by Mikael Niemi
Mattsson didn’t possess Raattamaa’s talent for inspiring children, but on the other hand, he was equipped with a blistering memory. He could rattle off almost verbatim many of the texts and sermons he had heard the pastor deliver.
“How is the work going in our young vineyard?” the pastor greeted him heartily.
Mattsson bowed as deeply as his stiff neck allowed and showed us into the schoolroom. I counted twelve boys, but only two girls.
“The Waara sisters are sick and bedridden,” he explained.
“Is it bad?”
“It could be tuberculosis. I’ve requested that they stay at home to prevent it from spreading.”
The children sat in twos, each with a slate onto which they were laboriously trying to copy the words Mattsson had written earlier on his own. When they saw us coming in, they stood up and bowed. Most of the boys were barefoot, now that it was summer. As they gripped the chalk and drew shaky lines, their hands looked rough. The pastor wasn’t always able to interpret their writing, but he made encouraging noises. On Mattsson’s board were the words: keep the sabath day holly.
“We’re going through the Ten Commandments,” he explained a mite nervously.
The pastor rubbed out the second L.
“It’s ‘holy’ with one l. And ‘Sabbath’ has two b’s.”
“Sorry, Pastor.”
“It’s not easy.”
Not one of the pupils dared to laugh. In silence they spat on their thumbs and corrected the spelling mistakes on their slates. They were peasant youngsters and Finnish-speaking like Mattsson, and the only books in their homes were the Bible and Martin Luther’s Small Catechism. During the annual catechistical examinations, the pastor met their parents, many of whom could barely write their name. When the pastor asked them to read from a hymn, they pretended to follow the lines with their finger, while reciting the words from memory. It was clear they had memorized them before the pastor’s visit. The Ten Commandments, Luther’s explanations, the confession, and Our Father. Perhaps some of it had stuck from confirmation classes, perhaps a snippet or two from the pastor’s sermons as well. But seldom anything that might be akin to theology. Ordo salutis, the order of salvation, was really known only to the awakened. And conversion meant nothing more than calling yourself a Christian. You might easily form the impression that the farm maid or the reindeer herder lacked the disposition for academic study. But even though they didn’t read books, they knew the changes in the movement of animals at every moment in the year. They knew hundreds of reindeer marks by heart, and managed to find old pasture grounds, berry patches, and fishing lakes all the way from the high mountains to the coastline. They could give the details of all their kin to the third or fourth degree, build a house with only an ax, and sew the warmest clothes with threads of sinew. There was nothing wrong with their memory. In many matters, local people had a deeper understanding than all of Uppsala’s professors.
But a new age was dawning, the pastor said. Why couldn’t children from Tornedalen tenant farms become priests or teachers? The pastor and his brothers Carl-Erik and Petrus had achieved it, despite poverty and a childhood spent at the foot of the mountains. With knowledge, the people of the north could look forward to a brighter future. The peasant farmers could learn new and better methods of cultivation, gain awareness of new crops, animal husbandry, and processing and storage of food. Diseases could be tackled in a scientific way, medicines developed, infant mortality reduced. And with more education, the drinking would diminish, the pastor was convinced. A literate populace would rather buy books than brandy. And it all started with the children, with their crooked lines on the slates.
“The chalk has nearly run out,” Mattsson whispered.
“Already?”
“Maybe the children are pressing too hard.”
“Well, I’ve been promised a donation from someone’s estate. I’ll remind the bereaved relatives. And your salary will be paid very soon. I apologize for the delay.”
“Thank you, Pastor.”
“Thank our Lord.”
We stopped beside one of the boys. He was blond and slight, mouse-like. He raised his shoulders and tensed himself as if anticipating a cuff on the ear.
“What is your name, my child?”
“Feeto,” he whispered.
“But you were baptized Fredrik, weren’t you? What do you think you’ll be when you’re big, Fredrik?”
He didn’t answer. The other pupils stared at him inquisitively, expecting a punishment, perhaps.
“When you’re grown up?” the pastor tried again. “Have you ever thought you might like to be a priest yourself?”
Several of his classmates began to giggle. The boy lifted his face, his eyebrows so fair you could hardly see them. His eyes were azure.
“I was a boy too once,” the pastor went on. “A little boy who couldn’t read. And today I know both Greek and Latin. Say ‘Ordo salutis.’”
“Ordo sa . . . lutis . . .”
“It’s Latin and it means ‘the order of salvation.’ The order of salvation is like a staircase in front of us, extremely high and extremely steep. And Jesus Christ is at the very top. Can you imagine him? The light is almost too bright to look, but Jesus Christ is standing there with his arms wide open, waiting for us all. And, step by step, we can make our way there.”
“Is there any food there?” somebody muttered.
“Yes, lots of food for everyone who’s hungry.”
“Butter as well?”
Mattsson was about to hit the boy, one of the older lads, whose lank, greasy hair hung over his forehead.
