by Mikael Niemi
“The warden permits a visit.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, and curtsied.
He escorted the sister to the cell of the condemned man Jussi Sieppinen and unlocked the door. The prisoner was hunched on the bench with his legs drawn up under him, as thin as she was, both of them a head shorter than the lanky Holmlund.
“Handcuffs!”
Jussi held out his emaciated arm and looked pleadingly at Holmlund.
“Not so tight,” he said. “Please, Holmlund, not so tight.”
Meanwhile, Anne Maaret had kneaded together a large ball from the bread crumbs, spread it with a good knob of butter, and offered it to Holmlund, who picked up the clattering chain, fastened one end to the cell wall, and screwed the fetter round Jussi’s wrist, not very tightly at all. Full of anticipation, he accepted the ball of bread and took up his position on guard outside the cell door. Almost reverentially he munched on the farmer’s bread and the smooth, freshly churned butter. Inside he could hear the brother and sister speaking in Lappish, that animal language that made every Christian shudder. He could hear the chains rattle as the prisoner began to eat. Some might think the sister’s gifts were pointless. The poor lad was soon going to lose his head anyway.
Inside the cell, out of sight of the guard, Anne Maaret took hold of her brother’s arm and deftly spread the butter round his bony wrist on both sides of the handcuff, making his skin oily and slippery with the grease.
When Holmlund unlocked the cell door and announced the end of the visit, the Lapp girl was sobbing inconsolably, her face hidden in her hands. The youth was leaning forward on the bench, apparently praying to higher powers. His face was contorted, saliva running from the corners of his mouth, his hair hanging in front of his face. Holmlund decided to leave the prisoner chained up until he had calmed down. He slammed the door, turned the key twice, tried the handle for safety’s sake, and established that the door was locked. Then he escorted the sobbing Lapp girl along the stone corridors through the interior and from there to the outer door. She just shook her head helplessly when he tried to speak to her, and it was with some relief that he watched her squelch away in her wet curled-toe shoes along the cobbled street. But the butter had really tasted good, even if it had probably been stolen. Authentic Västerbotten farmers’ butter.
73.
One morning at the end of October, the crofter’s wife Elina Mukka was walking along the uneven village path from Kengis to Pajala. The recent night frosts had made the ground slippery and her smooth-soled boots skidded into the holes several times. She decided it might be easier to walk to the side of the wheel ruts, a short distance into the trees. That was how she discovered the body, lying almost hidden from sight in the undergrowth. The right arm was stretched out as if wanting to embrace the earth, the left bent behind its back. The fingers splayed out in the frostbitten grass had a bluish pallor. But what horrified Elina most was the head. It lay some distance away, completely separated from the body. The truncated windpipe gaped like a mouth in the congealed blood, the cap had come off, the hair on the scalp was thinning, almost bald, and at the back of the head was a crater of splintered bone and tissue.
“Jumalan auta . . . Lord help us . . .” she wailed, the hem of her apron pressed to her mouth. She recognized the man; his eyes were half open and the irises seemed to be covered by a thin, glassy film.
It was the village constable who lay there. Constable Michelsson.
* * *
—
I received notification of the death from one of the crofter boys. Despite winter’s imminent arrival, the boy ran barefoot, quick as a weasel, and as soon as he had delivered the message, he scampered off to the next farm. I hurriedly put on my boots and coat and made my way to the site of the discovery. A dozen of the closest neighbors were already assembled, doffing their caps, bowing and curtsying. I pushed through the crowd and looked at the dead man. They had moved the body, arranged him on his back, and done their best to clasp his rigid fingers over his chest. They had placed the head where it used to sit, the face covered by the deceased’s own cap. I lifted it up and noted that a number of blows had been needed to cut through the neck and that in addition there was a deep wound to the back of the head. The act of violence had been carried out with some sort of ax. The blow to the back of the head had presumably occurred while the unsuspecting victim had been walking along. The angle indicated that the perpetrator had been shorter than the victim.
