In 1935, the year of this story, the depression had closed many quarries, and farmers had to sell their farms and move to town. Still, there were folks that stayed on their land despite the bad times.

Chapter 1

The mail-boat steered between the skerries into the Gullmar fiord. Sea-gulls flew above the boat, making a racket. The sun was shining, but there was clouds gathering out at sea. The skipper looked at the clouds and frowned. Such dark colors often meant that it would be a storm in a few hours, and he hoped that he would be in a safe harbor by then.

On the boat were a few passengers who had been allowed to sit down at the prow. A tarpaulin had been put up to provide some shade, but it was a poor protection if it began to rain. The sacks with the mail were below decks in the hold, safe from any whims of the weather gods.

Among the passengers were two men, sitting close, sleeping. One of them had red hair with white strokes while the other had iron-gray hair. The latter was sleeping with his head in the formers lap. The read-head had a scar running down one side of his face from the temple down to the chin. The other passengers didn't care about them though. They had their own lives to ponder while they leaned over the gunwale to watch the sun sparkle in the sea-foam.

The ship approached a jetty, and one of the skipper's mates jumped ashore with a mailbag. The sudden rocking of the boat startled Hickey out of his sleep.
"Is this the Rydkyrka jetty?" he asked the mate, once he'd gotten his bearings. "Thanks."

Hickey, who had now woken up completely, shook Smith's shoulder gently. The other man woke up a little, mumbled something and went back to sleep. Again Hickey shook him, and chided him for sleeping so hard.
"You have to wake up, and I need to stretch my legs", said Hickey.
Smith removed himself slowly from his human head-rest. His friend's lap had been such a nice place to lay his head. The day was so hot and drowsy, that it was almost impossible to stay awake. He stretched and yawned. Next to him Hickey shook his legs and tried to rise.

Smith was suddenly seized by a feeling that something important was about to happen. He hoped that it wouldn't take Hickey away from him. The old jealousy rose its ugly head and Smith did his best to suppress it. It was foolish, he knew that, but Hickey was all he had. And if he left him...

A sudden flash of lightning pulled Smith out of his gloomy thoughts, and the thunder that followed it almost made Hickey jump. Holding each other, they looked up at the tarpaulin.
"Do you think this will hold against the rain?" asked Smith.
Hickey shrugged.

Hickey thought that Smith was a bit too pessimistic about the rain and the tarpaulin. He himself had noticed that there was a strong wind blowing from the land out to sea, and that would surely keep the rain at bay until he and his friend had gotten ashore.

The Rydkyrka jetty was as rickety as the other jetties that Smith had seen along the coast. A mailbag was brought ashore, and left to the postmaster of the area, who had been waiting on the jetty in his dark blue uniform with golden buttons. As he carried the mailbag over one shoulder to his office in a house nearby, Hickey and Smith got off the ship and onto the jetty.
"Do you think anybody'll come and get us, or if we have to ask our way to the farm?" Smith wondered aloud as they walked on the jetty to the shore.
"I hope so", said Hickey. "Mrs. Andersson told us that they would come for us. She has written to them. Told them which boat and where. There will be someone to pick us up."
Hickey sounded so confident that Smith had to smile, all his worries forgotten.

Chapter 2

The Rydkyrka valley was lush and green, surrounded by hills of granite. A road winded its path between the thorn rose hedges and the small farms. An old-fashioned wagon pulled by an old gray horse showed up after a while. As it came closer to the jetty, Smith and Hickey saw that the driver was a young woman. Behind her, on the platform, were two boys.

The woman wore a blue dress with a sailor collar, knitted black stockings and black boots. On the head she had a dark blue beret. Her brown hair was cut in a plain bob, with the fringe kept to one side with a plain pin. The older boy seemed to be about ten, and wore short trousers with a sailor blouse. He was also wearing a school cap over the crew cut. The younger boy, about eight years old, had exactly the same clothes as his older brother, but wore a sailor hat instead of a cap.

Smith wondered if this was the widow Scriptor, or if it was someone else entirely. The answer came when the girl pulled up next to them. She jumped off the driver's seat, followed by the boys, and walked to the shore.
"Are you the Americans?" she asked.
Hickey recognized her dialect. The fishermen who sold their catch at the 'fish church' talked like that, with almost no 'r' and a lot of long, long vowels. Thus the girl's question sounded like 'aw yáow da Améwikahns'.
"Yes, that's us", answered Hickey.
One of the little boys shook his head at this.
"It can't be", said he, "you haven't got any feathers in your hair, and you're not cowboys either!"
He spoke the same accent as the girl, who now told him to shut up. Then she turned to the men.
"I apologize for the boys. They think that everyone who come from America are indians".
"It's all right", said Hickey, while Smith tried to keep back his laughter. It was so comical, and he was committing every detail to his memory. This he would use in one of his stories.

"Allow me to introduce myself", said the girl with a curtsey, "I am Cecilia Scriptor. Mrs. Scriptor is my aunt, and I live at her place, and these two lads are Henrik and Kristian Scriptor. They are her sons and my cousins. Lotta, their sister is at home."
"I'm Henrik", said the older boy.
"And I'm Kristian", added the younger boy, while they both took of their headwear and bowed politely.
"I am Patrick Hickey", said Hickey, and lifted his hat and bowed.
"I am John Smith", said Smith who followed Hickey's example, and bowed too.

Cecilia got up the Americans' bags on the platform with some help from the boys. Smith and Hickey offered to help, but she declined politely, and said that they were going to work hard enough, without having to start already on their first day in Bohuslän. The men shrugged, and climbed up on the platform. The boys sat as close the driver's seat as they could get holding on to the sides of the wagon. The men understood why as soon as the Cecilia shook the reins to get the horse to move.

The road was bumpy, with deep-worn wheel tracks. Here and there were muddy puddles. When one of the wheels of the wagon ran down in it, there was a heavy lurch in that direction. Smith almost fell off once, but managed to get a hold of the side of the wagon in time.
"Cecilia is a good driver", said Henrik, "it's the road that's bad."
"I see", said Smith.
"When did she learn to drive?" asked Hickey.
Cecilia overheard Hickey's question and shouted her answer "When I was eleven!" to be heard over the rattle and din of the wagon.
Smith and Hickey shared a look over this revelation. It seemed like the Scriptor family were an odd lot. Imagine teaching a girl to drive with horse and carriage at such a young age.

Hickey suddenly recalled what aunt Hedvig had said about the widow.
"My cousin, Thea Scriptor, has strange eyes", aunt Hedvig had said. "She sees things other people don't see. I don't mean ghosts or such things, but rather the things that has happened in a man's or woman's past, the things that makes them do what they do. Let me tell you: A boy was accused of killing the dog of his neighbor. Everyone thought he was evil. Then Thea asks; 'who taught the boy to kill?' It turned out that the neighbor and the boy's sister had had an affair. It was the sister who had told the boy to do what he did with to the dog, in order to get back at the neighbor after the relationship had ended."
Then aunt Hedvig had shaken her head, and with a chuckle she had concluded her brief tale of the strange widow; "From that day, no-one wanted to work at her farm. She can manage well enough in spring and winter, but during summer and harvest she has to send for help. Sometimes she asks me if I can help her. Now, after what I've told you, will you still go?"
Both Smith and Hickey had said that they were willing to go. But now Hickey began to have second thoughts.

Would Mrs. Scriptor see what was in his and Smith's past, and what they were to each other in the present time? Hickey wondered and shivered at the thought.
"Are you cold?", Smith asked.
"No. It was just a cold wind, but it has passed."

Chapter 3

"Here we are", said Cecilia and pulled at the reins. "Nice, huh?"

The Scriptor farm lay at the foot of a mountain at the far end of a green valley. The buildings were hidden behind the fruit trees. Only the red brick roofs were visible. The carriage went down a slight slope, past fields of potatoes, peas, cabbages and carrots. The boys pointed out every vegetable and told the men what they were, and when the harvest was. It was a good land and everything seemed to grow very well in the black earth. The newcomers were duly impressed.

