Now the little bird saw each separate blade of grass, the grains of the moss on the stones, the veins on the leaves. The world was so plentiful and its colors so sharp, it had to shut its eyes. Oh, if I could fly as high as the hawk, the little bird thought, then I would be at the right distance to the earth to watch it.
God heard and gave it the ability to fly as high as the hawk.
The little bird glided in the sky. Below it, far down on the ground, it discerned many worms and insects, but the little bird shivered. This high up, it was cold. Oh, if I had the thick feathers of the hawk, it thought, then I’d be warm here in the sky.
God heard and gave it the plumage of the hawk.
But the feathers were not fit for such a small bird. It beat its wings as fast as it could, with all its might, but before long it had to surrender, and it plummeted through the air and down to the ground.
As the little bird lay dying, in the soil beside it was a worm. The little bird saw it. But now it no longer cared.
Who had told him this story? It was obvious: his father. Who else would tell tales like that?
Dum. Tataradum. Dum. Dum. Dum.
Frederika.
Answer me.
Frederika tried to breathe as usual. In. Out. They’d lived through so many storms. Perhaps more than a hundred. Ostrobothnia’s tempests came the sea way. They were wet and tasted of salt.
But the way this wind tore at the house. As if it might rip the walls down for something to reach in and seize her.
She was being stupid. Storms did not speak. They did not live. Storms happened when there were too many clouds and winds in the same place. It was her mind playing with her because she had pictured it so many times, she knew it: that split-second of nothing and then the violence of being grabbed. The Russians stole children. They did much worse to the adults, but the children, they took with them. They hauled you away and you knew you’d never again see the ones you loved. And your pain would be so great, you’d die. Though you wouldn’t. No, you’d live forever with a black hole inside you that grew until the hole had swallowed all of you. And then you’d become just like them. Everybody had heard about the mother and father who, ten years after he’d been snatched, had seen their own son among the killers. He had not recognized them. His eyes had been dead.
Focus on your sister, Frederika told herself. Hold your sister. She’s screaming. She’s hurt.
Dum. Dum. Dum. Dum.
You can’t hide.
Her mother’s profile, grim in the light of the fire. The priest sat with his head bent. Neither of them moved or spoke. They might as well be dead, she thought, and then she’d be all alone with her sister, and this time there was no Jutta and they wouldn’t stand a chance against what was outside. It would float through the walls, and there would be nothing but this swelling darkness until you realized you sat in it and that it had a face, and when you looked, it would be your own face and …
Snow rose in a violent twister and beat at the pane. Frederika cried out. There was a new smell inside. One that didn’t belong. Earth, she thought. The air was damp and cold despite the fire. It was like when they’d finished excavating the underground food storage and she’d crept into it for the first time, soil still crumbling down its walls. The roots in the roof had looked like small worms. They’d been cut off by the digging, and their small ends were a naked white. The plants reached out for their amputated limbs, knowing that without the rest of them, they were certain to die …
Open.
Dum. Dum. Dum.
Open to me.
In the Bible Jonah had been on a boat. There had been a gale, and the others had to throw him in for the sea to quiet. If she walked out into the storm, it might settle. It might take her and leave the others in peace. Her sister was so hurt. And her mother. How Frederika loved her mother.
Stop this. Stop this. Stop. This.
Frederika sat up straight. She wasn’t a small child any longer. She was older, and she knew what she knew: there were storms. Things might seem alive—they might make noises, but as long as you were with adults, as long as you were with your mother, you were safe. Her mother always knew what to do. She …
Their world exploded—
Jesus.
The storm was inside. The screams of wind and darkness were all around them.
The priest grabbed the metal sheet they cooked on. He and her mother pressed it to the open hole that had once been a window. She held it while he put a chair on top of the table to block it there.
Dum. Dum. Dum.
Maija lay awake and listened. The tiny house squeaked and groaned. She wondered if the roof would hold the weight of the snow.
It’s built for this kind of weather, she told herself.
The blizzard gave no sign of abating. In the barn the goats weren’t tethered; they’d be able to get to the dried grass. Water might become a problem. But goats didn’t need much.
Slowly, so as not to make a sound, she turned her head and looked toward the pile of wood. Wood for two more days, perhaps three. They had to go and get more, but more importantly, they needed food. There wasn’t anything left to eat now.
Dorotea was lying close to her side. She was burning hot. The hairs by her temples had curled themselves. Maija wanted to put her hand on her daughter’s forehead, knowing she would find it both hot and cold at the same time. Frederika lay on the other side of Dorotea, her blonde hair on the pillow a bird’s nest. This was all her fault. Why had she taken them on the journey? Why …
“We need to go and get food.”
She startled. In the dark, on the other side of Frederika, the priest was just a shape.
“Yes.” She whispered so as not to wake her daughters.
“We might as well go now. We’re both awake.”
“It’s still dark.”
“The longer we wait, the weaker we’ll be.”
She wanted to stay with her daughters, but he was right. They put on their outerwear in silence. Maija tied her shoes and pulled the end of her trousers down over them. She bound a piece of string around the ankles. Hopefully that would hold the snow out. The priest nodded.
