White Lady Lake

White Lady Lake

By Jan Atle Ramsli

It was 1982, I was eighteen years old and hungry for life. Oh, yeah. I was a wild boy in Oslo, a creature of the night, indulging in sex, drugs, and rock and roll until comatosed.

Karma got me in the end.

When I failed a French exam and got someone’s ugly daughter pregnant, my parents called me to the dining room for questions and answers at the dinner table. It wasn’t the first time this had happened, and if the summer met my expectations, it wouldn’t be the last.

Having showered and shaved, leaving a thin moustache to make me look older, I put on my new tennis shirt, sneakers, and a new pair of jeans. I tucked my aviator sunglasses into the placket and sauntered down the marble stairs, through the hall and into the dining room.

Both my parents were present. Father’s bald spot gleamed under the chandelier as he nodded at Mother, sitting opposite, looking at me, not him.

I tried to gauge the gravitas, but Mother’s face was devoid of expression, save for one eyebrow, raised a tenth of a millimeter. It was too early to tell what that meant.

Father turned to face me. “Ah. Lawrence William. There you are.”

I produced a carefully measured smile. “Good morning, Father.” It wasn’t him I should worry about.

Stealing another glance at Mother, I took one more step and stopped.

Aha. Last week, I had stuck a bag of weed inside a video case and hidden it in plain sight with my movie collection.

Now, it lay on display atop the freshly polished dinner table. Gestapo. They must have used a sniffer dog to find it.

Next to it, there was a postcard. Beautiful Norway, forest and lakes. Home of the inbred, where men are men and sheep are nervous.

Were they going on holiday in the woods? That would be a first. Perhaps they wanted to make sure I didn’t host too many outrageous parties in their absence. The weed was there as a type of incentive.

I put on my dependable face and nodded. “Good morning, Mother. You wanted to see me?”

Mother straightened her glasses. “Good morning, Lawrence William. Tell me, do you know what it’s like to have an abortion?”

So, what’s-her-name had kept her promise. Good. I shrugged. “No, Mother. I never had one. What is this about?”

It wasn’t about the parties -- more like mature sexual behavior. Use a condom the next time. What if she had kept the baby, blah, blah, blah. Her father is not one of us, you know, and yada, yada, yada. Do the parental monologue and bon voyage. Leave the wine cellar in my capable hands.

Father pointed to the chair at the end of the table. “What do you think it’s about?”

Now what? He never looked like that. This was something else. Damage control. Quick. “Uh, my future and all that jazz? The French exam?”

“Oui, mon cher.” Mother smiled.

Oh, shit. If she yelled, it was nothing. If she smiled, it was serious. I sat at the end of the table with both hands in my lap and did the doggie eyes. Not too much, or it might backfire.

“This time, it’s about your immediate future,” Father explained, “not some fluffy future daydream. We’ve decided to cut your allowance in half, starting now.”

I’d choke on vomit and go to Hell. No parties, no girls, no drugs, no music, only suffering and utter boredom. Poverty and public transportation. My eyes bulged. As my faculties returned, I gasped, “Say what? You might as well kill me.”

Mother frowned as if she’d already thought about it.

“Now, listen.” Dad cleared his throat. “If you’re to retake the French exam in August, you need to study, not fuck your future away--” He glanced at Mother, who nodded, then he looked at the postcard, “--and we have found just the right place for it, far from the decadent distractions of the city.” He pushed the postcard across the table. “It’s called Stockby, have a look.”

I counted seven white houses near a tiny lake. One of the houses was circled in red.

No way. “To learn French, people go to France, not to some braindead village in the middle of nowhere.”

Father put his hand on my shoulder and looked me in the eyes. “You’ve failed an exam, Lawrence. If we rewarded mediocrity, what do you think would happen to the world?”

I sneered. “Ronald Reagan would be president of the USA.” Ka-boom.

“Oh. I see.” Father stood. “You want to go into politics and become our next Vidkun quisling? Let me get the old Luger and shoot you right away. Or would you prefer to be hanged upside down with your bowels over your face like Mussolini?” His voice broke.