“Have you summoned Sheriff Brahe?”
“He’s on his way.”
In spite of all the trampling feet, I could follow the trail of blood where the body had been dragged from the village path into the bushes. The beheading had taken place in here, judging by the amount of blood. It took me only a moment to detect that the perpetrator had been waiting behind some fir trees. The moss was flattened and on the left side of one of the tree trunks I found the long, narrow indentation of something pressing on the ground. From the shape I guessed it was an ax-head.
The perpetrator had carried the ax in his left hand and leaned it against the tree while he waited for his victim. The footprints were from smooth-soled curled-toe shoes. They were small, and I felt my stomach tighten.
I swiftly went through Michelsson’s pockets. There was a dirty handkerchief, some coins, a pocket watch with its brass chain attached. The murderer could hardly have been after valuables. In his coat I found a pencil and some folded pieces of paper, on which, when I opened them, I saw his elegant, neat handwriting. They were short verses of some kind, he had clearly written poems. When I read them, the scent of a predator made my blood run cold. The poems were about his victims.
I straightened my back and looked around at the assembled people.
“There’s nothing more we can do,” I said grimly.
With bowed head I prepared to leave.
“But . . . isn’t the pastor going to pray for the dead man?”
“Yes . . .” I mumbled, “of course I am.”
I carried out my priestly duties and then hurried home before Sheriff Brahe could arrive. The parsonage was silent, the waterfall roaring, and none of the servants were to be seen. I walked over to the woodshed, where I hesitated, before finally going in. The ax was standing in its usual place, leaning against the block. When I examined the finely forged ax-head bearing my initials, I could see brown spots. At first glance they appeared to be rust, but when I looked more closely, I saw short strands of hair sticking to them. I stood there for some time, breathing deeply. Then I carried the ax to the sauna and scrubbed it with a brush until every speck was gone.
* * *
—
Constable Michelsson’s funeral service was held at Kengis Church, with me presiding. His mother came from Pello, a tall thin woman, her face gray with sorrow. It was she who had insisted that the region’s famous parson should hold the service.
“My son spoke well of the reverend. He often talked about becoming a priest himself.”
“Is his betrothed coming from Pello?” I remembered to ask.
“No, he was never betrothed,” his mother said. “He was always so shy of women, the reverend understands. Such a fine and sensitive boy.”
Her voice broke and she bent forward in desperate, dry-eyed weeping. My funeral address was about the absolute arbiter we would all meet one day. He who would scrutinize our every deed when we stood before him as transparent as glass, our dark sides all revealed. And then I dropped three scoops of earth and sent him off to hell where he belonged. Sheriff Brahe gave an impassioned tribute to his fallen colleague, speaking of the difficulties of a profession in which it was easy to make enemies. A policeman’s courage and sense of duty, however, would never waver. It was loyal and dedicated officers like Constable Michelsson whom we had to thank for the fact that the violent criminal of the summer was now imprisoned in Umeå. And Michelsson’s murderer would s
oon be arrested too, that Brahe could promise, in a voice charged with emotion.
Then the coffin was carried to the churchyard and lowered into the cold autumn earth. I should have taken his skull, I thought, boiled it clean, sent it to a museum in Stockholm.
Back at home after the burial, I washed my hands fastidiously. They felt sticky after all the handshakes with the sheriff and the innkeepers.
74.
On the morning of the eighth of November 1852, a large group of Sami arrive in the north Norwegian town of Kautokeino. The mood is wild and militant. The Sami profess to belong to the revivalist movement the pastor started, and with Christian battle cries they unharness the reindeer from their sledges. From a nearby fence they break off stakes for weapons and head toward the house of the merchant Carl Johan Ruth. Shouting at the top of their voices, they storm into the courtyard, where they find Ruth with Sheriff Lars Johan Bucht. Their leader, Aslak Haetta, lunges at the sheriff, screaming.
