one hand, and occasionally writes something in the book.
Suddenly, he looks up, straight at Joel, and waves to him. Joel hears Simon inviting him inside.
When Joel takes hold of the door handle he notices that it turns the wrong way, the opposite way to all other door handles he's ever come across. He enters a murky vestibule smelling of tar. A pile of newspapers reaches up to the ceiling. There's also a tailor's dummy dressed in an old fur coat.
The room where The Old Bricklayer is sitting smells of smoke oozing out of a stove. A few hens are pecking at the rag carpets.
'I have some soup for you,' says The Old Bricklayer with a smile. 'I heard you coming.'
'How could you possibly hear me?' asks Joel.
The Old Bricklayer points into a corner of the room. There's a dog lying there, looking at Joel. A Norwegian elkhound . . .
But it's not the dog that's heading for a star. It's similar, but not the same.
'Lukas hears everything,' says The Old Bricklayer. 'Sit down now.' Joel sits down at the table on a peculiar chair. It's really two chairs but their backs are nailed to each other.
'What are you reading?' he asks.
'I've no idea what books are called,' says The Old Bricklayer. 'I read bits here and there and if there's something I don't like, I change it. This book has an ending I don't like, so I'm writing a new one as I want it to be.'
'Are you allowed to do that?' asks Joel.
The Old Bricklayer gives him a long, hard look.
'There are all sorts of things you're not supposed to do,' he says. 'You're not supposed to wear odd shoes, you're not supposed to live in an old smithy, you're not supposed to have hens in the house. No doubt you're not supposed to make changes in books either. But I do all that even so. I'm not doing anybody any harm. Besides, I'm mad.'
'Are you?' asks Joel.
'No doubt I was once,' he says. 'All thoughts I had caused me so much pain. But that's all changed now. Now I only think thoughts that I like. But I suppose I'm a little bit mad.'
'You said you were going to serve me your soup,' says Joel. 'I need to know what's going to happen this afternoon and this evening.'
The Old Bricklayer gives him another long, hard look.
'You don't look too happy,' he says eventually. 'You look as if you have a lot of thoughts in your head that you would prefer not to be there. Is that right?'
Joel nods.
'Yes,' he says. 'I suppose so.'
Joel starts to tell The Old Bricklayer all about it. The words simply tumble out of his mouth, with no hesitation. He tells him about his dad, who he now just calls Samuel, about his mother and Celestine, about The Secret Society and Sara in the bar. He tells him about the stone he threw through her window, and about the dog that's heading for a star.
He's sure The Old Bricklayer is listening to what he has to say. He's not the type who just pretends to be listening.
When Joel finishes speaking it is remarkably quiet in the room. The only sound is from the hens' beaks pecking at the floor.
'You and I are going for a ride in my lorry,' says The Old Bricklayer, getting to his feet. 'There's something I want to show you.'
Joel clambers into the cab. He's never been in a lorry before. The Old Bricklayer gets in behind the wheel, turns a key and pulls a knob. But the engine doesn't start.
'Go and give the bonnet a bash with this,' he says, handing Joel a hammer.
'Where exactly?' asks Joel.
'Where you see the dents,' says The Old Bricklayer. 'Hit it as hard as you can and don't stop until I tell you to.'
Joel does as he's bidden and the engine springs into life. Why on earth does it start when he hits the bonnet with a hammer?
He clambers back into the cab. A hen suddenly appears from behind the seat and flutters out through the open door.
'Ah, I wondered where she'd got to,' mutters The Old Bricklayer. 'In the summer they usually come to lay eggs behind the seats.'
They drive out to the main road and head north.
If we'd headed south perhaps he'd have taken me to Motala, thinks Joel. Driven through the forest, night and day, until we got there.
After a few miles The Old Bricklayer slows down and turns off onto a forest track. He doesn't tell Joel what he is going to show him. Joel wishes the journey would never end. The white forest is like a boundless ocean, the lorry a frozen ship forcing its way through the white, icy sea.
A big bird takes off from a fir tree and flies away. Snow cascades down from the branch it has left.
The Old Bricklayer suddenly brings the lorry to a halt. When he switches off the engine Joel experiences a silence he has never come up against before. A thousand trees watching and listening . . .
The Old Bricklayer gazes thoughtfully through the windscreen.
'Time for walking now,' he says, hopping down from the cab.
Joel trudges after him through the deep snow. The firs are lined up side by side, and Joel wonders where they are heading for. But he feels secure with The Old Bricklayer at his side. Everything he's heard about him before, all the scary rumours, have been banished.
The forest suddenly opens up and a white lake, covered in ice and snow, is revealed before them. The firs crowd in on it, restlessly, on all sides. In the middle of the lake is something jutting up: Joel thinks it's a rock, but when he ventures out onto the snow-covered ice he sees that it is in fact a rowing boat, frozen in.
They walk over to it. The Old Bricklayer adjusts the oars and rowlocks lying in the bottom of the boat. There are also a couple of collapsible canvas stools of the type used by men who fish through holes in the ice as spring approaches.
The Old Bricklayer sets them up on the ice. He sits on one of them and indicates to Joel that he should do the same.
'This lake doesn't have a name on the map,' says The Old Bricklayer. 'But I've given it one. A secret name. Four Winds Lake. I'll tell you why it's called that . . .
'The first time I ever came here,' says The Old Bricklayer, 'I was very mixed-up. I'd just come back home after having lived in a hospital where people whose heads were full of horrible thoughts were locked up behind doors and barred windows. I was so pleased to have been released at last. Nevertheless I was sad because I was all alone and had spent far too many years hidden away in that hospital. I came out here into the forest and discovered this lake. It was in the winter, just like now, and I stood on the ice, more or less where we are sitting now, and then I shouted out my name as loud as I possibly could, Simon. Simon, I shouted. I don't know why I did that. It just happened. But when I'd finished shouting it seemed that all four winds came blowing from out of the forest. One from each point of the compass. One of the winds was cold, and whispered, "Sorrow, Sorrow" in my ear. Another one whined and growled, "Fury, Fury" in my ear. The third one was warm and winged its way gently to my ear and whispered, "Happiness, Happiness." The fourth wind was both warm and cold, and at first I couldn't hear what it was saying, but in the end I realised that it was telling me to choose which wind I wanted to have blowing at my face. I turned my back on all the other winds and let Happiness stroke my cheeks. It felt as if the sorrow I'd been feeling had just melted away. And when I left, I felt so happy. I come back here whenever I need to listen to the winds. It's like a fairy tale, this lake. Perhaps it is a fairy tale. Perhaps the winds don't really exist. But even if they don't, they still help. I reckon they might be able to help you in the same way that they helped me. Now I'm going back to the lorry, and I'll wait for you there. You have to be on your own if the winds are going to dare to appear. All you need to do is to shout your name, then wait.'
