Affair in Ostersund (Inga Eyvindsdottir)

A F F A I R I N O S T E R S U N D

(INGA EYVINDSDOTTIR)

by William Connelly McCall

Copyright 2011 by William C. McCall

Cover Design: Roberto Ball

Smashwords Edition

FOREWARD

The word belief has a beautiful etymology - to know with the heart - and that is what this story is about.

Honesty is the bedrock on which trust rests. The Greek myth of Cupid and Psyche tells of the union of Love and the Soul. Psyche betrays Cupid's trust so he tells her, When trust is gone so must love depart. Although their story has a happy ending, in the real world a breaking of trust between a man and a woman often ends their relationship.

How often has some improbable, unfortuitous event condemned an innocent partner? Many times, certainly. An enduring and loving relationship between a man and a woman requires unquestioning trust. But sometimes circumstances arise that lead to accusations, harsh judgments and condemnation. To weather such tempests, partners must trust each other implicitly.

AFFAIR IN OSTERSUND

CHAPTER 1

Summer lingered lightly 'or the land

A dying queen ruling with an unsure hand.

Leaves were touched with red and gold

Already falling here and there.

The aged queen's reign was nearly done

Her eager successor had come

Autumn was in the air.

* * *

Far in the north of Sweden the lovely city of Ostersund rests by Lake Storsjon which stretches far to the west and to the north and to the south as far as Svenstavil.

In that region one seldom has to guess what time of year it is. The seasons present themselves with such authority that one could almost imagine a frosty gentleman handing his calling card to the city and saying, I am Winter. I have come to rule this land. Or, a sylph-like woman announcing, I am Spring, come to bring new life. Soon blossoms will burst across the countryside.

This year, Summer was a lady - a, seductive, charming, beautiful lady, and had she spoken she might have said, I have come to break your hearts, for after me there will never be such another. And like a lady she came not too early, but when she arrived, what majesty! What style! With what generosity she spread her charms! How graciously she bestowed her perfect gifts! How effortlessly she enchanted her subjects!

Her skies were wide and high and of a soft summer blue. Flowers spilled from window boxes of trim, sparkling farmhouses, and from the window boxes of the small living quarters above city shops, and from windows of hilltop homes overlooking Lake Storsjon. And the lake reflected the sky and the multicolored sails of small sailboats and the occasional white puffy clouds drifting leisurely by. Everywhere, summer flowers bloomed in riotous profusion and the air was laden with their scent and the fragrance of pine and fir along with the smell of the lake, the dust of the roads and the earth of the fields so that a breeze from the meadows was pure perfume - a fragrance loved by everyone.

Summer's magic cast such a spell over the entire land that the tone of general cheerfulness rose an octave, causing the happy residents of this happy region to agree with Browning that God's in his heaven, All's right with the world. Beguiled by her enchantments, faultfinders could find no fault. Misanthropes went whistling along the streets, looking into shop windows, bidding cheerful hellos to passers by. With hardly a second thought, misers spent money on all sorts of frivolous things. She was a summer to remember!

But since the Gods have allotted to the seasons approximately equal portions of the calendar, Summer's days were numbered, and by mid August her grandeur was just, but barely just, starting to fade. As with a woman, whose character and refinement keep her desirable as she ages though the days of her sheer, unmarred beauty are past, those who knew this Summer cherished her in all her waning glory. The small signs and gentle hints that her reign would soon end lent a special poignancy to the days so that people felt an urge to live them to their fullest, to hold them dear, to savor them, to imprint each perfect day indelibly into their memories. Summer had been a beautiful friend. A special friend. And now she was leaving. Everyone wanted to touch her one more time. One more picnic, one more holiday, one more sail on the lake, one more outing, one more - one more whatever special thing each person held most memorable about this summer of all summers.

To Brittan White, a vacationing writer from England via Hollywood, it meant another day of relaxing on the lake in a rowboat, swimming, fishing, rowing slowly from one inviting spot to the next, sunning, drinking a beer or two and thinking long, idle thoughts.

For Lars and Lissen Larsson, in whose home Brittan was staying, it meant life as usual, for winter or summer, they were hard-working people. Lissen tended her garden, bountiful now with berries and vegetables, milked their goats, made yogurt, butter and cheese, canned fruit and vegetables, filled every vase with bouquets of summer flowers and roses from her rose garden, and cooked three meals a day. Other than an occasional small job around the house, Lars was chiefly occupied maintaining their small rental fleet of rowboats, canoes and small sailboats. Still he and Lissen found time to savor the uniqueness of this rare summer, to enjoy each other and life itself.

