For a while, everything was perfect; the young trees grew like spires and their roots dug deep into the granite. Hatto the hermit prayed to God while standing in the woods. Old gods in grey storm cloaks prowled the sky, and the horse of Hel stood in the sterhaninge cemetery. He was marking the location of a new burial when he pawed the freezing earth with his hoof.
A little cabin was perched on a small hill of white sea sand on the outskirts of the fishing community. It was not constructed in line with the regular, even buildings that surrounded the open space where brown fishnets were dried, but rather appeared to have been pushed out of the row and toward the sand hills on one side. Old Mattsson, the pilot, resided in one of the village’s 100 houses, each of which is identical in terms of size, form, number of windows, and height of chimney. Additionally, there is a long-standing tradition that everyone in the fishing hamlet leads a similar life. Old Mattsson had a photograph of his mother hanging on the wall over the bed.
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