The Old Bricklayer stands up and collapses his stool.
'I'll be waiting in the lorry,' he says. 'You'll be able to find your way back. You can't miss our tracks in the snow.'
The Old Bricklayer leaves and vanishes into the dark fir trees. Joel is on his own.
There's no such things as talking winds, he thinks. It's only in fairy tales that stones can laugh and flowers can turn into pretty maids all in a row. There are no winds capable of whispering into his ear.
Still, there's no harm in shouting your name, I suppose. Even if you don't believe that anything can possibly come of it. You can shout out your name and see if there's an echo.
He shouts his name.
It sounds so short, so solitary. Like somebody calling for a cat or a cow. There's no echo either.
He shouts again, louder this time.
No wind from the forest. Everything is still.
But he imagines the wind inside himself. You can do that. You can create a wind that doesn't exist if you really have to.
It's like holding one of Samuel's shells to your ear and thinking that the rushing sound is a voice.
Abeam of sunlight emerges from the clouds, just over the tops of the trees. If he turns to face the sun, it feels quite warm on his face. The idea of lying down in the snow to die suddenly seems absolutely impossible.
How could he ever have thought of such a thing?
He feels almost embarrassed. It's childish, he thinks. Going out into the forest to die is childish. You can't get lost on purpose.
The secret of this lake suddenly dawns on him.
Maybe the four winds don't exist. But the very fact that they don't exist makes you start thinking differently from the way you thought before.
Now he wants to get back home, fast. No doubt it will be easier to talk to Samuel today. He must have grown tired of Sara in the red hat by now.
He folds up the canvas stool, puts it back into the rowing boat and retraces his steps. The fir trees come to greet him, and he leaps into their shadow as if into a welcoming tunnel.
There's the lorry. The engine is coughing and wheezing, and he can see The Old Bricklayer sitting behind the wheel. He opens the door and climbs up into the passenger seat.
'All OK?' asks The Old Bricklayer.
Joel nods.
'I'd better be getting home now,' he says.
The Old Bricklayer drives him to his front gate.
'You didn't have any soup,' says The Old Bricklayer.
'I'll come some other time,' says Joel.
'Maybe,' says The Old Bricklayer, with a smile. Then he drives off.
As he bounds up the stairs he wonders if Simon Windstorm recognised him. Did he realise that Joel was the boy who'd fallen off his bike that night in the snow? Maybe it's more interesting not to know, he thinks.
When he opens the flat door it's obvious that Samuel is already at home. He shouldn't be. It's not late enough in the day for him to have finished work. Joel can see that he's in a serious mood.
I'm rumbled, Joel thought. He knows I was the one who threw the stone, he knows that I haven't been to school, he knows everything...
Now Joel will have to watch his step. Samuel can get very angry, especially if his son tells lies. Nevertheless Joel will have to try to find out precisely what Samuel knows and what he doesn't know. Unless it's necessary, a full admission won't be called for.
But Joel is wrong. It's not what he thinks at all.
'There's been an accident,' says Samuel. 'Somebody was hit by a falling tree. We had to take him to hospital by horse, but it was too late.'
It has happened once before that one of Samuel's workmates died in an accident. On that occasion he stayed at home for days, studying his sea charts, before going back into the forest again.
It strikes Joel that his father looks like a little boy, sitting on the kitchen bench with his big fists clenched on the table in front of him. His hands are large and rough, but even so they look small. Hands can look sad as well.
Joel takes off his boots and jacket and sits down on his chair.
If I console him he'll realise that he and I are the ones who belong together, he thinks. Not Samuel and Sara.
The stove is cold. Joel stands up and starts loading it with paper and firewood. He keeps an eye on Samuel all the time, but he's still sitting with his little fists on the table in front of him, staring at the cloth.
Joel lights the fire and puts on some water for coffee.
'He's dead now,' says Samuel. 'This morning he got out of bed and made coffee. He had no idea he was going to go into the forest and die, Evert Petterson . . . '
He raises his head and looks at Joel. His helplessness makes him seem so small. Just as small as when he's spent some nights scrubbing away his demons. Just as small as when he's been drinking and stays in bed punishing himself.
'The forest is no place to be,' says Joel. 'Why don't we move away from here? Why don't you become a sailor again? Next time it'll be your head the tree falls down onto. What shall I do then? Move in with old Mrs Westman downstairs? Or go and live with Sara?'
He hadn't intended to say that last bit. The words just came tumbling out. But Samuel doesn't react. He just continues looking miserable.
'I've thought about that, in fact,' he says. 'About what will happen to you if anything happens to me. I've thought about that . . . '
'I'm not moving in with Sara,' says Joel. 'I'd rather live with Simon Windstorm.'
Samuel looks at him in surprise.
'Whatever for?' he says. 'The man's mad. . . '
'He's not mad at all,' says Joel. 'I think he's very sensible.'
Samuel shakes his head.
'That's not on,' he says. 'But I have thought about it . . . '
'If we move away from here you don't need to think about it,' says Joel. 'There aren't any trees at sea.'
'There are other things at sea,' says Samuel. 'Other things that can fall on your head.'
The water has started boiling on the stove. Joel adds three spoonfuls from the coffee tin and counts slowly to nine, just as Samuel does when he makes coffee. He takes out two cups, one each.
'Do you drink coffee?' asks Samuel. 'I didn't know that.'
'Sometimes,' says Joel. 'Half a cup.'
Samuel gives Joel a funny look. As if Joel were somebody he'd never seen before.
'You're eleven now,' he says. 'Nearly twelve. I keep forgetting that . . . '
He stirs his coffee.
It seems to Joel that he has to continue now, when Samuel is in a sorrowful mood, when he doesn't look capable of getting angry.
'I don't like Sara,' he says. 'Why do you keep on seeing her?'
'There's nothing wrong with Sara,' says Samuel. 'She's OK. She puts me in a good mood. She laughs her way through life even though she's endured a lot of things bad enough to make her cry.'
'Don't we laugh, then?' says Joel.
'Don't keep comparing all the time,' says Samuel. 'Sometimes I miss her something terrible, I do so miss . . . '
Samuel breaks off without finishing the sentence.
'Mum, Jenny?' suggests Joel.
Samuel nods. Now he seems so small he can barely reach up to the table.
'Of course I miss Jenny,' he says. 'But she ran off. I don't want to miss her. I don't want to miss somebody who doesn't miss me.'
'How do you know that?' asks Joel.
Samuel suddenly grows up and is big again.
