A Dream of Boserup Skov: A short story

By: JC

Part I:

There was a marina of sorts, and a trail that led off along the shore of the lake. No, this one's not a lake, I realized, recognizing the place now--the chatter of people walking here and there; the swans ambling out upon the water; and far off, a brace of wind turbines peaking over hills and trees. This is a fjord. 

Now oriented, I strode off down the path, paved in spots and sandy or gravelly in others. In places the grass climbed high and waved in the wind that carried over the water. In others, I felt the crush of pebbles and silt underfoot mix with the splash of gentle waves that lapped the shore. The air felt clean and warm; the sky clear and bright, with a hint of waning light that suggested the coming of evening. Still I pressed on, passing swans and runners, and a long-limbed hare that bounded away into the underbrush. 

Ahead there loomed a forest upon a rise where the dirt-trail now led. The trees grew thick here, heavy and shaded with summer foliage. As it entered the forest the trail turned away from the fjord, so I stopped in the shade and found a place to sit and gaze at the water through the trees. It seemed to me that I was waiting for something, though for what I could not say. All I knew was the name of the forest, echoing through my memory like the chorus of a catchy tune: Boserup Skov.

The hours passed slowly, and with them came hikers and runners and bikers in plenty, not to mention the occasional deer. Some greeted me with a wave or some words I did not understand. Others walked or ran stiffly by, their eyes looking at everything about them except me. I nodded to those who acknowledged me and ignored those who did not. Whatever my purpose was in being here, I figured I might as well be friendly.

Dusk descended, and then full-on night. A full-moon filled the sky, illuminating the forest floor in patches with its pale light, glimmering light. The wind lessened, and a mist began to rise from the water and spread among the trees. The scene reminded me of something out of Hamlet, just before the appearance of the ghost of the recently-deceased king. I smiled at that, turning the irony of it over in my mind. The country is right, if not the location, I mused, and stood for the first time in several hours to stretch my legs. Turning from the water, I let my eyes wander over the dark forest that rose before me--and then felt the breath catch in my throat, and an icy chill descend the length of my spine. For there upon the rise, moving among the trees was a pale floating figure, glowing with a light all its own. 

Part II
Part III
Part IV