I had never seen him that upset. He must have had an obnoxious phone call before I came. “No, Father. It was a joke.”

“Good.” He wiped his forehead. “With you, it’s hard to tell sometimes.”

He was on the defensive. Time to play hardball. “In return for my voluntary exile, I want Grandfather’s old Princess Vanden Plas, no reduction in my weekly allowance and a map, so I can find my way to that godforsaken place.”

“The map’s in the car.” Mother threw me the keys. “And so are your books.”

“And the weed?” No harm in trying.

“Stays with us.” She smiled again. “We’ll keep it for you until you come back. Now, hug me goodbye.”

I loaded my records and my Tandberg stereo in the trunk and followed the map, way down south along the dreaded, sanctimonious Bible coast. Down here, country roads were apparently built without any planning, budgeting or consideration for modern contraptions like automobiles. Moose must have walked first, then the Vikings trod in its tracks. Now, the National Roadworks had covered the twisting, old game trails with asphalt. Grandpa’s old Austin Princess vanden Plas roared and spat along the straights, the tires screamed around the turns. It was like playing Night Driver, except here it was sunny. And game over meant death.

After eight hours of dire driving, I turned left, passed a small town with two streets, and continued in second gear along the narrowest road I had ever seen. The mountainside towered on the left, and on the right, a hundred meters below, ocean waves broke against the cliffs.

An hour later, in the middle of a forest, the road forked. I turned right towards Stockby. As I passed the tiny lake from the postcard, a chill ran down my spine.

Hello, there. The prickling in my neck made me glance out the side window.

Whoa. My heart skipped a beat. I stopped the car.

What the hell? Encircled by trees, the lake resembled an iris, staring right at me. Freaky. It was as if it saw me coming and wanted my attention.

Was it the roots, stretching into the water? Or perhaps an optical effect produced by the ripples on the surface?

I got out of the car to get a better look. The lake scintillated between the treetops, but the illusion was gone. It was just a lake. With the prickling still in my neck, I got back in the car and continued in second gear.

Fifty meters ahead, I recognized a two-story, white villa, built in the same style as our summer house.

I parked on the lawn and carried my stuff inside.

The living room furniture consisted of an old Chesterfield sofa with two matching chairs, a tall, dark stove and a rocking chair in a corner. The place had to be the pinnacle of geriatric apathy.

In the dining room, a golden lustre, more pretentious but definitely cheaper than the one in our dining room, hung over a dinner table.

On the positive side, I had the house to myself, the rent was paid and I had a car of sorts, should the isolation abrade my sanity.

After replacing a rusted out fuse, I hooked up the stereo and settled in.

What could I do but study? On y va. Je suis. Tu est. Nous sommes, vous êtes, ils sont, et qu’est-ce que cela me fait chier une pendule.

It had been a week. I needed air and went for a walk.

Next to the road, empty bottles lay strewed around a small, red house. Someone had painted the name ‘Gundersen’ with an unsteady hand across the mailbox. The village drunk, most likely.

Not in the mood for a redneck party, I walked the other way.

At the end of a small forest path, there was a house similar to mine. A scary old hag with a wart on her chin crawled around in a flower bed. As I approached, she got on her feet, wiped her hands on her tartan apron and came waddling toward me.

When faced with someone from the lower classes, my father would have nodded, turned on his heel and marched back the way he came. My mother wouldn’t even have nodded. I, on the other hand, was a modern, civilized and classless person who had grown up with TV and Black Sabbath. “A lovely day for gardening, madame,” I said, glancing up at the blazing sun.

“Indeed,” she said. “You must be the young man from Oslo?”

I straightened my posture. “Lawrence William von Uranienborg. We don’t use the ‘von’ anymore.”

“Oh, Laurentius, what a lovely name.” She shook my hand and lit up in a radiant smile, baring a golden canine. “Thorbjørg Berendsen. I was just about to put the kettle on. Please, come. I’ve made waffles.”

