A reply seemed to say, Snow. Blindly and meaninglessly. Blindly all the long day. It was no longer cold, but it snowed unceasingly. Then came the evening and with it the urgent question: Where is Unn?
Snow, came the reply from hearth and home. It was real winter. And Unn had vanished into it. In spite of all their searching not a trace was to be found. It was as blind around Unn as in the blinding snowstorms.
People had not given up; there was some form of search taking place continually. But it was no use wading about the woods in the deep drifts. They kept watch and investigated in other ways.
In a trice everyone knew about Unn, the unknown Unn. There had been pictures in the newspapers; people had seen an enquiring photograph of her taken that summer.
The great lake was a silent expanse, no longer detonating, non-existent. The splendid broad outlet, where the water flowed placidly between softly rounded banks, was still there, but no one went there any more. Somewhere further along the hidden ice palace stood, too, losing its shape below the rising drifts. No one ploughed his way there, his skis sinking deep into the snow.
But the one night there in front of the ice walls had fixed itself in people’s memories and had turned into a legend about Unn: they were certain that Unn had climbed up there, fallen into the river and been carried away.
They were still dragging the river, downwards from the waterfall where there were pools. The ice-coated dragging poles stood in the snowdrifts at night, pointing upwards. All roads led to Auntie’s house. Everything collected there, all lines of communication met in this lonely woman, Unn’s sole anchor. The blind lanes crossed there at a clear, tearless point of intersection.
‘I see,’ said Auntie. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It can’t be helped.’
Unn’s anchor in life.
An enquiring picture taken last summer. Unn, eleven years old. It was at Auntie’s, standing on the table.
She was given reports by those who had taken their turn with the dragging that day. Their poles stood outside while the tired men recounted their day to Auntie, who was always cordial. Others looked in at daybreak the next morning. It had snowed all night. It would be a winter with plenty of snow.
Auntie listened to the reports from the second, larger group, the one that was trying to find out whether Unn was still alive. There was no news.
‘I see. Very well. Thank you very much.’
She also had to receive people who looked in to question her about everything that might throw light on the matter. She had no information to guide them. They found an elderly, cordial woman. There must have been a great difference in age between her and Unn’s mother. They looked at the picture that everyone had seen.
‘It was taken last summer, wasn’t it?’
Auntie nodded. She was tired of this.
The expression taken last summer had made the picture compelling from the very first. It was meaningless, but it had happened. It was impossible to guess what kind of enchantment the face was given by it, but it had gained something. Taken last summer. They looked at it and would not forget it.
They looked enquiringly at Auntie, too, who was forced to submit to all this. She did not look very strong; but they realized that she was immensely strong in her imperturbability.
She had to answer one question which was unavoidable: ‘What was Unn like?’
‘I was very fond of her.’
That was all.
Those who heard this testimony from Auntie herself felt it was the finest that could be given. It bore no trace of the many times it had been said, They felt they had to look at the picture a little longer.
‘She looks so enquiring, in a way, doesn’t she?’
‘Yes, what of it?’
What of it? Nothing.
‘She lost her mother in the spring. She was all that she had. So she had something to enquire about, don’t you think?’
Outside the window the snow fell, blotting out all traces.