The Finn woman had said the glass piece was found at the spot where Eriksson was killed. The priest had seen one of the Lapps with colored glass like that; he couldn’t remember who or in what situation. But Fearless was in control of his kinfolk.
Although Fearless was getting on in years.
The year after, Antti had again complained. This time another grievance was also listed. K against the church. This was not clarified. Only marked: Investigated. Dismissed.
The last line in the Church Book was Janssons gone?
The widow was sitting with a piece of charcoal in her hand. She put it down and rose. She was wearing a pale, snug dress, and her hair was braided down one side.
“I think I might have to go up to Blackåsen to try to understand what happened to Eriksson,” the priest said.
“Really?”
“The bishop wants to know what happened.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“Anyway,” he said, “before I go, I wanted to ask you about some of the entries in the Church Books. A few years ago there was a complaint against the Church? The initial of the other party was K?”
She frowned. “That doesn’t tell me anything. When was it?”
“Two years ago. The plaint was dismissed.”
She shook her head. “That’s strange. I don’t know anything about it.”
“And the Janssons? Who were they?”
“A family that used to live on Blackåsen. They left without telling anyone they were going.”
She gathered up her papers and bounced the stack against the desk a few times.
“What are you doing?” the priest asked.
“Indulging in a rather extravagant pastime.”
“May I?”
He extended his hand and she gave him the uppermost page. It was a sketch of the verger sitting in what might have been one of the chairs in the priest’s place of work: the straight fringe, the lifted brows—captured in a few simple strokes.
“But this is excellent,” the priest said. “Have you done many portraits?”
“I must admit, over the years, to having sketched most of the congregation.” She made a face, as if to mock herself for her own folly. “How long will you be gone? If you do go, I mean.”
“No longer than I have to.”
“Be safe.” She dropped her papers in a drawer in the desk and shut it.
“There was no birth date or birthplace in the books for Elin?” he asked.
“That’s because we don’t know them. Anvar had a good relationship with all the others, but Elin—she wouldn’t even tell him when she was born.”
Indeed, Elin had deflected the priest’s questions too. How could he not have noticed? Her knowledge at the Catechetical meeting had been flawless, though. Impossible to fault her there.
“She didn’t let me adorn her for her wedding either—she said that before God, she was fine the way she was.” The widow gave a small toss of her head.
“And Eriksson—what did your husband say about him?”
“There was always noise around Eriksson. He fought with everyone. His own brother hadn’t spoken to him for years.”
“Why?”
She shrugged to indicate she didn’t know. Well, he wasn’t surprised. Daniel had seemed to him like a sensible man, and Eriksson … Eriksson had been Eriksson.
In the doorway he hesitated. “How are you for food?” he asked, and his face felt hot.
She smiled at him, a warm smile now. “I am well provided for. Thank you.”
“Good. Well. Good-bye.”
As the priest walked down the steps of the porch he thought again about the glass piece. It could have been the Lapps who killed Eriksson, taking the law into their own hands. There were so few settlers on Blackåsen. He would much rather Eriksson’s death involved the Lapps. As long as it was a contained matter and Fearless remained sensible, it would be a good thing.
Something had caught his eyes. He slowed down. A movement in the stillness down at the base of the mountain. The priest shielded his eyes. He waited as the dots grew into four skiers. Each man was pulling a sleigh behind him.
“It’s Elin,” one of the men called as they skied into the square. “She has done away with herself and her children.”
Nils was in the priest’s office. The priest couldn’t breathe. The bundles that were the children had been so small. As if in death, they had shrunk back to infants. He walked to the window, but in the square below, Daniel, Gustav, and Henrik were standing by the toboggans and their loads. Destroying herself and her offspring. By God, what had driven the woman to this? The priest focused on the horizon.
“All her children?” he asked.
“Yes,” Nils answered. “We brought them to you, them and the body of Eriksson.”
“Why would she do such a thing? The Church would have taken care of them.”
“Things aren’t right on Blackåsen. Not right.”
The words were carefully put. The priest turned to face him.
“I’m not certain that her death has anything to do with that of her husband,” Nils said. “Perhaps Elin was so frightened, she saw no other way out.”
“Frightened of what? Nils, we need to remain sensible.”
“Of course. And men like you and I are. But this is about them and about what they believe.” Nils nodded to the people in the square. His voice was calm.
“What are you saying?”
“A village. I want your permission to build a village on the mountain, together with the other settlers. That way we could control things and ensure the calm.”
“The others agree?”
“Yes.”
For a fleeting moment the priest was tempted to say yes without further thought. When he’d heard that the children on Blackåsen had no school building, it had been Nils and his sons who restored an abandoned homestead and presented it to the Church for that purpose. The priest could just hand all responsibility over to Nils, tell him about the piece of glass and the Lapps, and ask him to look into it. Nils would handle the matter in a similar way—efficiently, quietly.
