Sculptor's Daughter by Tove Jansson Read Free Book Online Page B

one doesn’t dare to do something immediately then one never does it.
    I switched on the torch and threw it into the grotto. It fell on its side and lit up the whole grotto, making it just as beautiful as I had imagined it would be. It became an illuminated aquarium at night, the manger at Bethlehem or the biggest emerald in the world! It was so unbearably beautiful that I had to get away from the whole thing as quickly as possible, send it away,
do something
! So I sat down firmly and placed both feet on the iceberg and pushed it as hard as I could. It didn’t move.
    Go away! I shouted. Clear off!
    And then the iceberg glided very slowly away from me and was caught by the off-shore wind. I was so cold that I ached and saw the iceberg carried by the wind towards the sound – it would sail right out to sea with Daddy’s torch on board and the ducks would sing themselves hoarse when they saw an illuminated bridal barge coming towards them.
    And so my honour was saved.
    When I got to the steps I turned round and looked. My iceberg shone steadily out there like a green beacon and the batteries would last until sunrise because they were always new when one had just moved to the country. Perhaps they would last another night, perhaps the torch would go on shining at the bottom of the sea after the iceberg had melted and turned into water.
    I got into bed and pulled the bedclothes over my head and waited for the warmth to come back. Itcame. Slowly at first, but little by little it reached down to my feet.
    But all the same I had been a coward, and all because of two inches. I could feel it in my tummy. Sometimes I think all strong feelings start in the tummy; for me they do at any rate.

The Bays
    T HE HOUSE IS GREY , the sky and the sea are grey, and the field is grey with dew. It’s four o’clock in the morning and I have saved three important hours which can be counted as extra. Or perhaps three and a half.
    I have learned to tell the time, although I’m not yet quite sure about the minutes.
    I’m also light grey, but inside, because I’m all vague and wobbly like a jelly-fish, not thinking but just feeling. If you sailed a hundred miles over the sea and walked a hundred miles through the forest in all directions, you wouldn’t find a little girl at all. They just don’t exist. I know because I’ve found out. You can wait for them for a thousand years and they just don’t exist. The nearest thing to it you’ll find is Fanny who is almost seventy and collects pebbles and shells and dead animals and sings when it’s going to rain. She’s yellowish-grey just like the trampled scorched grass round the house, her face, her dressand her hands, everything about her is yellowish-grey and wrinkled but her hair is white and her eyes are whitish-blue and look straight past you.
    Fanny is the only person who isn’t afraid of the horses. She shouts at them and turns her backside to them, and she does just what she likes. If anyone asks her to do the washing-up in the wrong tone of voice she goes into the forest and stays there for several days and nights and sings to make it rain.
    She’s never lonely.
    There are five bays where no one lives. Once you’ve been round the first you have to go into the second. The first is wide and full of white sand. It has a grotto with a sandy floor. The walls are always wet and there is a narrow opening in the roof. The grotto is longer than I am when I lie on my back and today it is icy cold. There is a narrow black hole right inside.
    It was then that my secret friend crept out of the hole.
    I said: what a beautiful and extremely pleasant morning it is.
    And he answered: it’s no ordinary morning because I heard rumbling below the horizon.
    He sat down behind me and I knew that he had changed his skin and didn’t want me to look at him. So I said rather indifferently: it rumbled on Friday, too. Have you seen Fanny?
    She was