It’s a long way to walk six days a week, at least for a nine-year-old, but Henry never goes with her, not once. All he does is take his daughter to the edge of the meadow, where the cows are chewing the cud beneath the open sky. Then he points east, towards the treeless horizon. ‘Head for the elf stone, and when you get there you’ll be able to see the church tower in Marnäs,’ he says. ‘The school is just past the church. That’s the shortest route … but if we get a lot of snow in winter, you’ll have to go along the main road.’ He hands over a packet of sandwiches for break time. Then he sets off for the quarry, humming some melody. Vendela heads off in the opposite direction, straight across the burnt brown grass. Summer is over but its dryness remains, and dead flowers and leaves crunch beneath her shoes as she walks towards the church tower. She is terrified of adders, but on all those walks to and from school she encounters only nice animals: hares, foxes and deer.
