Spirits of the forest

Hangovers. God’s little punishment for no longer being 19. Along with all the other stuff – regret, arthritis, memory, heartburn, incipient decrepitude. I take one step out of the wooden cabin into the glowing mid-summer morning of the Stockholm archipelago.

The sunshine that starts soon after midnight.

People are walking past on the gravel path. Happy blonde people. Rays of sunshine made human. With good looks, legs and long blonde hair.

I almost recoil from the niceness of it all, back into the shade of the aquavit of the long, half-night before. Hair of the dog calls – a sip of the rough stuff with a dash of lemonade soon loosens the headache’s grip.

So a second tumblerful makes sense too. I have social responsibilities though. Must get moving.

I wander out into the gravel road with a plastic bag full of drinks, mixers and snacks and follow the stream of holiday-makers to the square where a maypole awaits, though I am sure the Swedes call it something else. May has been swallowed by June and now it’s the longest day of the year. A pole anyway, with ribbons. People in traditional dress. Maybe they are going to dance. I don’t care.

Happy people celebrating the passing of time that just makes them older than they were a moment before. The inexorable and cruel juggernaut. Why is the passing of time ever celebrated? Slow it down or stop it for a few days and we’d have something to celebrate.

I was supposed to meet the office crowd here. Can’t see them. I hold my watch up to my clouded vision and see it is an hour after we were supposed to meet. I try to call Hank, my sales manager, but he’s not answering, or doesn’t have a signal. I don’t have anyone else’s number in my phone. I don’t encourage conviviality. Office parties are different of course. Then all workaday social restrictions are left behind.

There was talk of a walk through the pine woods to the island’s far side for drinks and lounging in the sun on the shelving granite shore. One last look to make sure there’s no-one in sight I recognise, then I dawdle into the trees and away from the crowds. I think this is the way.

Pine trees, sticks and low grasses, pine needles. No tracks. I stumble, groan as a shaft of pain flicks through my skull. A small field of moss among the twigs and dry needles of the forest floor and I sit down, lean against a trunk. Pull out a plastic cup. Look into the bag. Decide a gin and tonic might cheer me up. Thankfully still cold from the fridge. I sip it slowly. Feeling less hungover.

Motes of dust float in the sun. I smile, watching them aimlessly waft in the air.

A few motes seem to merge together and make a shape. A wing…that flaps gently then is just dust again. I blink, look around. Nothing. More gin? Don’t mind if I do…

Two wings this time. Appearing as if from nothing, coalescing from floating dust then fluttering apart and returning to nothing. A pinecone near my hand. I pick it up and throw it where the wings were. They appear, bigger now, flutter away and are gone again. It’s as if they are gathering dust and pine pollen from the air and becoming…something. I toss another cone. The wings appear, attach to the cone. It changes shape to something like a face. An ugly little face. Fairy wings on a little ogre’s head.

I pretend I haven’t seen it and pour myself another G&T, toss it back quickly, eyes closed so the world will return to just me and the glade. It’s still there though. Now it’s a small, very ugly little full-bodied ogre with gossamer wings. It leers at me.

“Oh fuck off,” is the best I can manage, somewhere between fear and annoyance.

“Your friends are waiting for you,” it says - a high-pitched Scandinavian accent.

“They can wait.”

“You can’t stay here. Not with mid-summer approaching.”

“Why not. I’m rather comfortable actually.”

“The forest doesn’t like intruders. Not when it’s celebrating.”

“The forest.”

“And its friends.”

“What sort of friends? Ugly little dwarfs?”

“Huldra, näken, vittra, vättar, tomte.”

What the hell is happening? The alcohol has clearly messed with my head. I have heard about huldra, but they are female seductresses, luring men to their deaths in the depths of the Swedish forests. This ugly little creep…

“What are you?” I ask it.

“Tomte me. Forest spirit.”

“So take me to my friends and we’ll call it quits.” I stand up, brush leaves and twigs off my jeans, swallow the drink, drop the cup in the bag and walk away. Maybe this thing will disappear and I can tell the office party about the weird dream I had when I fell asleep in the forest.

Oh god, it’s following me. A faint whirring of wings behind and then ahead of me.

“This way. Follow me and all will be revealed. Oh you’ve a dance to dance today Mr Human.”

“Barry. My name’s Barry”

“You must tell me about yourself now, Mr Barry…”

“Just…oh don’t bother.”

