Ingarö’s Magellan

A note by the mailboxes. It hung alongside others about water bans, cheap women’s bikes, and annual meetings. You started reading.

"Have You ever thought about how the lovely trails in our area come to be? It’s Us in the Trail Group who take care of them. But now We’ve gotten a bit long in the tooth and could use some reinforcement from younger talents. Could that be You?"

Judging by the names of the members, you realized you’d probably count as “younger” in this crowd. Besides, you were a notorious wanderer, so you called the number. A woman named Gun gave you a time and place for the introductory meeting.

You met at Sverker’s place, in the orangery attached to his extended summer cottage on Malmvägen. He served cheese puffs spiced with chili and Ramlösa — as he apparently always did. After a short chat about how heat affects the growth of lichen, they started asking more pointed questions about how you might best contribute to the group’s future.

Sverker said:

“After the orienteering club’s initial push, we’ve pursued a rather expansive trail policy, you see. But these days we’re so decrepit it’s mostly just maintenance of the network. Walking the loops. Fixing the footbridges. Filling in potholes with gravel. A bit of brush-cutting now and then, to clear out the undergrowth.”

Marianne said:

“These days I can hardly walk more than a kilometer and a half, so mostly I paint signs and draw maps. And do some public education, of course. Did you know that some of these trails are remnants from when the charcoal burners used to take the shortest route between their kilns?”

Gun said:

“Truth be told, we’re well equipped for winter. With the right soil-packing, a trail can hold for a very long time — though I’m sure you know that already. And the wild boars do help out a bit, so they’re not all bad.”

Your mission became to scout possible extensions of Branting Trail, which wound its way from the architect’s villa, past the townhouses, the raspberry thicket, and the power line corridor, then skirted the bog the kids called Narnia, before abruptly ending in a dense patch of brush. That was as far as the Trail Group had gone, and it was now up to you to suggest a suitable continuation.

So it was that you found yourself wandering through the grove. You’d been instructed that while forest visibility was important, the trail should also pass through denser sections to add variety and a wilderness feel — which is how you ended up trudging straight through the thickest hazel underbrush.

Before long, you found yourself crossing Långvik Marsh, through wetlands and glacial potholes. The cranes took off in alarm as you came crashing out of the wilds. Then you turned around and walked the same way back. Then you bushwhacked through again.

By the afternoon, a path had truly begun to appear — the first shortcut between Narnia and the marsh, shaped by your steps, its discoverer. Here you were, Ingarö’s Magellan, you had time to think.

That evening, just as you were about to call it a day, a strange figure appeared by the oaks. She shuffled toward you, gripping a hefty staff in one hand. An elderly woman, easily over ninety, with something like cobweb yarn draped over her head.

She was now quite close, and she asked — more like declared — as if speaking over your head:

“So, they’ve got themselves a new recruit?”

You nodded and smiled. She went on, jabbing her staff toward Björnö:

“Poor soul, you had no idea what you were in for, did you? I’ll bet they started rambling about their ‘expansive trail policy,’ and then — purely by chance — suggested Branting Trail as a suitable entry-level project?”

You nodded.

“And so you ended up here, like all the other newcomers, smack in the middle of my trails. Right in the border conflict.”

You nodded again, mostly out of habit now. She gave a pitying smile, lowered her voice, and beckoned you with a crooked finger:

“Come a little closer, sweetheart. I need to tell you something important.”

You stepped cautiously forward and caught the scent of cigarette smoke wafting from the old woman — when suddenly, your feet refused to move. Boots and calves sank beneath the surface, and soon you couldn’t move at all. The mud crept up to your waist, your chest — and paralysed, you sank into the bog, into your undoing.