About the Book
Anna portrays a woman who refuses to accept the age-old beliefs society hands her. A country church gleams white in the sun, as stark and resilient as the Lutheran faith that sustains it. The First World War rages on the continent. Much of Sweden is changing but the village holds on to the old.
Sixty years later, Anna gives refuge to a young niece, whose marriage is falling apart. Fredrik is long since dead. She still blames him for the death of their child. Yet she misses his scent that would linger on her skin, like the moon that shone on the snow and colored it blue.
Every day she visits the child’s grave, an old woman in a beret and tweed jacket. Time after time her thoughts return to the past and how her life was molded.
For Readers and Book Clubs: Fylgia Reading Guide
In the Media
“I was completely enchanted by the Swedish lore and atmosphere. This storyline creates a sense of mystery and intrigue and evokes mood and expectation fused with themes of birth, death, history, religion, and war. This is a classic tale and each character is brilliantly written so that they remind us of the eminent frailties of human nature.” — Review, Lori’s Book Loft
“This is a historical fiction memoir with a bite, as the story draws you in, and draws you on. The author cleverly draws the power of society to make people conform, the conflict between tradition and change, and the hidden lives lived out in full view.” — Review, It’s Good To Read
I STILL GO to the grave. My younger self runs ahead. I follow, cutting through the forest and staying away from the country road. An old woman in a beret and a tweed jacket.
Anemones cover the graveyard in the spring. Songbirds nest in the church ruin and the bird-cherry tree smells of bitter almonds. By midsummer the dog rose blooms. Dry branches crack in the meadow below, as the brown cows seek shade under the old apple trees. Buttercups and thistles still stand after the cows have grazed around them. Newborn calves, hidden by their mothers, lie motionless in the underbrush.
In the autumn, when the birches blaze orange and red, school children come through the gate with their notepads and crayons. Their voices ring in the air, high and eager. As I watch, they copy the writings on the granite slabs that mark the graves. They scream and run when they think they see ghosts. I recognize the fear in their eyes. And I remember.
In late October snow begins to fall. For a few months the graveyard is draped in white. A fir shakes, as a solitary moose pushes out of the forest, snow stippling his tufted winter coat. He stops and turns his head in the direction he came from, his nostrils quivering, as if something back there still holds his attention. His dark antlers catch the light, and he trots down into the meadow, whirling up a cloud of powdery snow.
The grave is marked by an iron cross, the letters raised and covered with gold. “Ingrid, 1918.” She was not long on this earth and yet she suffered more than any human should. I failed to protect her once. I cannot leave her now.
Fredrik, the child’s father, is buried next to her. They carried out his wishes, even though the soil was much too shallow and the rock underneath made the coffin tilt. This morning some animal, most likely a badger, had dug ruts around his stone. I have heard about badgers burrowing under graves and bringing up bones. As far as I am concerned, they may as well finish their task. I did not want him buried here.