by Mikael Niemi
“It is hereby announced that Jolina Eliasdotter Ylivainio has been missing since yesterday evening. Information relating to her may be submitted to me or to her father Elias Ylivainio.”
The pastor appeared to hesitate, as though sudden enlightenment might be forthcoming from the congregation. Then he nodded to Elias, who walked softly back to his pew.
After the service I saw the pastor motion Elias toward him. They spoke in low voices at the front by the altar.
“When was Jolina last seen?” the pastor asked.
“Yesterday evening, before the weekend meal.”
“Was she going somewhere?”
“I . . . I don’t know.”
“I heard that there was a dance organized yesterday,” the pastor said.
“Well, yes. . . . Yes, she might have been going to the dance.”
“Did she go on her own?”
“She didn’t say she was going there. She must not have wanted to say anything.”
“What was she wearing?”
“I didn’t see her leave.”
“A light gray dress,” I threw in. “Striped apron, black boots. Hair in plaits, tied with slender red ribbons.”
I glanced at the pastor, who seemed satisfied.
“So you recognized her, Jussi?”
“I know who Jolina is. She danced several times during the evening.”
“With whom?”
“With various men. Roope, one of the foundry workers, was after her, I could see that. A large, ginger-haired fellow.”
“He’s been after her before,” Elias said.
“And she danced with Nils Gustaf, the artist, as well. Though nearly all the women did.”
“Nearly all?”
“The artist was such a nimble-footed dancer. He could skip and spin all over the place. I have never seen anyone dance like that.”
“And what happened after the dance?”
“I . . . I don’t know.”
The pastor looked at me in silence. Then, with a “Hmm,” he turned to Elias.
“Maybe she left with someone. If she doesn’t turn up soon, we must start a search. Look for her around Kenttä and along the path home. The girl has to be somewhere.”
“Does the pastor think . . .”
Elias paused before forcing out the rest of the sentence.
“. . . that it’s the bear?”
The pastor failed to respond. When Elias had gone, he said simply:
“Roope?”
“Yes?”
“I could see you had more to tell, Jussi. But you didn’t want to say it while Elias could hear.”
As always, he was right. I cleared my throat.
“Well . . . that fellow Roope . . . he was in a bad mood yesterday. He had been drinking brandy and was being a nuisance to the girls.”
“In what way was he bothering them?”
“He was grabbing at Jolina and other girls.”
“Brandy can cloud the judgment.”
I recalled the rush and the heat and swallowed hurriedly. Could he tell that I had tried it too?
“Roope attacked Nils Gustaf. I think he was jealous of him.”
“Oh?”
“Roope tried to knock him down with a wooden cudgel. But Nils Gustaf got away and brought him down. Then he threw Roope’s knife into the forest.”
The pastor looked thoughtful.
“This Roope,” he said, “I didn’t see him in church today.”
“Likely enough he’ll be sleeping it off.”
“And Nils Gustaf stayed at Kenttä all evening?”
“Yes, he enjoyed being with the girls. He was an incredibly agile dancer.”
“Really?”
“The best I’ve seen. He could leap and twist like a cat.”
“And what about yourself?”
I was reluctant to reply.
“Is it a sin to dance?”
“What sort of thoughts did you have while you were dancing?” the pastor countered.
“I . . . I can’t tell you.”
“Well, where did it lead, Jussi? What happened afterward?”
“I . . . I’m just saying, people dance in church too. When the spirit moves them, when they reach their liikutuksia, during the pastor’s sermons. Isn’t that dancing too?”
The pastor gave me a sharp look.
“The intention, Jussi, was that you should seek out the perpetrator.”
“A lot happened in Kenttä,” I said cagily. “It was a remarkable evening.”
“You can tell me about it on the way home.”
21.
The search for Jolina Eliasdotter Ylivainio gathered momentum through the afternoon. One of her friends reported seeing Jolina walking in the direction of home after the dance. She was alone and seemed to be in good spirits. It was the last that was seen of the girl, as if the earth had swallowed her up. They combed the ground around Kenttä and along the path she was believed to have followed home. One of the farmhands investigated a storage barn, an aitta standing in a meadow, partly hidden from the marsh path. On finding the door locked, he was about to leave and carry on elsewhere. But when he peeped through a gap he could see that the door was latched on the inside, which struck him as odd. With the blade of his knife he managed to flick the latch up and open the door. When no one answered his shout, he started to look around inside the barn and suddenly became aware of low sounds from the loft. It sounded like the rustling noise of a small animal. He climbed up the ladder, expecting to see mice, or perhaps a stoat. There were some sacks piled in the corner, and when he lifted them he found Jolina Eliasdotter.
