Forty Days Without Shadow: An Arctic Thriller

by Olivier Truc

  A group of about ten people occupied the middle section of the crossroads. Most wore traditional Sami costume, the rich colors silhouetted against the snow in the twilight. Two elderly women carried a banner that had clearly been made in a hurry and was barely legible, its letters seeping into the cloth: “Give us back our drum.” Succinct and to the point, thought Klemet. Another group clustered around a brazier. It was a little warmer now, only about minus 4°F. But a light breeze made the cold bite hard.

  Klemet and Nina left their vehicles in the parking area, near the brazier. There was very little traffic. As usual. A woman apparently in her late fifties turned to them and offered coffee.

  “Well, Berit, what are you doing here?” asked Klemet.

  He and Berit Kutsi had known one another since childhood. Her fine, smooth skin lay close over the contours of her face, stretched smooth across her high, prominent cheekbones, creasing only when she smiled. She radiated goodness and empathy, and her kind expression was accentuated by the slight downward slant of her eyes.

  Klemet knew all the protestors, in fact. They were Sami, but none was a reindeer breeder apart from Olaf, the youngest present. He was talking to the driver of a car, bending over its open window. The other herders had no time for protests. They were out in the vidda, watching their reindeer or sleeping, catching up on a night’s vigil in the cold. Like Mattis, no doubt, at that very moment. Trying to forget that in a few hours’ time they would have to go back out into the biting cold and wind, pile on the layers of clothes, ignore their hangovers, fire up their snowmobiles and set off alone across the tundra, hoping to avoid an accident. More than once, a herder had been found frozen to death near his snowmobile after hitting a rock, invisible under the thick snow. Reindeer breeding was justly famous as the most dangerous job in the Far North.

  “Well now, what a pretty girl!” smiled Berit, teasing Klemet gently, as she always had. “Watch out for him, dear,” she added, for Nina’s benefit. “Klemet’s a charmer, one for the ladies. You might not think so to look at him? Make sure he keeps his hands to himself!”

  Nina glanced at Klemet with an embarrassed smile. He could see she was unused to the outspokenness of northerners. It did not sit easily with the natural reserve of southern Scandinavians. “Berit, you say you heard a snowmobile in front of the museum?”

  “Well, I’ve already told Rolf everything. When I heard the scooter, I thought it was a breeder coming in from the north side of the valley. From the other side of the hill where the cultural center is,” she noted for Nina’s benefit. “There are some herds over that way. But the snowmobile stopped in the front of the Juhl Center, which never happens in the dead of night, and the engine kept running, just ticking over.”

  “What time was that?”

  “About five o’clock in the morning, perhaps, or earlier. I often wake up around then and I go back to sleep. But the noise of the engine woke me up when it drove off again.”

  “Did you see the snowmobile, or the rider?” asked Nina.

  “Just for a moment, the headlights lit up my bedroom as bright as day. I was dazzled, so I couldn’t see the rider. Not from the front, anyway. But when he rode off, I saw from behind that he was wearing an orange-colored coverall, like a construction worker.”

  That was little enough to go on. Contrary to the Sheriff’s preconceptions, Klemet wasn’t particularly traumatized by the theft of the drum. Except that it was a criminal act, of course. Klemet had never been a very orthodox Sami, for a host of reasons. And he didn’t like rummaging through those too often. Even less so in front of non-Sami.

  Berit had returned to the side of the crossroads, joining another group of protesters blocking the road leading to the church.

  Olaf Renson walked over. In his late forties, he was still the youngest of the group. Nina noticed his proud, dynamic carriage, the determined set of his jaw, the sensual mouth and high, prominent cheekbones. His wavy, black, jaw-length hair was in striking contrast to Klemet’s stiff, chestnut-brown crop.

  “So! Here come the cops.” He spoke quickly. “What do you want from us? Found the drum already, have you, Klemet? Good afternoon, Miss…’ He eyed Nina seductively.

  “Hello,” said Nina with a polite smile. Klemet saw no point in extending a greeting of his own.