Well, what the hell. I followed the old woman around the house.

“Have a seat. I’ll be right back.” She pointed to a white, wooden table and four chairs, neatly arranged in the shadow of an old cherry tree. On top of the table, a stack of fluffy, golden waffles spread a scent of caramelized honey, baked wheat, cinnamon, eggnog, and butter so seductive, it had to be evil. And the deep red jam didn’t come from the shop, either. Strawberries grew wild on every crag and outcrop I had seen since I came.

My stomach rumbled. I bowed. “Thank you.”

As I sat, a titmouse fluttered from a branch to the opposite chair, hopped back and forth on the armrest with one eye on me and one on the waffles.

Oh no, you don’t. Had I been stoned, I would have growled. I shooed it away, and as it flew past me, that same chill ran down my spine. Was someone watching me? I peeked over my shoulder.

Apart from a bumble bee buzzing over a dandelion, the chirping birds, and the sound of Thorbjørg’s shoes over the floorboard inside the house, the place was quiet. Deadly quiet. Spooky. An icy gust stroked my back, making my neck hairs stand on end. I wiped a pearl of sweat from my forehead and sat back. Was I getting sick? It had to be almost 30C in the sun.

Thorbjør stood in the door with coffee cups and plates. She tilted her head. “Is anything the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I grimaced. “No, I just felt this shiver of cold. But it’s okay now.”

She put the plates and cups on the table and sat where the bird had been a moment ago. “Go on. The waffles won’t eat themselves.”

I grabbed one, smeared it with jam and took a too large bite. Not too sweet, crispy on the outside, soft on the inside with a texture reminiscent of a pancake, giving the overall gastronomy of profiteroles, but a million times more tasty. Cherubic. My manners succumbed to my pallet’s orgasmic pleasure, and I wolfed down the rest of the waffle in three large gulps. Had Mother been there, she would have whacked me across my face. Undaunted by her indoctrination, I ate two more. Now, my stomach hurt and my face was full of sticky jam. Epicureanism. One of my life’s toughest choices. I tried to suppress a burp.

Thorbjørg raised her cup and smiled. “That’s better. You were so pale, I thought you had seen the White Lady.”

A local spectre, for sure. Whatever I did from now on, I was in for a ghost story. I chuckled. “A titmouse flew by a few centimeters over my head. I guess the wingbeats gave me a chill.”

Thorbjørg put down her cup. “So, you did see her?”

Here we go. “Is she a shape-shifter?”

“She’s anything you want her to be.” Thorbjørg was obviously ready to tell me the story. Her clear blue eyes, playfully evil, twinkled like daggers in her withered face. With a trembling voice, she mimicked a baby’s sorrowful cries.

“She had a baby?”

“A baby but no husband to save her from starvation. I’ve heard the baby cry many times, and my old aunt Greta has seen the White Lady walk into the lake and disappear.” Thorbjørg spat on the ground, presumably to ward off trolls, black elves and Satan.

I loved it. “Why is she called the White Lady? Did she come from a rich family?”

“Olaf Einarssons was a piss poor Tatar fisherman and Jenny was his daughter. One day, when she was out on the skerries near Sandy Island looking for seagull eggs, an English Lord had his way with her.”

Gulp. “How did an English Lord get here?”

“He was the captain of an English warship, anchored off the coast.”

“An English warship wouldn’t fit in that tiny lake.”

“Don’t be silly. I told you it happened on the skerries. The ocean is fifteen minutes away.” She pointed to a knoll. “You can see it from up there.”

I wanted to know more, but Torbjørg sat back, looking over yonder. Was she angry about my stupid comment, and had decided I was unworthy of her story?

Relax. Have a waffle.

Ten minutes later, I did my best to hide my disbelief and tried to crank her up. “Sounds like the story of Terje Vigen.”

“Holy Jesus, no.” Thorbjørg’s eyes widened as she redressed herself. “This man was the Devil himself, fighting for England against Denmark-Norway and the great Napoleon of France.”