“Mountains of butter,” said the pastor. “And there are reindeer steaks and pike, salmon and huge capercaillies. And freshly baked bread and enormous golden cheeses.”
I could almost see the children’s mouths watering. The pastor pretended to sniff at the smell of food as if it were coming from the roof.
“And we can all enter,” he said.
“Yes,” Mattsson concurred.
“He who opens his heart to God the Father will be seated at his right hand.”
Mattsson closed his eyes as if in prayer.
“Is it only priests who can enter?” asked the lank-haired lad.
“No, everyone,” the priest said. “All of you sitting here.”
“But first you have to die,” someone was heard saying.
The pastor looked at the white-haired boy, who stared back, but with no trace of insolence or facetiousness. Only earnest gravity. The child had the look of an angel, seeming to see the truth so much more clearly than the others. The pastor was eager to take this boy into his charge, sit down with him at a table with a stack of books. Show him everything of beauty and grandeur in the world. The plants and the soil, the climate, psychology, philosophy, and not least the art of oratory that gives us a way into people’s hearts. The young needed to be educated so that they could take over, when one day the old hung up their boots. The region needed pioneers who, with wisdom and tenacity, could lead the flock forward.
“Before we die, we have to live,” the pastor responded. “And in order to live rich and responsible lives, we have to acquire knowledge. Did you know, for example, that you can propel boats with boiling water? It happens in America, and even in the south of Sweden. You introduce water into an engine. Then the engine starts to work and it produces enough power to propel an entire ship.”
“What’s an engine?”
“Something that can move by itself.”
“So are people engines too?” the lad asked.
“No, we’re not.”
“Why not?”
Mattsson reached for the stick hanging on the wall. It was enough to silence the boy. With a sweep of his hand the pastor gestured toward the world outside the school window.
“An engine cannot feel anythin
g. It has no conscience. A person, on the other hand, can choose to do good, to help others. It is you, my dear children, who can raise our lands out of poverty. Our diet will improve, and our homes too. Cows are going to give twice as much milk. Disease and drunkenness will be resisted. It is you who will lead us into a better age.”
“Amen,” Mattsson rounded off.
The children hastily put their hands together and said, “Amen,” as well. The pastor appeared to be searching inwardly for an appropriate phrase from the Bible, but none came. Instead he let his gaze travel across the troop of children, their naked feet, their small, strong hands, their high cheekbones and scurvy scalps. They could have been helping with the animals at home, but they were sitting here at school. The region’s future. This was what it looked like.
* * *
—
During our journey back downstream, the pastor talked about the future. He was of the opinion that the world had to change fundamentally. For many nations, the French Revolution of 1789 had led to struggle and travail; godlessness and depravity had caused violence and oppression. Man without Christianity was worse than a tiger; no one was spared.
“Following the initial delirium of freedom there is tyranny and barbarism. I fear there are more great revolutions to come. And even though old, outdated governments fall, there is always some ambitious new blackguard with his sights on power. And that is why we will never suffer from a lack of tyrants.”
“But what about religious revival?” I asked. “Isn’t that a revolution too?”
“Yes, certainly. But it is an inner revolution. Instead of overthrowing those in power, the battle is with inner tyrants. With self-righteousness, arrogance, pride, with desire for ostentation and carnal pleasures. Only when inner demons are brought down and slain can society undergo a lasting change. You heard the schoolchildren, Jussi, you heard their dreams. They talked about food. And of course we need food, that’s true, but man needs spiritual sustenance too. On top of your stomach sits a soul, Jussi. And when the soul is hungry, it’s not enough to bend your stiff neck and bow your head in the church pew and pray for forgiveness of your sins in accordance with the service book. It’s like going to the shop and buying barley sugar and bringing the sweets home in a paper cone. You can eat them, but they won’t sate your hunger.”
The pastor continued to speak about the school, how in the future all the crofters and Sami would send their children to school and the poorest of families would be able to produce a master of philosophy, or even a professor. I kept the boat in the current, murmuring an answer now and then, but my thoughts turned in a different direction. In my head I could see my beloved. Her soft red lips against mine. Hunger.
16.
In the summer, sap rises in the trees. Eggs become birds that fill the sky; great clouds of insects hatch. The antlers on the bull elk’s head grow longer; the salmon in the river splash and climb. Light flows continuously through every hour, making the summer one extended day, perpetual light that lasts for months. This is a good time to be living in the north.
The pastor was kneeling in the moss. He was studying a Carex and jotting down notes on a crumpled piece of paper. Suddenly a bee landed on his pencil. Perhaps the movement of the pencil was the attraction, perhaps there were traces of salt on his fingers. With a smooth swipe he caught the bee in his hand. I waited for the grimace of pain when it stung him, but the pastor only grinned. He let the downy little chap crawl out, holding it between his thumb and forefinger as he handed me the magnifying glass. I leaned forward and could see that its legs were covered with tiny hairs carrying golden orbs.
“Pollen,” said the pastor. “From hundreds of flowers.”
