To Cook a Bear

by Mikael Niemi

  I rattled off the confession but my tongue was a dead fish, lying in my mouth with its belly on the bottom. My lips were pretending to form the torturous vowels, but inside I was struck dumb. I glanced toward the front pews and met Constable Michelsson’s eye. I saw him write something down on a piece of paper and show it to Sheriff Brahe, who gave a quick nod and looked briefly in my direction. It was clear that they were talking about me. A cold breeze blew up, a chilly draft passed through the church. Yet all the doors and windows were closed. I glanced at the pastor, who had lost his thread midway through a sentence. He squared his shoulders beneath the ecclesiastical stole and it seemed as though he had felt it too, as he anxiously looked around. It only lasted a second, before he cleared his throat and carried on where he had left off. But his voice was suddenly unsteady and without its usual strength. I thought I could sense movements along the church walls. Strange shadows that had invaded the church, invisible beings that wished us ill. As if the pastor could hear my thoughts, he grasped the large wooden crucifix on the altar and pressed it to his lips. I could see his mouth mumbling something.

  At the same moment a cry went up from the pews.

  “Oohooloom ohhoo!”

  Immediately another joined in:

  “Herra Jeesuksen Kristuksen, aaiiaaiiaa . . . ”

  Arms in black coat sleeves were raised, crippled fingers clawed at the air as if they were tearing at fabric.

  “Oohoo hoo,” echoed the first girl in her owl-like way, while a third woman began to rock, which set those nearest to her going, until the whole row was swaying in the pew.

  The pastor put his arms around the crucifix as the noise in the church grew. I saw him close his eyes and take sharp intakes of breath, but without losing his composure. The women’s side was now in full swing and even a couple of the wrinkly old men sat wailing and twisting their caps on their knees. A small boy was frightened and burst into tears, but when none of the adults noticed, the boy crossed his arms over the top of his cropped hair as if afraid of being hit. On all sides black-clad bodies moved like trees in a gale, standing up like tall, swaying tree trunks threatening to fall. The pastor let go of the crucifix; he was right at the front, with his back to the congregation, at the prow of this lurching ship. Now a prolonged rattle could be heard. It was coming from the board on which the hymn numbers hung; one of the hooks had come loose, the one holding up the sixes. A jangling shower of brass fell to the floor. The leaping members of the congregation were filling the aisle now, embracing one another, the tears of sin splashing around them. Some of the numbers were lying on the floor by the font, showing the figure 666. I could feel a fat man breathing down my neck, smelling of sour lard and sulfur. Another grabbed my elbow and clung to me, as if we were jolting along in a horse-drawn cart. I twisted away from the fellow; it was a cross-eyed farmhand with snot dripping from his nose. He gave a stifled sob, his arms trying to swim upward with groping, lopsided strokes, and he was shouting “Äiti, Äiti . . . Mother, Mother . . . !” I leaned forward and supported myself on the pew with both hands, held on in the gathering storm. The pastor was still standing motionless by the wooden crucifix on the altar. He was frozen, immobile; this seemed only to increase the congregation’s excitement. You could feel the Holy Spirit’s presence fill every corner of the church; you could almost see a light mist and smell the aroma of freshly baked bread. There was a sweet fragrance, too, of God’s grace, and now people began to shout as well. Shrill screams, rising like tongues of fire in a baker’s oven. I noticed the man beside me panting and straining as if he were in a latrine and something far too hard was on its way out. Perhaps this was a birth, the crown of a baby’s head forcing its way out down there? He fought to hold the creature back but it was too strong, too wild, and soon it would burst out through his pelvis.

  I was holding on so tight that my knuckles were white. When I looked around, I saw Michelsson and Brahe staring at me. They were stiff as pikestaffs, like seabirds on a stormy ocean. I tried to glare back, but I couldn’t, so I turned to the front, a ball of fear inside me. My head ached, a pain as if someone were beating me, thumping me from above with a fist, a log, a brandy keg. With anything lying within reach in the Sami tent. Throb after throb, like a pounding thunder, throb, throb, throb. . . .

