To Cook a Bear

by Mikael Niemi

  “If you are honest before God, you will feel it,” the pastor said. “Feel it with your whole body.”

  “Perhaps we need something more,” Juhani said. “After I left, I heard something shocking. Following the meeting these women had secretly carried on. And one of them had herself granted the widow absolution.”

  The men looked at each other, speechless.

  “One of the women,” Per Nutti finally said.

  “Yes.”

  “Read the absolution in God’s own name?” the pastor exclaimed.

  “We’ll have to seek her out,” Pekka said. “We’ll have to issue a sharp warning.”

  Juhani looked hesitant. It was obvious that he and his brother had already discussed the matter many times.

  “I have thought about this,” he spoke slowly. “What if the woman did the right thing? What if our revival has only got halfway?”

  “Do you mean we should start offering forgiveness?” Per Nutti said doubtfully.

  “Maybe she was showing us the way? Maybe we already hold the key to the kingdom of heaven?”

  The pastor sat in silence for some time. Outside, the roar from the Kengis waterfall rose and fell, and the sheep could be heard bleating in the meadows.

  * * *

  —

  At nightfall, after the sauna, the men sat down on the porch. The pastor bade me fetch the twist of tobacco and I cut the dried leaves into pieces for them to fill their pipes. The clouds puffing up soon held the gnats at bay. Juhani inquired if there was any news about the dreadful killing the entire Kengis region was talking about.

  “They say a killer bear has been slain. Is that so?” Pekka Raattamaa asked.

  “I fear the situation is worse than that,” the pastor said.

  In a low voice he told them about the dreadful attacks, how one young woman had lost her life and another was lying on her sickbed. He gave an account of our investigations, how we had found traces from the cow-girl Hilda Fredriksdotter in one of the hay barns on the bog, which indicated that she had been taken by force. Strands of hair had been pulled out of her head when a man assaulted her in the hay.

  “And why would a bear attack a cow-girl? Why not attack one of the cows?”

  “Yes, it sounds strange,” Per Nutti agreed. “But if it was a she-bear, maybe she was protecting her young?”

  “The girl had strangulation marks on her neck,” the pastor said. “And someone tried to strangle the other girl who was attacked too.”

  “So there’s an assailant at large here in the forests?”

  “So it would seem.”

  “Does the pastor have any ideas about who it might be?”

  “We found an unusual plant in the hay, which we believe may have come from the murderer’s clothes. A tiny mountain plant that doesn’t grow in this area. Who travels between the mountains and Kengis?”

  “Sami like us,” Nutti said.

  “And preachers like us,” Juhani said.

  “Tradesmen and peddlers,” Pekka added. “Tax collectors. All manner of officials.”

  “A fellow whose path takes him past Kengis,” the pastor mused. “Who cannot control his urges. Who creeps up on girls and then silences them.”

  “The last attack took place the evening of the dance,” Juhani said. “Music excites the desires of the flesh. I have always feared the seductive powers of dance.”

  “Maybe not the dancing,” the pastor said, “as much as the liquor.”

  “Dance and drink go hand in hand,” Pekka Raattamaa said. “I have personally seen the most violent of acts happen under the influence of drink at a dance. An inadvertent push, a thoughtless word. The recollection of some old grudge stirring, maybe. Brandy can arouse the wildest rage.”

  “So true,” the pastor agreed.

  “But couldn’t it be over now? The perpetrator might have moved on to other areas?” Juhani said.

  The pastor looked doubtful.

  “I don’t know. . . . Recently I’ve felt darkness gathering around me. As if someone is spying on me. Someone waiting for the opportunity to break me.”

  “May God protect you.” Pekka made the sign of the cross, casting a quick glance over his shoulder.

  “I understand why the evil one comes here,” Per Nutti said. “Is it not precisely in our regions he wants his work to be done?”

  The men stared at him in astonishment.

  “Here in the north is where the battle is being waged,” Nutti pointed out. “We are in a time of visitation of the Spirit. The Lord’s presence up here is stronger than anywhere in the world.”

  “Of course,” Juhani agreed. “The front line is here in the north, and here the battle is at its height. It’s the revival that is luring the devil and his cohorts here.”

  I could feel that the temperature had dropped and darkness seemed to be falling around us. Unseen demons came flying through space and gathered under the roof.

  “I fear this is just the beginning,” Pekka said. “They want to destroy the movement.”

  “Who?”

  “Our enemies. All those who fear the truth.”

  “Our enemies . . .” the pastor said thoughtfully. “All the enemies out there, or the ones within ourselves?”

  The door to the parsonage flew open and Brita Kajsa walked past the men bearing a water bucket.

  “Women’s sauna!” she said impatiently.

  Her daughters and the maid were eagerly waiting for their sauna too, and slipped past us into the sooty temple. We moved into the pastor’s study so that the youngest children could sleep peacefully in the cabin. I settled down in the corner, my chin resting on my knees, like a sitting shadow, while Per Nutti quietly resumed.