As the carriage came to a halt in front of the main house, a white building with green corners, a a woman and a tiny girl came out to greet them.
"Here they are, the new farm-hands!" Cecilia announced loudly.
"I see that", said the woman. Hickey understood that this was the widow. She didn't look strange. This thin blonde woman standing by the dark green door was almost a disappointment. She wore a common white blouse with a pink bow, and a dark blue skirt. He had imagined her as an exotic black-robed Gypsy. He decided that perhaps aunt Hedvig had been joking.

The men and the boys climbed down from the platform and walked up to the house while Cecilia drove the carriage down to the stables. Smith and hickey went through the hand-shaking ceremony one more time and then they walked inside for a cup of coffee.

Just as they walked inside the rain began. Cecilia, who came in about half an hour later, was soaking wet, and had to change clothes before she could sit down with the others at the table. The lightning thankfully stayed out at sea, and did not disturb the Scriptors and their new farm-hands.

The coffee was strong and good, and there was three different kinds of cookies, some buns and a sponge cake on the table. The dark brew was served in dainty white cups with decorated with roses, and Hickey saw that it was the sunday coffee set. The widow told him and Smith about the house and the farm, and about their work. Her husband, Richard Scriptor, had drowned out at sea two years earlier, and his body had been found a week later on a shore just north of the island Orust. Cecilia was her husband's niece, and they had taken her in when she was nine years old. That was seven years ago, and she was sixteen now. Hickey had guessed that she was about twenty.

"My mother", said Cecilia, "got T.B. and moved to a sanatorium up north. Dad couldn't look after me, so I was sent to stay with uncle Richard and aunt Thea. Then he got work at a shipyard down south. And I stayed here."

Once the rain had stopped the widow Scriptor lead them to their home for the rest of the summer. It was a room at one end of the barn. Next to the room were the stables. At the wrinkled noses of the Americans, the widow explained that the farm-hands needed to be near the horses, and the other creatures, just in case something happened. The men accepted that, and hoped they would get used to the smell fast.

"We leave you now, so you may settle in peace. This day you have free, but to-morrow you work", said Mrs. Scriptor. Then she walked out, leaving the keys to the room behind on a chest of drawers next to the door.

The room the men had gotten was small and shabby. It smelled of cows and hay, with a nasty little tinge of ammonia, and something else. There were two beds, one on each side of the room. Between them was the window, which had a new blind. On the chest of drawers below the window was a kerosene lamp, with a white glass lamp shade. Next to it was a matchbox.

After a while as they unpacked their bags and took a closer look at the room, they found that the sheets on the beds were clean, and that the quilts, although old, were in a good shape. The woven rag mats on the floor were clean and the floor itself was clean too. The odd little smell was of soap, so the floor had probably been scrubbed. The shabbiness disappeared as these details were noticed by Smith and Hickey. After a while they saw that the wall papers were actually newspapers that had been glued up and covered with a thin cover of white paint. And it had been done recently, if the crispness of the paint was anything to go by.

"I think", said Smith, "that we are quite welcome here."
Hickey nodded. It was unusual that the farm-hands lodgings were cleaned and prepared when the occupants came. The norm was that the farm-hands were supposed to do that themselves.
"They must really have problems with getting any help to this place. Otherwise they wouldn't have done something like this", Smith continued. Hickey had come to the same conclusion.

Chapter 4

The next morning, just before dawn, Smith and Hickey were roused from their sleep by Mrs.. Scriptor. She simply walked into their room without knocking. They were grateful that they had decided to sleep in separate beds that night. Otherwise it would have been quite embarrassing for all three of them.

Mrs. Scriptor gazed at them for a moment too long, and Hickey wondered what she saw. Smith realized why she had such a hard time to get the farm-hands to stay. It was such a piercing gaze, as if she saw right through them and into their hearts. But it was also an impartial gaze that carried no judgment. In fact she seemed rather indifferent to them. Once the widow was certain they had woken up properly, she told them to get dressed as fast as they could.

A few minutes later they were standing in front of the house, still yawning, but at least clothed and somewhat presentable. Henrik was there too, still half asleep. The widow gave the men a pick each and a huge basket. Then she told them that they were to do.
"You are going to do some thinning-out in the turnip field. Just remove every third plant, and put them in the basket. Be careful. That's the first harvest of the year, and people in town want those tiny veggies. The buyer will pay a nice sum for them", she instructed. Then she told Henrik to lead them to the aforementioned field and to hurry back as soon as possible.

Henrik rubbed the the sleep out of his eyes with his index fingers. Then he waved to them to follow him. It wasn't a very long walk, just twenty minutes past two fields, and through a forest.
"Mother says that this forest ought to be a potato field, but we are only allowed to walk through it", said Henrik.
"Really", said Hickey.
"Yes. Father tried to get to buy it, before he died, but he didn't want to sell."
"Who didn't want to sell?"
"Grand-uncle."
"Who's that?"
"father's uncle. He's old and has a lot of land. But no sons, just a daughter", said Henrik, and began to tell what he knew of the family history. It wasn't much, the boy admitted, and what little he knew turned out to be a collection of rumors and contradictory facts.

Once they had gotten to the field, Henrik left the men and went back home. He assured them that he was safe in the woods, and that the light from home would guide him. They still were not happy at seeing him leave, a light shadow among the dark trees.

The sun rose above the mountains, but took its time to reach down to the valleys. The mist lifted from the ground and covered everything in white smoke, before dissolving in the sunlight.

Neither Smith nor Hickey had been through such back-breaking labor before. They used the picks to loosen the soil around the small turnips, then they had to bend down, and pick up the roots and shake the dirt from them, before putting them in the basket. This they repeated not once, not twice, but at least several dozen times. Every once in a while they stretched their backs. "We aren't as young as we used to be", said Smith with a grimace. "I'm too old for this kind of work!" he continued.
"I agree", said Hickey and moaned at the stab of pain that pulsated in his back.
Then they went back to work.

About a fifth of the field was done, when the men suddenly heard an unexpected noise. in their confusion they dropped the picks and stood straight up. Bells were ringing.

There were the gingle-gingle of small bells, and the ding-dong ding-dong of large bells. From far away came the deep sound of a church bell; bang-bong bang-bong. The bells rang for a long time, and then all was silent again.
"What was that?" Smith wondered out loud.

As they were getting ready to start working again, Cecilia came out of the woods. She was carrying a basket in one hand and a coffee-pot in the other. The smell of coffee reached them before she did.
"I bring breakfast", she said.
Then, on hearing those words, Smith and Hickey felt how very hungry they were.

They all sat down on a patch of flat ground next to the field. Cecilia unpacked the basket and gave them cheese-and-ham sandwiches and enameled metal mugs. She poured them coffee before taking a sandwich herself. Between the sandwiches and coffee Hickey asked her why all those bells had been ringing.
"That's the breakfast bells", she said, "They ring them to call in the workers from the fields to the food. They ring to dinner and to the evening meal too."
"Why was the church bell ringing as well?"
"That's because those at the vicarage has quite a lot of land, all over the place, and the bell-ringer uses the church bells to get everyone to take their break. The workers furthest away have food with them, but those nearby will go the the vicarage to eat. And when the church bell rings it'd be ungodly to not ring one's own bells as well."
"The church's important here, huh?" said Smith.
"Yeah. We are lucky to have a tolerant priest here. Other priests can be quite a hair from the Devil's head. And there have been some of them around here. There's even stories about them."
"Can you tell us one?" asked Hickey.
"Yes. My favorite one is the legend of the golden cradle. Do you want to hear it?"
"Sure", said Hickey, while Smith said "Why not" at the same time.

Chapter 5

"Mother told me this story, and I'll tell it as I can remember it", said Cecilia.
"Fair enough", said Hickey.

"Long ago", she said, "there were almost no lighthouses along this coast. So people would go out on stormy nights and light fires. These fires could easily be mistaken for lighthouses. The ships out at sea would think that they were sailing safe, but the fires would lure to run aground. Then the locals would get out to the wreck and plunder it. Sometimes they'd help the people onboard to safety, but they could as well leave them behind."

"Back in those days, in the aftermath of the wars of Charles XII, there was a priest, living on the island of Tjörn. He was born there and was probably well aware of the false lighthouses. He most probably helped with hiding the loot, and had nothing against giving a bag of grain for a pack of nice silk in return."