“Repent!”
Without waiting for a response, he attacks the sheriff with his cudgel. Bucht tries desperately to defend himself and a violent struggle ensues. Haetta comes close enough to sink his teeth into the sheriff’s nose, and bites so hard that the nose comes off. Bucht tries to draw his knife, but Haetta gets hold of it and stabs the blade deep under the sheriff’s arm. Several of the Sami rush forward, among them Ellen Skum, they assail the sheriff with blows until he collapses to the ground. He manages to get up and staggers across to the servants’ quarters, but there Aslak Haetta catches up with him. They hold the sheriff while Haetta sticks his knife into his back, right underneath the shoulder blade.
Meanwhile, the merchant Ruth attempts to help Bucht. He grabs a stake from one of the women, but he is overpowered and so badly beaten that he too collapses. Several of the women, Ellen and Kirsten Spein, Berit Gaup, and Marit Sara, continue battering the fallen man with cudgels until they have crushed his skull, cleaved his neck, and rammed splinters of bone into his brain matter. Finally, Thomas Eira sticks a knife into the merchant’s chest and with Ole Somby’s help forces it into his heart.
In this time, Sheriff Bucht, despite his severe injuries, manages to escape into the house. He staggers up the stairs and locks himself into the guest room on the first floor, where, exhausted, he lies down on the bed. Mons Somby follows him and manages to break down the door with his ax. The violence continues mercilessly.
“He’s still moving his eyes,” he screams down to the others.
Both men and women charge upstairs to strike the by-this-time-defenseless body. Aslak Haetta stabs a knife into the sheriff’s chest but the blade gets stuck in the sternum. His brother Lars hammers it in up to the hilt with a log and blood pours out of the wound as the last spark of life is extinguished.
While Ruth is being attacked, his wife escapes to the parsonage with the youngest child in her arms. She enters screaming.
“They’re killing Ruth!”
The priest Fredrik Waldemar Hvoslef rushes there in an attempt to help him. He finds the lifeless merchant in the courtyard, surrounded by creatures dressed in pelts, more like wild animals than people, beating the fallen man’s body with stakes. They soon realize Hvoslef is there and overpower him with blows as he hurriedly tries to take off his spectacles to protect his eyes from the broken glass. The priest is beaten by men and women and even children, who spit in his face and rip up his linen shirt. Aslak Rist stands in front of him as this goes on, shouting.
“Make amends, you child of the devil, you murderer of souls!”
With violence and imprecations, they try to drive the devil out of Hvoslef. Finally, they take him to the parsonage, where the occupants have barricaded themselves in. The attackers break the windows to crawl inside, and violent floggings begin. For several hours a number of those who took cover there are bound and dragged around the floor amid loud cursing. While Aslak Rist keeps watch, the women carry out the violence. They set upon their victims, lashing at their heads and faces most of all, until they swell up and are covered in wounds, and many of the victims lose consciousness. The pastor prays the whole time in a loud voice, aware that the attackers appear to calm down somewhat when they hear the name of Jesus often enough.
After a while a bright light is seen on the kitchen wall, coming from outside, and Aslak Rist takes Hvoslef out onto the front steps. Merchant Ruth’s house is in flames and Aslak points to it.
“There, now you can see the unrepentant burning in hell.”
Some of the assailants hastily make their way to the shop, to carry off any valuables as loot before the whole lot is ablaze. This occasions a temporary pause in the floggings and Hvoslef tries to talk calmly to the afflicted. He is impressed by Ruth’s wife, who is standing there holding her little girl in her arms, maintaining her composure, even though she has just seen her husband killed. But the attackers are soon back and the violence recommences.
It is almost four in the afternoon before the counterattack comes. A small group of nearby Sami have gathered in defense, among them Ole Thuri, and Johannes and Isak Haetta. Now they organize a concerted attack on the assailants. A full-scale battle with stakes ensues, in which the rebels Ole Somby and Marit Spein are so badly injured that they later die, and the other assailants are beaten unconscious.