How did that go again? The English warships lay waste to Copenhagen, forcing Denmark onto the French side of the Napoleonic war. Napoleon lost, and as punishment, England ordered Denmark to give Norway to the Swedes. This was why we celebrated the 17th of May. We seized the opportunity to write a constitution so the Swedes could rule us as a nation, not a province.

My stomach contracted. I burped. “How did the villagers react?”

Thorbjørg slurped her coffee. “In the middle of the night, the Einarsson brothers rowed out to the English ship, killed everyone on board and took the weapons and silverware.”

“For real?”

“Oh, yes. The English weren’t always the friendly, peaceful people they are now.”

I meant the Norwegians, but didn’t want to derail her with semantics. “Then what happened?”

“She became with child.” Thorbjørg leaned back to illustrate.

“And the Einarssons collected the child support in advance.”

“Easy come, easy go. They bought a farm with the money, and lost it to gambling and drink seven years later.”

“I still don’t understand why she’s called the White Lady?”

“It was a name given by the people of Stockby village to shame her.” Thorbjørg nodded with a somber face. “His Lordship was a nobleman. Had they let him live, he would never have married a Norwegian girl, let alone a Tatar child. Once the baby was born, neither would anyone else. When the lady-not-to-be wrapped herself in white linen, took her newborn baby in her arms and drowned herself and the baby in the lake, she knew she’d stay there forever. That poor soul should be in Heaven, with Odin Allfather and Jesus Christ, but she won’t leave before she’s found herself a man. Tvi vøre.” Thorbjørg spat.

Tvi vøre. I snickered. A foreigner would have expected her to blow her nose in the waffles, but I knew better. That old expression called on the Viking god Ty for protection against the forces of darkness. The Vikings used to spit in the mead before handing the bowl to the next brave warrior. Hence the repugnant gesture.

“Have another waffle.” She smiled.

I raised my hand.

“Nonsense.” She put one in front of me. “You need strength for the second part of the story.”

“There’s more?” I chewed on a heart.

“Oh, yes.” She pointed to a villa next to the White Lady lake. “That’s the Steens’ house. Last summer, their eighteen-year-old son, Egil, shot himself by the lake.”

Egil Steen. Holy shit. That name had been in the papers. Tragic hunting accident down south. The waffle stuck in my throat. I coughed it up.

Thorbjørg grinned. “The Steens came from Oslo, just like you. They built that villa next to the lake, even though we warned them of the White Lady.”

Oh, come on. I sneered. “And what? Egil Steen shot himself to make penance?”

She shook her head. “The White Lady seduced him. We warned him not to go to the lake, but the silly boy began throwing coins in there. Soon, he was stealing silverware from his parents, too. It has happened many times before. They say the bottom of the lake will always contain enough silver to buy the farm the Einarssons lost.”

“People throw money in there?”

“Not only money. Diamond rings, necklaces, even bars of gold. And they always kill themselves afterwards.”

Shiver me timbers, what a tall tale. Let’s say a tenth of it was true -- what was the going rate for a diamond ring these days? Enough for a party, for sure.

As I sat there, sipping coffee, the idea of a treasure hunt took shape in my malleable mind. Carefully, I began, “I haven’t been there, yet, but I can see it from the road. Every time I drive by, I feel that same chill run down my spine. What do you think if I checked it out?”

“Good Lord.” Torbjørg gasped. “Swear that you’ll never go down there.”

Shit. I crossed my fingers and made a solemn promise.

Nobody would go anywhere near the White Lady Lake; The believers shunned it for obvious reasons, peer pressure took care of the rest. No rational human being would ever risk being seen trawling for cursed gold in a phantom pond.

Due to the the thick vegetation surrounding the tiny tarn, rock formations or maybe something in the soil, the place was foggy and cold, even on bright sunny days.

It was up to me, and this time, I had something to work with. Armed with a metal detector borrowed from old Gundersen, a perforated bucket of my own devising and a few lengths of string, I trampled into the bushes.

As expected, a path meandered through the tree trunks.