  “Klemet, if there’s a drop of Sami blood left in your veins, you must see that the theft of the drum is a scandal. A knife in the wound! We won’t stand for it. It’s an insult too far. You can understand that, Klemet, or have you forgotten your Sami roots?”

  “That’s enough, Olaf, all right?”

  “Did you ever see the drum?” asked Nina.

  “No, I think it was going to be put on show in a few weeks.”

  “Why is it so important?” Nina continued.

  “It’s the first one to be returned here to Sápmi,” said Olaf, glancing from Nina to Klemet and back. “For decades, the Swedish, Danish, and Norwegian pastors persecuted us, confiscating the shamans’ drums and burning them. They were terrified of them. Just imagine—we used them to heal the sick and talk to the dead. They burned hundreds of drums. There are barely more than fifty left in museums, in Stockholm and elsewhere in Europe. One or two in private collections. But none here, with the Sami people. Unbelievable, isn’t it? And then finally, the first drum ever to be returned is stolen. Sheer provocation!”

  “Who stood to gain by it?” Nina asked.

  “Who?”

  Olaf lifted his chin and ran his hand through his hair.

  “Who would want the drum to disappear? Who do you think? People who don’t want the Sami to hold their heads high again, of course.”

  Klemet stood watching Olaf in silence. The posturing irritated him. Renson was supposed to be a reindeer breeder, but he always found time to strut about on protests like this. He was a piece of work, all right. A hardnosed militant for the Sami cause since his teens, in the late 1970s. Back then, a number of Norwegian, Chilean, Australian, and other companies had developed mines and dams in Lapland. One of them, a Chilean company called Mino Solo, had attracted fierce opposition for its unorthodox methods, leading to demonstrations for which Olaf Renson had provided a willing figurehead. He had forged a solid reputation as a militant and righter of wrongs, provoking more than a few pangs of conscience for Klemet.

  Two trucks approached the crossroads. They were blocked by a couple of elderly Sami women, who stood in their path for a few brief seconds in a token show of defiance before letting them through. The drivers—Swedish, according to their plates—did not seem bothered. A line of cars had formed in the opposite direction. The driver of a green Volvo began to sound his horn. Others soon followed suit. The elderly ladies carried on as before, stopping for five seconds in front of each vehicle.

  One of the trucks reached the middle of the crossroads. There were two people in the cabin. The Swedish driver seemed to be enjoying a joke, elbowing his passenger. Klemet recognized the second man as Mikkel, a local herder who worked for the wealthier reindeer breeders. The driver wound down his window and leaned his tattooed arm outside, despite the cold. Klemet heard him call to one of the elderly women: “Hej hej! S’pose a fuck’s out of the question, darlin’?”

  Klemet was relieved to see she hadn’t understood. The driver roared with laughter, high-fived his passenger, and drove off. Klemet shook his head in disgust. He felt ashamed on behalf of the women.

  Olaf returned to the other side of the crossroads and stood proudly in front of the green Volvo, eyeing the driver without a word. He turned to look at Klemet, as if throwing down a challenge. Then, with a lordly wave, he let the driver pass.

  Tomas Mikkelsen, the reporter, had arrived on the scene. He held a microphone up to Olaf, who glared at it, apparently outraged. Klemet could just about lip-read his words. Olaf gestured expansively, puffing out his chest, as he always did. Just as the interview was getting under way, a minibus drove up the road opposite the supermarket, honking its horn. Tomas held out his
mike to catch the sound, background color for the 6 p.m. news. A tall man stepped down from the bus, shouting. The local pastor was brutish and heavy featured, with a luxuriant blond beard, looking for all the world like a vociferous lumberjack.

  Klemet and Nina walked over.

  “Clear out of my way immediately! What on earth’s got into you all?” The pastor was incensed. The three elderly protesters blocking his way stood politely to one side to let him through. He regained his composure. “What’s the matter, my friends?”

  “It’s the drum, Reverend,” said one of the men.

  The pastor frowned.

  “The drum, the drum…Well, I can see that would be very upsetting, losing the drum. But you’ll get it back, won’t you? I suggest you get off home and stop blocking my road.”