“I’ll think about it,” he said instead.
Nils bent his head, but not before the priest saw him scowl.
“Well, I can’t bury Elin in the graveyard,” the priest said after a while.
Eriksson and the children in the cemetery. Elin not. No murderers or self-murderers in the graveyard—the rules were clear. Had Elin realized he would not give her a Christian burial? Of course she had. It was the difference between eternal life and damnation.
Nils put on his hat. The large, furred earflaps made his head seem wanting.
“We’ll take the bodies to the night man for you,” he said, subservient now.
“Ask the night man to bury Elin in the forest when the frost in the ground allows it,” the priest said. “Have him do it quietly. Tell him not to carve up the body.” There was no need to make this more gruesome than it already was. “And that if I discover that there are any transactions in parts—bones, teeth, grease, or blood—I shall, myself, see to the dismemberment of the precise same segment of his own body.”
The whole world was silent.
Frederika stood by the kitchen window. The blizzard was so heavy, their yard was swallowed in fog. But if you stared straight into it, you realized the haze was made up of thousands, maybe millions, of small white dots.
She hadn’t been inside for long and her cheeks were burning. It had been her turn to shake the rag mats. They did it every day during winter. Put them on the snow and beat the dust out of them. Her mother had gone to the woodshed. Dorotea was feeding the goats.
Frederika leaned on the glass and stared at the snowflakes until her right side became so cold, it didn’t belong to her any longer. Then she sat down on a chair and pulled her scarf over her head and face. This is what it is like to be dead, she thought. She imagined her face withering and falling off, big sheets of snow released off a tin roof, a snap and then w
hoooosh. Like Eriksson down in the ground. And now Elin.
Her mother had told her and Dorotea about Elin and her children. “I prefer you hear it from me and not from anybody else,” she’d said. As if there were a lot of people around to tell them things. Then her mother had hugged them until Frederika couldn’t breathe and had struggled to get free.
Frederika didn’t feel well. She felt her forehead with her hand but couldn’t tell if it was hotter than usual. She’d had the strangest dream the previous night; although the images had paled, the emotions they had unearthed remained intact. In her dream she’d seen a man dressed in a blue jacket with large skirts, boots that reached his thighs, and a triangular hat on his head. He was striding forward in what seemed like a grave. There were shots—it was a trench. The man seemed unfazed by the sound. He passed another man who stood up to attention, patted him on his shoulder, said, “Tomorrow, in the daylight, we’ll have them,” then continued walking. At that moment Frederika noticed the shadows following him. The faceless shapes were gaining on him. They were so fast, and they were many. The walls of the trench began to crumble, but the man didn’t notice. He just walked on and on, and soon he was moving in mud up to his ankles. Still he didn’t notice. And then the mounds of earth on each side of him began to grow; she knew that soon they would collapse and bury him. Frederika had woken up screaming, scaring both her mother and her sister awake.
All this was the fault of the sound, she was certain. It had followed her since before the snow. Dum. Tataradum. From inside the mountain itself. As if there were a giant heart beating in its chest.
Sometimes, when Frederika spoke with her mother or with Dorotea, the sound was less present, a quiet tick. Other times it was so loud that, as she walked, she felt the pulsations around her in the air.
And then the snow fell, and things got worse. They woke up. It was hard to explain. But she knew—not just felt—knew, with the same certainty that she knew she was Frederika and she was fourteen years old, that the trees, the stones, and the snowflakes had come alive. They watched her. Not in a threatening way, but not in a caring way either. Just watching, as if waiting to see what would happen next.
“Settle down,” her mother would have said, voice sharp, eyes unwavering. “Remember what you know.”
And Frederika knew that trees and stone and snow were not alive, not in that way.
“Say hello to the sea,” Jutta used to say whenever they went fishing. “Say hello to the field, to the hill, to the plants.”
Settle down—they are not alive. But the way they shimmered. And she heard them. They whispered. They wanted.
Most of all, they hurt.
Somebody was on the porch. Frederika removed her scarf and sat up straight. The door opened. It was a man she didn’t know. His brown hair was covered by a hat of snow. His brows were wide, and underneath them, his eyes, a bluish gray. The flat kind that was difficult to see through.
“You must be Frederika?” he said.
She waited.
“I am the verger from the church in town. Where is your mother?”
“She’s getting wood.”
“Well, I really came to meet your sister. I’ll be teaching her and the other children this winter—reading and writing.”
Frederika had used to love school. Like all children, she’d had to leave when she was eleven.
He was watching her. His eyes had softened. “If you ever have time, you can join us. One more or less …”
He was being kind. Frederika remembered her manners. “Dorotea will be back any time. Please sit down. I’ll make something to drink.”
“That would be nice.”
The verger walked to sit by the table. Frederika filled a pot with water and carried it with both hands to the fire.