Someone had been there, all right, quite recently. Excited, I pressed on.

The path widened as I approached the lake. A couple of branches had been hacked off with a large knife or small axe.

From the road it had looked like a swamp. From down here, it was the most mesmerizing scenery I had ever encountered. Century-old birches stretched towards the sky. Blueberry bushes and junipers grew between the trunks. It was the perfect setting for a clandestine rendezvous, were it not for a pungent stench.

A place like this shouldn’t smell like that. I squinted at a tall plant with sharp green leaves and pinkish flowers -- definitely angel's trumpet. The datura plant had been used by vølver and seidman, the nordic mystics since the Viking ages, and contained alkaloids more powerful than LSD.

What psychedelic wonders. As soon as I had found myself an enlightened local girlfriend, I’d bring her here for some New Age herbal medicine and seven levels of esoteric pleasure. I should remember to bring a toilet air freshener, too. Yuck. Move on.

I could walk comfortably on the rocky ground. From time to time, a delicate wind gust whispered through the leaves, the only sound to break the peaceful silence.

The forest was bigger than it seemed from the road. It was early in the morning, but the dark shadows gave the place an eerie, nocturnal atmosphere. Above me, the vegetation was so thick, it was impossible to see where the sunlight came from. Was I going in circles? Bewildered, I stopped and looked around. Nothing but jungle in every direction.

A glimmer caught my eye. There. My heart beat faster. Twenty meters ahead, White Lady Lake blinked between the trunks.

I bent the branches aside and plodded through underbrush before I stood back and gasped.

Absolutely breathtaking. Surrounded by dark, disheveled roots and yellow grass, the circular, blue pond reflected the clouds like a portal to another world.

I immediately realized that I had made an awkward choice of treasure hunting gear. Not only that -- I had been so captured by the scenery that I hadn’t noticed the gurgling as I walked. My shoes and socks were soaking wet; Gundersen’s metal detector didn’t work under water and the string was too short to reach more than a few meters.

Nevermind. I threw the bucket in the water and hauled it in, letting it scrape along the bottom before I poured it over a tussock and switched on the metal detector.

Holy crap. It beeped. I was rich. Letting my fingers run through the mud, I felt a tiny coin.

Yuck, not even a crown.

No … wait. I rubbed it with my thumb. The name on the coin was Christian VII, not Olav V. The king before Olav was called Haakon, and the one before that was a Swedish dude named Oscar II.

I washed it clean. Two shillings, minted in the year of the Lord eighteen hundred, was more than a crown.

It was a numismatic rarity.

Arr, me hearties. I threw the bucket again. Another one, this time a four shillings, 1788, gleamed at me from the mound.

Gold fever set in. Euphoric, I snatched the coin, stuck it in my pocket and threw the bucket again and again, getting wealthier and wealthier as the metal detector whistled and squeaked. Thank God I had kept it over my head.

Good, old Thorbjørg. All she wanted was to tell her story, and I was the first to ever really listen.

The sun began to set. Time to count the loot. A few modern coins, a silver fork and a pearl necklace confirmed Thorbjørg’s theory, the rational part of it, at least. Seven coins, all from the period mid 1700s to 1800 made me decide to come back next morning for more.

As I turned to begin the journey home, my foot got stuck in a twisted root.

Ouch. I tried to jerk it loose, but the root didn’t let go. Instead, it forced me to my knees, pressing me forward and down. I pushed against the wet grass with my palms, but couldn’t overcome the pull.

My gold fever was gone and I was shitting bricks. If I got stuck in here, nobody would come for me. I could scream off the top of my lungs, and they’d probably think it was the baby.

I needed leverage. Contorting backwards, I grabbed the metal detector and yanked the handle in between the root and a stone. Using my free heel, I wedged it in and pulled my other leg up.

Whew. I was free, but Gundersen’s metal detector had to stay where it was. There was no way to get it loose without proper equipment. I had no choice but to come back tomorrow and fix this with an axe, or I’d have to explain to old Gundersen why I needed to borrow his chainsaw before he could have his metal detector back.