For their nubile daughter Kristen, lithe, tan, tall and full of life, it meant (when she wasn't helping Lissen) bicycle riding with her friends through the countryside, to Valendalen or Jarpen, going on excursions to Trondheim or Sundsvall, swimming in one of the many small lakes that dotted the region, horseback riding, or walking hand in hand with her boyfriend through the lush, deep meadows of summer.

For the mailman, riding his old bicycle on the Larsson's route, it meant the rounds as usual. But this summer, his rounds were like a holiday outing. Each bend in the road presented him with a view seemingly lovelier than the last. Dense stands of wild flowers claimed every patch of unplowed earth, bordered every road and marched triumphantly along fences. Thriving crops stood tall and green in neat fields. On this rural route it was a good distance between mailboxes but the greeting of a friend usually awaited at each stop. This particular day, Lissen was cutting roses at the side of her house when she spotted him halfway up the hill upon which the Larsson's home nestled snugly in a grove of pine and white birch. As he peddled steadily and evenly against the familiar grade Lissen walked down to the mailbox to give him a cheerful greeting..

Good morning, Nils.

Good morning, Mrs. Larsson, he replied.

What have you got for us today?

A letter from England.

From England?

Look here, he said, smiling at her as he handed her the letter. There's a picture of the Queen herself right on the stamp. And the postmark says as clear as it can be, 'London England'. If this letter isn't from England, then nothing is.

She took the envelope from him. Surely it is! From Mrs. Thompson. A lovely lady. She and her husband are to be our guests when Mr. White leaves. You know the Thompsons. They've come here three summers running.

Of course. As you say, a lovely lady. Her husband's quite a fellow too. I've seen him occasionally at Karlsen's having a drink or two with some of the local folks. A regular man, that's for sure.

Lissen turned to go back to the house, then waved to Nils. Thanks. See you tomorrow.

She broke open the envelope as she walked the path up to the house. As she read, a frown crossed her brow, and an involuntary, distressful, Oh no! escaped her lips. She ran up the steps, through the house and onto the deck overlooking their dock and Lake Storsjon. Lars had one of the rowboats upside down, resting on two sawhorses, and was applying a coat of lacquer to the hull. She whistled a shrill, far-carrying note, and when he looked toward the house she waved the envelope. Their years together had taught him to observe the small understandings they had reached so, dutifully, he prepared to go to the house. Lars was somewhat taciturn and deliberate in everything he did. He sealed the can of lacquer, placed his brush in a jar of turpentine, then wiping his hands on a rag, he made his way, unhurriedly, to the house. He was a large man of typical Swedish appearance - blond, blue eyed, broad shouldered, large boned. His features were even and pleasing. He narrowly missed being handsome but his looks were so open and kind that his overall appearance was attractive and manly. His voice was deep and pleasant and in his words one often sensed an undercurrent of humor.

Lissen stood on the balcony and watched him coming, then lifted her eyes and looked out across the lake, finally finding Brittan who was sitting so still in the rowboat that she cold not tell whether he was fishing, daydreaming or asleep.

Lars entered through the back door and Lissen turned and said, Oh, Lars, terrible news. Mr. Thompson died a week ago, and Mrs. Thompson has cancelled her stay with us. We'd counted so much on their coming.

Lars frowned, then put his arm around Lissen to comfort her. Don't think of us. The poor woman's lost her husband.

Of course. That was my first thought and my heart goes out to her. But what can we do at the moment? She spoke with a strain of anxiety in her voice. Naturally, I'll write her, but the season's coming to an end and our rooms will be vacant. I was counting so much on that bit of extra money.

Lars embraced her tenderly, and she laid her head on his shoulder. It won't be the end of the world for us, girl. We'll make do. We have before.

I know, love, she said with a sniffle. Oh, poor Sara. I'll write her right away. She hugged Lars, gave him a kiss on his cheek, and as she set about her work she turned to him, and spoke softly and lovingly, Each time I hear of someone losing their mate, I say a small prayer of thanks for us having each other. Absentmindedly she stacked a few magazines that had been lying around, then turning to her husband said, We are lucky, aren't we?