  36.

  I stay hidden in the bushes. An hour passes, two hours. When someone goes past on the track I flatten myself against the ground until the footsteps have faded away. The gnats bite. A column of ants pesters me; the tiny soldiers march up my ankles and bite me red-raw. I have to see her soon. Why isn’t she coming? Isn’t she going to the barn? I shall give up soon, it’s been long enough. But she just might still come. I hold her round the waist, we dance so pliantly, my skin tingles with pleasure with every touch. The fabric of her dress. Her wrist. The feel of her outstretched fingertips.

  And now she is coming out. Standing there. My beloved. The cabin door closes behind her and she is carrying a birch-bark knapsack. Where is she going? I creep behind her at a distance. She is barefoot and in a hurry. Is she going out into the forest? Does she have supplies for the shieling girls? No, she is following the marsh path. Perhaps I could catch up with her? Offer to carry her knapsack? But then she might scoff at me, and I feel my courage failing. And all of a sudden, she is gone. Disappeared. I press ahead and peer around the next bend. Has she turned off, up toward the foundry? Yes, by all the forces of good, there she is. She has stopped behind a barn. I am giddy with excitement, my heart is on fire. She takes off her clothes. For a second I see her naked shoulders, pure white. And then she puts on something red, a red dress. And she lets her hair down, loosening the plaits so her hair is all curly. She is so pretty. Is there someone in the barn, someone waiting? I am silent, completely still, my mouth quite dry. Then I see her walk farther on. She passes the barn and goes up in the direction of the manor house. Crosses the courtyard, and then turns toward a little cottage. She knocks on the door. Someone opens. Light of foot, she slips inside.

  Confused and doubtful, I stand there for a while. My beloved. I wait, but she doesn’t come. A watchdog at the manor house barks at me, a deep, weary bark, until it starts to flag and rests its nose on its paws. The manor house is like a reclining giant, its large window-eyes staring at me. I notice an enamel bucket by a woodpile and it gives me an idea. I leave my hidey-hole and fetch it. The river is rushing past below. I am dressed like a farmhand and I pull my cap down over my eyes before hurrying along to the water to fill it. Now that I have a job to do, I can cross the yard. I walk slowly, pretending to be on my way to the vegetable garden to do some watering, but it is the cottage I am advancing toward. The dog comes to life again and barks in deep, ill-tempered coughs. I put the bucket down and wipe the sweat from my brow. It is only theater, in case someone should observe me and start to wonder. I approach the little cottage and glance through the windows as I pass, but I don’t see her. I wipe my face the whole time with my grubby neckerchief, rub it back and forth to keep my face hidden while I look behind it through the windows.

  And now I catch a glimpse of her. The room is lit by the afternoon sun and I can see her red dress twirl. Maria is dancing, spinning around alone on the floor. Her hair swings about her head. She stops suddenly and appears to be listening to instructions from someone. Now she repeats the movement, a fraction slower. And a large figure walks up to her. He is still holding the brush in one hand and with the other he adjusts her billowy curls, shaping them. And she lets it happen. He alters the angle of her upper body and she gives a little smile. He smooths the fold in her dress, his long fingers running over her waist and bosom. And she seems to enjoy his touch. I feel sick, but I can’t leave. At any moment they will catch sight of me. I wipe my staring face again and again, rub my eyes as if they were made of glass. Now I am aware that one of the farm maids is approaching. I walk swiftly over to the vegetable garden and empty the bucket over the turnips and rutabagas, splashing the water
everywhere. Then I dash off before the girl can inspect me more closely.

  “You there,” she shouts, “come here!”

  I put the bucket down and hurry away without looking back.

  * * *

  —

  “So, he’s painting a portrait of Maria,” the pastor says.

  “Wearing a red dress.”

  “With her hair loose?”

