by Mikael Niemi
“Bear!” I echoed, aghast.
The pastor examined the claw marks with care.
“We have to muster people for a search party,” he said. “Somebody needs to tell Sheriff Brahe. I’m afraid something’s happened to the poor girl.”
Heikki nodded, plainly scared and glancing around nervously in the summer night. He began running back down the path toward the farm, while the pastor remained where he was. I saw the master carefully lift the milk pail and inspect it from all angles. He put his finger in the spilled milk, swirled it gently round and spread it out, and then picked up something long and almost invisible. I realized it was a hair. He cleaned it, wrapped it in a piece of cloth, and put it in his pocket. With the same care, he investigated her knapsack, which was still laced up, propped against a tussock. Without comment he studied the claw marks on the tree one more time. We began to follow the footprints, our eyes peeled. I saw the pastor bend to pick something up before we continued. The impressions were visible for about fifty steps, until the ground rose and became harder. There the tracks were more difficult to follow, and we soon lost them completely.
With mounting concern, we started back toward Heikki’s farm. I shouted Hilda’s name and looked around uneasily. The thick mass of willow branches suddenly seemed threatening. Anything large could hide in there and at any moment it might charge out and sink its jaws into the tendons of my neck. His lips moving, the pastor appeared to be talking to himself, or perhaps to higher powers. For my part, I gathered up a heavy branch to swing in the air. At regular intervals I smashed it against the tree trunks as we passed and heard the dull thuds recede into the misty veils of the summer night.
5.
It was Sunday and the churchgoers were gathering outside Kengis Church. I stood among the congregation keeping a furtive eye out for my beloved. She was usually in the company of some of the other maids, a posy of summer blossoms in which she was the prettiest of all. I used to follow the girls into the church, walking a few steps behind, close enough to smell her fragrance. Sometimes there was a throng at the church door, people pushing from the back, and then I might find myself so close to her that I could touch the cloth of her dress. Only the fine warp and weft between me and her warm nakedness. Every Sunday I hoped that it would happen.
The owner of the foundry was not yet present, it being the gentry’s wont to be among the last to arrive and undoubtedly meant as a slight upon the pastor. Sohlberg had voted against the appointment of the controversial prophet from Lappmark and afterward contested the decision; he would rather have had the mild-mannered curate Sjöding. The pastor, on the other hand, had established from the start where the battle lines would be drawn:
“Finns and Swedes genuflect before the brandy barrel, they crawl on all fours when brandy takes the strength from their legs, they blubber to God with their heads full of brandy.”
He had achieved success in Karesuando, where the parish had been made almost entirely dry and the one who held on tightest to the bottle was the sexton. Even the innkeepers had emptied out their liquor barrels and redeemed themselves. But it was a different situation in the parish of Pajala.
“A third are innkeepers, a third old sots, and a third miserable wretches who can’t live without subsidy,” the pastor had declared.
Now the judgmental burghers of Pajala were huddled in murmuring groups. There was Forsström the merchant and Hackzell the bailiff, surrounded by their families and lackeys. The gentlemen had reported the reverend to the cathedral chapter for the deplorable tone of his church services. People shrieked, men danced with women in the aisle, and the pastor himself employed an exceedingly coarse and offensive mode of speech inappropriate for church. When the bishop was made aware of the shenanigans, the pastor would indeed be in hot water.
Many were of the opinion that the pastor was quite simply insane. Rumors about his rampage in Karesuando had spread far across the north country. But if some were fearful, there were more who were curious. Who wouldn’t want to listen to a crazy priest? And so church folk traveled from miles around to enjoy the show.