"One night a ship went aground. The locals boarded it and stole quite a lot of gold, silk and other fine things. The leader of the looters found a girl on the shore nearby the shipwreck. He killed her and stole the rings on her fingers, and the gold chain around her neck. He also took a miniature cradle of gold that she'd been hiding in her clothes. Then he hid her by building a cairn over her dead body. There are lot of them along the coast, and nobody ever wants to disturb them, so it was a good way to hide her."

Smith thought about the cairns he'd seen on a few small islands. He'd thought that they'd looked picturesque, and had enjoyed himself by counting them for a while. To imagine that some of them hid the bodies of people washed ashore after storms and shipwrecks, gave him a cold feeling deep down in his belly. He was a tough gangster once, and had not grown soft, but the thought of those cairns, knowing what was under them, made him shiver a little.

"Among the loot were a fine walking-stick with a silver handle. It was given to the priest as a gift. He was quite fond of it and would often carry it around to show it off."

"A few years later, the priest, who also was a member of the parliament was called to the gathering of the Parliament in Stockholm. He went there, and brought the nice walking-stick with the silver handle to show off. Now, a parliament in those days were more like a party sometimes, with the king inviting the members of the parliament to all sorts of entertainments."

"During one of those gatherings in the Royal Castle, the king saw the priest. He also saw the priest's walking-stick. He summoned the priest and asked him where he'd gotten that walking-stick. The priest lied and said that it was a family heirloom, that he'd gotten it from his father or somesuch. The king said that the priest was a liar and that he could prove it."

"And so the king took the walking-stick and pressed a hidden button on the silver handle. The handle opened like a lid, and out fell a roll of coins, all with the king's picture on them. It turned out that the girl on the ship, she who had been killed, was a German princess and a relative of the king."

"The priest was arrested and questioned. He confessed and was thrown into custody. But he had protection among the higher parts of the church, and was let out of jail after a short time. He immediately rode home and warned his parishioners of the coming investigation. And all over the island the loot was hidden away."

"A few days later investigators and soldiers came and did the investigation. They questioned the people that the priest had named, but didn't get any results. Either the suspects kept silent or hid in caves in remote parts of the island. The priest hid in a cave too, and the local people came to him with food and drink. In those days the people had very little respect for the law, and saw it and its enforcers mostly as something to be avoided. And those that could side-step the law were heroes in the eyes of the common people."

"Time passed and soon the authorities gave up the search for the loot. People came out of hiding, and the priest lived a long and rather happy life."

"Some time later the farmer who had stolen the golden cradle fell ill. The priest came to his death-bed to perform the last rites. The farmer told him where he had hidden the golden cradle. The priest decided to go the place the next day and dig it up. But the farmer got better during the night, and regretted telling the priest. So he went to the hiding-place, and dug it up, and hid it elsewhere."

"The priest was of course disappointed when he didn't find the treasure, and told the farmer off. The farmer said that it was one thing when one was on one's death-bed, and another when one was not. The farmer died later, without telling anyone where the cradle was."

"It is said that it is hidden where the borders of three parishes meet. Mother thought that it was just something to mislead people. She thought that the farmer had hid it with the German princess, under the cairn. She even pointed it out to me once."

"And that was the legend of the golden cradle", said Cecilia and rose.
"Are there no moral in this story?" asked Smith.
"Should there be?" Cecilia answered.
"Are you going to look if your mother was right?" Hickey asked.
"Perhaps", said Cecilia, and smiled a little smile.

Chapter 6

The sun went on its way across the sky. The sky was blue, with only a few clouds dancing across it. The men working in the turnip-field felt the sun burn on their backs and necks. They whished for more clouds, or perhaps even some rain, just so that they could get away from the burning heat.

At mid-day Henrik came out to them with some sandwiches and coffee in a basket.
"This is hard work", he said, "and last year we had to do it ourselves because mother couldn't get anyone to help with it."
Hickey laid on his stomach in the grass and groaned at the pain in his back. Smith rubbed a bit, easing the cramps in it a little.
"This only has to be done one more time this summer", Henrik continued, "then there's the harvest. Mother told me to tell you that the taters are next."
"And what are we... ow! ... to do to the potatoes?" Hickey asked, knowing that 'taters' meant 'potatoes'.
"They are to be topped. The green ones are poisonous, so they have to be topped."
"Top the taters?" said Hickey and felt a little puzzled. Until now turnips and potatoes had been things that came out of a pot. Sometimes they were mashed and sometimes not, and that was all he had felt that he ever would have to know about them.
"Yes", said Henrik. "You put a pile of earth around each tater plant and make sure no taters gets into the sun!" The boy used the kind of patient voice that a teacher might use when explaining the 1 + 1 = 2 to a very slow child. He explained the whole procedure, and showed with his hands how the soil was to be piled up around the potatoes. The men listened and thought that it was an awful lot of work, just to get something to eat.
"Alright", said Hickey and rose up from the ground. He stretched and felt better after the back-rub and the rest. Then he sat down next to Smith and picked up a sandwich from the lunch basket.

One evening, a few days later, when Smith and Hickey got back from the work in the potato field, the widow had gotten a visitor. Cecilia met them halfway to the barn, and told them to clean up and go to the widow as fast as they could. They noticed that her shoulders shook, as if she was trying to keep back a laugh.
"Are we that amusing?" asked Hickey.
"No, no", said Cecilia and managed to explain, between giggles, that a neighbor was visiting, and wanted to have a look at the Americans. She added that the woman had such a ridiculous excuse for calling on Mrs. Scriptor.
"Can you imagine", Cecilia chuckled, "she says that she wants to borrow some fire, because her own fire have been accidentally put out. She even have brought a bucket to carry it home in!"
"Really?" said Smith, and put it down in his memory to use in one of his stories.
Hickey merely felt that it was lucky that Cecilia could not be heard from the house.

Mrs. Scriptor introduced the neighbor wife as Mrs. Karlsson. She did indeed have a bucket, prepared to carry home fire in. There was sand in the bottom, to protect it from the heat, and twigs wrapped in old newspapers, to keep the embers fed and safe. She displayed it with some pride, and chided herself at the same time for letting the fire go out.
"At this time of the year we only have fire in the iron stove in the kitchen, and silly me forgot to feed it. But my children were so messy to-day, there was no time to remember it", she said.
They were all sitting around the kitchen table, drinking coffee and talking. Mostly the talk was about the coffee get-together after church the coming sunday. Mrs. karlsson said that she would bring sweet crisprolls to the get-together, and asked what Mrs. Scriptor would bring. "I'll bring the 'mansion cookies'", she said and pointed at the thin leaf-shaped cookies, decorated with pink sprinkles.
Hickey got the impression that the get-together after church was a kind of informal competition between the women of the parish. Just the kind of thing that could start small vendettas that lasted for years.

Mrs. Karlsson prattled on and on. Her conversation moved from the cookies to her cousin in Chicago, and then to the gangster wars of the same city. The familiar names of Al Capone, Strozzi, and other infamous persons were pronounced with some difficulty by the talkative lady. Hickey held his breath hoping that his own name would not be mentioned. Smith was busy coming up with a plausible story if that happened.

After what felt like hours, but had only been minutes, Mrs. Scriptor managed to change the topic of conversation to the latest scandal in the parish. Mrs. Karlsson was quite happy to condemn the boy who had been caught painting rude words on the door of his teacher.

When the conversation, and the coffee, was at an end, Mrs. Scriptor put a few embers in Mrs. Karlsson's bucket. She picked it up once the embers had put the twigs on fire, and walked home in the dusk. It wasn't very dark so Hickey could see her walk down the road, thin smoke rising from her bucket. Smith watched her as well.
"That was close", he said to Hickey in English.
"I wonder", said the widow as she walked to stand behind them, "if she will get home without burnt knuckles."

