by Mikael Niemi
But the pastor saw that which had surrounded me as a child. Drunken bodies lying in the filth, trousers full of excrement, and porridge-like vomit all over the deerskins. Waking up to the horrors of streaming red eyes and a tongue curling round the neck of a bottle for the last drop of poison. The herd of reindeer carried on, but the pastor turned aside. He was the most courageous man I had ever met.
I also walked alone. But in my case it wasn’t courage, it was the lack of it. I could do nothing else. My child-lips were damaged where the blows had struck, my young arms bruised by cruel pinching. And the worst of all punishments was her way of pulling my hair at the nape of my neck, where it hurt the most. As if she were ripping up turnip greens, yanking and pulling until blood trickled out, as if she wanted to tear off my entire scalp in one gluey lump of skin.
My sister wasn’t beaten as often. She wasn’t as wicked as I was. She never argued, just looked at me with her huge eyes. She didn’t learn to crawl in the usual way, but by bracing with her tiny hands she pulled herself along on her backside in a comical, bouncing way. That was when they started calling her the runt hare. I remember how red and sore her bottom was. Splinters and twigs scraped her skin and the mosquitoes and ants sucked her blood and excreted their waste until the skin between her legs was like an enormous ulcer. She scratched off the purple scabs and screamed with pain. I used to turn her onto her stomach and spit some phlegm onto it, big gobs that I rubbed in like ointment. When she was older she was given a ragged tunic, but never anything to help her bum. When she squatted to relieve herself, the inflamed crack was exposed, red and chapped like an ax cut. I taught her to stand astride the embers of the fire once in a while and let the smoke rise until a shimmering film of tar settled over the wound, to keep the insects away, at least. But she still scratched day and night and bits of her came off and fell into the mat of needles.
“Runt,” croaked the witch. “Come here, runty.”
And my sister hopped over to the stinking bosom to receive something chewed up straight from the hag’s mouth, turnip maybe, or some sinews of reindeer shoulder, or perhaps just grain. Spittle and grain from the mouth of evil, that was the bread on offer.
My sister had two names, the most beautiful names of all: Anne Maaret. But the witch never used them, she just called her the runt. “Look at the runt, look at what she’s doing.” But I used to say her real names. When we were alone I would whisper them softly under the mountain birches. “Here, Anne Maaret,” I would say, blowing the names gently into her damaged ear. “I have saved some bread for you, Anne Maaret.”
When I decided to run away, I tried to take my sister with me. I shouted and hectored, I pulled so hard I nearly dislocated her arm. But she was too small. I couldn’t save her. I will never forget her desperate sobs while she clung to the witch, clutched at the frock on the snorting pile of rancid lard and lousy hair that I could never bring myself to call my mother. I left my sister, the only person who was fond of me. Since that time I have traveled life’s road alone. I am not afraid of being lonely. I took my knife and cut myself free from the human body because I had to.
These were the thoughts in my head as the pastor and I wandered homeward. Two wild reindeer, which no lasso could catch. He invited me to go with him into his study. He silently took out his knife and began to sharpen both of the pencils he had purchased. We compared them with the shavings from the scene of the crime. It was easy to see that these were different. The culprit’s pencil didn’t come from the shop in Pajala. The shoe wax, on the other hand, smelled the same as the grease that had stuck to the girl’s kirtle.
26.
The pastor’s enemies continued to make his life difficult. A report was sent to the chapter accusing him of refusing to conduct a service for a woman after childbirth. The report was anonymous, but the pastor knew local innkeepers were behind it. On the occasion of churching ceremonies, beer fests would usually be held for the new mothers and their babies, and that meant there were significant profits. But since the pastor’s arrival revenue from the sale of alcohol had diminished markedly, and now the innkeepers wanted revenge. And, despite an appeal, the pastor was sentenced to pay five hundred riksdalers in compensation to the woman, a substantial sum that he was obliged to settle.