It was getting dark. With the bucket in my hand and the booty in my pockets, I fumbled my way back into the woods, looking for the trail I had followed when I came.

A burning sting on the back of my hand told me I had gone the wrong way. Nettles. I raised my arms over my head and trod into the darkness.

Two hundred meters to my right, a pair of headlights glinted through the shadows and disappeared.

That way. I ran towards it, caught my aching foot in a branch and landed face down in the vegetation. My mouth was full of bitter leaves.

Tvi vøre. I spat it out, got up and bolted for the flickering light.

When I got home, cold and wet, I emptied my pockets on the table and threw my clothes in the washing machine.

A baby cried.

What the fuck? I jumped and spun around.

A young, beautiful woman sat in my rocking chair, holding a baby, staring at me with penetrating eyes. It was as if a painting by Rafael had come to life, here in my humble abode.

Holy Mary, Mother of God.

As I went down on my knees, I noticed the long, curly, blonde hair draping her shoulders.

Wait. No halo. Mary was Jewish, and she didn’t wear a corset, either. I got up, swayed and grabbed hold of the table.

Yay. Freaky. I had to ask, “Are you the, uh …” Shit. I didn’t even know her name.

My heart raced. I had probably chewed on some datura leaves when I fell in the woods, and right now, I was having the trip of my life.

Speak, unholy spirit. Speak or be gone.

“You made Egil kill himself,” I lashed out.

“I did no such thing.”

Who said that?

“I did.” She smiled like a madonna.

Jeezes. Remind me to buy a book of herbal remedies. I shuffled to the couch and sat, gazing at the White Lady as she put the baby in a crib that had to be part of my hallucination. I’d better curb this brain-to-brain loopback right fucking now, or the Sheriff might show up with a sniffer dog. “Accursed ghost, art thou here for mine soul?” I hoped she spoke English. My Shakespearean was definitely not up to par.

She crossed her legs and straightened her white, pre-Victorian dress. “I’d rather you used my real name, you unpleasant little peasant.”

Which is? I had no idea.

“My name is Genevieve de Rutherford. You may address me as Lady Rutherford, or just milady. Si vous parlez le francais, vous pouvez m’appeler madame.”

My cognitive dissonance screamed. First of all, I had no idea my subconscious mind could conjure up erotic images in such unclouded detail, while at the same time being so wrong about the subject to portray. Sure enough, the White Lady was supposed to be white, but ghost-white like paper, not alabaster white with roses in her cheeks and lip-gloss. Secondly, if she told me things I couldn’t possibly know, and they turned out to be correct … then she might not even be a hallucination. Oh, horror. At least, she didn’t look like nineteenth century white trash with dirty fingernails and rotten teeth, which was a blessing, considering where she must have come from. My own, warped version of Thorbjørg’s story, of course.

I took a deep breath and got it under control.

Relax, man. That’s exactly the thing about getting stoned. You get access to hidden information. Look at the bright side: she doesn’t seem vengeful at all, and she hasn’t even mentioned the silver.

My heart rate slowed. Politely, I conversed. “You seem quite normal for a ghost, Madame. May I inquire as to your reason for being here?”

“A terrible crime has been committed against my family and myself, and I’m here to set the record straight.”

Record. Of course, great idea. Something to calm the nerves. “Would you like some music?”

“I’d rather not. I haven’t got much time.”

A datura trip lasts twenty-four hours at least. Maybe more. I smiled. “Madame, I insist.”

“In that case, bring in the musician.” She threw her head back. “But I shall not dance, and I implore you not to wake the baby. A mellow serenade, or perhaps some of Bach’s lute works might soothe me.”

She looked kinda hot, in a stuck up, snobbish kind of way. My parents would have loved her and I’d have porked her brains out with sublime enjoyment … but that’s not how hallucinations worked, and in the real world, impulses like that could get real messy.

Stay sharp. I flipped through the records. Barry White? Oh, no. Can’t believe I even bought that … let me see … Black Sabbath, Paranoid. Yeah, maybe. My fingertips touched a single. I pulled it out.