'She left me,' he says. 'She ran away from me and you and all the things we were going to do. We were only going to stay here for a few years, while you were little. I was a sailor, this was the only other job I could get at that time. We thought it was a good idea to live here where neither of us had been before. Only for a few years. After that I would sign up with some ship or other again. But then she simply vanishes . . . '
Samuel smashes one of his fists hard down on the table.
'Not a word for all these years,' he says. 'Not a single word. I don't know if she's still alive, or what she's doing. . . '
'She had an itch,' says Joel. 'That's what Mrs Westman downstairs thinks.'
'Mrs Westman? That old hag downstairs?' says Samuel. 'What does she know about it?'
Joel doesn't know what to do next. He wants to talk about his mother and he wants to talk about Sara, but it's not possible to talk about them both at the same time.
Samuel suddenly stands up.
'I don't want any food,' he says. 'You can make whatever you want for yourself. I know you can. I'm going out for a bit.'
'Don't go to Sara,' Joel begs. 'Don't go to her.'
'I'll go to whoever I want to go to,' says Samuel, glaring at him with a frown.
Joel can see the dangerous glint in his eye.
'Joel,' says Samuel. 'Somebody threw a stone through Sara's window. It wasn't you by any chance, was it?'
Oh yes, thinks Joel. It was me. It was Joel Gustafson who threw that stone. It was Joel Gustafson who lugged the ladder over the street, it was Joel Gustafson who peeped in through the window and saw Samuel Gustafson sitting naked on Sara's bed, showing off his scar. It was me, Joel Gustafson, who threw that stone and hoped it would hit Sara on the top of her head and that she'd get a bump so big that she couldn't wear that red hat of hers any more. . .
That's what he thinks. But what he says is different.
'No,' he says. 'I haven't been throwing stones.'
Now I must be careful not to look away, he thinks. If I do, Samuel will know it was me.
He looks at Samuel and tries to think about something else. The dog heading for a star. He can think about that.
'I just wondered,' says Samuel. 'But it happened in the middle of the night, so it could hardly have been you. Unless you've started sleepwalking again . . . '
'I haven't been sleepwalking,' says Joel.
Samuel puts on his boots. Then his leather jacket and his fur hat, in the same order as usual.
'Come with me,' he says out of the blue. 'Come with me to Sara's. I'm sure she'll make you a bite to eat.'
Go with him to Sara's? Joel stares at Samuel. Does he really mean it?
'Come,' says Samuel. 'Let's go together.'
Joel is pleased, thrilled to bits.
But how can he feel pleased when meeting Sara is the last thing he wants to do? He can't understand it.
But when Samuel asks him to accompany him it's like him becoming Joel's father again. It's like putting your feet in a bowl of warm water when you're cold. Your whole body glows with warmth.
'Are you coming or aren't you?' asks his dad.
Joel nods. He's coming.
As they walk through the streets in the wintry darkness Joel thinks how odd it is that somebody has died in the forest that day of all days. The very day he'd decided to get lost in the forest on purpose and freeze to death in a snowdrift.
He walks close to his dad. It's ages since he last did that.
'Are you sad?' asks Joel.
'Yes,' replies his father. 'It's so hard to grasp that Evert is no longer with us. It's so hard when death strikes like this. And he was only twenty-four. No more than twice your age. He said only the other day that he'd soon have saved up enough money for a motorbike. He was so proud of that. And now he's gone . . . '
'What happens when you die?' asks Joel.
'If only I knew,' says his dad. 'But I don't.'
Joel doesn't know who Evert was. He's only met one of his father's workmates, and his name is Nilson but everybody calls him The Wizard. He's short and fat and speaks a funny dialect. He came back home with Samuel once, for coffee. Joel heard them talking about clubbing together to buy a rowing boat so that they could go fishing, but they got no further than talking about it. Joel heard nothing more about a boat.
He still can't grasp that he's on his way to Sara's with his dad. What he finds hardest to understand is that it's making him feel happy. First of all he's so desperate, he runs in the middle of the night to throw a stone through her window, and the next evening he's on his way to visit her with his father. He still doesn't like her. That hasn't changed. But he's going even so.
Grown-ups are not like children, he thinks. They don't understand that you can do things even if you don't want to. They don't understand that a mum who's vanished can never be replaced by somebody who wears a red hat and works as a waitress in a bar.
As they enter the rear courtyard where Sara lives, Joel feels uneasy again. What if his father suddenly stops, grabs him by the back of his neck and asks if it was Joel who threw that stone after all?
A horrible thought strikes him. What if his father has invited Joel to accompany him so that he can unmask him in front of Sara?
He stops dead.
His father turns to look at him.
'What's the matter?' he asks. 'Have you changed your mind?'
Joel tries to tell from his father's voice if his suspicion might be true. Just how much does his dad know?
'We can't stand around here,' says Samuel. 'Come on now, Joel.'
Joel sets off again, but he still feels a bit uneasy.
They walk up some dimly lit stairs.
Sara opens the door even before Samuel has knocked.
She's expecting him, Joel thinks. But she doesn't know I'm with him.
'Joel,' she says with a laugh. 'How lovely that you've come as well!'
Against his will Joel immediately takes to Sara's flat. It's not big, smaller than the one they live in, but it's light and warm, and it smells nice. Besides, she has an electric cooker.
He decides to pull his head away if she tries to pat him on the cheek, but when she does he doesn't flinch. Doesn't move at all.
The hardest thing is looking at the broken windowpane without giving himself away.
The hole made by the stone has been covered by a piece of cardboard. The cracks go right up to the frame.
He looks at it furtively while pretending to examine a calendar hanging on the wall.
It's good that he has his back turned to Sara and his dad. They're talking about the glazier, who can't come to mend it until tomorrow. Let's hope they don't talk too long, he thinks. It could look suspicious if he spends too long examining a calendar. But then his father starts talking about the death of Evert, and Sara says she'd heard about it in the bar and it's awful.
It's not dangerous for Joel to turn round now. He sits down on a chair and listens to the conversation.
He notices that Sara has tears in her eyes. He hears her saying that she knew Evert. He'd sometimes been in the bar for a beer, but he'd never caused any trouble or had too much to drink.
Joel finds himself feeling sad as well. He's not sure if it's because of Evert or because Sara has tears in her eyes. He can't sit here and be the only one who isn't sad.
It could have been me, he would like to say. If I hadn't been to Four Winds Lake I'd probably have frozen to death in a snowdrift. But he doesn't say it, of course. He just sits there quietly, thinking that Sara is so grown up but even so she has little tears in her eyes . . .