Chapter 7

The church was large, and only a few decades old, built in the romantic style that was so popular at the end of the 19th century. The inside was light and airy, with white walls, and benches painted in faux blue-veined marble. From the ceiling hung huge brass chandeliers, and an angel carved in wood and painted as gaily as a ship's figurehead, hung from the roof in front of the altar. In three of the windows hung small models of ships, and on one wall was a list of names. Hickey had asked Mrs. Scriptor what that list was. He was told that it was the names of the men from this parish that had died out at sea, and the boats they were with. Hickey told Smith this, and together they took a look at the list. They found the name of Mrs Scriptor's husband near the bottom of the list, together with three other men that had died at the same time.

The church was full this lovely sunday. Smith and Hickey sat on the men's side of the church. Mrs. Scriptor sat on the women's side with her sons. Lotta, who was too young to be able to sit still during the whole of the divine service, was at home with Cecilia.

In the front row on the men's side sat an old man. He was alone in his row and seemed to be dozing off a little. On the women's side, in the same row, sat a middle-aged woman, reading in her psalm book. Every now and then she glanced over at the old man, as if making sure he was still sitting upright.

Hickey asked a man in a chauffeur's uniform who sat next to him who the old man and the woman were.
"They", said the chauffeur, for that was what he was, "are Count Alfred Scriptor and his daughter miss Margareta Scriptor. And I'm their chauffeur, drivin' them everywhere. Spjuth's the name."
They shook hands, and then Smith and Spjuth shook hands too.
"Is Mrs. Scriptor related to them?" Hickey asked.
"Of course", said Spjuth, "Count Scriptor's nephew married her, and then left her a widow. It is said that sir Alfred had counted on him to marry his daughter. Now that didn't happen and he haven't been on speaking terms with either his own brother, Richard Scriptor's father or with rest of the family on that side."
"But why did Mr. Scriptor work as a fisherman? If they are noblemen, with titles and everything, did they have to work? Surely they'd have money?"
"The title went to the oldest son, and all the land as well. The younger son had to make his own living, and he chose to be a farmer. But he wasn't a good farmer, but he married a woman with enough sense for both of them, so it worked out all right. Sir Scriptor only got this child, miss Margareta, and his brother got those two sons. He hoped to have his girl marry either of them, but they said she was too old for them, and married other girls. Now's she's on the glass mountain, and an old spinster."
There was a moment of silence as the priest entered the church. Then Spjuth continued telling Hickey of the Scriptors.
"The oldest boy; he's left this part of the country, leaving his daughter behind. And the widow takes care of her. And there's two boys there and another girl. I've heard that sir Alfred wants to adopt one of Mrs. Scriptor's sons, to be his son and heir."
Hickey was going to ask for more details, when the divine service began.

The priest, Mr. Utstrand, was a thin man, with gray hair and a neat beard. He performed the service in a brisk pace, but still doing every part of it with care, not lingering, but not hasting either. Smith recalled that Mrs. Scriptor had spoken of him with some admiration, and thought that this respectful kind of efficiency was the reason.

Then the Mr. Utstrand began his sermon. The widow had said that his sermons were well written, and always with something interesting in them. Hickey listened, always interested in learning something new, and paying attention to the words he didn't understand. Smith on the other hand let his attention wander.

"To-day is the third sunday after Trinity sunday, and the subject of to-day's sermon is the mercy of our Lord", the priest began, when the day's gospel text had been read.
"Our Lord", he continued, "shows his mercy to the most unlikely of people. We have now heard the parable of the lost lamb, and of the lost coin. We have heard that Heaven rejoices when one sinner repents and betters his ways. Why is it so? Why do not ten persons, who have never sinned, weigh as much as one converted sinner? The sinner have been walking the broad road, the easy road. To leave this road, to choose the narrow steep path, is very difficult. It is like taking only two strawberries when there's a whole bowl of it within reach. And for someone who have been used to taking the whole bowl of sweets, to start taking only two - that means battling oneself and one's lower instincts. And that is why the heavens rejoices when one sinner reforms himself."

Hickey listened as the priest expounded on this subject. This struck close to his and Smith's situation, uncomfortably close.

"Unfortunately", the priest continued, "a sinner who have changed his ways will sometimes be the target of ridicule from those that won't believe that he indeed have changed. They will question his motives, and interpret every one of his actions as signs of his hypocrisy. And so, just because they can't see past the face of the one they once knew to be a sinner, and won't look into his heart to see that he has truly reformed, they will make his walk on the narrow road so much harder than our Lord ever intended it to be. Truly, sometimes men have turned away from this road and back to the broad road because those that should have known better couldn't find it in themselves to treat this repenting man as one worthy of support."

Mr. Utstrand's voice had risen to a thunder that filled the whole church, and a few parishioners looked rather guilty as they stared down on their folded hands. Smith noted this and decided to ask Mrs. Scriptor what it was all about.

"When our Lord himself finds one sinner worthy of mercy, who are we to interfere with His decision? Our Lord works in mysterious ways, and we humans see only a small part of the whole." The sermon was at a quick end after this, and the rest of the service continued as efficiently as before the sermon. But the parishioners seemed less keen on the singing than before.

After the service there was a gathering at the rectory. The widow went there with her sons. Smith and Hickey were allowed to join them as they were interesting strangers. As they walked down the road to the rectory, Hickey made a mental note to talk to the priest and see if the he really meant what he had said in his sermon. Then he remembered the chauffeur's story, and wondered if there were any truth in what the man had said about the Count wishing to adopt either Henrik or Kristian.

Chapter 8

The rectory was only a short walk away from the church. It was a large yellow house, surrounded by huge old trees. When Hickey saw it, he thought that it looked like a small manor house. Inside, it was roomy and light. The church coffee took place in a large room, with sofas and chairs along the walls. Here and there were tables, small and easy to move around. on the walls hung portraits of Mr. Utstrands predecessors. They were, without exception, clad in black, with white collars and the same stern expression in their faces. The only thing that distinguished the older from the newer, was the fact that the older ones wore white, powdered, wigs.

The farmers and their wives began to walk into the room. They remained standing, as they hadn't been asked to sit down. There were a few single people, widows and bachelors. There were also children. But they weren't running around, but were quiet. They knew that they'd be rewarded with an extra cookie if they behaved. Then, second to last of them all, the priest entered with his wife. After them came count Scriptor and his daughter.

The priest and his wife greeted the aristocrats with brief nods, before turning to the people.
"Welcome everyone", said Mr. Utstrand, "Please sit sit down. The maids will come out with cups and plates right now, so do find yourselves somewhere to sit."
Almost everyone sat down, and extra chairs were fetched for those that hadn't found a seat. Hickey and Smith sat down on a couple of stools in a corner, close to the door.

A couple of maids began to walk around with trays of cups and plates. Then they served coffee and cookies. One of them poured the coffee, while the other carried around a large tray filled with nine different kinds of cookies. Hickey and Smith were served last, but they didn't mind much.
"Do you mind terribly much to tell us what those good little things be called?" Hickey asked the maid with the tray.
"What good things would that be?" the maid replied with a smile. "These good things?" she said and nodded to the tray, before putting on a wider smile.
"Yes", said Hickey and smiled back. "Those good things", he continued and pointed to the tray.
Smith snarled quietly behind his cup. He wished that girls didn't get that reaction to Hickey. Hickey was his, damnit! "Is that a way for a maid at a priest's house to behave?" he hissed softly.
The maid frowned at the hostile tone in his voice. "No-body talks to a priest's maid like that", she said, and went to ignore him for the rest of the duration of the church coffee.
But she did tell Hickey the names of the different kinds of cookies, and later of the buns, the sponge cakes and the cakes.
Hickey was greatly amused by the inventive names of the small things. But he did not like the animosity between the maid and Smith. The girl was just flirting! No harm in that, if it stopped at that. Smith had nothing to worry about. He was Smith's!

When the maid left, Hickey began to tell Smith what the cookies was called.
"Imagine", he said, " this one they call an imperial crown, and that one is Mrs. Scriptor's manor house cookie. And here's Danish fiancé cookie, and Marstrand biscuit. And this one must be Mrs. Karlssons sweet crisp roll. And those here are Finnish sticks and equal-share cookie, and vanilla tops."
"They all taste the same", grumbled Smith.
"Perhaps they do, but the names are funny anyways."