The Kautokeino uprising is finally over.
* * *
—
In total, thirty-three people are tried for murder, arson, assault, intimidation, and theft. Aslak Haetta and Mons Somby are sentenced to death and the execution is carried out by beheading. Others are given long prison sentences. Many believe that one person bears particular blame for this senseless bloodbath and should also be condemned, namely the one who started the revival movement that inspired the perpetrators of this outrage. The parish priest in Kengis.
The revival is facing its downfall.
75.
At dawn, the condemned man Jussi Sieppinen was woken in his cell in the Umeå town prison and offered a cup of coffee and a slice of bread. He refused to eat anything and appeared to be very apprehensive about what lay ahead. The barber cut off the back of his long hair so that the neck was bare for what was to come. Two prison guards led him in chains to the inner yard. In the grainy early morning light, a handful of men stood next to the block, their expressions taut and impersonal. The prison warden Thorstensson fumbled to get his metal-rimmed spectacles out of their mother-of-pearl case and placed them at the end of his nose. In a morose voice he read out the adjudged verdict of the district court and the letter dismissing the appeal to His Majesty the King.
The prison chaplain took a step forward. In a detached voice he recited the “Our Father” and preached severely about God’s greatness and the opportunities for the forgiveness of sins. Even the most heinous of sinners who humbled themselves could enter the Good Father’s embrace. Thus there was one last possibility for him to open his heart before those gathered here, and meet his Creator with a cleansed mind. Was there, therefore, anything Jussi Sieppinen wanted to say before the procedure commenced?
The Lapp youth squinted at them from under his long fringe.
“I’m a woman,” he said in his broken Swedish.
The men looked at each other, uncertain how to react. Despite the shackles, the condemned man managed to grab his prison trousers and pull them down slightly. A cursory glance established that the penis appeared to be missing.
Thorstensson stood for a moment as if paralyzed. Then he cleared his throat and ordered the prison doctor to inspect the prisoner’s body. In uncomfortable silence the doctor crouched down and after some time was able inform the prison warden that the prisoner lacked male genitals. On the other hand, the upper body bore small, tightly bandaged female breasts.
“What the devil!” Thorstensson exclaimed.
An indignant murmuring broke out among the men. The solemn atmosphere they had tried to maintain wa
s gone. The executioner, who had hitherto concealed himself in the adjacent doorway, peeped out to see what was afoot. Thorstensson turned awkwardly to the prisoner and asked point-blank who he was.
“I am someone else,” came the reply.
“So you’re not Jussi Sieppinen?”
“Not anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have transformed. I’ve made myself someone else.”
“That’s not possible!”
“Yes, it is. For a noaidi.”
One of the prison guards, the farmer’s son Holmlund from Sävar, had misunderstood the situation and now resolutely went into action. He brought out a blindfold and tied it around the prisoner’s eyes, as previously instructed. The executioner took this as the go-ahead and came out of the doorway with his heavy, sharpened ax. The prison guards rendered assistance by positioning the prisoner’s neck over the slit in the chopping block. With distracted gestures, Thorstensson indicated that the executioner should wait. He frantically waved the chaplain, the doctor, and the black-clad witnesses toward him. In low voices they started discussing what could have gone wrong. Was it possible that the wrong prisoner had been brought out? But the prison guards were adamant that there had been no mistake. This person was the one who had been sitting in the death cell, and there was currently no one else in the prison condemned to death. They all gazed upon the tiny prisoner without being sure what they saw. The hair was long and lank and there was no facial hair to speak of, but that was often the case with Lapps. Their men and women were strikingly alike to outsiders. It would look bad for the prison officers if this came out, not least in view of the recent Lapp uprising in Kautokeino. How would it look if a Sami murderer were seen to outwit the judiciary? Perhaps they should simply . . . let the executioner get on with it?
