In the pubs and on the street corners, it is whispered that the end cannot be far away. Armfelt, loyal friend to the late king, has been driven into exile, but it is said he is using his time to plan his revenge. He travels from land to land, welcomed by all, gathering an army around his cause. Rumor has it he has been a guest of Catherine of Russia herself, in Petersburg, and spoken so eloquently of King Gustav’s fallen crown that the empress has been driven to tears. Salvation is near, he’ll soon be here, they whisper; at any moment Armfelt will come sailing around the bend at Skeppsholmen with the Russian navy in his wake. He will be rowed ashore without resistance, and Duke Karl, guardian of the crown prince, will see reason. The duke’s only flaw has always been his weakness, and he will let Armfelt rule in his name, just as Baron Reuterholm has done these past two black years. In every pub where this story is told, other voices can be heard muttering ironic objections, when the candle stumps have started to gutter and the noises mute: yes, we certainly remember the days of King Gustav, and who in their right mind would not wish them back? Granted, we had to starve and send our sons to death, but never have plays been so well acted on our stages, never has French been spoken so flawlessly at the court.
Up in the palace, strange lights can be glimpsed by the windows: apparitions from another world, some say, others that it is simply flames lit under colored glass. The courtiers gossip: the baron is quaking in fear, though he spends his days in idleness like all other gentlemen at court, adorned like a peacock. In lieu of other measures, he has resorted to speaking with the dead. Séances are held each evening. Magnetists, spiritists, clairvoyants—all are welcomed to the palace after nightfall. If the land is to be ruled from the other side, our ruination is assured, say the old ones, for the dead are jealous of the living, and want nothing more than the pleasure of their company.
Midnight approaches, the watchman in his steeple has stopped calling the hour, and the urchins who have thronged under the low ceiling have grown too many for the barkeeper to drive away. He knows that it is no coincidence that they have been tempted here this night. The City-between-the-Bridges holds few secrets that do not quickly come to light, and now the time has come to reveal his own. His pub stands without protection. No one will defend his wares. Individually, the children are timid and fearful, but one must be wary when they swarm together. Their numbers give them strength, and when they are together, a frenzy comes over them, stronger even than what the bottle offers. They are intent on mischief, with nothing to lose. Greedily they drain the dregs of tankard and cup. With a gesture of defeat, the barkeeper decides to purchase their goodwill, and exchanges their coins for a tankard to share, aware that the price for his generosity is yet to be set. Outside, the sticky heat that lingers in the alleys has started to dissipate, cooled by the night and fanned by the breeze that retreats out to sea from the darkening land. The summer sky remains bright. It will hardly have begun to darken before daybreak, the night nothing more than a blink between days that seem to last forever.
There are few other guests tonight. All but the hardest drinkers have long since staggered back to their sleeping quarters. The ones who remain are in poor shape and soon become the target of the youngsters’ pranks. Leaning against the wall, there is also the large watchman, the one with the lumpy face that everyone recognizes but whose gaze they would never dare to meet during the day. He who once drank so copiously is sober now, they say, but sobriety hardly appears to have done him any favors. He has lost weight since winter, his cheeks are sunken, his eyes dull. As always, there is talk in the City-between-the-Bridges, one story contradicting the next, and which one holds the more truth is no easy task to determine. Some claim he has fallen into debt, will take money from anyone, toils every waking moment, but still has to use every coin he earns to keep the creditors at bay. For his part, he keeps his mouth shut, and no one dares ask him any questions. He has chosen to join the ranks of those that honest folk learn to look past, some shadow creature devoid of present and morrow, left with only a past, ripe with regret and painful memory.
Certainly he can fight still, but not tonight. The children creep ever closer. He sleeps deeply, every breath a drawling snore, his arms folded across his chest. All of the children know this kind of slumber: it is the sleep of the famished, when hunger causes the body to tremble, despite the warm air, and one has to hug one’s limbs to one’s middle in order to trick the belly into thinking it is full.
Now they make a bet. The watchman’s wooden fist is well known and feared—who will have the courage to steal it? One of the smallest sees his chance to rise through the ranks, crawls closer, and carefully starts to unravel the left sleeve along the seam. The boy’s nimble fingers expose scarred skin bound by leather straps and, holding his breath, he begins to loosen the buckles. Finally he loses patience, grips the tarnished wood, and yanks with all his weight. The tug-of-war only lasts for a moment until the leather slips from the arm and the boy falls backwards with his bounty. They make for the door with their trophy held high, screaming and laughing. Their escape makes no difference. Mickel Cardell hasn’t budged an inch. He remains slumped for another hour or two in a fitful slumber until the cock crows and his cramps shake him awake. Then he staggers out, groping his way with his arm and stump through the labyrinth of alleys to the room for which he now owes several weeks’ rent.