The corpulent sheriff Brahe arrived now from the village road wearing his uniform, driven in a horse-drawn carriage from Pajala. He alighted, wiped the perspiration from his neck with a checked handkerchief, and swayed slightly from side to side with a hefty gait suggestive of an ox. He casually greeted people left and right, conscious of his importance. For several days he had led the search for the missing maid Hilda Fredriksdotter and inquisitive onlookers now flocked around him to hear what had happened. Constable Michelsson, a head shorter and of considerably slighter build, climbed down from the coachman’s seat. In his hand he clasped his modest cap, his thin lips intermittently drawn together in a shape resembling a snout. Michelsson was ginger, but despite his young age his hair had already thinned and only a sparse ring remained round his chalky pate.
I edged nearer, to hear Sheriff Brahe warn the churchgoers about the killer bear that was prowling around out there. During the search they had discovered traces of the monster: moose calves had been found slaughtered, their remains scattered over the ground, and anthills had been torn up by the force of mighty paws. But the poor girl hadn’t yet been found. The beast must have devoured every last bit of her. Brahe cautioned people not to go into the forest alone, and if they must, to take a sturdy wood ax for self-defense.
From the direction of the parsonage women’s voices could now be heard.
“Pappi, Pappi . . .”
Hands were raised and people pushed forward. I realized the pastor was on his way. He was so short that he had to clear a path through the crowd by swinging his arms in what were practically swimming movements. A young maid threw herself at him, flung her arms around his neck, and broke into convulsive sobs. The pastor mumbled something in her ear, but she wouldn’t let go and the people closest had to help shield him. The gentry could be seen exchanging knowing looks. All the pastor’s women. Ahem! You could guess what went on behind the closed doors of pastoral visits.
Now another horse-drawn carriage arrived, from which the foundry owner Karl Johan and his young son emerged. Sohlberg was wearing a dark suit with a shirt and waistcoat. He was an enterprising gent who had come here from the Karlskoga area as a works inspector and had gradually acquired all stakes in the foundry. People bowed and curtsied and doffed their caps as he strolled up to the assembled burghers. He and his son nodded briefly to the pastor, who was standing some distance away; the coolness between them was noticeable. Sheriff Brahe saluted the foundry owner and made a suggestion to him that I couldn’t hear. But then I saw Sohlberg take out his large purse and extract a few notes.
“Reward offered to anyone who deals the death blow to the killer bear!” he said loudly.
His mid-Swedish dialect was unusual in these parts, and several people looked blank.
“Kyllä se hyvän rahan saapi joka karhun tappaa,” Sheriff Brahe translated.
He put the money in his livery hat and looked around, clearly delighted to be the center of attention. Forsström and Hackzell hurriedly produced their wallets. Brahe left it to Michelsson to take charge of the collection among the crowd, and soon the clink could be heard of copper coins from the less well off landing in the cap.
“Would the reverend like to contribute?”
Michelsson watched him with his moist blue eyes.
“I have no money on me.”
“None at all?”
Michelsson couldn’t disguise the sarcasm in his voice. He was stingy, the new parson, it was common knowledge. After all, huge sums were pouring in from new believers, but wasn’t most of it ending up in the parson’s pocket? Or so gossip had it.
When the pastor turned and entered the church, the troop of converted souls crowded in after him. I heard him caution those nearest to him against idolatry, they must remember he was merely an instrument of the Lord. But religious revival was l
ike a fire. Not even he could control it. And when it came to preaching, he pulled no punches.
“Until now the clergy have preached the gospel to the rich. To whores who have shown no remorse, to thieves who have carried on stealing. They have heard such a sweet gospel promised that the milk of harlots has gushed and traders in liquor have shed snake tears. Whereas I preach to the poor, the grieving, doubting, burdened, weeping, for all those who have lost hope. How does it help an innkeeper to tell him that he is decent and good? It helps him on his way to hell. Instead the priest should say to the fornicators: ‘Your father is the devil. You are fighting the Holy Spirit. If you do not repent there is no one who can pluck you out of hell.’”