Sex pistols, Anarchy in the UK. That ought to blow her mind. I turned the volume to max, placed the needle on the record and let it rip.

Whoa. Johnny Rotten had barely sung a verse before her ladyship sprang up and hurled a ball of lightning at the stereo. The power went out.

Damn fuses. I staggered out in the hall, opened the fuse box, found the hot one and replaced it.

Back in the living room, Lady de Rutherford sat, rocking the crib next to her.

As I walked through the door, she fulminated. “Your infernal inventions will not enthrall me, peasant.”

The stereo was dead. Very dead. The membranes dangled in tatters and rags from gaping, black holes in the speakers.

Bad call on my part. “I apologize, milady. I should have known. You have to go through the Jazz era before you’re ready for the Pistols. Let’s talk instead, as you suggested. Beer?”

“I beg your pardon?” She tilted her head.

“Belgian ale?” That was a bluff. I didn’t have any.

“What on Earth do you take me for? If you can’t offer a decent sherry, bring me some water and sit down. I have something to tell you.”

I offered her a Prince. “Cigarette?”

“I really shouldn’t.”

“Come on, milady. It’s not like they’ll kill you. Live a little.” I pulled one out for her.

Holy crap, she took it.

Hoping I wasn’t about to set the curtains on fire, I lit it.

She puffed on it until it glowed, then she looked at it, seemingly astonished, before she sat back and  blew a smoke ring my way. “What a superbly assuasive tobacco. Where did you get this? The Americas?”

Oh my God. Now she was downright mesmerizing. “It’s made in Denmark,” I blurted.

She bent forward, coughed and put it out. When she looked up, her eyes were so sad, I wanted to cry.

What is it with me and girls I like, anyway? Why can’t I just be normal? Why do I have to be so mean? It’s not like she’s done anything to me. Apologize, goddammit. “Please forgive me, madame. I shouldn’t have said that, you having been at war with them and all. First when they invaded you back in 1020-something and then--”

“Yes … and then, when the Danish pirates boarded my father’s vessel.”

“Vessel, huh? The Einarssons couldn’t have owned more than a faering.”

“My father’s name was William de Rutherford. I was fifteen years old when the privateers came onboard, slaying everyone before they grabbed Maman and me and took us to this godforsaken land. My father survived. He requisitioned a new ship, the Podargus, and searched for us everywhere. When he found me--”

Fuck. “He raped you and the Einarssons killed him?”

“Impertinent little commoner.” Her perfectly protruding lips made her look like Debbie Harry as she sneered. “How dare you suggest such a thing? My father was a gentleman. He would never touch a child and surely not his own daughter. The same could not be said of the Stockby sheriff. The Einarssons, blessed be their heathen souls, kept me safe from his evil, groping hands.”

“And when your father found you--”

“He brought me to the Podargus to take me home. The villagers came in the night, butchered him and everyone else before they dragged me back to Stockby village. I was devastated. Until that day, I was an innocent child. Then--” Her lip trembled.

Thorbjørg probably didn’t know it, but her story was bullshit from start to finish. Probably not unlike the first American reports from Vietnam, and how they helped the poor farmers fight communism. Then came the napalm girl and fucked it all up.

“The Stockby sheriff, huh?” Blame the outsiders and cover up the truth. Typical.

She nodded. Tears ran down her cheeks.

“So so, milady.” I got up and walked slowly towards her, hoping something would come to mind while I spoke. “It was a long time ago. It’s over now. The Stockby sheriff is dead and locked away in a dungeon in Hell, run by the SS. I can assure you, every night … uh, take my word for it. He’s being adequately punished.”

“I’m awfully sorry.” She sobbed. “You’re the first person to whom I tell this story in over a hundred years. I’m not one to lament my destiny to cherethites and pelethites, but I’ve been so terribly lonely.”

There had to be a way to comfort this tormented soul. How would she react if I touched her? I hesitated. “The Einarssons bought a farm. I mean … they didn’t die, they actually bought a farm. Where did they get the money?”

