A Winters Night
A Short story
By
Theodore brun
First published in Great Britain in 2018 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.
Copyright Theodore Brun, 2018
The moral right of Theodore Brun to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
E-book ISBN: 978 1 78649 8595
Corvus
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Contents
A Winters Night
The events I set out to describe here took place just over ten years ago. They might have gone unrecorded for far longer were it not for a note I recently received from a cousin of mine, who lives in the south of the island of Zealand in Denmark. In the note a simple message telling me of his plans to visit me this coming winter he happened to mention the funeral of an old Dane of mutual acquaintance called Fleming Trolleskjold.
Trolleskjold .
I had not heard nor spoken that name for many years. Although I confess that in all that time I have, more often than I care to recall, known it whispered in my mind, as in a dream, on nights when the wind blows biting cold or the snow lies thick on the ground.
Then my thoughts fly back to that strange meeting ten years ago, when, as a young man of twenty-five, I was welcomed as a guest in the old Kammerherres house. A house? No, a castle! Yet what took place that night I have never told a soul, for who would credit what I had to tell? I should certainly not believe it myself.
Nevertheless, the old man is now at rest and with him the ancient story of his name. So, here I must set down on paper as much of this encounter as I can recall, for no better reason than it is true.
It was one of the first days in the month of January, 2002. I was driving west from Copenhagen and it was snowing. I should not have even been there. I was merely fulfilling a social obligation of my fathers to attend a pheasant shoot on the estate of a friend of his in Jutland. He was unable to come himself owing to an unexpected lapse in his health. So I had come in his place.
The expressway cut like a blade across the island of Zealand, over the long bridge newly built that spanned the Great Belt, then across the isle of Fyn onto the mainland peninsula of Jutland, where it turned north. The darkness and the snow, which fell ever heavier, slowed the traffic to a crawl. I drove along staring into the murk, following the line of tail lights that glared at me, red and sullen.
At last, I came to that part of the country the Danes call the nose of Jutland. Here I was to continue cross-country along ever-shrinking roads to the estate of Grenholm, which stood on the coast looking eastwards, across the sea towards Sweden.
As the road became narrower and the snow grew thicker, the woods at last swallowed up everything in shadow. I was cursing my tight-fistedness. Being an impecunious young man, I had rented the cheapest hire car I could find: a Nissan Micra, which evidently had not been designed with a Nordic snowstorm in mind. Several times my heart lurched into my mouth as I rounded a bend and felt the tyres lose their grip, slewing the back end towards the shallow ditch by the roadside. I drove slower and slower, glancing down at the map in my lap from which I was trying to make sense of the web of little lanes that were supposed to lead me to a decent supper and a warm bed. Even so, I was already hours late.
The snow was piling up in thick drifts by now, sometimes spilling onto the road. The windscreen wipers thrashed with less and less effect as the snow clogged the glass. The heaters could hardly stave off the deepening cold. Eventually, I came to a sign almost entirely buried under the drifting snow. I could make out only the last few letters:
holm 3
I looked at my map. Was I that close already? The roads all seemed to run into each other like tendrils of ivy. There was no main road anymore, only forks and junctions. Maybe thats it , I thought to myself. But I didnt fancy leaving the insipid warmth of my little car and digging out the rest of the signpost. That must be it. How many places ending in -holm can there be round here?
I took the turning.
Feeling more confident that I was closing on my destination, I picked up a little speed, glancing down at my map after a particularly sharp bend in the road to check this corresponded with the road I thought I was on. An error: when I looked up, the windscreen flooded with white light, blinding me. My fingers clamped down on the steering wheel as a much bigger vehicle shot past me in a rush of air and engine. All I could do was blink helplessly, adrenaline exploding through my body as the little car churned into the heavier snow on the verge. I hauled the wheel left, right, then felt the back wheels lose their grip. A horrible, giddy moment in which all I could do was cling on. The car pirouetted, rucked violently up and down as the road curved away to the left, and then spun onto rougher ground. The bonnet lurched downwards and I was thrown forwards and left, before coming to an abrupt halt.
My hands were shaking. My heart was pounding in my ears. The windscreen and drivers window were white from hard-packed snow. But above me I could see the dark colour of night through the passenger window, see the snowflakes falling onto its surface, oddly gentle after the shock of the crash.
It took a moment to assure myself that I was uninjured. A few bruises maybe, a little disorientated, but I had soon freed myself from my seatbelt and climbed out of the passenger door into the snow. The freezing air was another shock, making me catch my breath. A strong wind was blowing through the treetops from the north bringing with it air straight from the arctic that bit to the bone.
I pulled out my coat from the car, wrapped myself up as warmly as I could, then tried to figure what to do. I pulled out my phone. At least Id thought to save my hosts number at Grenholm earlier in the day. I scrolled through to it and pressed the green button. The tone rang off. I tried again. Same thing. No reception. I swore.
That would have been too bloody easy, of course .
Clearly the car wasnt going any further that night. Half-buried in snow, it would need digging out in the morning. Anyway I could hardly wait inside an upturned car in this weather. Id probably die of hypothermia before anyone else happened along a road this obscure.
I looked at my watch. Ten thirty. Most sensible people round here would be inside by now. No, the only thing for it was to walk and walk fast before my limbs froze up.
Retrieving the map, I set off along the road. If it was less than three kilometres to Grenholm I should make it, so long as no one else tried to drive me into the ditch.
The road was at least solid underfoot. Even so, I slipped a good deal as the blanket of snow grew up about my ankles. But at least the ribbon of snow on the road made it easier to navigate my way through the dark woodland.