They keep talking about Evert for ages. Sara gives Samuel a beer and Joel a glass of juice. Then she starts making something to eat.
'Joel thinks we ought to get an electric cooker,' says Samuel all of a sudden.
'But of course you must have an electric cooker,' says Sara. 'That's obvious, surely?'
Joel likes Sara a bit more on the spot. But his father ought to have bought a cooker without her having to say anything about it.
When Sara serves the food Joel realises that he's hungry. He eats and listens. Soon he'll know all there is to know about Evert. Evert who is lying in the mortuary and never got to see Four Winds Lake . . .
Joel is sitting next to his dad on a kitchen bench very similar to the one they have at home.
When they've finished eating, he feels how tired he is. How will he manage to find the strength to go out and meet Ture? What he really ought to do is have a good night's sleep and be able to go to school tomorrow without the risk of dozing off at his desk.
His father notices that Joel is tired.
'We'll go back home soon,' he says.
That makes Joel feel even more tired. He knows now that his dad will be sleeping in his own bed tonight.
When Sara suggests that he might like to have a lie down on the sofa in the other room, the one he'd thrown the stone into, he just nods and follows her. He's too tired to do anything else. More tired than he's ever been before. Besides, if he's in there his dad can't get undressed and show Sara his scar.
He can lie down in that room and keep guard.
Sara tucks him up under a blanket. Not in an offhand fashion, as if she were in a hurry to get back to the kitchen and his father. She tucks him in as if she really did want to do it properly.
'You're a nice boy,' she says. 'Your dad can be proud of you.'
Joel lies there listening to the conversation in the kitchen. They're still talking about Evert.
We'll be going home soon, he thinks. Soon . . .
When he wakes up he has no idea where he is. Then he sees that his dad is lying beside him on the sofa, fast asleep. But he's not naked, he's in his underclothes, his long johns and a vest that looks like a fishing net. Somebody must have undressed Joel as well. And put him in a flannel nightshirt . . .
He sits up slowly, being careful not to wake his father. Sara is in her own bed, her head next to the wall.
They didn't want to wake me up, he thinks. He lies down again. He has one of his dad's arms under his head.
They didn't want to wake me up. That's the only reason we're still here. But for that we'd have been at home now.
Suddenly he is wide awake. Ture will be waiting for him by the goods wagons!
He sees his dad's watch on a chair. The hands are luminous. He takes a close look, being careful not to wake Samuel: a quarter to two. Ture will have been waiting in vain.
Joel feels his stomach turn over. What will he be able to say? How will he be able to explain why he didn't turn up?
He snuggles down again, next to his dad.
Four Winds Lake, he thinks. I'll tell Ture about the trip I had with Simon Windstorm. Then he'll be bound to understand why I couldn't come.
Joel stares at the hole in the window. He thinks about the dog somewhere out there in the night.
The dog on its way to a star . . .

Who is that, playing music for him?
Joel is dreaming about the rowing boat on Four Winds Lake. Now it's no longer winter. The boat is bobbing among the little ripples and Joel is lying on the bottom, which smells of tar, and gazing up at the blue sky.
But who's that playing?
The music is coming from somewhere or other. Somebody he can't see is playing a piano made of crystal glass. The tune keeps repeating itself, over and over again, getting weaker all the time, slower . . .
He wants to stay in the boat but he finds himself rising up towards the blue sky, as if his body were being forced up by Four Winds Lake, and soon he's hovering high above the boat which he can see a long way down below. . .
Then he opens his eyes and the tune accompanies him out of the dream. On his chest, just under his chin, is a musical box. Sara has put it there. A little man made of wood is clashing two cymbals. He's standing on the lid of the red musical box.
Joel watches the little wooden man's arms moving more and more slowly, just as the tune is fading away . . .
Sara is standing in the kitchen doorway, smiling at him. She's wearing her working clothes, the black skirt and white blouse.
'Time to get up,' she says.
'Where's Samuel?' asks Joel.
But he doesn't need to ask. His father has already been working in the forest for several hours. Sawing and chopping while the snow-covered trees stand all round him, waiting to be felled.
'You were fast asleep,' says Sara. 'He didn't want to wake you up last night. You were sleeping like a log.'
Logs don't sleep, he thinks. Logs don't breathe, don't laugh, don't sleep. A log can't think, can't speak. A log is just a log . . .
He tumbles out of bed and gets dressed. There is a bowl of porridge waiting for him in the kitchen.
It feels odd, not having to make my own breakfast, he thinks as he eats.
Sara is standing in front of a wall mirror, combing her hair. She fixes it behind her ears with two hairpins.
He notices that her ears stick out slightly. Not a lot, but it's noticeable. And she makes no effort to hide the fact.
'That was a terrific alarm clock,' he says.
As he leaves she pats him on the cheek.
'You'll have to hurry up now,' she says. 'It's late.'
He takes the short cut through the churchyard, but doesn't jump over Nils Wiberg's family grave.
He decides to say that he's had a bad cold when Miss Nederstr?m asks him why he hasn't been at school. If he snorts through his nose before entering the classroom, it will get blocked up. Then Miss Nederstr?m will be able to hear that he's had a cold.
He decides that he's had a temperature of 38.6 degrees. In order to be believed, he must avoid sounding vague. Not 38 degrees, but 38.6.
To his surprise, however, she doesn't ask and the school day passes without anything unusual happening.
Otto has fallen ill again, and Joel hopes that he's going to be off school so long that he has to repeat the year again next year. It's a nasty thought, but Joel doesn't care if Otto has to spend the rest of his life repeating the year.
On the way home he calls in at the grocer's. Svenson is sitting on a chair behind the counter and has a headache.
'Potatoes,' says Joel. 'And milk. A box of matches.
And a jar of pickled herring.'
Svenson groans as he stands up. He blinks hard at Joel, as if he were finding it hard to stay awake.
'Tell your dad he'd better come in and pay his bills pretty soon now,' he says. 'It's a month since he last paid.'
Joel promises to pass on the message, but he reckons Svenson can wait for another month. The first priority is buying an electric cooker, and then The Flying Horse. His dad won't have enough money for much more than that.
When he gets home he sits down at the kitchen table and writes up his logbook.
He writes about Simon Windstorm and Four Winds Lake. Simon Windstorm has just been released after being captured and held a prisoner for ten years by natives in Sumatra. They go for a walk together round the shore of the remarkable island called Four Winds Island. . .
Then he sits on the window seat in the hall, waiting for his father to come home.
It's been thawing. The sun has already gone down, but melted snow is still dripping down from the roof.
He's worried about seeing Ture later tonight. He hopes Ture won't turn up. He'd prefer to be on his own, looking for the dog, always assuming he goes out at all.