The pastor’s voice was melodic and composed. His simple, unpretentious Finnish steadily permeated the congregation. It was not long before the first wailing could be heard. A swaying arm was raised in the air. Now one of the old women stood up, closely followed by another. A rocking motion spread along the pews, the crush intensified, people stepped out into the aisle to have more room to move. It was terrifying to see their faces, their eyes were fixed, jaws clenched and grinding, incomprehensible words mingled with cries and consternation. I felt the pastor’s gaze, bent my body forward, and moved back and forth in time with my neighbors on the bench, hiding my face as I glanced furtively across to the women’s side. There she was. My beloved. Her chest heaving as she breathed, her eyes half closed, her lips forming murmurs. Filled with despair, I felt the intensity of my desire for her. My face creased with tears, and following the others’ example I held it up to the light and showed the pastor my unsightly wet cheeks.
The mill owner shuffled uneasily, his jaw muscles tightening. Hackzell took out a piece of writing paper and made a note. There they sat, surrounded by their own shrieking workfolk, the maidservants, farmhands, and crofters of Kengis and Pajala, who raised their clenched fists to the heavens. The force of this crowd was alarming. Surely no good could come of it?
But the pastor ruthlessly continued his tirade, driving the pack further and further until they were teetering on the edge of hell’s abyss and beheld the flames and the lakes of brimstone with their own eyes and smelled the fetid stench from the underworld. Only then, when all seemed lost, did he take a deep breath. And with that he let the light in. At first a mere ray, and then a sword, and finally a blaze of light, whereupon the Savior himself appeared to float above the altar in his crown of thorns, blood trickling from the side. The Son of God himself held out his hand. And the workers’ clenched fists opened up like flowers, their fingers transformed into white petals reaching for salvation, tremulous with hope. And, having superhuman strength, the Savior took hold of the congregation and pulled them out of the burning house, lifted them up, and held them in his arms like baby birds. And they pecked up the dripping honey of the gospel and like frightened children found safe shelter in their heavenly parent.
And all around, husbands and wives, brothers and sisters, even neighbors and enemies, could be seen embracing one another and asking for forgiveness, while the flesh and blood for Communion was laid out by the altar rail. With perspiring maids and crofters, I knelt and received it on my tongue. That which was called Jesus.
* * *
—
At the end of the Mass the pastor announced the promise of a reward for slaying the local killer bear. He also requested that anyone who knew anything about the disappearance of the maid Hilda Fredriksdotter Alatalo should inform Sheriff Brahe.
After the service many of the worshippers pressed forward to thank the pastor, to touch him, assure themselves he was real. He followed the mob out onto the parvis and soon found himself besieged. There were awakened souls, there were those who repented their sins, and there were others who were mostly intrigued. Everyone wanted a little piece of the pastor. I hung back in the nave, and when no one was looking I sat down on the women’s side. The pew had cooled down, but this was where she had been sitting. I hastily dropped to my knees. Rested my nose against the wood and breathed in her scent.
The next moment I heard a cough. I leaped to my feet and looked around in terror, belatedly realizing someone was lying down on one of the pews. It was a woman dressed in black, breathing strangely, viscid phlegm slavering from the corners of her mouth.
“Haluaisin . . . haluaisin puhua . . . I would like to speak to the pastor . . . Bid the pastor give me his blessing. . . .”
A foul smell emanated from her rotten teeth when she reached for me. She was struggling to sit up, but only managed to move a fraction before she slipped off the pew. I heard the dull thud of her head hitting the floor. Everything happened too fast for me to intervene. Nervously, I attempted to help her to her feet; her nose was pouring with blood and there were even bubbles of red between her lips. I swiftly placed my arms under her neck and behind her knees and lifted her limp body. Her clothes stank of urine. She was heavier than I had imagined, but with a huge effort I managed to stagger out into the bright light. I stood on the church steps. The old woman coughed and I felt something wet splatter over my face. When I saw the appalled gaze of the onlookers I realized it was blood. All I could do was stand there with the black bundle in my arms. Stand there holding this dying body while the congregation stared at me.
“What’s the little noaidi doing now?” I heard them cry.
I promptly laid down my burden on the church steps and hurried back into the shadows of the church.