“How old is your sister?”
“She’s six.”
“Can she read and write?”
“Yes.” Frederika nodded. Their mother had taught them.
“We’ll have our school in the abandoned homestead … Do you know it? It lies westward.”
“I don’t think I know it,” she said.
When she turned around, he was looking out the window like she had earlier. He turned as if he’d felt her gaze, and smiled.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he said. “Snow. It turns the world flawless.”
“I guess.” She shrugged. Mostly hard work, if he asked her.
“Shame we can’t hold onto it. But things advance, a new season arrives and with it the thaw of the snow, and there they are again—the imperfections.” He almost sounded bitter.
Dorotea was on the porch. Rather than kicking her shoes to remove the snow, she hopped about. The door handle rattled. She stopped when she saw the stranger, mouth open.
“This is your teacher,” Frederika said. “This is …”
“Johan Lundgren,” he said. “In class you will call me Mr. Lundgren, but outside class Johan will do fine. You must be Dorotea.”
There were more sounds from outside. Kicking this time. Their mother came in. She unwound her scarf from her face.
“This is my teacher,” Dorotea said, in a haughty voice. “In class he is Mr. Lundgren, but outside Johan will do fine.”
Their mother gave Dorotea a stern look, but Johan laughed. The kitchen was full of sounds, as if he had brought them with him. Water underneath the pot fizzed on the iron plate in the fireplace. The fire crackled, and even her mother laughed.
“You found her?” Johan said with a low voice.
“Yes,” her mother said.
They were talking about Elin. Dorotea sat beside Frederika. She stared into the fire and her forehead was creased. Dorotea took off her socks, spread her toes wide, and winked with her feet.
Johan shook his head. “I can’t get over it. What a tragedy. To think …” He fell silent.
Her mother glanced at her daughters. There were things she wanted to ask him, but not now, with them listening.
“The school,” she said instead, “I assume there is a fee to pay?”
“The families take turns feeding the teacher. Will that be difficult for you?”
“We’ll manage.”
“Don’t be shy to tell me otherwise. It’s a mean year.”
“We’ll manage,” her mother repeated and rose.
Johan met Frederika’s gaze behind her mother’s back. He smiled at her and shook his head. It would be a long time before it was their turn to feed the teacher. He too stood up.
“Perhaps Dorotea can walk with me?” he said. “So she knows where we’ll be when we start class? I’ll bring her back too. So she won’t have to walk the mountain on her own.”
Her mother was about to say something, but nodded.
“I almost forgot the most important thing,” he said. “One of the traveling merchants brought word from your husband. They met as the tradesman was leaving for our province, and as Paavo heard where he was going, he asked to tell you he has found a job by the coast.”
“There was no … letter?” her mother asked.
“No, but he said all was well.”
The goats bleated as Frederika entered. There was a lantern on a hook by the door, but she did not take it. She stepped into the mild darkness and inhaled the scent of straw and pelt. The animals were lying down in their pen. She couldn’t make out their individual shapes; just a large, breathing bump.
“Only me,” she said in a low voice. Her mother had given a silly excuse for wanting to be alone. Of course Dorotea knew how to feed the goats.
Her mother had been sad, she thought. She wanted a letter from their father. He would write soon, though, Frederika was certain. You could depend on her father.
There was a movement in the dimmest corner of the barn and then a man took a step forward. Tall, bald, broad-shouldered, with bearing like an army man on watch. His mouth was slightly open. Last time she saw him there had been flies flying in and out of that black hole.
Jesus!
&nbs
p; She turned and her feet became snared by the hay. She fell and scrambled rearward until she sat with her back against the wood of the pen. You’re dead, she thought. Dead.
His eyes were fixed on her. They were small and set widely apart.
“A child,” he said with a scowl.
Frederika couldn’t move. Her heart was beating in her ears.
He sighed and shook his head.
“How many times did you see Elin?” he asked.
She couldn’t breathe.
“How many times did you see Elin?” he asked again, slowly this time. “Answer!” he yelled.
Frederika gasped. “Twice,” she whispered. “Once in the forest, once in church.”
Eriksson smiled. It wasn’t a real smile, but a showing of teeth. “So you do speak,” he said. “That’s better. So what did you see?”
“I don’t understand.”
“You must have thought something when you met her. People did.”
Frederika had to clear her throat. “She was wise,” she whispered.
With his finger he motioned for her to continue.
“She knew the mountain well.”
Eriksson rolled his eyes.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” she said.
“Compare the two sightings.”
Frederika remembered Elin in church. She had tried to catch her eye, but Elin hadn’t seen her.
“She was different,” she said. “The second time she was different.”
His eyes gleamed. “Different how?”
“She seemed … sad. No, more. It was as if she wasn’t really there. She seemed far away.”
“So what changed her?”
“She missed you?” Frederika said. Her voice sounded doubtful.
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