The Lost Village

over to the doorway without waiting for a reply.
“Guys,” she shouts to the others in the church. “We have to get back to the vans.”
“Why?” I hear one of the guys shout back.
“It’s not safe in the rain,” she says. “Pack up so we can get going.”
They don’t seem to protest. Of course they don’t: Emmy said it. People do as she says because she expects no less.
I have always envied her that.
I close the zipper on my rucksack, and get it on just in time to see the sky outside the window flare up.
A real spring storm. So typical that it would happen on one of my five days. But with any luck it won’t last long. They normally pass over pretty fast.
“Ready?” Emmy asks from the other side of the door.
“Yes,” I reply, pulling up the hood of my jacket as the thunder rumbles above us.

 NOW
The rain is clattering against the roof of the van. It’s chilly here in the back, much colder than it has been, but I’ve wrapped myself up in a blanket. I’m sitting in the light of one of our small, battery-powered lamps. Tone’s asleep in the tent, so I’ve started drafting a blog post about the first day. I wonder if she would mind us taking a picture of her ankle? I know it might not be in the best taste, but it gives everything credibility, makes it feel more tangible.
If not, the shots of the broken step will have to do. With any luck we can get them this afternoon, once the rain has stopped. We’ll need to go back to the school to try to find Tone’s walkie-talkie, anyway.
I’ve been staring at the same sentence for what must be ten minutes now. The sound of the rain lashing against the roof is strangely soothing, and I yawn into the back of my hand. I can understand why Tone’s asleep. I would absolutely love to be, too. I’m not getting anywhere with this.
I feel the rucksack at my feet calling out to me.
Why not take a look at the papers from the church? I mean, they’re part of the job, too. They’re a story. Just because that’s more appealing to me right now than writing blog posts and putting together a production schedule doesn’t mean it’s not important.
I close my laptop, reach for my rucksack, and unzip the bag slowly and carefully, so that the small raindrops on the outside don’t make it onto the papers.
The sheets of paper are so thin between my fingertips that I’m almost too scared to take hold of them. Will they get destroyed by the oil on my skin? Archivists and librarians tend to wear gloves when handling old papers like this, but I don’t have any with me. And I’m so eager to read them that my hands are shaking.
The divine
To let the divine light in
There is no fear before God. Only love.
The top few sheets match the one Emmy and I were looking at in the church. They look like sermons that Pastor Mattias has written, cut and edited, seemingly churning out draft after draft, polishing his ideas like any good writer. The language is turgid but compelling.
I turn the pages.
The next page must have been written at a different point in time. There are no crossings-out here; everything is written in one great sweep, and the handwriting is different, too. It’s bigger, more sprawling, as though written in a rapturous frenzy.
God has always demanded sacrifices of His own; salvation is neither cheap nor easy. The true path may lead us through darkness, but it is only in daring to walk through the valley of the shadow of death that we can be reborn, pure and new, on the other side; only by sinking down into darkness that we can find the light.
The true path is neither sweet nor seductive. The true path is not straight, but winds. It is an arduous path, for it separates the faithful from the lazy and weak, the worthy from the unworthy.
Meanwhile, beside that path, the Devil lies in wait. He walks among you, masked by innocent faces and gentle voices. And he will whisper in your ear: “Follow me. Choose earthly pleasures, these gleaming, short-lived distractions. Who cares about eternity?”
You must find his servants among you. They will surely appeal to the evil within you, implore and beseech you, but you must temper your hearts and listen to God’s voice alone. Heed not the lies that drip like honey from their lips, that coil around your hearts only to weigh them down. Steel yourselves against these lies, and follow the true light.
You are His warriors. You are his chosen ones. But you must choose Him. You cannot lie back and expect salvation; your place in the Kingdom of Heaven is not assured. You must let go of your worldly lives, dare to travel through the darkness in order to see the light. You must be willing to see his enemies for what they truly are, and strike them down with a divine strength and wrath.
I lick my dry lips and turn the page. Lightning strikes outside, and I see the bolt through the little Plexiglas window between the driver’s seat and the back. I count slowly—one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four Mississippi—then the rumble comes from above, quick and ruthless. The storm must be right over us.
The pages are muddled up, as though someone has just thrown them together. The next page isn’t the continuation of the hastily written sermon. At first I don’t even understand what I’m looking at. It looks like something a child has drawn. Incoherent scribbles. Some of the shapes look like clumpy stick figures.
It makes me uneasy to think a child could have been there in that room, with the person writing what was on those pages.
The words make me think of poor, battered Birgitta Lidman. An outsider, an outcast, even before Pastor Mattias arrived. Were these the words that turned