The guests began to move about a little, forming small groups around the small tables. They talked of harvests and of rain, of families and friends. The Americans were also a topic of conversation. But few dared to walk over to them in their corner. They were strangers after all, fit only to be stared at, for now. The noise level began to reach above the polite murmur as a heated political discussion took place between two portly men, one supporting the Farmer's party and the other the Social democrat party. The others, including Miss Scriptor, began to gather around them, listening to the argument and offering their own views on the matter. A few minutes and a couple of insults later Mr. Utstrand had to intervene and remind everyone that it was sunday, and that the sunday peace was important.

During the discussion Smith had observed Mrs. Scriptor. She had not taken part of either that nor the following quarrel. Instead she had sat with count Scriptor, talking quietly. The count seemed to try to prove a point and convince the widow of something. The widow was shaking her head, saying something, before taking a sip from her cup. She looked around, a little frown of worry on her forehead, then relaxed when she saw her sons listening to the discussion.

Then Mr. Utstrand had put an end to the quarrel, and everyone was going back to their places. Miss Scriptor returned to her place beside her father and began to tell him of the discussion and the quarrel. The widow took this opportunity to move to another seat, while the count wasn't looking.

Later that sunday, while Smith and Hickey was lying together in bed, face to face, they talked about the count and his adoption plans.
"Do you think he'll go through with it?" asked Hickey.
"I don't know. Mrs. Scriptor didn't seem to like the idea."
"Too bad you couldn't hear what they were saying."
"Yeah. But I guess we get to hear more about it, if there'll be more about it."
"Yes, that's true."
"And that maid. She was hitting on you!"
"Just for fun. She wasn't serious. I thinks she flirts with anyone that smiles at her. If you had smiled at her, she'd flirted with you instead."
"Yeah, right."
"You are the only one for me. Don't worry." said Hickey, and moved to close the distance between them with a kiss. Smith responded in kind, and then there were no more talk that night.

A couple of days later Mrs Scriptor sorted through the mail that had come that day. She put the letters in piles; bills, letters from friends, and others. At bottom of the stack she held in her hand was a letter to Cecilia. She lifted on eyebrow when she looked at the back of the envelope and saw who it was from.

The widow walked out in the yard and called for Cecilia, who was busy feeding the hens. The girl came running, as soon as she had locked the gate to the fence that kept the hens in, and the fox out.
"What is it, Aunt?" she asked.
"Here's a letter for you", Mrs. Scriptor answered.
"Who from?"
Mrs. Scriptor resisted the urge to corrige her, and handed her the envelope. "See for yourself", she said.
Cecilia turned the letter over and read the sender's address. "It's from my father!" she exclaimed.

Chapter 9

Cecilia's hands were trembling as she tore open the envelope and pulled out the letter from her father. She read the letter over and over, a small frown forming on her forehead.
"He asks me if I want to move to him in Karlskrona", said Cecilia. "He apologizes for not having written to me as much as he should have, and wonders if I want to move in with him, and his new wife, and her kids in a house in Karlskrona."
"I didn't know he had gotten married", said Mrs. Scriptor.
"Well, he is about to get married. They'll have the wedding as soon as he finished the house. There's a picture of them all with this letter!"
Cecilia searched the envelope and pulled out a photograph. She peered at it intently, them passed it to Mrs. Scriptor.
"Well", said Mrs. Scriptor, "she seems like a nice lady, and your father have put on some weight. Is that her children?"
"Yes, obviously."
"Are you going?"
"I don't know. He says the wedding will be at the end of september, after the harvest. He says I can come to them when the harvest's in."
"Considerate of him."
"Suppose so."

They were standing there in the yard in silence. Smith and Hickey were still working in the cabbage patch, though right now they were straining their ears to hear more about the letter. Above them all seagulls were flying, screaming their kyaaa-kyaaa.

The widow harrumphed and broke the silence.
"If you chose to go, I'll give you money for the return-ticket. Just in case you don't like it there", she said.
"Thanks", said Cecilia and smiled.
"I see you as my daughter, even if you was just on loan to me", said Mrs. Scriptor and closed her eyes. "I want you to have a choice, and a return ticket."
Cecilia smiled. Then she put the letter and the card back into the envelope.

At dinner that evening Cecilia asked if she could travel to the isle of Tjörn, where she was born, to see it one last time before leaving.
"What!" cried Henrik and Kristian, "are you leaving! When? Why?"
Cecilia told them about the letter from her father, and showed them the picture.
"So, you are not leaving yet?" asked Henrik.
"No, I'll stay till school starts", replied Cecilia.
"But... But if you leave, who's going to help me with my homework?" he asked.
"You are a big boy. You are ten years old. I think you can manage just fine without me."
"Well, what about Kristian?"
"You will simply have to help him."
"Meanie!"
"Are you coming back?" Kristian asked.
"If I don't like it, I'll come back. Aunt'll give me return-ticket money."
"Then I hope they are mean to you, so you'll come back!"
"Kristian!" said the widow, "that's not nice! Apologize!"
"No!" cried the little boy, and ran from the table. His mother ran after him.

Once the widow had managed to calm down her sons, and they had apologized to Cecilia, the girl got permission to go to Tjörn. It was decided that she would go there in august. A letter was written to her grand-aunt, her mother's aunt, asking if Cecilia could stay with her for a few days. The reply came just a few days later, stating that she was welcome to visit her old aunt.

Just before Midsummer eve Hickey asked Cecilia if she was going to look for the golden cradle.
"I might, just to see if my mother was right."
"And if she wasn't?"
"Then I'll know that."
"And if you find it?"
"Finders keepers, and all that."
Hickey didn't know what to say to that, but hoped that Cecilia would not do such a foolish thing.

Perhaps the local folk lore would keep Cecilia from robbing the princess' cairn. The dead didn't like to be disturbed here in Bohuslän, and would take revenge on anyone interrupting their sleep. Hickey had heard the stories that the people at the church coffee had told each other, of dancing dead maidens, and of a ghost that was tied to a millstone so that it could never go mischief-making again.

The ghosts of Bohuslän were not the mild weepy kind that Hickey had heard about in his youth. These ghosts did not stand crying over the beds of the children they had left behind, but haunted the surviving parent until he bettered himself. They did not tolerate theft, and if they wanted something with them in the grave, they let the living know.

And the living people of Bohuslän knew it. They respected the dead by not letting the children play on the graves, by being polite around the dead people. Of course there would always be fools that would not heed the warnings, but they were few.

If the stories had any grain of truth in them, the German princess would probably find a way to make sure the cradle got back to its rightful owner. At least that was what Hickey thought. And so did Smith, who had had his own dose of true dreams and premonitions.

Chapter 10

White pieces of cloth were spread out on the grass in Mrs. Scriptor's garden. It was Midsummer's night, and Mrs. Scriptor herself had taken an old sheet and walked over to the neighbor's fields. Cecilia was picking seven different kinds of flowers by the side of the road to the farm. It was a very silent night, and yet filled with excitement.

Hickey and Smith had been ordered to stay in the house during Midsummer's night, because both the widow and Cecilia were too busy to to have time to check on the children properly. And the children didn't want to sleep. Instead they were standing in the window watching as Cecilia picked her flowers.
"Oh, wanna pick flowers too!" wailed little Lotta, who was standing on tiptoes to see out through the window.
The boys hushed her down. No noise during Midsummer's night. That'd break the magic.

The Americans had heard about Midsummer's night. But they both thought it was just a play by Shakespeare. To see people behave as if this night, the shortest night of the year, really was magical, was quite a puzzling experience.
"Isn't this 1935?" said Smith.
Hickey nodded.
"Aren't we modern people?" Smith continued.
Hickey nodded again.
"Then why all this?"
Hickey shrugged.

The front door opened, and Cecilia stepped inside. They heard her walk up the stairs to her little room. Any other night the children would have ambushed her with questions of what it had been like to be out by oneself, but not to-night. She had told them not to speak to her until the morning had come. This was magic, and it had to be done in silence.

Hickey knew, as well as Smith, that Cecilia was going to sleep with those flowers under her pillow. She hoped that she'd dream of her future husband. And this was yet another piece of Swedish folk lore that made Smith want to leave the Scriptor farm, to leave Bohuslän, and go home to Gothenburg.

