by Mikael Niemi
And without being shocked, I knew that this was death, that this was what it looked like.
62.
I hurried to the place where Jussi had been arrested. There were a number of the overcurious already assembled in the yard, keen to acquaint themselves with the gossip. In the midst of them stood the master of the house pointing toward the edge of the forest to indicate where the assailant had come from. He and his sons, together with Sheriff Brahe, had hidden in the cabin with all the lights extinguished and had kept watch through the window. They had waited until darkness fell, then given the signal to Michelsson, dressed as a woman, to walk toward the cowshed. As he did so they could see a shadowy figure come creeping out. At the door to the cowshed the offender threw himself on top of the person he thought was the farm maid Maria, but instead fell straight into the constable’s arms. Sheriff Brahe and the people inside the house had immediately rushed out and helped with the arrest.
I walked up to the barn door and studied the ground.
“So Michelsson tackled him head-on about here, on this spot?”
The farmer demonstrated the hold and how the man arrested fought like a wild animal to get free.
“So Jussi fought back violently?” I asked.
Yes, he had even tried to cut Michelsson’s throat. The sons nodded. But at the last moment they managed to kick the knife away.
“How could you see the knife in the dark?”
On that, the witnesses were uncertain. But after a while they agreed they had seen a blade glint in the moonlight. And thanks to their speedy intervention, they had prevented a bloodbath. The accused had struggled frantically, and even though they were all strong men, they had only just managed to get the better of him. Not until the attacker was dealt a few salutary blows did he submit.
I opened the barn door and let the light stream in. The floor consisted of rough, hand-sawed planks. I bent down and examined the wall of the nearest cow stall.
“Was one of you injured?” I asked.
They shook their heads. Sprayed on the wood in long arcs were dark oval splashes of blood.
“Was this where Jussi landed? On the floor down here?”
“Yes, his head was lying at that end.” One of the sons pointed.
I crouched down and examined his frayed boots. There were dark spots on the leather uppers. He must have kicked Jussi until he bled. I bent closer to the floorboard and discovered a tiny bit of skin with some strands of hair stuck to it. They must have slammed the back of his head against the floor while he was down.
“And then you took him out into the yard? Did he go voluntarily?”
“No, we had to drag him.”
The grass outside had been trodden down by all the visitors and it was impossible to see any drag marks. But by the door I found something. It was a couple of small, grayish lumps, and when I squatted down I noticed a familiar smell. It reminded me of something at home, but I couldn’t for the life of me think what.
“Did you hold Jussi on the ground?”
“Yes, we did, we guarded him. Father fetched the horse and harnessed it for the wagon. That took a while.”
“Did you eat anything while you were waiting?”
I scraped up the gray clumps on my finger and showed them to the men, who looked blank. I put out my tongue and licked cautiously. The taste was familiar too, but I still couldn’t place it.
“Did you eat any bread, by any chance?”
“No, but we had a drink. The sheriff had his bottle with him.”
A ripple went through the crowd, for everyone knew my abhorrence of alcohol. But I was pondering the taste and now I knew what it was, something that came from my own home: Brita Kajsa’s porridge.
“That’s porridge down there,” I said.
Only then did the son remember.
“Oh yes, we went through his laukku, his knapsack. And there was a birch-bark box. We thought he might have hidden money in it, but when we opened it the porridge spilled out.”
“You mean Jussi had a knapsack on his back?”
“Yes, a laukku. An old one, very shabby.”
“With porridge wrapped up inside?”
“And other stuff as well. A fire striker. An old blanket. A pouch of salt and some dried fish.”
“And where’s the knapsack now?”
“Sheriff Brahe took it.”
I stood in silence, considering the situation. Then I turned to the cabin and raised my arms to make my way through the mob. People stepped aside to let me through and I entered the large cabin without knocking. I thought at first that the house was empty, but then I thought I could hear the sound of quick footsteps.
“Is anyone there?”
No answer. I carried on to the bedroom. The door was shut, and when I tried to open it, it appeared to be locked. But a muffled rustling suggested someone’s weight was against it on the other side. I braced myself with my shoulder and pushed. It opened a crack, so I pushed harder, slowly forcing the door wide open.
I went in and found her standing with her back to me. She was hiding her face in her apron and I could see her shoulders shaking. Tentatively, I touched her shoulder, at which she jackknifed, her upper body snapping against her thighs.
“Maria?”
Her weeping made no sound. When she came to the parsonage with her enraged mother, she had been stiff-necked and uncommunicative, but today she displayed an entirely different side.
“Tell me, Maria. What happened?”
She shook her head. I brought my hand to her neck and her tightly plaited hair.
“Jussi was carrying his knapsack,” I said. “In the middle of the night he brought tools and implements and a blanket. Isn’t that strange?”
“Don’t know,” came her faint reply.
“Had you arranged to meet? Did you and Jussi intend to sleep beside each other?”
“Don’t know.”
“And how did Sheriff Brahe come to be here, keeping watch? Someone must have summoned him, someone must have said that Jussi was on his way here.”