  “I heard a story in Norway: four years ago, in 1848, Antin Pieti and Mattis Siikavuopio traveled over to preach the revival to Norwegian Sami. At the winter market in Skibotn they stood among the people and began speaking. Loudly, in the midst of jingling purses and bottles of liquor, they spread God’s word, but they were met with ridicule and apathy. Despondent, they carried on along Storfjord, where they met two fishermen, Mons Monsen and Hans Heiskala. It was here, after speaking together, on the thin strip of coast between the ocean’s immensity and the steep mountainsides, that the fishermen became believers. They were the first in the region to be seized by the revival. Their neighbors and friends were scornful and distanced themselves and no one would listen to them.

  “One day, when the fishermen were out in their boat, a terrible storm blew up. Monsen and Heiskala had to abandon their tackle and attempted to reach land, but the wind and waves threatened to smash the boat. They feared they would perish in the ice-cold sea. Panic-stricken, they prayed to God, and held on for dear life for so long that their hands went numb, until, by some miracle, they managed to land at Polfjellet. Soaked through and half frozen, they were taken in by a kind family. And there, in front of the warm fire, they reported that what had saved them was their firm faith. The men’s story and their calm conviction affected the listeners deeply. Despite having come so close to death, they were filled with peace and trust. The entire family became believers there and then, and that was the beginning of the great awakening in Lyngen.”

  “Thank the Lord,” murmured the pastor.

  “Yes, Antin Pieti is indeed a mighty preacher.”

  There was a gleam in the pastor’s eye as he went on:

  “You’ve listened to Antin Pieti. You know how he leads people to living faith, don’t you? By speaking slowly!”

  “That’s true. He certainly doesn’t hurry,” Nutti agreed.

  “His sermons take hours.” The pastor smiled. “I mean, truly hours. He speaks so slowly he could bring a mountain to salvation.”

  The men burst into laughter at the pastor making fun of one of his own.

  “As for me, I speak
too quickly,” Juhani said with a laugh, “so I need to preach to the birds and the flies.”

  “I’ve often wondered about one thing,” Per Nutti said. “When Jesus comes to our region, is he going to be bitten by mosquitoes too?”

  It came as a relief to hear these distinguished people joking with one another. Only Pekka remained impassive. He smiled, yes, but his face looked like hammered steel.

  Evening slipped into night, and it seemed the men didn’t want to end their conversation. The room was filled with their hushed voices and pipe smoke, as they spoke of people they knew, of acquaintances who had become believers, of how to respond to the dissent and discord that were threatening to split the movement. They had completely forgotten I was there, and I sleepily sat in my corner, smiling. I felt like a child listening to these trustworthy, fatherly voices. In their arms I felt utterly calm. And this was how I fell asleep, leaning against the pastor’s large bookcase, supported and strengthened by words, with one blessed bump on my head.

  32.

  It was wonderful to see the pastor’s mood change. His recent melancholy was dispelled, he was full of vitality, not to say exhilarated. Or perhaps the correct word is “confident.” Even though the pastor was the strongest one among us, I had seen him become worn out, his back increasingly bent, weighed down by an overwhelming burden. But now that burden had lightened, thanks to our friends. They fortified each other, like four smoking logs in a hearth that were pushed together on the embers and flared up again.

  Four apostles, I reflected. Four evangelists. Four horsemen in the holy war.

  “You’re always in the corner, listening,” the pastor said to me down by the river.

  “I’m learning all the time,” I answered.

  “You learn everything I show you,” he went on. “How is it going with the Gothic script?”

  “I can read Gothic script as well now.”

  “You see, you see! But speaking, Jussi, speaking is the hardest.”

  “Yes.”

  “I think the difficulties are to do with the voice itself. The nature of the voice. It comes from within us, from the depths of our heart. It rises by means of pressure in the lungs, through the throat and vocal cords, and is forced out like a cloud of invisible droplets of saliva.”

  He curled his hand around the cloud of saliva, outlined its shape in the air, how it rose and then dispersed.

  “We are ashamed of the things that leave our body,” he said. “We all have to answer the call of nature, but we want to withdraw to do it. We would rather be left alone in the privy. In Härnösand, you know, they even latched the door with a brass hook, as if the professors’ bowel movements were a shameful secret. But they could certainly speak. Sometimes I think that is the real purpose of education: to overcome one’s embarrassment at speaking.”

  “It’s worse when there are many people listening,” I said.

  “And so you must practice when you’re alone. Stand here and look out across the river. What do want to say to the river?”

  Was the man joking? I looked out across the wide surface drifting past and mirroring the sky. The roar of the rapids could be heard from farther down.

  “Say?”

  “Yes, it’s not sufficient to think. Words that are only thought become crumbs; they may be enough for the moment, but they’re forgotten just as quickly. It is only when they are uttered by the mouth that we see what they are worth.”

  “But it’s possible to write down your words.”

  “In that case people must first be able to read. Come on—the river. She’s listening. She is waiting to hear what you’re going to tell her.”

  Without another word he turned on his heel and left. I was alone. When I was sure he could no longer hear me and that no one else was there, I turned to face the water.

  “Väylä,” I said. “River . . .”