Instead of using their silver to buy brandy, the Sami and peasants began to donate it to the school or to help the poor. This too aroused suspicion and envy in many quarters. Surely it was going into the pastor’s pockets? Didn’t some of it end up with his children and relatives? New accusations were sent to the chapter about the pastor’s accounts. They tried to wear him down, bespatter his name with dirt. Some of it stuck.
In the end the chapter felt obliged to act. The decision was taken to make a visitation and Bishop Israel Bergman from Härnösand boarded a ship and commenced the long journey north to Kengis Church. After several days’ sailing across the Gulf of Bothnia, he arrived at Haparanda and stepped ashore at the mouth of the Torne. There he took a seat in one of the long river boats typically used in the district and was poled upstream by wiry, Finnish-speaking boatmen. They knew every part of the long river and every rapid, pool, and bend had a name. They swerved to avoid stones you couldn’t see, they knew of resting places where pitch-filled pine soon crackled with warmth. It was as though the river were a creature unto itself, fantastically long, with its head resting in the mountains and its toes dipping into the Gulf of Bothnia. The men caught grayling on the towline during the journey, the bishop emptied the nets, and they ate the fish, piping hot, tender, and delicious, with their fingers. The bishop had to eat more quickly than he was used to, as the other men had a knack for dispatching their food at speed. Their hands were as tough as cowhide, they never wore gloves; their grip on the poles and the oar shafts was so hard that after thousands of miles’ use the timber bore the indentations of their fingers.
The farther north the bishop traveled, the lighter the summer nights became. When they stopped overnight in Övertorneå, he took the opportunity to visit the church with its ornate baroque organ from Stockholm. With his own hands he held the walking stick used by Russian Cossacks to beat the priest Johannes Tornberg to death. That night, as the bed seemed to rock like the river beneath him, he couldn’t sleep. He lay listening to the relentless whine of a mosquito under the eaves, and he thought about the remarkable man up in Kengis whom he was on his way to see.
Bishop Israel Bergman and the pastor had become acquainted during the latter’s student years in Härnösand. Bergman was a mathematician, and had impressed his students with his sharp intellect while also clearly caring about his young charges. He was particularly concerned for those who, like himself, came from small Norrland communities, such as the parish of Attmar outside Sundsvall, where he was born. As a professor of astronomy, he was deeply fascinated by the stars, and on one unforgettable autumn evening he gathered his students together in his garden at home. There he had rigged up a tall device that resembled a gun barrel, but which he explained was an instrument for gazing at stars. One by one he bade the young men to sit down on the observation platform and gaze out into the vast universe. The students would never forget the moment they were able to contemplate the planet Saturn with its extraordinary ring system. They were infected by Bergman’s excitement, when he explained that the small dots of light near it were not stars at all, but the planet’s own moons orbiting the celestial body. But it was something else that made the biggest impression on them: when it was the would-be pastor’s turn to observe the planet, the eyepiece was totally dark. He assumed that someone had moved the telescope’s tube, and requested Bergman’s help with adjusting the focus. The teacher enthusiastically explained that it was not the telescope that had shifted. Rather, what had moved was the thing under our feet. The celestial body we call Earth was rolling through space like a giant orb. For one dizzy moment, it made the young man’s head spin and he had to support himself on Bergman’s shoulder, which amused the
professor.
As a teacher, Bergman demonstrated a dry humor that he had probably acquired in Uppsala’s academic circles. Lateness was something he especially disliked and would earn a student the moniker “Service Canceled.” As for him, he was in perpetual motion; there was always something to write, a thesis to read, a board meeting to attend. He claimed that was why he had never married; he simply hadn’t had time.
Now, many years later, when he entered Kengis Church, he still displayed his somewhat crooked smile. He was five years older than the pastor, and age had left its mark on them both. The bishop’s hairline had receded over the crown of his head and the thin tufts that remained had gone gray. He had a thick nose and a narrow, delicate mouth. But his gaze was still sharp and critical. Experienced educator that he was, Bergman had instantly taken in the place and everyone present, and from their seating he had identified hierarchies, alliances, and those individuals who could cause trouble.