“Don’t know, don’t know.”
“Was it you, Maria?”
She twisted as though her whole body were in pain, as if she were strung up from a hook. I raised my voice and gave it a sharper ring.
“Jussi is accused of attempting to attack you. But if you say that you had agreed to meet of your own free will, he will be released.”
She shook her head violently, making her plaits swing to and fro, and she covered her ears with her hands to block out my words. I felt my powerlessness growing. I grabbed her wrists roughly and prized them apart. She stiffened, twisted round, and stared straight at me. Her eyes were dry and empty, like an angel’s.
“Don’t know.”
We looked at one another as if from different planets. Her beauty was striking, her clear blue eyes saw right through me, a lock of golden hair curled round her ear.
“He is very fond of you, Maria. You can save him. Just one word from you and he will walk free.”
But it was as if she weren’t there. Perhaps she wanted to protect the unborn child, the little flame that had been kindled in her stomach, the child that had no father.
“Don’t know,” she whispered again.
“Get thee hence!” I hissed back. “In the name of Jesus Christ our Savior, be gone!”
Her face darkened, she was about to vomit; inside her the toad’s feet and coiled tongue writhed, and soon it would come screaming through her mouth and rend me apart.
Steps could be heard from outside and someone trod heavily on the porch. I let her go and turned away, bitter acid rising in my throat.
The father of the household entered the cabin and found me in the kitchen, drinking from a ladle of water. I praised the water’s quality and was told it was his grandfather who had dug the we
ll. He had gone straight down into a spring that never dried up, even in late winter.
I also remarked on the excellent condition of the house, which improved his mood still further. Yes, they knew how to build a house in his family. In fact, it was a family trait, woodwork demanding both precision and patience, in his opinion. But, so as not to appear too arrogant, he pointed out some small defects in need of repair, and we agreed that for a homeowner there was never a shortage of things to do.
I led the conversation to the events of the previous day and was told that Sheriff Brahe had arrived in the early evening, accompanied by Constable Michelsson. The farmer had no idea who might have summoned them, they just turned up. The sheriff had explained that they were going to set a trap and the family had followed his instructions. All the lights were put out, so it looked as though everyone had gone to bed. The constable dressed in the girl’s milking clothes. And then they just had to wait.
“What was Maria doing while this went on?”
“She was told to stay in the maids’ room.”
“What sort of mood was she in?”
“The sheriff told her to keep calm.”
“So she was upset?”
“Yes, it wasn’t very nice for her.”
“But the policemen knew that Jussi was coming. Did Maria tell them?”
The farmer shrugged.
“At least we got the monster.”
I glanced at the bedroom door. It was closed, but nevertheless I lowered my voice so that Maria shouldn’t hear.
“Maybe Jussi was lured here? Maybe Maria had asked him to come?”
“I don’t know about that.”
“How long has she actually been working as a maid here?”
“Since last spring. But she’s going to stop now.”
“Is she?”
“The girl’s mother doesn’t want her to stay. And neither do we. The mother thinks that one of us men has been with the girl.”
“And what do you think about that?”
“No, absolutely not. Neither I nor my boys have touched her. I can swear on the Bible. . . .”
“But the girl is certainly very pretty.”
“She has to stay until the autumn jobs are done. Then she can leave before it starts to show too much.”
“I understand.”
“The pastor probably knows the girl has been running around the village. Been painted and everything. She doesn’t even know who the father is herself.”
“Or she doesn’t want to say.”
“Well, it’s neither of my boys. They were as annoyed as I was when the mother came here implying such things.”
I thought of the son’s blood-spattered boot. The spray on the wall. How many nights had they seen Jussi sneaking around out here this past summer?
63.
It took Michelsson and Brahe two days to get Jussi to confess. Only then was I allowed into the poky cell that served as the local prison. Jussi lay on his stomach on a wooden bench with no mattress, just crude, rough planks nailed together. His hands and feet were chained and I could see that the links had chafed ugly wounds into his skin. Instead of his own clothes, they had put him in a sack-like tunic that smelled disgusting. Behind me I heard Michelsson slam the door and lock it, and doubtless he remained standing outside to listen. I looked at Jussi, appalled. At first I thought he was asleep, and then I saw violent tremors shake his body. I quickly took off my coat and spread it over him against the cold. I gently stroked his filthy hair and felt clotted lumps come loose.
“It’s me, Jussi. . . . It’s the pastor.”
He didn’t answer. Could he be unconscious?
“How do you feel? Don’t you have a blanket to lie on?”
Very carefully I took hold of his shoulders and turned him onto his back. He let out a groan. I flinched when I saw his injuries. They had struck him so hard his eye had swollen shut.
“Can you hear me, Jussi? It’s the pastor.”
I saw his lips part a fraction.
“Water,” he whispered.
An overturned jug was lying by the end of the bench. There was still a splash at the bottom and I put a drip onto his lips. He opened his mouth so that I could pour the rest in.
“Jussi, is it true you’ve confessed to the attack?”
