Harbor John Lindqvist (grave mercy TXT) 📖

that he was dealing with something worthy of respect. Which was difficult to understand, since nothing was visible from a distance of twenty metres, and Simon’s eyesight was good.

He twisted the net to avoid tangles, laid it down on the ground and went to see what the cat was doing.

When he got out on to the jetty, he still couldn’t see what was making the cat so agitated. Or…yes, the cat was circling around a bit of rope that was lying there. This wasn’t like Dante at all; he was eleven years old and no longer deigned to play with balls or bits of paper. But obviously this piece of rope was great fun.

Dante made a sudden attack and got both paws on the piece of rope, but was hurled backwards with a jerk, as if the rope had given him an electric shock. He swayed and fell sideways, then flopped down on the jetty.

When Simon got there the cat was lying motionless next to the furthest bollard. The thing he had been playing with wasn’t a piece of rope, because it was moving. It was some kind of insect, it looked like a worm of some sort. Simon ignored it and crouched down next to the cat.

‘Dante, old friend, what’s wrong?’

The cat’s eyes were wide open and his body shuddered a couple oftimes as if racked by sobs. Something trickled from his mouth. Simon lifted the cat’s head and saw that it was water. A stream of water was trickling out of the cat’s mouth. Dante coughed and water spurted out. Then he lay still. His eyes stared blankly.

A movement in Simon’s peripheral vision. The insect was crawling along the jetty. He bent over it, studying it more closely. It was completely black, the thickness of a pencil and about the same length as a little finger. Its skin shone in the sunlight. Dante’s claws had made a scratch in one place, revealing pinkish flesh.

Simon gasped; looked around to see a coffee cup that had been left behind on the jetty. He grabbed it and upended it on the insect. He blinked a couple of times and ran his hands over his face.

It’s not possible. It can’t be…

This insect was not to be found in any insect book, and Simon was probably the only person for miles around who knew what it was. He had seen one before, in California forty years earlier. But that one had been dead, dried. If it hadn’t been for what had happened to the cat, it would never even have occurred to him.

Dante.

The original Dante, the one after whom all Simon’s cats were named. The magician, the greatest of them all. After decades spent touring and making films, he had settled down on a ranch in California. Simon had been granted an audience with him there when he was twenty-four years old and a promising talent.

Dante had shown him around his museum. Handmade props from different eras: the Chinese fountains that were his star turn for some years, the substitution trunk in several different versions, water-filled chests and cupboards from which Dante had escaped in circus rings all over the world.

When the guided tour was over, Simon had pointed to a small glass display case standing in a corner. There was a pedestal in the middle of the case, and on it lay something that looked like a piece of a leather shoelace. He asked what it was.

Dante had raised one eyebrow dramatically in a well-practised gesture and had asked Simon, in the Danish of his childhood, to what extent he believed in magic.

‘You mean…real magic?’

Dante nodded.

‘I would have to say that I am…an agnostic, in that case. I haven’t seen any proof, but I don’t discount the possibility. Does that sound reasonable?’

Dante seemed happy with the answer, and removed the glass top from the case. Simon realised he was expected to take a closer look, and did so. He was able to see that the leather shoelace was in fact a dried-out insect that resembled a centipede, apart from the fact that it had only a small number of legs.

‘What exactly is it?’

Dante looked at Simon for so long that it began to feel awkward. Then the magician nodded as if he had reached a tacit decision, replaced the glass cover, took out a leather-bound book and began to leaf through it. Brightly coloured pictures flickered before Simon’s eyes until eventually Dante stopped at a particular page and held out the book.

The picture, which covered the entire page, was hand painted. It depicted a worm-like insect, skilfully painted so that the light shimmered on its black, shiny skin. Simon shook his head and Dante sighed before closing the book.

‘It’s a Spiritus, or spertus as you say in Sweden,’ he said.

Simon looked at the glass case, at the magician, at the case once again. Then he said, ‘A real one?’

‘Yes.’

Simon leaned closer to the glass. The dried-out creature inside certainly didn’t look as if it possessed any extraordinary powers. Simon looked at it for a long time.

‘How can it be dead? I mean, it is dead, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t know, in answer to both your questions. It was in this condition when I received it.’

‘How did that come about?’

‘I’d prefer not to go into all that.’

Dante made a gesture, indicating that the audience in the museum was over. Before dragging himself away from the display case, Simon asked, ‘Which element?’

The magician gave a wry smile. ‘Water. Naturally.’

Coffee was consumed, polite phrases were exchanged, then Simon left the ranch. Two years later Dante was dead, and Simon read in the paper that his belongings were to be auctioned. He considered a trip to California to bid for the object in the glass case, but for one thing he was in the middle of a tour performing at outdoor venues, and for another it would be too expensive, once you factored in the cost of the journey. He decided not to bother.

During the years