11 Years Missing

Kapitel 1 Del 1

< Kapitel 1 >

No use thinking of the past for it's gone, don't think of the future because it has yet to come, think of the present because that's where you are.

- Kazi Shams

A biting chill greeted Arika on the other side of the barrier. She looked up at the star-speckled sky. Where's the moon? The dark pressed in on her. This wasn't what she'd expected at all. No brilliant sparkles, no rainbow, no treasure?
No rain... How stupid of her. Of course it couldn't have been a rainbow. It must have been a moonbow. But now there was no full moon.

Disappointed, she turned to go back through the magic veil but found herself grasping at air. The shimmering barrier had vanished like it never existed. With no light for her to see her way, she took a tentative step, feeling around in the dark.

Then she remembered. My ficklampa! She dug in her jacket pockets but only found some used tissue, a sweetie wrapper and the oddly shaped pebble she'd randomly picked up the day before. She'd left the flashlight and her gloves with Måns after putting away her snacks.

"Måns!" she whispered, tears filling her eyes. She sank to the ground and reached out for the bear's soft fur but found nothing. A silent sob escaped her.
She was alone. She'd never been alone before. Måns had always been part of her imaginary adventures, even when Pappa read her favorite bedtime stories. Now Måns was alone on the other side, wondering what had happened to her. And he wouldn't be able to tell her parents because they always ignored him.

Her knees ached. Tears subsiding, she felt the ground with her hands. Cold, rectangular stones spread out around her, slightly rough-edged and uneven with slick patches here and there. They reminded her of the streets of Gamla Stan. But shouldn't I be Järfälla?

She shuddered. "I know, Måns. Don't be afraid. I'm not afraid." She sniffled into her scarf, wrapped it tighter and got up with some difficulty, her foot sliding across the ground. Steadying herself, she listened and looked around, her eyes adjusting to the darkness. All she could hear was her own sniffling breaths and a couple of faint notes of... music? Laughter. She turned toward the sound. There, in the distance, she saw a flicker of hope. Maybe there was someone who could help her find her way back home.

She started toward the light, stumbling on loose cobblestones. Slipping on a patch of ice, she landed on her stiff hands, scraping them. Tears sprung from her eyes, as she blew on the stinging wounds, the metallic odour wafting up at her.
"It hurts, Måns!" she whispered. She pulled her sleeves over her hands, clutching them as the cold numbed the pain, and struggled to her feet again. Walking carefully, she made slow progress until she heard crunching under her feet. Coarse sand covered the road. As her footing improved, she could increase her speed.

Dark structures grew bigger on both sides of the road as she made progress. Laughter drifted into the air, small open windows and gaps through doors grew visible with flickering lights.

She stopped in the middle of the road at the first house, an unfamiliar stone structure, peeking in. Candles and a fire lit the outlines of four persons hunched around a large wooden table.

She wanted to warm her hands by that fire and ask for help, but something held her back. They were wearing long dull clothes that looked strangely uncomfortable. Their rough-sounding voices weren't familiar, she picked up a few words that she didn't understand. Instead, she stuffed her hands under her arms and continued walking. Her gaze passed over the sights, her mind unable to grasp a coherent thought. Nothing looked familiar. Where am I?

The street narrowed to an alleyway flanked by houses extending further than she could see. Her head swiveled to look through each dirty glass window she passed. Families gathered around fireplaces, some eating, chatting. They looked warm but not particularly inviting.

Strange flute sounds filled the night air with a haunting melody. She paused to listen. It was rhythmic but had a hint of loneliness. The soothing notes came from above, washing away her growing panic. She looked up at the sloped rooftops and spotted a silhouette stretched out and the outline of an instrument.
The music ended abruptly and the player sat up as if he sensed her stare. Moments later, he slid from his perch to the eave, hopped onto the ground and walked up to her, looking at her curiously.

"Who is you? You look not like you belong here." Only a head taller, he wore tight-fitting clothes and a long fuzzy fur coat covering his wrists and ankles but remained unbuttoned. She stared longingly at the coat, ignoring its bearer.
The boy crossed his arms, with a long wooden flute sticking up. He bounced his leg, waiting on a reply.

"What were you... playing?" Arika eventually managed to ask, clenching her jaws to keep her teeth from clattering.

The boy frowned, opening his mouth to demand a suitable response. Instead her tightly folded arms made him take a closer look at her. She was shivering, bending her chin close to her chest, watching his feet.

The boy sighed at her appearance. "Härjedalspipa. A Polska waltz. I changed it little."

[Please refer to the above video for an idea of the song the boy played]
She looked up without lifting her chin. "It... it sounds beautiful." She attempted to curve her lips into a smile but only managed a grimace.

The boy flashed a one-sided smile. "What are you called?"

"Arika. What's... what's your name?"

The boy gave her a strange look. "Know you not who I am? I am your King... Tsk... Should not have sneaked away from my boring lessons," he muttered. He walked around her, inspecting her hunched figure.

"Magnus Eriksson," he replied when he faced her again. "Your name is strange, Arika. And your clothes are strange."

"I want to go home. Where am I?"

He arched a brow. "This knows everyone. This is Stockholm, the capital of Sverige."

"Really?" She frowned, puzzled. "That's strange. I live in Stockholm but it... it doesn't look like this. Is it... Is it 2004?"

"What do you mean? Två tusen fyra – what?"

"The year. Is it ... October 2004?"

"Are you kidding me?" Magnus threw his head back in laughter, but stopped abruptly when he noticed Arika remained stoic."It is November 1323."

Arika stared at the boy, feeling as if the weight of a stone was dropping to the pit of her belly. She knew maths. She knew it very well for her age. And she understood the calendar. At least she knew what today was supposed to be, because every day she'd turn a page on the daily calender Mamma gave her last Christmas. It stood on her desk, with a small drawing and a motivational thought for each day. Her mother had thought this would help her grow a positive outlook on the world.

Tretton tjugotre? "What? That's not possible!" Her voice rose in pitch. "Send me back home!"

That weight dropping must have been her brain because she suddenly felt lightheaded and nauseous. She swayed, her vision darkening.

"Arika? Are you okej?" Magnus rushed forward to catch her as she collapsed.

"Send me back!" she cried, her consciousness fading.