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not relax. Billows of snow whipped across the road, whirling ceaselessly from one side to the other, and threatened to swirl up and blind her at any moment. If she met an oncoming truck or was overtaken, she became enclosed in a white chamber for one, two, possibly three seconds at the worst. In those moments she held her breath, clenched her hands on the steering wheel and exhaled abrupt obscenities from between her clenched teeth.
But at least it was still light.
She picked up her mobile from the seat and checked the time.
Surely she would be there soon? She tried to think when she had last seen a road sign.
*
Just before Jokkmokk she turned off to the right and onto a road that wound alongside the lakes which led away towards Kvikkjokk and the horizon with its undulating fells. Under its streaks of frost a brown sign indicated that this was the way to SarekNational Park. The only way. An ancient route, she knew that. Linnaeus had walked it once. Or had he ridden along it?
She soon saw the name, surrounded by a tangle of birch branches. White lettering on a blue background: VAIKIJAUR. On top of the sign an undulating ridge of snow. Between the trees she saw the white sphere of the lake.
She slowed down, put the car into second gear and leaned over the wheel, letting her gaze wander between the houses scattered on either side of the road.
Advent stars in the windows, light strings spiralling around naked branches. Council rubbish bins of green plastic frozen solid in snow drifts. Grey satellite dishes on gable walls. Snow-clearing tools lined up on porches: scrapers, shovels, long-handled brushes. Every household had the same collection.
Someone had hung out a claret-red blouse on a coat hanger that moved in the wind. That was the closest thing to a human being she saw.
She zigzagged slowly down the road so that she could read what was written on the letter boxes. Åke and Maud Kvickström. Thomas …
She drove on like that, squinting her eyes to read. Many boxes were covered in snow, but she thought she might strike lucky, and fairly soon she spotted the name, written by hand on an old metal lid. Mickelsson.
The house looked weighed down by the snow clinging to the roof in bulging drifts. The land around it sloped down towards a lake, and on the far side it was just possible to discern spinneys of stunted birches in a grainy mist. Was it snowing over there?
She pulled up behind the car that was parked in the driveway and switched off the engine, but sat where she was for a while,looking at the house. She felt paralysed by sudden doubt brought on by the silence.
On the kitchen windowsill, seven glowing lights of an Advent candleholder, shining in a pointed arch. A ladder of flimsy metal leaning against the roof, on every rung a lip of snow.
To announce her arrival she slammed the car door shut. With her eyes on her mobile she walked towards the house up the narrow pathway cleared of snow. A wreath decorated with bows hung on the door, which opened before she had time to knock. Raising her eyebrows in surprise she took a step backwards, grabbing hold of the handrail.
In the hall stood a thin woman. Her light-grey hair was abruptly cut just below her ears. Underneath her long knitted waistcoat she wore a blouse with meandering embroidery around the neck. She was pressing her left hand to her chest. It looked as if she was in pain.
‘Are you Edit?’
The old woman nodded.
‘Susso Myrén,’ said Susso, reaching out her hand.
After they had greeted each other Edit backed into the hall. Susso took off her boots but kept her jacket on. She might be leaving very soon. That usually became obvious pretty quickly. The only lighting in the kitchen came from the electric Advent candles, so it was quite dark, and chilly as well. The refrigerator hummed loudly, on its last legs by the sound of it. Stuck on the door were vouchers, a handwritten receipt and a lottery scratch card. On the wall a collection of trays hung in a wide