In Gothenburg no-one cared about either the church or the spirits of the land. All one had to worry about were cars, fires and getting sacked. Smith found himself thinking of the smell of the 'Fish Church', and of the loud noises of trucks and lorries driving on the cobbled streets. It all seemed so far away, even though it was just a day's journey. Hickey took it a little better, mostly because he could speak with the people. But he was homesick too. He longed for their room at 'Anderssons Hotell'. The little room that was their haven away from the eyes of the world. He longed to disappear in the crowd at King's Gate Place, and to take a stroll in the Castle Forest with Smith.

The next morning Cecilia told the widow what she had dreamed that night.
"It was so strange", she said, "I was lying in a bed in a white room. There was a strong light coming in through a window and there was a man standing in front of the window. His face was in shadow so I could not see what he looked like, but I saw that he had white hair. And he was holding a baby in his arms."
"Really?" said Mrs. Scriptor, "did he say anything?"
"Yes, he did. He said; I accept."
"Indeed?" Not a proposal?"
"No, as if I was the one proposing."
"Strange."
"Yeah. It seems as if I'm going to marry an old widower with a little child."
"Well, it is just a dream. Perhaps it doesn't mean anything at all."
Cecilia nodded, and then there was nothing more said about that.

Smith had heard though, and felt quite happy that Cecilia had not dreamed of neither him nor Hickey.

Later that day Hickey asked the widow about the pieces of cloth on the grass.
"Sorry, Ma'am, but those napkins out on the lawn? What's it good for?" he asked.
"Collecting midsummer night's dew, o'course."
"And what's that good for, if you don't mind me askin', Ma'am?"
"I don't mind at all. Them cloths gonna be put o'er the dough to make it rise nicely, and o'er the finished loaves to make a nice crust."
"And the sheet that you took to the neighbor's then, if you pardon my nosiness, Ma'am?"
"To draw the dew from the neighbor's fields."
"What for?"
"I'll keep the sheet, once it's dry and nice, with the seed in the barn. It'll make next year's crops healthy."
"Lots o'magic in that, if I may say so."
"There's magic and then there's magic. I hurt no-one, and no-one hurt me."
Hickey nodded. He assumed that it made sense, though he couldn't see how. And it was strange to see the stoic, pragmatic woman doing such things, even if it was only once a year. She seemed to believe as firmly in Midsummer's dew as she did in the teachings of the Church.

After Midsummer's night everything went back to normal. No more talk of magic of ghosts, or of fairies and goblins. The veil between the worlds of the living and of the dead had been drawn shut once more, and Smith was very happy about that.

The days went by. There were plenty of work for everyone on the farm with weeding, mending roofs, painting the outhouses, and everything else that needed to be done on a farm. Smith and Hickey rose early and went to bed late. There was hardly any time at all to ponder about the domestic politics of the Scriptor family.

Then, in the middle of july, count Scriptor came to visit.

He arrived to the farm in his car, driven by the chauffeur Spjuth, just in time for the mid-day meal. The widow, who was in the kitchen stirring the soup, saw him through the window, and ran out to greet him. The children, who were laying the table, followed her to see what was going on. Smith and Hickey, who were busy putting up scarecrows in the fruit trees, saw the whole scene from above. Mrs. Scriptor curtsied, while the boys bowed, to the old count.

Even from their position high up in the tree, Smith and Hickey could see how the widow was moving with her shoulders drawn up, as if bracing for a fight. Mrs. Scriptor, the count and the children went inside, and the bell rang, calling in Cecilia from the kitchen garden, and the men down from the apple tree.

Chapter 11

The kitchen was full with people. Around the table sat the old count Scriptor, Mrs. Scriptor, her children, the Americans, chauffeur Spjuth and Cecilia. The widow was serving the soup, passing out the plates to the hungry people. The count got served first, and then the children.

Much to Mrs. Scriptor's chagrin they were using the plain white everyday plates. She had tried to tell the children to fetch the sunday plates instead. The count had stopped them though, saying that he didn't mind the everyday plates. He also didn't mind sitting in the kitchen at the same table as his chauffeur and a pair of handymen.

The children, who knew that this was a very unusual event, couldn't sit still but pushed each other and whispered. The widow got annoyed with their behavior and asked Cecilia and Kristian to switch their places at the table, so that Cecilia would sit between Lotta and Henrik. Kristian got to sit between Smith and Spjuth.

As soon as the calm had settled over the kitchen table Mrs. Scriptor said the dinner prayer, and everyone began to eat.

Count Scriptor ate the plain vegetable soup in a very neat tidy manner, not spilling a single drop on his impeccable shirt. Everyone else at the table tried unconsciously to emulate him. The widow failed, spilling a whole spoon in her knee. Fortunately she had forgotten to take of her apron, so there wasn't much damage. A small sound of annoyance was the only thing that indicated that something had happened.

Smith, observing the people around the table, composed a scene in a story he was writing. He mused over which words to describe the mood at the table. The way the old count sat as if he was not the guest of the house but the host; The widow's veering between eating and scolding her children; the children's sudden good behavior. It was indeed a scene worthy of perhaps a historical novel, or a vignette, with huge depths beneath the simple story of people around the table.

As everyone were finishing the meal, getting ready to get up and return to their tasks, the count spoke: "I have a proposition to make to Mrs. Scriptor. All of you, please stay to hear it."
Mrs. Scriptor, who was standing with the dirty plates in her hands, replied: "can I put these away first?"
"Yes, please."
The widow did so, and went back to the table.

"As I said, I have a proposition for you", the count began.
"I know, and I want to think over it", answered the widow.
"I have given you sufficient time. I'm not getting any younger, and I wish to have an answer."
"I have not decided yet."
"And that is why I shall tell everyone in here, of the question that I have asked you."
The widow nodded, and sat down. The children sat down too, while the other adults didn't know whether to stay or to go. The count solved that by asking them to stay.

"I am old, and a widower", he began, "and I have but one child, a daughter. My closest male heir is a nephew who lives in Karlskrona."

Hickey knew that the old count meant Cecilia's father.

"The Scriptor family can trace their origins to Sweden's Age of Greatness. The first Scriptor was a common soldier named Knut Andersson. He was given the name Scriptor, because he could already read and write before he was enrolled into the army. Back then the higher officers gave the soldiers new last names to be able to differentiate between them. Imagine the chaos when you screamed 'Andersson' and had twenty men coming running."

Smith believed that the short aside was for benefit of the foreigners.

"The first Scriptor ended his days as a captain, but he had children who moved up in the ranks during the reigns of Charles X and Charles XI. They became majors and colonels. Now, only the aristocracy had the rights to the higher military ranks, but the king made captain Karl Knutsson Scriptor count Scriptor, with rank of major. And his brother became a baronet, Sir Scriptor. The baronet line still lives, in Stockholm, and they have mainly gone into the Church and the Arts. The count line have stayed in the military. I am probably the first count Scriptor not to possess a military rank. On the other hand I have managed very well in the world of business."
There was a sparkle of pride in his eyes as he said the last words.

"But what good is a large fortune if there's no-one I want to leave it to. I do have that nephew in the south of Sweden, but he has no education and no sense of duty. I am displeased with the notion that such a man should become the next count Scriptor. I can only imagine how fast he would squander it all, if he was to be my heir."

Cecilia bristled at the insult against her father.

"I therefore discussed this precarious situation with my lawyers and with my daughter. I realized that I had two younger relatives that showed much more promise. They, I mean you, were the sons of my other nephew, who also had been rather promising. Now, I could either adopt one of the two young boys, as my heir, or marry my nephew's widow, and adopt all three of her children."

The whole room got very silent and everyone stared at the old man. He didn't seem to notice the sudden silence, but went on with his proposal, speaking only to the widow.