  Olaf reached the pastor at the same time as Klemet, Nina, and Tomas Mikkelson, his microphone still recording.

  “It’s not your road, Pastor,” Olaf declared. “And the drum isn’t just any drum, you should know that better than anyone—your predecessors burned all the others.”

  Surrounded by the small group, the pastor adopted a honeyed expression. But his lips were pinched tight. He was struggling to contain himself.

  “Come, come, my children. That’s all in the past, and well you know it, Olaf. You ought to know it, at any rate, rather than getting these good people worked up into a frenzy.”

  “Worked up? The drum is our soul, our history—”

  The pastor’s fury rang out once again.

  “Your damned drum is the instrument of the devil! And you, the police, will be so kind as to keep the road to my church clear. I am expecting my flock.”

  Klemet felt acutely uneasy in the man’s presence. Like his own family, the pastor was a Laestadian, a member of one of the Lutheran Church’s most hard-line sects.

  “Olaf, you can carry on demonstrating, but stay off the road, is that clear?” Klemet ordered him.

  “Ha! The collaborator shows his hand,” scoffed Olaf. “Always on the side of authority, eh, Nango? Got the uniform to prove it. All right folks, let the reverend drum burner through.”

  The pastor shot a furious look at the protester.

  “Time to be getting along, too, Reverend. Back to your church. And keep your comments to yourself in the future.”

  Nina had spoken. Everyone stared at her in astonishment. Olaf flashed a smile. But her attention was already focused on the crossroads once more.

  The line of cars was getting longer, and the chorus of horns louder. It was shopping time. Stuck in the jam, Karl Olsen sounded his horn, furiously. The farmer was red with rage. He shouted a warning to Berit Kutsi.

  “For Christ’s sake, Berit, get them to let me through.”

  “I’ll tell them to hurry up,” said Berit, recognizing her employer.

  “I thought you were supposed to be at work on the farm today?” Olsen asked her, drily.

  He swore under his breath, accelerated hard, and disappeared into the dark, loud with the din of car horns.

  “What a charming man,” said Nina.

  “Life is not always kind here,” said Berit. “But kind hearts keep watch, and the breath of goodness is felt in the vidda. God’s peace,” she added, in parting.

  6

  Tuesday, January 11

  Sunrise: 11:14 a.m.; sunset: 11:41 a.m.

  27 minutes of sunlight

  8:30 a.m., Kautokeino

  The events of the previous day had plunged Patrol P9 into turbulent, unfamiliar waters for the Reindeer Police. For Nina, the recent police academy graduate, the repercussions came as less of a shock than for Klemet: she had spent the past two years in Oslo, where politics and social issues were hotly debated in police circles. The scene at the crossroads proved to her that despite appearances, tensions could run high in the region. She knew very little about Sami issues. A member of parliament for the populist Progress Party had expressed concern over the creation of a Sami court dealing exclusively with Sami affairs. “What next, a special court for Pakistanis?” he had declared. He had been fiercely criticized, but the outburst had gone unpunished. People were growing accustomed to the excesses of the Progress Party.

  The first visit of the morning was to Lars Jonsson, Kautokeino’s brutish-looking pastor. The police car made its way slowly past the dozen or so Sami still occupying the crossroads and briefly blocking the path of each car, following the ritual established the day before. Patrol P9 was no exception. Berit Kutsi stood aside after five seconds and waved to Nina and Klemet, who drove on down “the pastor’s road” and parked outside the immaculate wooden church, painted a deep oxblood red. The pastor was at work in the sacristy.

  The Kautokeino police had shared out the interview duties. Deputy Superintendent Rolf Brattsen and his men were taking care of the usual Saturday-night suspects. The town’s disaffected youth generally congregated at the pool table in the pub and often ended the evening in an alcoholic stupor during which any number of petty, idiotic misdemeanors were likely to be committed. Nothing serious, in Brattsen’s view: dustbins overturned, neighbors kept awake, car or snowmobile races on the frozen lake, potshots at the streetlamps, girls given a bit of rough treatment or forced into things. He would interview the no-hopers one by one and soon see if one of them had been showing off for the others at Juhl’s place. Klemet and Nina would make the rounds of the others, the Sami “politicos,” as Brattsen dismissively called them. They would see the pastor, too, and the Progress Party representatives, together with any other potential suspects.