Lars never disagreed when she posed such questions, but on this occasion he was able to answer with deeply felt sincerity, We are.

Lissen stared tenderly at him for a few moments, then returned to her household duties, fussing with things around the room but Lars could see her mind was elsewhere. Suddenly, as if stuck by a thought she turned and said, I wonder if Brittan would like to extend his vacation?

Lars shrugged. I don't know.

Of course you don't. But if we asked him, maybe he would. He doesn't seem to be in any hurry to leave.

But he does so little, Lars said. I think he might be getting bored. Aside from an occasional trip into Ostersund, he just rows that boat from one cove to the next, then to the center of the lake, then back. And he hardly ever catches anything.

He caught a four pound trout just last week.

Closer to five, I think, from what I saw. But then he let it go. I don't see the whole point, really.

The point, Lissen stressed, is that he's relaxing. He told me he does a lot of thinking out on the lake and that he might start another book.

Lars was noncommittal. I don't know, Lissen. Maybe.

It wouldn't hurt to ask him though, would it?

I suppose not.

Will you? she asked.

Me?

Yes. You talk with him more than I do. It will be easier if you do it.

Lars nodded his consent. In proper Scandinavian fashion he maintained a discreet, but friendly, distance between himself as the proprietor and Brittan as the lodger. However easy and informal that distance was, he felt uncomfortable at the prospect of bridging it, be it ever so slightly. As he walked back to the dock, he tried to think of things he could suggest for Brittan to do, so that the prospect of two, three or even four more weeks might seem inviting.

If today followed the established pattern, Brittan would come in to have lunch and check for mail. Then he would eat, read, take a short nap, go for a bicycle ride for a couple of hours and return for dinner. After dinner he would grab a couple of beers and go back out onto the lake until dark, which at this time of year was around ten.

Lars finished applying the coat of lacquer to the rowboat's hull, and was getting ready to go up to the house for lunch when he heard Brittan call. He was only a few meters from the dock. Wait a moment, Lars. I'll walk up with you.

Lars watched Brittan row to the dock and moor the boat. The consummate Englishman he thought - impeccably groomed and dressed, even when dressed most casually. His appearance always perfectly reflected the occasion. If his hair was tousled and his shirt was open, then he looked as if his hair should be tousled and his shirt open. He was tall, about six foot two, tan and well proportioned. Lars guessed him to be in his early fifties, and suspected that he had been an athlete in his earlier years. He moved like a much younger man, rowed with ease and coordination, seemed equally comfortable in a boat, on a bicycle or a horse, and was a graceful and powerful swimmer. God middagstid, Brittan, Lars said.

God middagstid, Lars. What a splendid day! he said with a wide grin and a conviction in his voice that forced one to agree.

Yes it's a beautiful day, Lars responded with equal conviction. A beautiful summer too, he added. It was the year's most common phrase, but one people could not help repeating.

Yes, a splendid summer too. I'll hate to see it end.

As the walked toward the house, Lars asked, What are your plans after you leave here?

I haven't any, really. I've no assignments. Nothing is pressing. And to tell you the truth, Lars, I haven't felt this free in years.

No? What have you been doing?

For the past five years I've been in Hollywood doing screen plays, and as far as keeping one tied up, they can be about the most demanding thing a writer can do.

How's that?

When a script needs revising and the shooting schedules have to be met, it's produce or else. One doesn't have a chance to do his best work. Often what you write is what they shoot. I'm finished with all that now. I'm not going to do any more of them.

What will you do?

Another novel, maybe. I told Lissen that I feel one stirring. Sort of like a cold, it lets you know it's lurking. When I'm out on the lake ideas go flying around my head.

And I thought you were fishing, said Lars with a laugh.

I am. But I didn't say for what, Brittan said, clasping Lars on the shoulder. And speaking of fishing, I wouldn't mind catching a few more trout.

You let them go.

But I like to catch them.

Maybe you should try cheese.

I tried cheese yesterday. Salmon eggs the day before.

Then worms.

And worms today.

Lars shrugged. There's no telling about trout. They're like women, they like one thing one day, another the next. You never know.

Ah, Lars, I didn't know you were a philosopher. We should go into town one evening soon and have a drink together.

That's a fine idea,