Brides of Midsummer

Time II

I, Anders, Erik’s Son, young spelman: I pick up my music-maker and lay it on my knee. I call on my lira, and she responds to me still. I stroke my strings with the horse-hair and ask them: “Have ye voice still?” Their answer is clear and strong: “We have voice still.” Last year, I sat on this hill on Midsummer’s Eve, and this my lira lay in my lap and hummed singing games. She did the same the year before last year and the year before that. I am a practiced lira player, I know them well, the delicate strings that span the fret board. Back and forth, back and forth, my hand would move the bow over them all night long as I would accompany the games and dances. This Midsummer’s Eve, I sit alone here under the oaks. The lira lies in my lap, intoning her singing games, but she must intone them for me alone. I touch her with hands that tremble with fever. My body is cold and warm. My body shivers with cold and burns with fire. It is the Time II   The Brides of Midsummer wandering sickness. My throat is no longer clean. My tongue is no longer red; that is the first and sure sign.I discerned it on my tongue this morning. And I’ve come here tonight to seek the cure the spring can give. The water that runs here will relieve any pain and make all who are afflicted whole and sound again on St.John’s Night. Here, in this field, lie our father and mother, our sister, Katarina, in her resting place,and here is my young wife,Kerstin.I helped dig for all of them. They have all been taken by the evil sickness. I alone remain at Högaskog. When the sun passed below the evening score at our window, I betook myself to the spring to wash and heal myself in its water. How beauteous and bright is St. John’s Night! The blossoms glow in the places where they always can be found in summer time. They send their good fragrance and sweetness to the four winds. It’s the lavender that smells the strongest tonight, our church herb, our graveyard blossom. Death’s smell is the strongest this Midsummer night. I hear no birds chirping in the bushes. It’s as if our songbirds have become muted and had their throats stopped up this summer. All we hear this summer is the harsh rasp from the crows sitting in endless rows on our fences along the road. They sit there hour after hour; one never sees them take flight. No one frightens the crows off—no wanderers travel our roads this year. I haven’t seen a single soul since old Magda, Olov’s Daughter, came from Yggersryd to fetch my little son to her home. I watched her leave through the gate, carrying my son on her back, and the crows remained where they sat on the fence pickets. One single crow actually lifted off and glided away on ponderous wings as Magda, Olov’s Daughter, bore my son away. Our farm is no longer recognizable. In our fields, where the grain would sprout green at this time, the wild grass is spreading, tall and Time II  lavish. Last year’s grain, which would have sifted between my fingers into the earth by the time the oaken leaves shelter the dove, is still in the granary. Our cabbage beds lie unturned this Midsummer . There is no sound from the empty hives in our apple orchard—the swarms of bees are gone, unminded. Our cattle roam wild in the forest; only our old bell-cow can be heard lowing at the stile by evening, anxious and forlorn. All tasks have fallen behind, no longer done in their proper time. Högaskog resembles a dwelling laid waste. It is the Midsummer festival, but no one has stuck leafy branches into the soil of our acres, no one has placed bundles of green foliage around our spring; no one has lit the fire or raised the tree at the top of the hill. One major undertaking, however, was completed here in our acres. Many long days of toil have been spent here this spring. A significant share of our hay-making land has been dug up...