Free A Newfound Land by Anna Belfrage Page A

and friends. His favourite pub just off the Castle Rock, the bench he liked to sit on in the Botanical Gardens, the long walk up to Arthur’s Seat where he stood for a long time looking in the general direction of the north-east, towards his birthplace in Stockholm. Most of all, he spent his time with Isaac and with Eva – the days with his grandson, the nights with his woman.
    Magnus had decided on a day in July, and when the final countdown began, he was unable to sleep. Instead, he sat through the nights in his study, taking down his leather tomes to study them for one last time. The last night he stood in the passageway between the kitchen and the front door, looking at the photographs that lined the walls. Alex, Alex, Alex – everywhere Alex; twenty-six years documented in fading colour prints. He stood before each and every one of them and wondered if he was totally insane to contemplate an attempted leap through time on the faint hope that he would find her again. Probably. He dragged a hand through his short hair and, for the last time, switched off the lights downstairs.
    He had decided long ago that he would say no goodbyes – for his own sake. But he did, lying on his side while Eva slept to engrave all of her in his mind. She snored, she always did, and he brushed her hair off her face to see her better. In the grey predawn he kissed Eva tenderly on her cheek, stood for some minutes looking down at her sleeping shape, and tiptoed out of the room. On the nightstand he left two letters, one for Eva and one for Isaac.
    He hesitated on the upper landing before entering the studio. Jesus! What on earth was he doing? On the easel he had already placed Isaac’s little painting, and he hurried towards it before he should lose his nerve.
    He was drowning in second thoughts, his brain buzzing with apprehension. What if Isaac’s painting didn’t work or, even worse, what if it did work but only partly, leaving him hanging in the in between? He was exhausted and, behind his brows, the ubiquitous headache swelled into an unbearable dissonance, with swirling, concentric circles dominating his vision. He squinted and shook his head. This was the way it was going to be; even the doctor more or less admitted that there was nothing much to do.
    “Right.” He tightened the belt around the unfamiliar clothes he was wearing: scratchy breeches, woollen stockings and an old-fashioned linen shirt. “Magnus Lind, this is it.”
    He stepped up to the easel, took a big breath and looked deep into the swirling blues and greens – a magical painting, a captured funnel through time, expertly executed by his grandson. He heard the painting whisper, and he wasn’t sure what he wanted anymore. He heard it sing, a soft humming that wrapped itself around his head. Where was she? Isaac said he had to actually see Alex to be able to go to her, and he couldn’t see anything but blue. He felt as if he was drowning and closed his eyes, gulping precious air when the pressure that banded his chest eased. Maybe this was a stupid thing to do… Yes, maybe he should go back to bed instead.
    The picture sang, high sweet tones that made him open his eyes. Green; everything was green, spinning round him. And look... There! Haloed in a glowing light he saw her, a dark silhouette in long skirts. Was it really her? He heard her laugh, and there was the sound of a child as well. He leaned forward, his eyes on the elusive shapes. He stretched out his hand and the funnel closed like a vice around him.
    Herre Gud ! Magnus tried to rear back because something was tearing at his insides, clawing viciously through his head. He didn’t want to do this anymore, God it hurt, and what were all those terrible, terrible sounds? In his head, a chainsaw was digging into his brain, and he could swear he was on fire. He opened his mouth to scream for help but it was far too late, and with a final, painful wrench his body was sucked into the maelstrom.

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