“You are too easily exasperated…whoops.” It almost flies into a tree trunk, not looking where it’s going. Well, at least it didn’t just fly through the tree as if it wasn’t there. Which makes me ponder. Do things that emerge from floating dust count as real if they can bump into trees? And - what is real if that ‘thing’ exists?

Or is my brain just creating things. Like last night’s nightmare? The images flood back. I blink.

“This way My Name’s Barry.” It zips ahead, then back, then away again with an annoying little titter.

‘The hell with this’ I think and turn to head in a different direction, but my feet, quite contrary to my intention, make me follow where it leads. It grins malevolently, shrugs its shoulders with a cruel delight, and wafts ahead, whistling. Out of tune. Painfully, cruelly out of tune.

My phone rings. Hank…

“Hi Hank.”

“Boss. Where are you?”

“On my way, somewhere in the forest.”

“Well at least we’ve found you.”

“Have we lost somebody then?”

“Jane and Hannah. No-one’s seen them since last night. Oh, hold on! Hannah’s just coming along the coast. Great! Just Jane to go then. How far away are you?”

“Not sure, but I’m heading west I think.” Jane?

“It’s not far. You can see a lighthouse from anywhere on the coast – we’re just north of that. Easy to find. Just follow the noise. You know this rabble.”

“OK, see you soon.”

Jane?

My personal ogre titters, turns and flies away. I have no choice but to follow. Maybe not exactly west, but it seems the right general direction. Jane?

“Slow down,” I mutter but it ignores me.

Then, there she is. Jane. Just like my dream. Prostrate on the ground. Face down. A patch of blood in her hair.

I had had too much to drink. I left the party and she was outside, looking up at the sky. It became a walk in the woods. A quiet chat. Laughter.

It seemed like the thing to do. I put an arm round her shoulder.

She wasn’t attracted to me. The rejection was sharp, mocking. Then…deriding. I was shocked, then overwhelmed with frustration. Then…anger…aggression….

All too much.

I…I thought it was a bad dream. But here she is…

“Stop tittering!” I yell at the sprite that isn’t real, but that hovers in the air above her, shaking its head. Disapproval, from a flying miniature ogre. Has the aquavit burrowed into my brain? How could this be happening? No, it’s just a nightmare. I had woken up in my hotel room!

“What now Mr Barry?”

“I had a nightmare. This isn’t real any more than you are real. Wake me up!”

“Ah, real. Reality is just a series of apparitions.”

“Well apparition me a different reality!”

“Shouldn’t you call the police, an ambulance?”

“Leave me alone!” I look at her prone form. A fly lands on her cheek, probing with its ugly little proboscis in the corner of her eye. I can’t do this. I can’t be here. I walk off. Towards the coast.

“Running away?”

I ignore it and keep walking. Now though it seems to give up the vile dance and lets me go. I stumble on dead branches, crush ferns under my heavy feet. Crash through the woods. Then the sea is ahead and I emerge from the pine trees onto the beautiful and gentle granite coast. The sea washes against boulders, up ledges that slope into the water.

I bend over, hands on my knees, taking the weight. I breathe the cool, salty air. I see Jane’s face, the fly scuttling onto her open eye, staring, lifeless, at the moss.

A voice calls. “Barry!”

It’s Hank, running towards me. Others wave. What do I say? What happened? Can’t say anything, at least not yet. Get through the next hours.

“Gawd you like worked over. What did you get up to last night?” He laughed. I turned away, hoping it seemed like I was just looking at the view. Hoping to hide an automatic response of fear and anguish. That dream…

“Probably has a bit too much to drink,” I say, and cough to cover a catch in my throat. I passed him my plastic bag. He looks into the bag and smiles.

“That should keep us going a bit longer.”

I hope my face has relaxed. I smile. “I could probably do with one now.” I wave to the rest of them. “Heyo!”

Hank holds up the bag. “More!”

They cheer and raise glasses.

“Has Jane turned up?” I ask. Not too nervous?

“Oh she called.”

“She called?” Trying not to look surprised.

“She seemed a bit strange. Said she was feeling terrible and was going to get the next ferry and an early flight home. She said your name but I couldn’t catch the rest of the sentence. Signal’s a bit wobbly out here.”

“But she’s OK?”

“OK enough. Said she didn’t need any help but might see a doctor when she gets home.”

Hank looks into the bag.

“Aquavit?” He pulls out a bottle of Åhus and holds it up for me.

“Maybe something lighter?” I say.

“Ah yeah, you just don’t know how powerful these local spirits can be…”

Spirits.

I look at him, but he is delving into the bag for something else.