I returned the magnifying glass. He wanted to give me the bee, but I shook my head.
“It’ll sting.”
“No,” the pastor said. “Not this one. It’s a male.”
I was suspicious, thinking it was a trick. Nevertheless, I cautiously took hold of the bee in my fingers. He was strong, thrashing to get free, his wings glimmering in the sunshine. And the pastor was right, he didn’t sting me.
“The males are lighter. It’s only the females that have a sting. It’s her tube-like ovipositor that is converted into a syringe of poison, as I learned in Uppsala.”
Warily, I loosened my fingers. For a second the bee sat perfectly still, as if taken by surprise. Then his flashing wings whirred into action and he toppled back into the greenery.
For a while we sat undisturbed, while the pastor lit his pipe. The sweet scent of the smoke smelled good and dispersed the horseflies drawn to our bare necks.
“I always have my son in mind when I see the bees,” he said. “My little Levi. You should have seen him running about. He was the sort of toddler who would stand up under the kitchen table and when he hit his head on the tabletop and collapsed in tears, he would immediately stand up again. He was so full of force, the same appetite for life as the bees.”
“What happened to Levi?”
“He and his twin sister Lisa contracted measles. It was dreadful. Their beautiful faces swelled up, their little bodies felt like red-hot pokers in my arms. Levi was affected the worst. The fever made him throw up every spoonful of water we tried to give him. In the end he just lay still, shading his eyes from the light with his chubby arm. I covered him up with a cloth. His breathing was so fast and he was coughing; it sounded like liquid in there, as though his chest were full of water. Brita Kajsa brought in a bowlful of snow and we stroked his skin with it to cool his burning body.”
The pastor’s eyes glistened at the memory. He gave a muffled cough and the long hank of hair fell forward over his face.
“Lisa got better, thank heaven, but Levi lay exhausted in the bed between Brita Kajsa and me. On the last night he seemed to grow a little livelier and he started moving slightly. He flung his arms out wide, twisting them back and forth, and his feet kicked at the sheet. It was bitterly cold outside, a January night at its darkest. The stars were obscured by a black mist. And his little arms went round and round. Like this . . . like the wings of a bee . . . but his eyes were directed upward, as if he could see the angels. Perhaps he wanted to fly there. He was already on his way to them, upward, out into the black profundity. I tried to pull him back, to hold on to him, but I knew he was on his way. His movements grew weaker. Mucus came out of his mouth and nose. We kept wiping it, keeping his mouth open so that he could breathe. In the morning I wrapped his body in the sheet. Brita Kajsa wanted to take him from me, but I couldn’t let go. We fought over the boy, it was horrible . . . But the Lord took him. He took from me the one I loved best, struck where it hurt most. . . .”
The pastor fell silent. I had a strange feeling of shame. Was that why he had taken me under his wing that time by the side of the road? Because I reminded him of Levi, so that I should take the place of the one he missed?
He leaned back into the foliage, lying down among the buzzing bees. I did the same. We lay there, side by side, looking up at the summer clouds sailing by.
“We ought to learn from the bees,” he said suddenly.
I glanced at him, not really understanding.
“I’ve taught you the alphabet, Jussi. Now you can both read and write. But is there anything finer than the beautiful humming of the bees? Just listen.”
He sucked noisily on his pipe, as if seeking comfort.
“Written words are vital, but what happens when you put them in your mouth? You have to bite them into pieces like fragments of pottery. Chew them until they are soft clay and then form them with your vocal cords and lips. Only then do they have real power!”
He flung out his arm.
“Like the apostles. They were Jesus’s bees. Out they flew with pollen grains in their bee-fur, out across the earth toward the pistils’ stigmas in every yearning human heart. And in the mountains and deserts the most beautiful flowers coul
d suddenly rise up.”
I gave a cautious nod.
“I write my sermons, of course I do, Jussi. But they only come to life in the pulpit, when the letters pass my throat and tongue. It’s your mouth, Jussi, that will save the world. Your mouth and the living word!”
Well, yes, I thought. Yes, well . . .
“And there’s another thing about the spoken word, Jussi.”
The pastor knocked the ash out of his pipe.
“How are you going to find a wife if you never speak?”
I blushed. Naturally he had noticed my longing glances, my pitiful peeking across the church aisle. I angrily flattened a horsefly, so abruptly that its guts splattered over my shirt.
17.
One afternoon, mild-mannered Erkki Antti from Juhonpieti paid a visit. In his usual respectful way he addressed everyone in the cabin; both servants and children were greeted with the same heartfelt peace of God. He wiped the blind eye that tended to run ever since he injured it in an accident in his youth. From his bag he took a piece of cloth that he proceeded to unfold. Inside was something hard and white. With the aid of a sheath knife he cut a piece off and handed it to me. I chewed and instantly experienced the taste of mountains and fjords.
“Dried fish.” Erkki Antti smiled. “Straight from Norway. I was given a piece by some fellow believers.”