Her blue eyes glittered with sorrowful affliction. “I overheard the sheriff deliberate whether to send them to Davy Jones’ locker, which I’m sure you know, is a euphemism for the bottom of the sea, or pay them a ransom for their discretion. The war was nearing its successful conclusion and he must have decided on the latter out of cowardice.”

“And you never met a boy named Egil? He lived next door to you, for lack of a better term?”

“The last thing I remember, was when the Sheriff dragged us to the lake, drowned his own son and hit me in the head with a hammer.”

A warm, white sensation filled my body as I put my hand on her head, stroking her gently, as one compassionate spirit to another.

What the hell? I stood by the window all by myself, caressing the curtains, crying like a baby.

Where did she go? I wiped my face and paced up the stairs to the bedroom.

She said she didn’t have much time.

Crap. The datura had to be wearing off faster than I thought. Exhausted, I crawled upstairs and slept.

The next morning, on a hunch, I checked the living room. Oh, yes, it happened. The coins were still on the table, old man Gundersen’s metal detector was gone, the speakers looked like indoor hunting accidents and my Tandberg amplifier smelled like a bonfire in a chemical plant. Never mind. Sweet Lady Genevieve had touched my heart. I had to finish our conversation, tell her how I really felt, deep, deep down inside.

I found an axe in the basement and returned to the lake, but left the bucket at home. I wasn’t looking for silver anymore, I was looking for tall plants with pointy leaves and trumpet-like flowers -- New Age entheogenics to help me commune with the dead.

After having trawled the forest up and down for three hours, I gave up. What I did find, was the metal detector, lying next to the heap of mud from my treasure hunt.

Overcome by melancholy, I sat by the water until the sun went down, contemplating the boundaries of reality. If I scribbled a message on a paper, then tore up the paper, the message would be gone. I could, however, recall  the exact same message from memory and write it down again, thus bringing it back into existence.

Genevieve de Rutherford had proved to me that an entity which only lived within a human mind could be as real as me, as long as I performed a series of steps in the right sequence at the right time. There was no point in asking old Thorbjørg for advice. She’d have a shit-fit if she knew what I had done.

How long did a datura trip last? Was it twenty-four hours or forty-eight? Why was I having these incoherent thoughts? One thing was sure. I wasn’t going back to the house just yet.

I walked back and forth along the waterside, waving the metal detector while trying to get my foot tangled up in a root and maybe trigger an event, to no avail.

Dejected, I returned home and sat on my couch.

Assuming Genevieve de Rutherford existed, if only in my mind, why didn’t she show herself again?

Was it something I did wrong? Perhaps she was testing my integrity?

In fact, I didn’t care. All I wanted, and I wanted it more for each passing hour, was to continue the experience from yesterday.

The next day, I threw the silver back into the lake to see what happened.

Fuck all. I skipped a few of my own coins over the water to verify. Tiny ripples was all I saw.

A week passed, or a month, and I missed my exam, or rather, I didn’t miss it at all. I sat by the lake, moping, waiting, hoping for a glimpse of my precious Lady Genevieve.

One day, it began to snow. I took the Princess and drove it into the forest before I covered it up with leaves. I didn’t want my parents to take it away for having failed the exam. They would never understand me anyway.

It’s winter now, and the roads are getting slippery. I have been to the lake every single day since my rendezvous with the captivating lady, but haven’t seen as much as a shadow. It’s all frozen now, and frankly, I’m getting desperate.

Maybe we only get to see her once in our lifetimes, and that’s why Egil shot himself.

That would make sense.

Yeah. It would make a lot of sense. I get dressed and go outside.

Fluffy snowflakes fall on my head, making my hair wet. The birds are gone. The forest is peaceful and white.

How could I not have seen this before?

I run to the car, start it up and drive down the winding road.

The road covered with snow.

I don’t have winter tires, and I don’t need them, because now, I know what to do.

I’ll have my Princess take me to my Lady.