Joel thinks about his Secret Society. It hasn't turned out as he'd envisaged. There again, he's not really sure what he had in mind when he first started it all. The only thing that is absolutely sure is the dog. The dog that ran down the street in the middle of the night, and looked round, as if it were frightened of something. That's where it all started.
I must find that dog, Joel thinks.
It's important. Why it's important, I don't know. But what I do know is that I have to find it before it vanishes when it reaches its star . . .
He doesn't know why he thinks it's going to run off into space. Possibly because it sounds fascinating? Possibly because it can be a sort of password? Or a magic spell?
Why do you sometimes have thoughts you don't understand? he wonders.
As if there was somebody else inside your head, choosing thoughts for you.
He breathes onto the windowpane and writes his name in the mist.
Joel isn't a bad name. Otto is a bad name. Joel is good because it's not all that common, but not too uncommon either. There's only one other boy at his school called Joel, but there are definitely ten called Tore and maybe as many as twenty called Margareta.
Joel thinks up two rules. He jumps down from the window seat and takes his logbook out of Celestine's glass case.
Rules for Joel Gustafson, he writes. Rules that must always be obeyed.
You don't need to be best, but you must never be worst, he writes. That's rule number one.
If you think something is bad you must look for something that is worse, he writes. When you find something that's worse, whatever it was that felt bad won't seem quite so bad any longer. That's rule number two.
He thinks that the rules are a bit long, but he can't think of a shorter way of expressing them. Sometimes it seems as if there aren't enough words.
He hears the front door close with a bang down below, then his father's footsteps coming up the stairs.
Joel has forgotten all about the potatoes. He stuffs the logbook into his pocket and starts putting firewood in the stove. His father is coughing and clearing his throat in the hall as he takes off his jacket.
'I think I'm getting a cold,' he says as he comes into the kitchen and sits down on a chair. Joel helps him off with his boots. Samuel smells very strongly of sweat today.
'Phew, what a stink!' he says, pulling a face. 'We'd better gather together all our dirty linen tonight.'
Joel's dad has an old, worn-out sailor's kitbag that they use for dirty washing. When it's full he takes it to a widow called Mrs Nilson who launders it. She lives in the same building as Svenson's grocery shop.
After dinner Samuel brings out the big zinc bath. Joel boils some water on the stove, and has to go downstairs twice for more firewood.
His dad settles into the bath with his knees up under his chin. Joel always has to laugh whenever he sees him hunched up like this, barely able to move.
'What's so funny?' asks Samuel.
'Nothing,' says Joel.
Then he gives his dad's back a good scrubbing.
'Scrub harder,' says Samuel. 'I think I've got bark all over my skin after chopping down so many damned trees. Scrub harder . . . '
Then it's Joel's turn. His dad gives him a good scrubbing as well, and cuts his nails. Then they sit in front of the stove to dry out, wrapped up in towels.
'This is something we won't be able to do when we have an electric cooker,' says Samuel. 'Maybe we could crawl into the oven to dry instead.'
Then he becomes serious.
'I'm going to see Evert's mother tonight,' he says. 'I have to pass on my condolences.'
When they've finished drying themselves, Samuel takes his black suit out of the wardrobe. He's hardly ever worn it. They both examine it closely under the kitchen light, making sure there is no sign of any moth-holes.
'I bought this suit in England,' says Joel's dad. 'In a place called Middlesbrough. I bought it off a Chinaman who came on board our ship while we were in port. I thought it was too expensive, but it's worn well.'
He shows Joel a label sewn into the jacket's inside pocket.
'There you see,' he says. 'Made in England. Your dad doesn't get dressed up in any old rubbish.'
Joel has to help fasten his dad's tie. He gets it wrong over and over again until he remembers exactly how to tie the knot. His father is puffing and complaining because his shirt is too tight.
'The suit's fine,' he says. 'It comes from England. But this shirt is some botched job by a useless tailor in V?sterg?tland. It's much too tight.'
'Maybe it's the wrong size,' says Joel.
'Size and size,' says his dad. 'A shirt ought to fit, that's all there is to it.'
Then he dips his comb into some water and combs his unruly hair. Joel holds the shaving mirror so that his dad can check the back of his head.
'Do I look all right?' he asks eventually.
Joel walks round, inspecting him. He's not used to seeing his father dressed up. He wonders how many other boys have dads with a suit bought in England.
'I was wearing this suit when we got married,' says Samuel. 'Jenny, your mother, and me. I could have shown you, but she took the wedding photo with her.'
'Why do you never tell me about her?' asks Joel.
'I will do,' says his dad. 'But not just now. I have to go.'
'Will you be coming back home?' asks Joel.
'Of course I'll be coming back home,' says his father. 'I shan't be long. But she's sitting all on her own now, Evert's mum, crying her eyes out. We're all going to see her, all of us who used to work with him. Bosses from the forestry company have already been. Obviously, we have to go and visit her. Evert's dad didn't have to see his son die. He passed away a few years ago.'
He falls silent. Joel helps him on with his boots.
'Wave, won't you?' shouts Joel as his dad goes down the stairs.
When he emerges into the street, Samuel pauses and looks up at the window where Joel is perched. They wave to each other, then Samuel walks off down the street.
Joel carefully lifts Celestine out of her glass case and blows the dust away from her sails and the railings. He finds a dead fly in one of the holds. When he pokes it out with a match stalk, one of its wings falls off. The fly makes him think of Evert.
He doesn't want to. Not now. He shudders at the thought that he'd planned to go and lie down in a snowdrift and freeze to death.
He banishes the thought and puts Celestine back in her case. Then he picks out one of his dad's rolled-up sea charts and spreads it out on the kitchen table. He reads all the names and the depth soundings, and works out suitable routes for the ship he is captain of.
All this exists, he thinks. All this is lying in store for me. If Dad doesn't want to come with me, I'll go there myself one of these days . . .
He rolls up the chart and returns it to its place. Then he snuggles down in bed and carries on dreaming about the sea that's waiting for him out there . . .
He wakes up when his dad comes back home.
'How did it go?' he asks when Samuel looks in on him.
'Are you awake? I thought you were asleep.'
He comes in and sits on Joel's bed.
'It wasn't a very pleasant experience,' he says.
Joel sits up in bed and helps his father off with his tie. Samuel suddenly gives him a big hug.
'Go to sleep now,' he says.
Joel can see that his eyes are red. He leaves the room and before long, Joel hears him gargling in the kitchen. The radio is on at very low volume in his father's room. The bed creaks, and then the radio goes quiet.
Joel puts the alarm clock under his pillow. Then he goes back to sea in his thoughts, stands on the bridge and feels a warm breeze caressing his cheeks . . .