As she opened the door the cold and the wind rushed in. Her heart flipped over, and she was wide awake. The priest stepped out beside her and they pressed the door shut behind them, the wind forcing them to move slowly. Maija stared into the dark. The snowflakes hurt, and she bent her head. She tried to judge in which direction the food storage would be and took the shovel. Luckily they’d taken it inside. She had to make sure they never left it outside or else they wouldn’t find it again in the snow. She put out her hand, feeling for the porch railing. Once she had found it and located the top of the staircase, she took a step down and sank to her waist in snow. The priest reached for her, but she shook her head and pointed. They had to continue.
But the snow was too deep. It was impossible to move forward. She needed to get out of the snow, get on top of it somehow, and so she leaned to crawl, using the shovel to support her, but her other hand sank straight down and she caught a mouthful of snow.
This wasn’t going to work.
The skis, she thought, before remembering they had left them on the ground on returning from the Lapps. They were gone now. She tried to get on top of the snow again.
The priest had squatted down on the porch. He was waving to her. She turned and stretched out her arm. He grabbed it and pulled her up with him on the porch.
“Snowshoes,” he yelled in her ear. “We need snowshoes.”
Snowshoes. Of course. The branches, she thought. They had a big pile of spruce branches they had gathered to use to wipe the floor. Perhaps they were still not dry and some of them might be big enough for them to construct something. She pointed to the door. They pulled it open and tumbled inside.
She removed her scarf and wiped her nose. She took off her woolens. The silence inside hurt her ears after all the noise.
“We gathered spruce branches before you c
ame,” she said and opened the door to the wall cupboard. She squatted down and selected the largest and greenest ones.
“We’ll need string,” he said. “Take a lot,” the priest said then. “We should make two pair of shoes each.”
He was right. If the shoes broke or got ruined on the way, they needed a reserve.
They sat down by the kitchen table. She had seen snowshoes used many times and couldn’t believe they hadn’t thought to make some when they had had the time. The broadest part should be toward the front, she thought. And we’ll weave with the string.
They worked in silence by the light of the tallow candles, looking every now and then at each other’s efforts and adapting their own. Maija tried not to hear the howling of the wind outside. If only Paavo had been here. He would have known how to do this.
“That’s not a knot,” Paavo said once, laughing as he watched her attempt to tie two cords together to make a longer clothesline. They had just moved into the house in Ostrobothnia. He took the strings from her, made a knot on one of them and then stuck the second one into the knot of the first and made a second knot that sat above it.
“This is a knot,” he said. “A real fisherman’s knot.”
She snorted. When she looked up, he was watching her, his eyes on her lips. He came closer.
“Then there is the water knot,” he said in a low voice. He tied the two strings together with just a normal overhand knot but followed it by feeding the ends through in the opposite direction.
She felt the warmth of her man against her stomach and held her breath.
“There is the true lover’s knot,” he said in her ear. She watched his hands as they moved to tie an overhand knot and then a second overhand knot inside the first. As they worked, his hands bumped against her chest. “This knot is supple,” he said, “but the strings don’t ever come apart.”
“We’ll tie them to our feet with strips of fabric,” the priest said. He held up what looked like a sweeper.
Maija looked down at the thing in her hands. He was right. It might just do it. The priest looked out of the window at the storm, visible now in the morning light.
“Don’t look,” Maija said. “Focus on this.”
“Is that how you do it?” he asked, and he wasn’t talking about now or about the storm.
She rose and pulled her woolen jumper over her head.
“We’ll go now,” she said.
She bent down to tie the brushes of spruce to her shoes. When she looked up, the priest’s face was taut and he was staring at the door, steeling himself.
She opened it.
It was as if the wind screamed at them, mouth open wide. Maija turned the side of her face. She found the shovel, took a deep breath, and stepped off the porch. She sank down to her knees, and at first she thought the snowshoes were a failure, but then she realized that they would do. It was good enough to allow her to walk. She took a step and fell forward, snow entering her sleeves, her mouth, and nose. It took some time for her to struggle upright again. She spat. She was going to pull off her mitten to wipe her face but thought better of it.
Exaggerate, she thought, as the wind tore at her front. She lifted her foot up high and put it down. Keep your balance, she thought. That was it—large, high steps. She glanced over her shoulder. The priest was coming. Concentrate, she thought, but she felt joy and raised her hand to hit in the air for him to see. They were moving forward.
A few days later and the storm was abating. The beats of the shutter that had been banging in the wind came slower.
Maija met his gaze. She had noticed it too. By the fire her daughters were asleep.
The priest listened for the noise.
And there it was: stillness. One more faint wind push. Silence.
And silence.
Was it really over? The priest almost didn’t dare to believe it.
But everything was indeed still.
Maija exhaled. She pushed back her hair, and he thought her hand might have been trembling. The priest realized he was holding his breath. He wasn’t certain for how long they could have managed. They were physically worn out from shoveling and not eating properly. Things had become somewhat better once they’d been able to enter the food store, but as they didn’t know when the storm would end, they had had to ration the food.