He forced his eye open a crack to reveal a wet glimmer.
“They . . . they forced my hand.”
“What do you mean?”
“They pressed it against the paper.”
“Did they force you to write, Jussi?”
“Maria and I were . . . Maria knows . . .”
“I went to see her to find out.”
“Then she must have said . . . ? We’d agreed we would meet.”
His shaking worsened and I anxiously stroked his brow as the rage welled up inside me.
“Water!” I roared, and heard Michelsson draw the bolt back. The hinge creaked as he half opened the door.
“Fetch some water,” I said again. “And blankets, the man is frozen to the core.”
“The sheriff ordered a hard bed,” the constable said. “No bedclothes, that’s the rule in cases like this.”
“And you’ve beaten him half to death!”
“He resisted arrest.”
“Did you, Jussi? Is he telling the truth?”
“We have witnesses,” Michelsson said smoothly.
“But fetch more water, for God’s sake.”
“It was the prisoner who tipped the jug over. That’s what happens to people when they suddenly realize their guilt. They’re so distraught they refuse to eat and drink. But after a few days the convict usually cooperates.”
“And how can you be sure of his guilt?”
Michelsson stretched and rubbed his neck.
“It was me he attacked. I dressed in the maid’s milking clothes when we laid the trap. In the dark he took me for a woman. And besides, he signed the confession.”
“A written admission?”
“He confesses to the attempted assault on the farm maid Maria. And to the earlier attack on Hilda Fredriksdotter—”
“But you claimed Hilda was slain by a killer bear!”
“—and the attack and subsequent murder of Jolina Eliasdotter.”
“Sheriff Brahe was of the opinion Jolina had taken her own life!”
“Sheriff Brahe has changed his mind.”
“And how is that possible?”
“The suspect has confessed to everything. The summer’s scourge is over and the guilty man has admitted all his deeds.”
Michelsson glanced at Jussi, who lay motionless.
“And what about Nils Gustaf, the artist? Who killed him?”
“In Dr. Sederin’s opinion he died following a stroke.”
“So you’re letting that murderer walk free!”
The constable’s expression was full of regret.
“May I look at the confession?” I asked.
“The sheriff has that in safekeeping. And at the moment he’s taking a nap. The interrogation has been demanding. And in addition . . .”
Michelsson leaned over Jussi and pulled off the coat I had laid over him. He pulled the dirty tunic down a little and pointed to Jussi’s left shoulder, where a stab wound could distinctly be seen in the center.
“But this wound is fresh!” I protested. “It can’t have been inflicted by Jolina. He got this when Roope and his gang gave him a beating.”
Michelsson shrugged regretfully. I tried to give him the empty water jug but he shook his head resolutely and hustled me out of the cell.
“No prolonged visits. Sheriff Brahe’s orders.”
The constable’s pale blue eyes were cold and expressionless. When I tried to force my way back to Jussi, he stood in front of me. From his belt he loosened
a wooden club, a good foot long with a metal head. With an angry crack I slammed my cane on the floor.
“I’ll be back, Jussi! Do you hear me? You won’t be left on your own.”
“You forgot something,” Michelsson growled when I turned round.
With a jerk he tossed my coat over to me.
“But the poor boy’s freezing to death!”
“Rules have to be followed,” he said dryly. “The pastor has to realize that in here the law applies.”
I grabbed my coat and as I hurried away I heard the wooden door being shut and bolted. Bitterness simmered inside me and I had to strain every nerve to contain my thoughts.
Back at the parsonage I swiftly collected together all the evidence Jussi and I had gathered during the summer. There was the mountain plant we had discovered in the barn together with the strand of Hilda’s hair, there were the pencil shavings, the boot grease, and the notes we had taken. For a long time, I sat studying the empty glass from Nils Gustaf’s kitchen table with the marks of sticky fingers. Eventually I carefully packed it all into a leather bag, which I carried outside to the shed. I had to find a place the mice wouldn’t get to. No one saw me climb up a ladder and push it in at the top of the gable wall behind one of the roof trusses. No one would find it there.
64.
In the midst of all of this, my daily duties had to continue. I made a visit to the sick and to the old woman Wanhainen, who lived with her simpleminded son in a modest farm down by the river, and suffered so badly from breathlessness that she could barely rise from her bed. She was unwilling to call a doctor, as that would cost money she didn’t have. But she wanted to talk about her son. Believing the end was close, she was deeply distressed about how the simple boy would fend for himself. Throughout our entire conversation he sat staring at us, his eyes watery and his mouth open. Even though she asked him to close it, it opened again straightaway and long threads of saliva trickled slowly down onto the front of his shirt.
I could do little more than listen to her anxieties and anoint her. She confessed her sins with tears rolling down her face; she thought she had often been too hard on the boy, she hadn’t had enough patience. I could see her repentance was genuine and granted her absolution according to established practice. From my etui I lifted the wafer and the wine and gave her Communion. Her shriveled lips sucked noisily and for the moment she seemed to be comforted.