He woke up at midnight and got dressed, and now he's waiting for Ture in the shadow of a goods wagon.
His ears are skinned – he doesn't want Ture to creep up on him again without him hearing.
He turns round and tries to penetrate the darkness. He can hear an engine in the distance and wonders if it's The Old Bricklayer driving round in his lorry.
All of a sudden he finds Ture standing by his side. He's done it again.
'Where were you last night?' asks Ture.
Joel explains what happened. It's too dark for him to see if Ture believes him or not.
'Let's go,' says Ture when Joel has finished.
Joel follows him down to the bridge.
Ture stops under the enormous arches and suddenly produces a pair of shears he'd had hidden under his jacket.
'Now it's your turn,' he says. 'Last night I did what we'd agreed to do. I smeared her currant bushes with varnish. It's your turn tonight. You're going to cut the plants she has climbing up her walls with these shears.'
'We hadn't agreed to do anything,' says Joel. 'I didn't want to smear varnish over her currant bushes And I don't intend to cut back any of her plants.'
'Just as I thought,' says Ture. 'You're a coward.'
'I'm not a coward.'
'You daren't do it.'
'I do. But I don't want to.'
Ture looks scornfully at him.
'If you betray The Secret Society, you have to crawl over the arch,' he says, spitting. 'Well, you've betrayed it. You didn't turn up last night. I waited but you never appeared. In a Secret Society you don't come out with a series of excuses. You do what you've agreed to do.'
Ture gazes up at the high arches.
'Well, I'm waiting,' he says with a smirk.
The penny drops. Ture wants him to climb over one of the arches.
'I couldn't come last night,' he says. 'That's all there is to it.'
He wishes he'd said that in a firm voice. Instead of speaking so softly and hesitantly.
Ture holds out the pair of shears.
'It's the climbing plants or the bridge,' he says.
'But I've told you, I couldn't come!'
It sounded as if he were almost squeaking. A scared little baby bird that hardly dares to open its beak.
Joel tries to think. It's hard to think clearly when you have to think quickly. He knows that, but he hasn't yet learnt how to do it.
'I need a pee,' he says to gain time.
He takes a few strides to one side and turns his back on Ture.
'You could have a piss from the top of the bridge,' says Ture, and Joel can tell that he's smirking.
Joel unzips his flies and tries to produce a few drops while he thinks.
He doesn't want to clip any climbing plants. He doesn't want to climb over the arch either.
Why should Ture force him to choose between doing something that's wicked and something else that's also bad? He hasn't betrayed The Secret Society. There's no rule that says you mustn't oversleep.
Ture uses so many words, he thinks. He can talk till the cows come home. Joel feels angry.
He doesn't want to tip ants in through open windows and he doesn't want to smear currant bushes with varnish.
He wants to look for the dog.
He doesn't want to do anything he doesn't want to do.
Even so, he grabs hold of the shears.
'I'll do it,' he says. 'But not because I've betrayed The Secret Society.'
They cross over the bridge and turn into No-Nose's street. They stop outside her gate.
'I'll wait here,' says Ture.
'You can wait wherever you like,' says Joel.
He opens the gate slowly. The house is in darkness. Even so, he has the feeling that it's watching him. Like a bird of prey waiting to pounce on him.
Cautiously, he moves closer. When he turns round, there is no sign of Ture. He's hidden himself in the shadows.
In front of him is the wall and the climbing plants. In winter there are only bare branches spreading all over the wall like a big spider's web, but in summer the whole wall is covered in green leaves.
He listens again.
He carefully inserts the shears between the wall and the branches, and clips.
And again. And again.
A door opens and a light goes on. He's bathed in light and his heart starts pounding.
No-Nose Gertrud is standing in the doorway, looking at him. The black hole that ought to be a nose is gaping wide. He notices that she is barefoot.
'What do you think you're doing?' she says.
It doesn't occur to Joel to run away.
She doesn't sound angry at all, he thinks. Not frightened either. Just sad.
'Come here,' she says.
Joel glances at the gate, but Ture is nowhere to be seen. He knows he ought to run away. She wouldn't be able to catch up with him.
But he stays where he is even so.
'Come here,' she says again.
If only she'd sounded angry, thinks Joel. Then I could have run away. But how can you run away from somebody who just sounds sad?
He goes up to the door.
'Come into the kitchen where we can talk,' she says. 'It's so cold out here. I'm freezing.'
Joel knows he shouldn't go inside with her. He'll be trapped if he does. But he can't help but go in anyway.
It's warm in her kitchen. He's standing in the middle of the floor and doesn't know what to do with the pair of shears.
She leaves the room. When she comes back he sees she's stuffed a handkerchief into the hole under her eyes.
The dirty snow is dripping off Joel's boots. He tries to stand in such a way that she can't see the pool. No-Nose is wearing a black coat, and he can see that she only has a nightgown underneath.
'Who are you?' she asks.
Joel doesn't answer.
I can invent a name, he thinks. Or I can say I'm called Otto.
'I'm not going to hit you,' she says. 'Even though I'm very strong. I just want to know why you're doing this. One morning I find my kitchen full of ants. The next morning I discover that somebody has killed my currant bushes. They'll never have any berries again. And now you are clipping off my climbing plants.
Create fear, Joel thinks. That's what Ture said.
Create sorrow is what he ought to have said.
And where is Ture now? He ought to have come to rescue Joel. If any member of The Secret Society is captured, other members have to help to set him free, of course. You don't need to make a rule about that.
Joel doesn't know what to say. He stares down at the floor and tries to hide the shears behind his back.
'Why?' she asks again.
'I want to go home now,' says Joel.
That is the only thing he can think of to say that is absolutely true. Without warning she leaves the kitchen again. A gramophone starts playing, and when she reappears she's carrying a trombone. She stands in front of him and starts playing, the same tune as on the gramophone. She's stuffed a scarf into the bell of the trombone, to muffle the sound. She sways in time to the music, and Joel thinks she plays well – it sounds as if the trombone is part of the gramophone record.
Then the needle gets stuck. There's a crackling noise and the same notes are repeated over and over again.
Gertrud does the same thing with her trombone. She's watching him all the time. The same notes, over and over again. Then she stamps on the floor, the needle rights itself and the record plays to the end.
Afterwards, when everything is quiet, the sound of the trombone is still echoing in Joel's ears.
'Why do you think I played?' she asks.
Joel shakes his head. He doesn't know.
'Just because you're deformed, it doesn't mean you're an idiot,' she says. 'Even if you don't have a nose you can learn how to blow and make the trombone sing. If I'd still had a nose I don't suppose I'd ever have learnt how to play the trombone . . . '
Then she smiles at him.