What day was it? He didn’t know. Monday, Wednesday. In hell every day is the same. He could preach about that at some point.
In town they must be wondering what had happened to him.
“Why you live here, I don’t know,” he said.
She began to laugh. He stared at her, angered. Then he saw and joined her. What else was there to do on a Monday or a Wednesday evening in hell? They laughed and laughed.
She laughed with her mouth open wide and her eyes in small slits. The locks of her hair shook. She had a small dimple high up on one cheek, or it might have been a scar.
“I imagined Blackåsen wasn’t much different from home,” she said when they had quieted, and that set them off again. Maija hit the table with the flat of her hand. The priest laughed so much, he had to lean forward and hold his stomach.
He wiped his tears. He’d seen it many times in the war: the extraordinary giddiness ensuing from a battle. Your mind needed it, you felt strong and wild, ready to embrace any insanity, set to try anything before rationality returned and you realized who you were and where you were and why you were …
Both of them sat up straighter at the same time. They sat for a while in silence. She sniffed.
“Well, I guess I’d better get some sleep,” he said.
“Yes,” she said.
“Good night.”
She didn’t respond.
He slept better than he had done any night since he first set out on his journey.
When Maija and Paavo were children, there was once a great storm. This was still how it was referred to back in the village in Ostrobothnia: “The Great Storm,” voices low, as if the mere mention of the tempest might bring it back. The odd thing was that there had been no signs. In the morning, when the men set out to hunt gray seal, the sky was blue and there was a delightful summer sun. Much too wonderful—they should have known, some said later, but they were just trying to be clever. The truth was, it was the perfect day to hunt; if anything, there was not enough wind. The boat’s sails were limp, and the vessel was only jolted forward by the occasional breeze, and so there were no large conversations that morning, and nobody turned up to wave good-bye or embrace the departing men. “Bring us silver fur,” was all they said. “Hey ho, bring us silver fur.”
At the beginning the men sailed well. They were aiming for the rocks far out in the young sea where they knew the grays were sunning themselves, shedding, pups in the water, playing.
And then, at once, the storm was over them. It was so sudden, it might as well have stepped right out of heaven and onto their boat.
At first they attempted to outride it—brawny—the skipper was a young man, but it was faster than them. Then they tried to ride it, but soon that ship was tossed about like a piece of driftwood in the towering waves. It was only a matter of time before they would lose control and the water break the boat.
It was Pekka Sihvola who grasped the fact that this was no normal storm. He was standing middeck watching the wind, despite the others shouting at him that they needed his help. Rather than blowing at them from the side, the wind seemed to be bending. Was it blowing around itself in a loop? Wind needed room to keep up speed. In the center, Pekka thus reasoned, it might be different. Perhaps there the wind was less powerful. But to get to that place they had to sail into the tempest rather than away from it.
Pekka Sihvola pushed the skipper aside and gripped the rudder, and then he sailed that ship straight into the eye of the storm. And when they were all certain the end had come and they would die—they found a vacuum. They navigated that nothingness until, around them, the storm died.
As the men told their story t
o the elders that night, still trembling from the power of their journey, the villagers were amazed. Thanks to one single man, the full crew of ten had survived: that was ten husbands renewing vows to their wives that evening, ten fathers holding their children close …
“Reason,” the elder said when they had finished. He nodded. “What you had was an apparition.”
The skin on Jutta’s arm that pressed against her own had been cold. Paavo had been on Maija’s other side—even back then, he always seemed to be near her. At the time of the Great Storm she still thought these men and women in the circle, all of them, to be of the same blood and marrow as her own. She thought she was one of them.
“The circular wind is life,” the elder said. “What was yesterday comes again tomorrow. It runs from place to place and returns. But in the midst of disorder is reason. And if you can hold to reason, you shall be safe.”
“Are you then saying that there’s no changing things? That we have no choice?”
It was Ari Sihvola speaking, Pekka’s younger brother. Later he’d be among those who died in the Great Northern War.
“There is little choice,” the elder said. “And yet the acts we undertake have repercussions.”
For some his words were a relief. Others found them disturbing. Maija didn’t think the elder was right; she believed in man’s ability to have an impact on things, but she took away with her the significance of reason.
And now, having survived her first storm on Blackåsen Mountain, she was appalled at herself. She had set out with two young children into the forest, without any preparation, without any further thought. What had she been thinking?
We could have died.
But we didn’t.
Was it flattery in that the priest thought she was of this world? Was it the excitement of a potential answer to the question of Eriksson’s death?
She had underestimated the mountain, seen its plump shape, and in her head she’d likened it to one of the benign hills in Ostrobothnia. Blackåsen was nothing like home. She had been foolish and proud, and now her daughter paid. Each of Dorotea’s cries took a slice from her heart. Each scream vibrated in her mind until Maija had to grab her head with both her hands for it not to splinter. And the thought she’d had during their journey had taken root inside her: it was not given that they would survive this winter.
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