It wasn’t often that a bishop happened to pass through Kengis, and many people had come out of curiosity. The pastor’s enemies and their wives had gathered in the pews at the front: the foundry owner Sohlberg, Forsström the merchant, Hackzell the bailiff, and Sheriff Brahe. Fellow believers had assembled farther back. There were far more of them, but for the most part they were poor, ignorant folk. The bishop seated himself in an imposing chair with padded cushions and ornate armrests. The pastor had requested something simpler for himself, a homemade kitchen chair. Bishop Bergman slipped on his spectacles and took out his papers and documents, which he placed on a drop-leaf table, covered in honor of the occasion by a white celebration cloth. He opened the proceedings, mindful that he should create a good atmosphere. However, it was soon obvious that several of those present had difficulty understanding his Swedish and his academic turns of phrase. In a calm voice he outlined the reason for his visit and began to list all the complaints made against the minister for this parish.
“Let us start with the accusation that the minister has not recorded honestly the donations to the school and the poor. After my arrival I went through the accounts in detail and have found nothing untoward. The amounts have been recorded accurately.”
One of the innkeepers raised his voice.
“The minister said here in church that everyone who has gold, silver, or valuable clothes should give it all to him.”
“Is that true?” the bishop asked.
The minister was prepared, and read out the announcement he had made during the church service.
“‘If anyone is minded to offer alms for the school and the poor, this will be received by the undersigned. If it be gold, silver, or clothes, they will be converted into money for the school and the poor . . .’” he read.
He knew, of course, that the bishop himself organized collections for impecunious students in Härnösand. And, indeed, Bergman had no objection to this announcement.
Someone nudged Brahe, and he stood up and declared:
“The pastor doesn’t follow Lutheran teachings! He’s started doing his own kind of confessional.”
“And in what way does the confessional contravene Lutheran teachings?”
Brahe stole a glance at the others and reiterated that it wasn’t Lutheran. But in what way it might be heretical, he couldn’t quite explain in theological terms, and the minister couldn’t help but smile.
Next, they came to the matter of disorder during church services. In their complaint, the foundry owner Sohlberg and several of the others had denounced the fact that the awakened, and especially the women among them, were permitted to disturb the services with shouting and shrieking, and even dancing in pairs at the altar and in the aisle. All this impeded their attention to the sermon. In addition, the minister had encouraged the youngsters in particular to berate, condemn, and arouse the so-called “unawakened.” What’s more, in both his sermons and his conversations, the minister used language that was foul and shocking.
Bergman had the details of the complaint explained to him. By “disorder,” the complainants meant all the liikutuksia that might occur during services. The congregation would be seized by profound emotion manifested in a kind of ecstasy. Frail old people would be up on the points of their curled-toe shoes, performing wild jumps and waving their arms about as if they wanted to fly. Burly farmers broke down in the most heartrending tears, their bodies swaying like trees in a gale. The minister didn’t consider that he had ever encouraged this conduct himself, and his wife Brita Kajsa was never seen to join in. But it was also true that he had never forbidden or sought to stop it. The agitation arose from a deep spiritual force and was proof that the churchgoers’ conversion and remorse were not playacting, but reached deep into their hearts. The commotion could even be seen as a sign of the Holy Spirit’s presence, in the minister’s opinion.
When it was the turn of Forsström the merchant to speak, he described how distasteful such a service was. People would shout and wail so much it was impossible to hear the sermon. You would be jostled in your seat or showered with spittle from the lost souls wandering to and fro in the aisle. Did not every member of this community have the right to listen to the service in the same orderly way as the rest of the kingdom?
The bishop turned to the awakened and asked if the hubbub troubled them. They replied in unison that it did not. On the contrary, liikutuksia strengthened their devotion. The debate continued for a while, until, when hostilities appeared to intensify, the bishop intervened. Having weighed up the pros and cons and noted something down, he reached a decision.