6.
My mother used to say I was evil. It was a difficult thing for a child to hear. She said I did evil things, that I stole bread or hit my sister. I did many evil things. I knew while I was doing them that they were wrong, but I did them all the same. But it’s one thing to be disobedient and feel a stinging slap against your cheek. It is far worse for a child to hear that he has been created evil, that his intrinsic, true nature comes from the devil. If you hear it time and again from an early age, if it is repeated often enough, it becomes a wound that will heal only to tear apart, heal again and tear apart, weeping and oozing and then hardening to a thick scab. I often think of it as a shabby leather glove, so old the reindeer hairs have long since worn off, wrinkled by long, hard toil, soaked and dried and cracked by sweat and pus many times over until it looks like a worn-out shriveled lung. That is what my soul looks like, my sorrow.
When I encounter other people I think how easily they glide through life. They greet one another with warmth, they can chat about simple things and laugh at petty troubles instead of being vexed. A fellow can say to a woman that her steps are so light, perhaps she has a sweetheart? Just like that. And the woman doesn’t seem to take offense and she might reply that slow girls never fill a berry pail. And then they can stand and exchange pleasantries, and as they do, something unseen happens between them. Something that makes them both happy, something warming and still present after they have gone their separate ways. Or it may be in the shop where you want to buy some trifle, a pouch of rock salt or tobacco. And the merchant prattles on. About the weather and how the plants are growing and people who have come and gone, and you can only throw in a yes or a no. There is something in my nature that puts people off. Perhaps it is because of my shameful soul, because of the damage my mother inflicted upon me. Or maybe I would have been like this regardless.
I am not lovable. No one looking at me breaks into a smile or feels the easy joy I have seen in others. No woman meets my eye with a grin, but instead she will tense and turn away. When I state my errand the girl in the shop gives a curt response. It makes my life a lonely one, but I understand that it has to be like this. Whenever I have tried to appear cheerful or jocular, it has all gone wrong and only made me look odd.
“Tobacco,” I say. “Please may I have some royal tobacco?”
But there is no smile from the girl behind the counter. No mischievous twinkle, no jaunty comment about how this, one of Sweden’s least regal parts, unfortunately won’t receive
its delivery of royal tobacco until next week, when the court purveyor passes in his four-horse landau. I am met with only an averted gaze at the shelves.
“I’ll have a twist of ordinary tobacco, then,” I mumble, fiddling with my purse as I take it out. I spill some coins, they roll over the floor like eyes, and I crawl around on all fours like a sow. Gathering up the hard copper rounds. Dropping them onto the shop counter.
* * *
—
When the silence feels too great, I walk down to the river. Preferably in the evening when the day’s chores are done, when man and beast are both at rest. I stand on stones visible now that the water level has dropped after the spring floods. The river is flowing right in front of me. It is like glass, I always think, like the parsonage windowpanes. An everlasting glass floor sliding along, smashed in the rapids into smithereens and spume. Lacerations splitting open the water’s tender skin and letting its entrails well up from the deep. A waterfall’s alarming noise, warning of danger. A glimpse of black stone skulls in the swirl, boat hulls careering past with a hair’s breadth to spare. But then it all flattens out again, the river spreads its arms into a vast pool. The agitated voice stills, the foaming surface heals and levels. While underneath it all remains.
The river washes away all the ugliness. I balance on the stones and let anxiety drain out of me. I give myself up, let my innermost thoughts be carried away and disappear. Perhaps the river is the most perfect representation of life. The soul that has no beginning and no end, it simply is. The river thinks for me. It helps me endure. I might feel pinned down, but it tells me that everything is in motion, nothing lasts. If I look at the river for long enough, I am turned into water. It is a powerful experience. When I am the river, I am the one who is becalmed, whereas the banks begin to move. I lie outstretched to my full length while on either side the land sails by, the primordial forests and marshland bogs. I let it all be and embrace my summer sky.