  It felt peculiar. I peered in all directions to make sure no one was listening.

  “The greatest sin,” I continued. “The greatest sin people can commit is not to love their children.”

  The river murmured gently in reply.

  “Not to love their children,” I repeated. “To bring forth children into the world and do them harm. To want to hurt them, to give them no comfort when they suffer.”

  The witch’s blowsy face appeared before my eyes. Her sneer made me fall silent and feel afraid. If I contradicted her, she would hit me hard. Pull the hair on the back of my neck, hurt me as much as she could.

  “What have you done with Anne Maaret?” I said. “Bitch. If you’ve harmed the girl, I’ll kill you.”

  I wonder what she is doing now. My sister. I wonder if she is still alive.

  33.

  Early the next morning a visitor arrived at the parsonage. I was still lying in my straw sleeping bag on the floor when I heard a knock on the porch door. I swiftly pulled on my trousers and opened it. Outside stood a woman I didn’t recognize at first. Her face was contorted and wet as a dishcloth. Then I realized it was Kristina, Jolina’s mother. She was treading up and down on the spot with small, halting steps. I was immediately seized with a feeling of foreboding.

  “The reverend must come . . . must come . . .”

  “He is still asleep. Has something happened?”

  Kristina tried to tell me, but she was sobbing so violently that I couldn’t understand what she said. I hurried in to the pastor, who had been woken by the noise we made and was sitting on the edge of his bed in his floor-length nightshirt, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He started to dress, but I could see from his slow movements that he wasn’t properly awake.

  We followed Kristina out into the yard, where she tugged at the pastor’s overcoat until, with mild force, he loosened her grip. Then she set off along the village road with small scurrying steps, the torn hem of her skirt flapping around her ankles. Now and then she turned and waited until we caught up.

  The cold night air was still lingering and the grass and leaves glistened with dew. You could feel that summer was over. The birch trees would soon turn yellow, before shedding their leaves. The plants’ time was over and, as always, it made me melancholy. The silence of winter would soon follow. The stems and leaves would turn black and bow to the ground and their hard seeds would be tossed out into the wind. The rustling stalks would be pressed down like letters of the alphabet under the white sheet of snow and lie there hidden all winter long.

  We reached Kristina’s cabin. The master of the house, Elias, saw us and came out onto the porch step with his adult sons. Motioning with his arms, he led us across the yard, past the barn and the privy, and up to where there was a patch of forest. On the ground we found an oblong bundle lying on a rag rug and covered by a blanket. I feared the worst when I saw that it was the shape of a human body. Apart from the buzzing of flies, there was no sound.

  The pastor slowly knelt down. He cautiously took hold of the edge of the blanket and pulled it to the side. With a cry of horror, he let it drop and recoiled, his hand over his mouth. The sight was so hideous that he could barely utter a word.

  Jolina’s once-pretty face was covered with a bluish-black discoloration. Her lips were parted and her tongue was so swollen that there scarcely appeared to be room for it in her mouth. Elias had laid heavy coins on her eyelids, but when the pastor lifted one of them the eye was half open and bloodshot, as if she had beheld the devil. It was painfully obvious that the girl was no longer alive.

  “I cut her down,” Elias muttered.

  He pointed to the big pine tree beside them. Only now did I notice a piece of rope dangling over one of the hefty branches. The other end was tied several times round the trunk of the tree itself. The pastor looked at the ground underneath.

  “Was there a stool here when you arrived?”

  “No—she must have climbed up the tree and jumped from there.”

  “
God rest her soul,” the pastor murmured.

  He studied the huge pine tree and then sank to his knees. Pensively, he picked up some bark chips.

  “My wife woke early,” Elias went on. “It was as if she knew something was wrong.”

  “Yes?”

  The pastor turned to Kristina, who was holding her apron over her mouth. She turned away, unable to look at her daughter’s body.

  “I thought I’d look in on her. It was then I realized the room was empty. Jolina must have crept out while we slept.”

  The pastor folded the blanket back, to expose the torso. Jolina was dressed in a nightgown that went down to her ankles; it looked old and had a grayish tinge.

  “Did she usually sleep in this?”

  “Yes.”

  “And her feet? She’s not wearing any shoes.”

  Elias shook his head. The pastor looked around and discovered a severed piece of rope, tied into a noose, that had been thrown onto a lingonberry thicket.

  “Was this . . . ?”

  “I cut it off.” Elias caught his breath. “I hoped she was still alive.”

  His voice broke and this big man fought back his tears in a fit of hoarse coughing.

  “Do you recognize the rope?”

  Elias shook his head.

  “It isn’t ours. She must have borrowed it.”

  “Voi tyärparka,” Kristina sobbed.

  “Yes, poor girl,” the pastor mumbled.

  “Will Jolina go to hell?”

  The pastor couldn’t bring himself to answer. He steadfastly clasped his hands together and said the Lord’s prayer, as he had done when he gave her the Eucharist. Elias and Kristina bowed their heads, but I found I couldn’t join in. Words. They were just words. Incapable of protecting her.

  “A Christian shouldn’t do this to herself, should she?” the man said.