"It is not unheard of, to do such a thing, and honestly, I think the first alternative would be unfair to all the children, while the other would give both you and your children a better future."
"How?" said the widow.
"I have checked with the school, and Henrik is a very good pupil there, with high grades in almost all subjects. Kristian shows promise, and Lotta too. I would be glad to pay for their continuing schooling at a secondary school, and for their studies at the university."
"That is good."
"Yes", said the count, and continued, "and for you, I offer this; that this farm shall remain your own property, and the profits from it your own. In addition, the piece of land that is currently a wedge into your property, plus a dowry."
"It all sounds good, and I would agree, if I was sure Henrik, Kristian and Lotta would approve of it. It is their future."
"Shall we ask them?"

The children now found themselves in the spotlight as everyone turned their gazes to them.

Chapter 12

The children, who were now at the centre of everyone's attention, began to look uncomfortable. Henrik picked at the tablecloth, while Kristian bit his thumbnail. Lotta, who was to small to really understand what it was all about, was the one to speak first.
"Mom, wanna doll. Gimme doll, mister?" the little girl asked.
"I'll give you a doll, if your mother lets me."
"Please Mom! Please, a princess doll, with pretty, shiny clothes and long, long hair!"

Mrs. Scriptor lifted a hand to her face to hide her smile. Trust the little girl to try to get gifts. She could as well have asked for cookies, or for candy. The boys got more brave after little Lotta had spoken, and began to make questions of their own.

"Will we have to call you 'father'?" Kristian asked.
"You already had a father, and I can't replace him. You may however, if you wish, call me 'uncle'", count Scriptor answered.
Kristian seemed pleased with the answer, and nodded.
"Then it's alright with me."

Henrik, the oldest boy, was silent for a long time.
"Will we stay with mother, or with you?" he asked eventually.
"You will stay with your mother, whether she stays here or moves to the manor."
"All right."

And that was the extent of the negotiations with the children of the widow Scriptor.

But as the tense mood left from the table, so did Cecilia. She slammed the door on the way out, making everyone jump. Hickey's hand went automatically to his side for his revolver. Then he caught himself, and let his hand sink back to his side again. When he looked around to see if anyone had noticed his little slip, he met the eyes of Mrs. Scriptor. Quickly he looked away, afraid of what she might see in his eyes.

On the way out, the count turned to the widow, his wife-to-be, and asked: "Reverend Utstrand's sermon, that sunday when I proposed to you the first time, was not as lukewarm as usual. What brought on that particular thunder?"
"He was angry with a group of people. Remember, he's a supporter of the teetotaler movement, and had helped a former drunk onto the water wagon. Only the drunk's friends didn't approve and decided to bring back the lost sheep into the fold, as it were. They succeeded very well, and the poor man, so drunk he could barely walk, got it into his head that he was going out fishing. He told his so-called friends this, and they didn't stop him. He was found drowned."
"Ah, I didn't know."
"And to make it worse, all the friends showed up at the funeral, and said 'so sad he's gone', when in fact they had helped him there."
"Then I understand. It is natural to be furious at such hypocrisy."
"Yes, it is."
"The reverend seems like a good man. I shall make a donation to his organization."
"Really?"
"Yes. I do enjoy my wine, and a glass of beer every now and then, but never at excess. And if something can't be enjoyed in moderation, it is better to do without."
"Too much and too little destroys everything."
"Yes, indeed. You are a wise woman."
"Just a proverb."
"Full of sense."
The widow could only smile and shake her head at this, as the old man walked to his car.

That night Smith and Hickey spoke of the day's events. Smith complained that it all had been resolved too easily. There had been no drama, no dramatic declarations, except for Cecilia slamming the door, and no heart-wrenching moments. He was a writer, and how was he supposed to be able to write dramatic stories, when there was no drama to witness in real life? No tragedy to be inspired by.
At the end of Smith's complaint Hickey rose from the bed they had shared and went to his own bed.
"Hey! Where are you going?" Smith exclaimed.
"To my own bed."
"What for?"
"I can't sleep with you griping about Mrs. Scriptor's wedding."
"All I said was that there was no drama in it."
"Do you wish them to have drama in their lives. They are busy enough surviving!"
"In a book that would have been a very boring chapter!"
"This is not a book! This is life."
"But..."
Hickey cut him off by wishing him good night.

The next day, Smith apologized, and said that he could imagine the drama, and that it really did not have to happen in real life. A good writer should be able to imagine those things, he said to Hickey, who agreed with his whole heart. Besides, Smith added, they had enough drama in their pasts that he could use in his writings.

Hickey noted that Mrs. Scriptor was less tense now, when her children had approved of the match. But Cecilia was another matter. She had been hurt when no-one had asked her about the marriage. Wasn't she like a daughter to the widow? And yet she was ignored, just because the count didn't approve of her father and the life he'd chosen for himself.

Cecilia was in a bad mood for the rest of the summer. She did her share of the household chores, took care of the hens and the old horse, but without caring about what she did. The widow had to talk to her several times about her sourness, but nothing came of it. The children tried to get her to play with them like before. She did join them for hide-and-seek and tag, but left after a few minutes, telling them they were boring.

It was a relief for everyone when Cecilia finally left for Tjörn.

Chapter 13

It was now August, and the harvest had begun in earnest. The fruits on the trees were getting ripe for picking, as were the potatoes and the the vegetables in the kitchen garden. The whole family was out on the fields and in the gardens from dawn to dusk. There had been harvests earlier in the summer, but not like now.

The children felt that this might be the last harvest for them, the last serious harvest. Next year their mother would be married to a wealthy man, and would no longer be dependant on what the earth gave. And they themselves would no longer be just the Scriptor kids, but members of the local aristocracy.

The neighbors treated them differently already. When school started in autumn the other kids would be more careful around them. No longer would Henrik be able to fight with the other boys in his class. It simply wasn't the way for a young viscount to behave. Kristian would have it much easier. He would still be just Kristian Scriptor, or young Mr. Scriptor. And Lotta, she would be Miss Scriptor.

Henrik sat one evening, a week after Cecilia had left for Tjörn, and discussed this with Hickey. They were sitting in the kitchen, Henrik doing the homework he'd been assigned over summer, and Hickey played solitaire. The evening sun had not yet settled behind the mountain, but shone in through the window.
"If I talk with Mother about this, she'll be sad. Kristian won't understand, and Lotta is too small", said Henrik and continued, "but the world have changed, hasn't it?"
"Yes, it has", replied Hickey.
"This time next year, I'll still help with the harvest, but it won't be the same, will it?" "Perhaps not."
"Mother will be countess Scriptor. I've seen people curtsy to her already. They never did that before."
"No, they did not."
"It will be different. Nothing will ever be as it used to be."
"Is it a bad thing, do you think?"
"No, not altogether, but..."
Hickey almost told the boy about the day when his life changed, in that dusty desert town in Texas, but decided against it. Instead he studied the cards on the table, and decided to put the nine of spades on the ten of diamonds.
"The worst thing is that Cecilia has changed," said Henrik. "She used to be nice to me. She used to read to me, and help me with my homework. When I was sick last year, she looked after me. And now she is so angry. I wish I knew what to do to make her like me again."
"I don't think she's angry with you, but with the fact that she is no longer a part of the family."
"That's no true! She's still like a big sister to me."
"To you, yes, but not to the count."
"What?"
Hickey thought for a short while.
"Think of it like this: She will soon leave for a long time. She will live in Karlskrona, which is far away. Perhaps she is behaving like this so that you won't miss her too much."
"Do you think that?"
"Yes."
The rest of the evening the boy was silent, pondering his homework and what Hickey had said.

Cecilia came back, and seemed to be in a better mood. She was playing with the kids and showed them more patience than before. The visit to her relatives at Tjörn had done her a lot of good.

Still, there was something about the girl that troubled the widow. Smith, as much as he wished he could deny it, was concerned too.

Sometimes, when Cecilia would turn around a corner, it seemed as if she was followed by a little gray thing. But then it was gone, and the only thing that lingered was the distinct impression of rags and skeleton feet. The first time it happened, Smith was willing to claim that he just needed more sleep. But then it had happened a second time, and a third time, until he decided that Cecilia indeed had gone and done something rash.

And judging by the way the widow had been looking at Cecilia, ever since she had returned from Tjörn, she saw that thing too. But she didn't dare to ask her what she had done.

Cecilia herself seemed untroubled by the thing in her shadow.