  “The pastor must put a stop to this.”

  “And how does Jussi suggest that happens?”

  “The pastor will have to talk to her. Tell her not to go there.”

  “And the painting? Is it any good?”

  “It was obscured from my view.”

  The pastor ponders. He blows little puffs of air through his lips, maybe in an effort to dislodge a tobacco flake.

  “So, Nils Gustaf attended the dance in Kenttä and a very pretty girl caught his eye. He asked her if she was willing to sit as a model for a painting in her spare time. What’s worrying you, Jussi?”

  “Nils Gustaf is left-handed,” I remind him.

  “That’s correct.”

  “He is a herrasmies.”

  “And?”

  “Maybe he takes pencils with him to do some sketching while he’s sitting alone in the forest waiting for someone to come past.”

  The pastor gives me a thoughtful look. He slowly runs his hand through his unshorn hair, as if he needs an unobstructed view.

  37.

  Of all the arts the pastor tried to teach me, speaking proved to be the hardest. If reading and writing were an adventure for me, a walk amid the mountain peaks where the views became ever more magnificent, speaking was like digging out a bog. The more you shoveled, the more sludge came slurping up. Every word a slop-filled spadeful. Squish. Squash. Squelch. And despite the bog extending farther and farther, despite the words being laid in long strings along the edge, it was still just mud and peat.

  My voice lacked something. As was so often the case among the Sami, the pitch of my voice was quite high and it was also rather grating. You never heard Sami talking with the chest tones from deep in the thorax that you heard in the sheriff or Nils Gustaf. With us the timbre was more up in the head and throat, and this was especially evident in the joik, our traditional form of song. For us northerners, feeling was the most important thing. For the Swedes it was volume. The pastor told me that, when he began his studies for the priesthood, he too had problems making himself heard; how his voice could scarcely fill a classroom, let alone a church, and that his lecturers had pointed this out.

  To a large extent, of course, it was to do with shyness. If you wanted to become a speaker, you had to overcome your fears, something requiring a great deal of practice. The pastor advised me to consider listeners as a herd of reindeer, a trick he used himself sometimes. Reindeer were large and, with their horns, could look quite dangerous. But the only thing they were actually concerned about was eating grass. If your voice was too low, they just carried on eating. If you shouted and waved your arms about, the herd scattered to the four winds in terror. But if you spoke calmly you could see the animals lift their muzzles and prick up their ears, and very gradually you could increase the volume and vary the sounds. Their interest was piqued, and one or two would even take a step forward. Then the rest would follow suit. If you could just get the flames alight, you could soon lay on branch after branch. During some sermons, the pastor had experienced a mutual exaltation grow between him and the congregation, the listeners responding to him wordlessly, and the feeling that he was becoming their tongues and lungs.

  “At such moments you can feel the Holy Spirit,” the pastor said.

  “So all the weeping, all the leaping and shrieking . . . ?”

  “It comes from God.”

  Dogs were good to speak in front of, as well as cows and sheep. Who could be shy in front of an animal? A useful exercise was to stand in front of a farm dog that was barking furiously. And then calm it down by talking. If you shouted back, it just aggravated the dog’s rage. But if you did the opposite, if you started to whisper the quietest prayer, you could see its anger turn to curiosity. On several occasions the pastor had preached dogs to sleep, their noses on their paws, an achievement often in his mind when he stood in front of enraged innkeepers or scornful townswomen.

  I tried to follow his advice. I spoke to crows and spiders. To a newly caught grayling. To suckling pigs and dragonflies and clucking hens. When I found a baby crying in a leather pouch, I sat down next to it and talked it to sleep. The mother was suspicious when she returned, but I even spoke to her. It was difficult and required all my concentration. I searched for fine words, water-smooth pebbles, sleek shapes of beauty, and nervously I placed them in a row. She sniffed and walked off, the baby slung across her chest, but she looked back several times and seemed to want to stay. I had made something with words and for the first time it had worked. I had reached into her heart. It was like learning to walk; I was stumbling and falling, traveling clumsily over bumpy ground.