'Do you understand what I mean?' she asks.
Joel shakes his head again. No, he doesn't follow.
'I like redcurrants and blackcurrants,' she says. 'I like to have leaves climbing up my wall in summer. I like ants as well, but not when I find them in my kitchen in winter.'
She puts the trombone down on the table.
Joel tries to imagine what it looked like when the kitchen was full of ants.
'I know what people whisper about me,' she says. 'I know a lot of people think I shouldn't be allowed to walk around in the street like other folk. Perhaps they think I ought to be shut up in a cage and put on show as a freak? For ten years I couldn't bear to look at myself in a mirror. Now I can. And I want my currant bushes leaving in peace.'
It's easier now, thinks Joel, now that she sounds angry. You can understand that.
'What's your name?' she asks.
'Joel Gustafson,' he says.
He regrets mentioning his surname the moment he's said it. It would have been enough just to say Joel.
'Why did you do all this?'
How can you explain something you can't explain? he wonders. Besides, it was Ture who said they must create fear. Ture, who's no longer there. Ture, who hid in the shadows and allowed Joel to be the only one who was caught.
'I want to know,' she says.
She grabs hold of him by the shoulders and gives him a good shake. He can feel that she's strong. Her face is very close to his.
He can't help but stare at the handkerchief stuffed into her nose. She shakes him very hard. Then she drops her hands.
'Go now,' she says. 'But come back and tell me why you did it once you've understood why yourself.'
She looks at him, with sadness in her eyes.
'Don't promise me to come,' she says. 'Promise yourself. Go now. . . '
She shuts the door behind him.
As he goes out through the gate he can hear that she's started playing the trombone again.
He looks round for Ture. No sign.
He can still hear the sound of the trombone coming through the house walls. He wishes he'd told her the facts. At the same time, he's relieved that she let him go.
He runs down the street to the bridge. It's still thawing, and he slips and almost falls.
As he crosses the bridge Ture suddenly emerges from the shadows.
'I didn't expect that,' he says. 'That you'd get caught.'
Joel is furious now.
He hurls the shears down at Ture's feet.
'I'm glad you'll soon be running away,' he says.
Ture eyes him scornfully.
'Before I run away I'll make sure you climb over that arch,' he says. 'You got caught before you did what you'd promised to do.'
'I'll climb over the bridge tomorrow night,' says Joel. 'I'll stand on the top and pee all over you.'
Then he runs off. He can hear Ture laughing behind him.
I shall climb over that arch, he thinks indignantly. I shall climb up and stand at the very top and pee all over his head. The Secret Society is mine, not his.
My task is to find a dog heading for a distant star. Not creating fear in people who in fact only feel sorrow.
Ture is so odd, he thinks. He uses so many words. You can never be sure what he's thinking. He's not like the rest of us. No doubt he's rich. He doesn't go to school . . .
As he turns a corner The Old Bricklayer comes driving past in his lorry. Joel stops and waves, but The Old Bricklayer doesn't see him. Joel watches the red rear lights gleaming like animals' eyes in the darkness.
Adventure, he thinks. This is where it's to be found! Simon Windstorm, No-Nose, Four Winds Lake . . .
And the dog.
The dog running and running inside his head . . .
Samuel is snoring away in his room. Joel gets undressed and creeps into bed.
Is he dreaming about the sea? Joel wonders. Dreaming about Jenny or Sara? Or is he dreaming about me?
He looks at the hands of his alarm clock glowing in the darkness.
Twenty-four hours from now he'll have climbed over the iron bridge. Scrambled up one side of the arch, stood up on top, unzipped his fly, and then scrambled down the other side.
He'll show Ture von Swallow how you conquer a bridge. Then Ture can run away if he wants, but he'll never be able to claim that Joel Gustafson is a coward.
What was it he'd thought the first time he saw Ture on the rock by the river?
That he was an unpleasant, smirking stranger? Somebody who made him angry on sight? Well, now Joel will show him. Joel will sort him. . .
He checks his alarm clock. Nearly two.
Climbing over the bridge arch is dangerous, he thinks. It's not allowed because it's dangerous.
He suddenly feels scared. What has he let himself in for?
Can he think up something else to do, so that he doesn't need to climb? The only thing would be to take the shears and cut back the rest of the plants growing up No-Nose's wall.
But he can't do that. He would never be able to survive seeing her open the door again and stand barefoot on the cold steps.
Exhaustion is rolling over him in waves.
It's a long time to tomorrow, he thinks. So many seconds that he can't possibly count them all.
He's on the point of falling asleep when he hears No-Nose's trombone again. He can see her swaying in time to the music as she plays. All those repeated notes, over and over again.
He remembers what she said: Don't promise me, promise yourself.
I must write up everything that happens in the logbook, he thinks. I promise to do that. I promise myself not to forget.
The following day Joel falls asleep at his desk again, but he wakes up so quickly that Miss Nederstr?m doesn't notice. His eyelids are so heavy that he has to sit with his head in his hands, and hold them up with his fingers.
After school he hurries home. He lies down on the bed and sets the alarm clock. He can snatch an hour's sleep before he needs to start lighting the stove.
He's very tired, but he can't sleep. He imagines himself staring up at the iron railway bridge. It gets higher and higher even as he watches. In the end it looks to him as if the top of the arches disappear into the clouds.
He sits up in bed.
He knows he can't do it.
If he falls off the bridge, he'll die. Just like Evert did when the tree hit him.
But what can he do?
The only thing he can think of is not to go out tonight. Not to go out at all until Ture has run away.
But what had Ture said? That he wasn't going to go away until Joel had climbed over the bridge?
His thoughts are buzzing around in his head. Is it really all that dangerous, climbing over the bridge arch? Provided he holds on tightly and doesn't look down? He's good at climbing trees, after all. He never falls, never gets dizzy.
Of course I dare do it, he tells himself, and discards the frightened thoughts. It's the thoughts that are scared. Not me . . .
When his dad comes home the potatoes are ready.
Samuel has a cold. He's coughing and shivering and thinks he has a temperature. He goes to bed as soon as he's finished eating. Joel takes him a cup of coffee.
Samuel suddenly starts talking.
'Joel,' he says. 'As soon as you leave school we'll go away from here. We'll move to somewhere with a harbour.
I can't stand these forests any longer. I want to see the open sea. As soon as you leave school, we'll move.'
Three more years, Joel thinks. Only three more years!
Joel jumps up on the bed and sits astride his father.
'Is that definite?' he says. 'Absolutely definite?'
His father nods. Yes, it is.
'But you're too heavy to be sitting on me like this,' he says.