A week later, just before Cecilia was to leave for Karlskrona, Hickey and Smith had mustered enough guts to go and ask her what she had done at Tjörn.
To their surprise, she didn't mind telling them about it.
"You know about the princess' cairn?" she began.
"Yes", said Hickey.
"Well, I went there one morning, and lifted away the stones. It wasn't easy, and I scraped my hands many times, but I found the German princess' bones. I didn't see the cradle at first. but then, when I thought Mother might have been wrong after all, I saw something glint. I looked closer, and found that it was a piece of rag. And under the rag was the cradle!"
Cecilia's eyes sparkled in triumph as she waited for the men's reactions.
"What?" said Hickey.
"You found the cradle?" added Smith.
"Yes, I did!"
"And what did you do then?" Hickey asked.
"I took it with me, of course!" Cecilia answered.
"You didn't, did you?" said Hickey, with a sudden feeling of dread in his stomach. Smith felt the same dread, and wished, as always that he was back in Gothenburg where the ghosts were less noticeable.
"I sure did."

They asked her to return the cradle, but she refused, claiming that finders were keepers. Then they asked to see the thing. Cecilia was happy to comply and ran to her chamber to fetch it. When she returned she held her hands cupped around something. She opened her hands and there the men saw a perfect little cradle of gold.

Chapter 14

The day after Cecilia had shown them the golden cradle, Smith and Hickey were cornered by Mrs. Scriptor.
"Did you speak with Cecilia?" she asked the two men. Agitation and fear made her voice higher pitched than usual, and the men winced.
"Yes, we did", Hickey replied.
"Well?"
"'Well', what?"
"Did she tell you why she's got two shadows?"
"Two shadows, ma'am?"
The widow breathed in, then exhaled. There was a faint trace of alcohol in her breath. "Don't play stupid. I've seen that shadow in her shadow. That thing, that ugly, ragged thing!"
"Oh, that", said Hickey, "Smith have seen it too. But I haven't."

After the men had told her about the golden cradle, the widow went to a tiny hanging cupboard, took out a half-full quarter-bottle of Swedish vodka and put it on the table. Then she got three small glasses. They looked like miniature wine glasses, but were for vodka and other liquors. She poured a big mouthful in each glass, before asking the Americans to sit down at the kitchen table and take a glass each. The widow took her own glass and drank most of it at one draught. Then she put it down and shook her head.
"Sweet God. I knew she was obsessed with that legend. But why did she have to go and do such a thing. Stealing from the dead!"
Then she emptied her glass and sighed.
"Moments like this, a stiff drink is a good thing. Good thing she's leaving the day after to- morrow. Hope that shadow thing leaves too. I don't want it around my children. They had nightmares about shipwrecks and skeletons chasing them over the rocks. Took hours to calm them down."

The men considered her words. Eventually Smith spoke up:
"But I thought Cecilia was like a daughter to you, ma'am?"
"And she is the only one who isn't bothered by that thing. Better that it leaves with her."
"I see."
"You do, don't you?" Then she looked at the glasses in their hands. They were still full. "Drink", she said, "drink up".
The men did as she said. Fortunately they had been used to drinking booze in the past, otherwise they'd been coughing and spitting.

"Sometimes, at dawn, I see your pasts, you know", said the widow when the men had finished their drinks. She continued to speak in an calm, monotonous voice, while the men stared at her.
"I see the ghosts, or what ever that remains behind when someone has left. Memories perhaps. I see them, your memories. They are like mist around you, and it is easiest to see in the mornings, when you've just woken up. Red mist, with black strokes."
It seemed to the men that the widow had had more than that one drink that day. Otherwise she would not talk so carelessly, to people she hardly knew, about her abilities.
"The first time I saw your memories, I was horrified. So many dead. Men and women. I almost sent you back to Gothenburg. Then I decided to give you a chance. But I put you in the turnip field, just in case."
"You allowed Henrik and Cecilia to see us."
"I did."
"Why?"
"The memories were not recent. They were not strong. And I've seen them go paler and paler. That's why I won't go inside the handyman chamber to wake you. I don't want to see your memories. But I still see them in the mornings, and they have gone paler. They wouldn't if you truly had not put the past behind you."

The men sat in silence, digesting what the widow had said. Then Hickey remembered what Aunt Hedvig had said about the widow's strange eyes.
"We are happy you gave us a chance", he said.
"Thank you", Smith added.
"You're welcome", the widow replied. "But your memories are still a strong blood red, so I'm happy I haven't met you before. Imagine what color it must have been then."

Chapter 15

The morning of Cecilia's departure, Hickey rose earlier than usual. Mrs. Scriptor had asked him to help with the suitcase, but he suspected that she didn't want to be alone with Cecilia and the ghost.

When he entered the kitchen, the widow had made a pot of coffee, and poured him a cup. The widow's morning coffee could strip the paint from the wall, but it was great for waking up people. Hickey made a face at the harsh taste. She snorted at the sight.

"What did you put in this, Ma'am?"
"Just the usual coffee grounds from yesterday and some new for to-day."
"It's strong, and bitter ."
"As it should be. It is morning coffee after all."

They heard Cecilia walk around in her room. She seemed to be doing some last-time packing. Then there were the sound of steps down the stairs, and then the girl was at the door, an old suitcase in her hand. She was wearing her best dress, and a cardigan with pockets. She seemed nervous and excited at the same time.

Hickey knew the feeling. He'd felt the same when he and Smith had gotten aboard the Swedish ship in Vera Cruz so long ago. But they'd been two, and the girl was making this journey on her own.

"Hickey'll help you with the suitcase", said the widow.
"Oh, that's no need to!" said Cecilia and held on her suitcase.
The widow looked at her, and nodded, once.
"Very well, but don't complain if you think it's too heavy", she said. The she picked up an envelope from her apron pocket. "Here", she said, "your return-ticket money."

Cecilia accepted the envelope, opened her suitcase, and put it in a pocket in the lining. Hickey wondered if Cecilia kept the golden cradle there too, or if she had hidden it among her clothes.

The drive to the jetty went without much problem, and they only had to wait for about a quarter of an hour before the mail boat came. Cecilia looked around and stared at the steep granite mountains around the fiord, the cold morning air and the light-house blinking just above the horizon. The rising sun painted the sky in pale pink and cream hues, but the mountains was in shadow. Cecilia took a deep breath, and the air smelled of the salt sea, and of drying sea-weed on the pebble shore. A whiff of roofing tar was carried by the wind from a nearby dale.

"I want to remember this", she said.

On a whim the girl walked to the shore and picked up an empty mussel shell. The blue shell went from light blue to deep purple as she turned it around in her hands. Then she put it in her dress pocket and ran back to the jetty, where the mail-boat was berthing.

The widow and Cecilia hugged each other good-bye. There was tears in their eyes, and neither of them said anything.
"Good luck", said Hickey as he shook hands with Cecilia.

Cecilia stepped onboard, and the boat blew its whistle as it left.

"I know", said the widow as she watched the boat disappear behind an isle on its way out to the sea, "that I should have been home with my children, but Cecilia is my child too, and I wanted to be here for her. It's only proper that I see her leave. I received her on this very jetty so long ago. And now she leaves me. She's not that little motherless girl she once was, but in my eyes, she's still so small, so very, very young.

The widow turned away from the sea as the tears began to form in her eyes. "She's too young to leave home. She's just a little girl."

Hickey put a hand on her shoulder. "Everybody have to leave home", he said, "and she's got the money you gave her for a ticket home."
The widow nodded.
"You did your best by her. No-one could have done more. She'll be fine", said Hickey.
The widow only sighed and they walked back to the wagon, where the horse was munching on the grass on the side of the road.

Epilogue

A couple of years later, Hickey read about the legend of the golden cradle in a book on Swedish folk lore. There he found that Cecilia had not told him the whole legend. The priest, who had aided the looters, had not escaped the revenge of the German princess. His house had been burnt down, and he had lost most of his belongings.

When Hickey told Smith of this, the latter felt a cold shiver down his back as he recalled that gray thing in the girl's shadow.

TO BE CONTINUED IN THE RETURN-TICKET CHILD

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