  I was obviously able to speak before—if speaking was defined as the noise animals make. Give it to me. Move. Look at that. Let’s go.

  Most human utterances were of this simple kind. Expressing ideas, making them develop into trains of thought—that was something else. The road to salvation, for example. The pastor had been preaching about this all his adult life, and yet there was always more to say. And the remarkable thing was that the words changed when they were written down. The same words, in one case made from the letters of the alphabet, in the other from sounds. What separated them? The Bible was written down, but you had to chew the text over to reach inside. Let it pass through the mouth and be transformed into the living word. What did this transformation consist of? Ostensibly, saliva and muscle movements. A little hot air expelled. And at the same time something happened that couldn’t be explained, but it deepened the experience. Listening to a good speaker was like eating. Like receiving nourishment straight from a mouth.

  Juhani Raattamaa paid another visit to Kengis, after his travels between prayer meetings in the valley’s southerly villages. During the pastor’s service Juhani sat hunched over in the pew as if he were gathering his strength, and when it was time for the sermon, the pastor did a remarkable thing. With a sign to Juhani Raattamaa he called him up to his side and declared that this man would be speaking in his place. Whispers were exchanged in the pews, especially between the burghers. Could he do that? Let a layman preach in church? Did this not violate the Conventicle Act?

  The pastor had foreseen the objections. He calmly handed a piece of paper to Juhani and explained that today’s sermon had been authored by himself. It would simply pass through Juhani’s lips. Juhani took the piece of paper and warily raised his eyes, as if expecting protests. When none came, he licked his lips to soften them, opened his mouth, stretched his vocal cords, and filled the church with his melodious Finnish.

  “The world has never really loved Christians, and in every place where true Christianity has manifested itself it has been the target of anger and persecution.”

  Not once did Juhani look down at the piece of paper. The pastor stood beside him. It was as if the pastor were talking through Juhani, as if Juhani Raattamaa were his mouth. The words rose up to the church roof like winged bodies and from there they sailed down over the men and the women, the old folk and the children, over the newly awakened with their tear-streaked cheeks and over the unrepentant with a hip flask in their pockets.

  “And the Lord called unto him the apostles and sent them forth two by two and gave them power over unclean spirits.”

  It was biblical. And I was filled with trust, that this evil summer was now over. That the devil would finally be driven from our region by the pastor’s general, that we would have peace.

  My beloved hadn’t come that day. The women’s side was full of maids and servants, an
d on the way out I asked some of them if they had seen Maria. They just shook their heads and quickened their pace as if I had said something improper. So I went on to comment about the pastor’s sermon, the one Juhani had delivered, and wondered if it had moved them. The women became even quieter, so I let them disappear from sight. They whispered to one another, casting timid glances over their shoulders to see if I was following them. I thought of them as ptarmigan. White-clad winter ptarmigan with shrill laughs. How were you supposed to talk to them? In what voice, what tone? There was still so much to learn.

  38.

  As the late summer progressed, so did Nils Gustaf’s work on the pastor’s portrait. Occasionally the pastor gave up all his duties, his steady stream of visitors and urgent writing tasks, and walked to the artist’s cottage by the Kengis foundry, where he made himself available to sit for an hour at a time. With elegant gestures, the artist set out his tools. His large frame swayed to and fro in front of the easel as if performing a quaint dance. The brush looked like a reed in his huge hands and it was remarkable that he could form the most delicate of lines with his large fingers. For the most part the palette lay on a table, but sometimes he brought it up to the window in order to get the shade exactly right. It was as if he wanted to collect the light in the oil, let the sun drip in like melted butter. At the start of the sitting he usually lit a cigar, which would lie smoldering in a porcelain dish throughout the hour. The thin smoke caught the light and intensified it, making the atmosphere more alive. As for the pastor, he sucked on his pipe from time to time.