Joel moves and sits on the edge of the bed.
He has so many questions.
Which sea? Which town? Only three more years . . .
'I think I must get some sleep,' says his father. 'I feel as if I've got a temperature.'
He closes his eyes, and Joel goes to sit in the window. One year, two years, three years. He tries to work out how he can make those three years pass as quickly as possible.
The summers always pass quickly. So do the springs. It's the autumns and winters that are so long. Especially the winters, that never seem to end. Time always passes more quickly after Christmas than before.
He realises that the three years will pass very slowly. There's nothing he can do about that.
Then he starts thinking about the railway bridge. It's out there in the darkness, waiting for him.
The scared thoughts come creeping up on him again, but he sends them packing. I'll show that Ture, he thinks. I'll show him all right . . .
His father is fast asleep when he tiptoes out into the darkness, shortly before midnight.
It's grown colder again. The snow under his feet is frozen. The sky is clear and full of stars, and the new moon hovers over the wooded hills. He pauses to look at The Plough. It's the only constellation whose name he knows.
In the southern sky is a constellation called The Southern Cross. His dad's told him about it. Sailors used to navigate by that constellation a long time ago. You can stand on deck and look at The Southern Cross. In the middle of the night when a warm breeze is blowing.
He finds that hard to imagine. Standing to look at stars without it being cold.
He approaches the bridge.
If Ture is waiting by the goods wagons, he can carry on waiting there until it dawns on him that Joel has gone straight to the bridge.
He stares up at the arches and tries to make them shrink by looking at them. They are not so high, not so narrow as they seem.
It will take three minutes to creep over an arch.
Maybe five.
Five minutes isn't very long.
It's such a short part of your life that you don't even notice it.
Now he can see Ture running towards him from the direction of the marshalling yard.
Joel suddenly finds it hard to keep his fear at bay again. He sees that Ture has the pair of shears with him.
That makes him angry, and when he gets angry his fear starts to go away. It doesn't vanish altogether, but it grows smaller.
'You could have left the shears at home,' he says.
'Stand in the middle of the bridge and I'll pee all over your head.'
Ture smirks.
'You'll never climb over the arch,' he says. 'You'll slither back down again.'
'We'll see about that,' says Joel. 'Go and stand in the middle.'
Ture shrugs and heads for the middle of the bridge.
Now Joel is alone with the bridge.
It's bigger than ever now.
Joel stands by the abutment and gazes up at one of the arches soaring up into the darkness. Underneath is the frozen river.
OK, it's just a matter of climbing. Not thinking. Not looking down.
He clambers up onto the parapet, next to where the arch begins. If he stretches both arms out he can just reach far enough to cling onto the sides.
That's what he must do. Press up against the centre of the arch, hold on tightly to the two sides, and slowly ease his way upwards.
He lays his hand on the iron. The cold immediately penetrates his glove. He closes his eyes and starts edging upwards.
Like a frog, he thinks. Like a frog trying to get away from a beast of prey that's just behind him.
The iron rivets are scraping against his knees.
First he moves one hand, then the opposite leg. Then the other hand and the other leg. Slowly, slowly . . .
He's surrounded by silence.
He closes his eyes and keeps edging upwards. One hand, the opposite leg.
The iron is extremely cold and already he feels frozen to death. Every time he eases himself upwards it becomes harder to keep his fear at bay.
Why am I doing this? he asks himself in desperation. I'll never do it. I'll fall down and kill myself. . .
Then he hears Ture shouting to him.
Only then does he realise how high up he is. Ture's voice sounds so far away.
'Come down,' he shouts. 'Come down . . . '
Why should he go down? Is Ture so afraid that he'll succeed?
He keeps on edging upwards like a terrified frog. The rivets are digging into his skin and he can feel that his arms are starting to go to sleep.
Oh, Dad, he thinks. I'm not going to make it. You'll have to come and help me . . .
He notices that the arch is beginning to level out.
Then he comes to the very top. Now he'll have to start going downwards. Now he'll have to climb headfirst.
Panic strikes.
He can't keep going.
He clings on with all his strength. He can't move.
Neither forwards nor backwards.
It suddenly feels warm down one of his legs. He doesn't know why.
He shouts out, just once, a piercing shriek into the darkness . . .
He has no idea what's happening down below.
He thinks he can hear The Old Bricklayer's lorry. Or is it No-Nose's trombone, perhaps?
Otto is standing there, laughing. Miss Nederstr?m is there as well, and she's angry. The whole bridge is full of people laughing. The whole school are down below on the bridge, pointing and laughing . . .
He can also hear his father's voice.
But his dad isn't laughing. He's shouting something, but Joel can't hear what it is because the voice is coming from so far away.
The voice is slowly getting nearer.
Now he can hear that his father is quite close.
'Lie completely still. Don't move at all, Joel. Don't move . . . '
Why is he saying that?
Joel is incapable of moving. He'll have to lie here at the top of the arch for the next thousand years . . .
Now his father's voice is right behind him.
'Don't move,' he whispers. 'Lie completely still . . . '
Then something happens that he'll never forget, for as long as he lives.
His dad takes hold of Joel's back, so tenderly.
He can't see a thing because his face is pressed up against the cold arch. But even so, he knows it's his father's hand. There's only one hand like that in the whole wide world.
He feels the hand and hears his father's voice behind him.
'Creep backwards. Slowly. I'll hold on to you . . . '
Joel starts to return slowly to the ground.
He's no longer clinging on to the axis of the earth. He's going slowly back to the ground.
He edges slowly down with his numb arms and legs.
All the time his dad is whispering reassuringly to him.
At last he feels the bridge parapet against his foot.
His dad lifts him down and hugs him tight. Then he's lifted into the cab of a lorry and it's The Old Bricklayer sitting behind the wheel.
Ture is hanging around outside. Joel can see that his face is different. Ture is scared.
His father carries him up the stairs. Mrs Westman is watching from her doorway. He hears his dad telling her about an accident that didn't happen.
Then he's in his own bed and Samuel is rubbing his feet.
He drinks something hot, and then all he wants to do is sleep . . .
But before he goes to sleep he wants his dad to tell him about the sea.
About breakers and dolphins, and the warm monsoon winds that come from India . . .
It still feels as if he's clinging on to the cold iron arch.
His dad tells him about the warm monsoon winds, and only then can he start to loosen his grip on the freezing cold arch.
Then everything becomes a dream.
Celestine grows out of her case and turns into a big sailing ship bobbing in the swell as the sun starts to set. She's waiting for a wind to blow. Joel is in his hammock below deck. Swaying slowly from side to side, deeper and deeper into slumber . . .