Her eyes were wide open. For one dreadful moment the farmhand thought she was dead. As he reached out to touch her, an eerie wail issued from her lips. It sounded like a hare caught by a fox. He spoke soothingly to the girl, but she didn’t seem to hear. Her cry attracted others who came to help, and together they tried to maneuver her to the ladder. Shaking and pulling away, the girl didn’t answer to her name and couldn’t stand. Only after they had tied a rope around her waist did they manage to hoist her down from the loft. On a makeshift stretcher of poles and sacks they carried her home. When they asked her what had happened, she just covered her injured face with her arms and refused to respond. Her body convulsed as if with cold, and once she was safely home, she was wrapped in warm blankets and put to bed.
The message that Jolina Eliasdotter had been found was conveyed to the parsonage. The pastor was asked to bring the vessel for the last rites because they feared for her life. He and I immediately hastened to Elias’s cabin. Many of those who had helped with the search were standing in the yard. After a brief greeting the pastor was shown into the cabin, where we met an oppressive silence. Elias was sitting at the kitchen table with his two adult sons. One of them stood and offered his chair to the pastor, while I sat down cross-legged on the floor. We had barely exchanged civilities when the door was flung open and in strutted Sheriff Brahe with Constable Michelsson in tow. Brahe gave a careless salute and wiped his hand across his sweaty brow.
“Where’s the girl?”
The master of the house pointed to the bedroom. When the door opened we could see that the curtains were drawn, casting the room into semidarkness. Elias’s wife Kristina, a slender woman with scrawny shoulders, was sitting on a truckle bed wringing out a wet flannel. In front of her on the floor was a pail of water. Jolina was motionless on the settle bed. The sheriff leaned over to look at her bruised face and the gray hue to her skin. The constable watched from the door.
“Is the girl asleep? Hello?”
Brahe was perspiring in the heat and snatched the flannel to wipe his own brow.
“Hello?” he said again. “This is Sheriff Brahe. What happened to you?”
There was no sign of reaction from t
he girl in the bed. He hesitantly stretched out his fingers. Finally, he took hold of her shoulders through the blanket and shook her.
The girl gave a croaky shriek and tried to free her arms but was hampered by the blanket. As soon as she got them loose she began to strike desperately at the sheriff. He caught her wrists and held them as the screaming continued.
“Listen to me. . . . I am Sheriff Brahe. Stop hitting me.”
Jolina’s body arched in a spasm and he deemed it wise to let go and withdraw. The girl stopped screaming but kept her hands clenched in front of her face, ready to beat and scratch, her eyes fixed, wide open.
“I’ve no time for this sort of charade,” the sheriff said sharply.
He wiped off the drops of saliva on his uniform sleeves. Kristina had risen to her feet and evidently wanted to help, but he pushed her aside.
“Jolina,” he said. “Is that your name?”
She stared up at the ceiling.
“Did someone hurt you, Jolina?”
Still no answer.
“Was it the bear? Did the bear attack you?”
“She won’t talk to us either,” Kristina said apologetically.
“Why won’t you speak, Jolina? We don’t have all day. Was it the killer bear? You can at least nod, can’t you?”
A slight movement could be seen.
“She nodded,” the sheriff said.
The mistress of the house did not venture to disagree. I was doubtful, but kept my misgivings to myself.
“I thought the killer bear had been captured,” the pastor said.
“It might have been the wrong animal. We’ll have to offer a new reward. Sooner or later it will bite the dust.”
“Her arms,” the pastor said.
“I beg your pardon?”
The pastor leaned cautiously over the bed. Her eyes were still open wide, staring fixedly. He murmured calming words as he knelt down to study her more closely. Her white skin was suffused with an ugly purple.
“Someone has restrained her arms,” the pastor said. “Exactly as the sheriff did just now. I can see the finger marks here.”
“They could equally be from a bear’s claws,” the sheriff said.
“Jolina,” the pastor said kindly. “Sweet child, tell us. Who attacked you in the forest? Can you tell us, Jolina? Do you remember anything?”
Perhaps his gentle tone helped. She lifted her hands a tiny fraction from her lips.
“Se oli mies,” could be heard.
“What did she say?” asked the sheriff. “What did she whisper?”
“That it was a man,” the pastor said.
The sheriff looked skeptical, but Kristina had heard it as well.
“Tell me more. What did he look like?” Brahe said, reclaiming the initiative. “Did you recognize him? Was he known to you?”
He waited, and when she didn’t reply, he repeated the question. She closed her eyes and turned her head away.
“Did you recognize the fellow? Was he big or small? What was he wearing?”
From her lips came a murmur. The pastor leaned forward and listened.
“Se haisi konjakille,” he repeated. “He stank of brandy.”
“That goes without saying,” Brahe said. “But what was he wearing?”