“Since this excitement appears to be of a spiritual nature, we cannot suppress it by force. But to avoid causing offense to others, the people concerned must leave the nave when it occurs.”
Although disappointed whispering could be heard among the awakened, the burghers of Pajala were visibly pleased.
“On the other hand,” the bishop went on, “there is nothing to prevent the pastor holding a special service for the awakened after the regular service.”
And so it happened. Henceforth, the minister held two services on Sundays. One for the insouciant well-to-do, and after that, one for the awakened.
Toward the end of the visitation the bishop inquired as to whether there were any unlicensed premises in the region selling alcohol. None of the assembled company answered, so the minister asked to speak.
“Since we often see persons intoxicated, there must be inns, of course.”
“Perhaps the sheriff knows where these inns are?”
Given that one of the innkeepers was sitting next to him, the sheriff shifted uncomfortably.
“I know very well . . .”
The bishop went on to deliver a sharply worded address on sobriety, in which he warned of the consequences of drinking.
“Those to whom it applies, take this to heart!”
After the meeting, a number of the awakened went up to the bishop and praised his courage and wisdom. One of the old women stretched out her arms and held him in a fierce embrace, her streaming tears moistening his chest. The bishop couldn’t understand her Finnish and seemed thrown off guard by all the enthusiasm, but was clearly pleased with his performance.
27.
Having given the matter due consideration, the pastor did in the end decide to have his portrait painted. A day or two later, with great fanfare, the artist Nils Gustaf arrived. A couple of crofter boys came along as bearers and were weighed down with bags and boxes and strange tripods. Nils Gustaf was welcomed with a substantial meal, over which respects were exchanged, though there was still palpable apprehension in the air. The pastor declared himself embarrassed by his own self-aggrandizement, but the parish might derive pleasure in seeing him preserved for the future. Nils Gustaf pointed out that such embarrassment was found only in the greatest of characters and it was of the utmost importance that this record should be made. The pastor’s portrait could hang in the sacrist
y and be a source of support and inspiration for all future ministers. Perhaps this would even be the start of a tradition for every minister to be depicted in oils, so that the pastor would be the first in a long and imposing line.
After that a sizable deposit changed hands. The artist counted it carefully and then placed the money in a leather purse. That done, work on the preliminary sketches could commence.
One of the bearers was ordered to fetch a wooden casket the size of a smallish tabletop. Inside it lay some large sheets of paper and a box of charcoal sticks. The pastor was then invited to take up any position he chose in the courtyard. I noticed how stiff he was, this being a situation quite alien to him. Nevertheless, he persevered, advancing his toe slightly, lowering one shoulder, sticking out his chest. The artist viewed him from different angles, squinted up into the sky to assess the light, and bade the pastor make one-eighth of a turn while he circled round his subject. He went up to the pastor every now and again and adjusted something as if he were a doll, lifting his wrist, moving a wisp of hair from his brow, pulling out the tip of his collar. It all lasted a considerable time. Only then did the artist move over to the tripod, ease one of the sheets out of the casket, and secure it under a wooden batten. Next he held up the carbon stick and screwed up first the left eye and then the right eye, while shaking his head to and fro. Then, in an explosive flick of his wrist, the charcoal sliced through the air several times before diving down to the paper. There was an audible screech. It sounded as though he were squeezing a she-cat, making her spit on the paper. After only a few seconds he stepped back, sweat pouring down his face, and changed the piece of paper. The pastor in a new stance, trying a new coat, the French Legion of Honor received after La Recherche Expedition pinned on carefully by Brita Kajsa. A chair for him to sit in, in different positions. Finally, they went inside, into his study, where the light was softer and the shades of color more pronounced. The artist picked crayons out of a tin; waxy, oily crayons in yellow and purple, ice-blue and rosy red. After several further sketches he pulled out a large handkerchief, wiped his neck and cheeks, and concluded by blowing his nose loudly into the fabric.
