The forest is immense and silent. Ancient, full of dark pines and moss. I am visiting a man. I think his name is Sigurd. He has made a homely space in the forest, cleared all the trees on his own. He is patiently splitting wood in the sunlight.
I want to see the house. That’s why I’ve come. It is all the childhood mudbrick houses in one, with a studded door, like something from a fairytale.
It occurs to me the man has arranged for me to meet my father and I am angry, but I forgive him for it because he is just trying to help.
Gradually, I begin to realise a change, as if the forest is darkening and as I look into the spaces between the trees, I am becoming afraid. The warmth is leaving me. There is something immense in the forest and I am getting lost in fear.
Yet, there in the clearing, a happy black dog, with white markings down its chest keeps bringing a stick back and back for me to throw. Back and back, back and back until I have to laugh.