Jolina lay still, her eyes still closed. Her pallor was increasing and she seemed on the point of fainting. The pastor straightened his back and looked about.
“A man who smelled of liquor,” Brahe reiterated. “A farmhand on his way home from the dance. And the urge came over him when he caught sight of the girl.”
“It is not dissimilar to the first assault,” the pastor said. “Hilda Fredriksdotter was dragged into a barn, too, and subjected to strangling.”
“Jolina hasn’t said anything about being strangled.”
“The sheriff can see the injuries to her neck.”
“But Hilda Fredriksdotter was killed by a bear, wasn’t she?” the constable interrupted, turning his watery blue eyes on Brahe.
“A bear,” Brahe affirmed. “As the evidence indicated, unequivocally. I thought the pastor knew that.”
“This is the second victim of the summer,” the pastor reminded him. “A violent criminal is at large.”
“A drunken peasant bastard,” the sheriff declared, “who lost his head. She shouldn’t have walked home on her own after the dance.”
“I fear the fellow may strike again.”
“Let us fulfill our office and you do yours, Mr. Reverend!”
The sheriff and the constable positioned themselves to form a wall between the pastor and Jolina. We offered no further objections and retired. She would hardly start talking while they were there. When I followed the pastor out into the yard, I realized how furious he was.
“Good-for-nothings,” he hissed.
The farm dog came padding up to us and we let her sniff at our kneecaps. She was a Finnish spitz, small and light brown, with dainty little paws. The pastor pulled out a piece of dried reindeer meat and cut a slice off as a tidbit for her.
A couple of neighbors approached, curious about what had happened in the cabin. But the pastor wasn’t in the mood for talking and turned his back, indicating he wanted to be left in peace. In front of us was the sauna hut; he opened the door and stepped inside. By the doorstep lay a bundle, which he poked with his walking stick. It appeared to be women’s clothing, perhaps left there for washing later.
The pastor bent down to take a closer look at the pile. A kirtle, a bodice, and a simple blouse.
“Can you see, Jussi?” he whispered.
“What?”
“They must be Jolina’s clothes. The ones she was wearing during the attack.”
He carefully closed the sauna door behind us. Then he lifted the bundle up to one of the window openings and in the shaft of daylight he started to examine the clothes in detail.
The kirtle was woven from coarse wool and some pieces of straw had fastened onto the fibers. He turned the fabric inside out and inspected it in the light. A dark stain was visible, which wasn’t yet dry. He brought his large nose closer and sniffed.
“Semen, Jussi. Are we to believe this comes from the perpetrator?”
He continued to investigate the garments with care. There was dust and dirt from the hut floor and in the hem of the kirtle the pastor found a tiny dried animal dropping. He pointed to a darker patch on the inside that I first thought was blood. But when he let me smell it, it had a sharp, slightly smoky scent.
“Do you recognize it, Jussi?”
“Fat . . . and tar . . . and something else. Not pine-tar oil, but more refined, somehow . . .”
“What on earth can it be?”
“From church,” I recalled. “I recognize the scent from the church pews.”
The pastor leaned forward again and took a deep breath with his thick nose. And then he nodded.
“You’re right, Jussi. I think it’s boot wax.”
“Yes, that’s it.”
“Grease that people rub into their Sunday shoes.”
“Grease that’s been purchased.”
“Exactly. You would hardly find poor people using this, or Sami with their soft-soled reindeer-skin shoes. Their footwear smells of reindeer bone and dogs’ wet feet.”
The pastor took a handkerchief from his coat to soak up as much of the grease as possible.
“But how could it end up on the inside of the clothes?” I asked.
“He pulled up her skirt and sat astride her. Write down what we’ve seen, Jussi.”
I hurriedly found a pencil and a scrap of paper. Meanwhile, the pastor went on to look at the blouse. When new, it had been white, but years of wear and washing had given it a dull grayish tinge. In a number of places, the fabric had been mended, old tears had been sewn up, and a mix
ture of buttons used.
“The button by the collar has gone, write that down. You can see loose threads where it’s been ripped off. And look, Jussi!”
I leaned forward and saw some round reddish-brown spots. They looked fresh.
“Blood.”
“Note the pattern, Jussi. The drops have spattered. So they must have fallen from a certain height. On the inside, the drops are fainter and blotched, meaning that the blood hasn’t gone right through the fabric. What does that tell us?”
“That it must have come from outside.”
“Go on.”
“It wasn’t hers. The blood must have come from someone else.”
“Namely?”
“The perpetrator?”
The pastor nodded and took a slow breath.
“So, the villain was injured.”
The bodice Jolina had been wearing smelled strongly of her sweat. I could identify the reindeer’s scent of fear at the wolf’s approach. She had been facing the predator’s jaws.