  “Morning, Lars. We’ve come about the drum,” said Klemet.

  Her partner did not like the reverend and it showed, Nina thought.

  “Ah, the drum. Which I am now accused of burning, I imagine?” The pastor drew a long, deep breath. “Bringing drums back here is a bad idea. And do you know why, Miss?” He addressed Nina, the newcomer, and gestured for them to sit down. “Not because of the drum itself, but because of everything that goes with it. Drums are all about spirits walking abroad, trances and all the waywardness that accompanies them—the means the shamans use to achieve the trance state. I mean alcohol, Miss. Alcohol, and the ravages of alcohol,” growled the pastor fiercely. “And that I cannot accept.”

  The two police officers said nothing for a moment. The pastor’s eyes blazed and his jaw trembled.

  “You see, it took decades to rescue the Sami from the spiral of evil. Only the grace of God and the rejection of their ancient beliefs saved them. They are all the better for it, believe me. They fear God, and so it should be, henceforth and forever. A drum marks the return of evil among us. Anarchy. The sufferings inflicted by alcohol. Broken families, the end of all we have struggled to build here for over two hundred years.”

  Nina knew she was far too ignorant in these matters to argue with the pastor, but she noticed Klemet shifting irritably in his seat.

  “I don’t know many Sami who go in for shamanism these days,” he retorted.

  The pastor shot him a furious look.

  “What do you know, you of little faith? Since when have you shown any interest in the salvation of souls? Your family did, but you, Klemet? You spent more time tinkering with cars and going to parties in your youth than you did at church.”

  “Reverend,” Nina interrupted him, “we need to know who stands to gain by stealing the drum.”

  “And burning it—I know what you’re inferring! If I had it in my possession, I’d burn it right now, believe me!”

  He quickly recovered his composure. “Figuratively speaking, of course. I respect the culture of our Sami friends. Hmm. Their culture, you see, not their ancient superstitions—”

  “But you talk about it in very disparaging terms,” Nina broke in.

  “Disparaging? No, indeed. Don’t misunderstand me. But I know what rumbles beneath. I know the lure of the forces of evil; I wage war against them. Our leader, Laestadius, understood how to save the Sami long before anyone, and better than anyone.
We must show not the slightest weakness!” His barely contained rage broke the surface once again.

  “Lars, where were you on Sunday night?”

  “Watch your tone, Klemet! You don’t seriously think I stole the drum?”

  The pastor was being altogether too familiar with her colleague, Nina thought. And patronizing. She did not like it.

  “Please just answer the question,” she ordered, no longer trying to keep things friendly. “And remember you’re addressing an officer of the police.”

  The pastor smiled benevolently. “After Sunday eucharist, I always spend the afternoon with my family—my wife and four daughters. We go for a long walk, and we take mulled cranberry juice and oat cookies along with us. It’s the only time in the week when we eat cookies. My wife makes them in the morning. And in the evening we eat early—bread and butter and jam—after I’ve supervised the girls’ homework. That’s really about it. After supper, we read the Bible and we are early to bed. And that’s how it was this Sunday, too. My wife and daughters will confirm that.”

  “Do people seem disturbed by the presence of the drum here in Kautokeino?” Nina asked.

  “Truly, I think they are. Some of my parishioners have spoken to me about it. They do not, perhaps, see the same dangers as I do, and I cannot blame them for that. They are simple people, as is right, for God loves the pure in heart. I have reassured them, of course, as a pastor should always reassure his flock. But I see none of them capable of such a criminal act. My parishioners fear God and respect the law of men, I can vouch for that,” he concluded defiantly.

  * * *

  Thugs weren’t an obvious presence on the streets of Kautokeino. Policing was low-key—you just had to handle the right people the right way. Unless it was reindeer business, of course, in which case the rules were quite different. There wasn’t much of a drug problem, either. There were drugs about, of course, like everywhere else, but the traffickers were mostly passing truck drivers.