“Please forgive me,” she said again, and inhaled. “Do you think that Eriksson knew and kept silent?”
“Knew what?” Daniel asked.
“If Lundgren killed your brother …”
“If? You can’t be serious. We know what he did.”
Maija pressed on: “It’s the rapier. If the verger had brought a rapier with him to the forest to kill Eriksson, it couldn’t have been their first conversation.”
Daniel’s face was white. “What right do you have to ask us this? Leave it, Maija. It’s over. Go home. Be happy that it wasn’t yours. Take care of your daughters.”
Anna had bent her head.
“We just need to be certain,” Maija said. “It’s for all of us, for our protection.”
Anna sighed. “Eriksson was bad, but not that bad.”
Daniel moaned.
“His children too were in that school.”
“So if Eriksson didn’t know what Lundgren was doing, then why would Lundgren kill him?” Maija asked.
Daniel roared. “Haven’t you done enough already, Maija? Our family is in pieces, and still you won’t stop. You won’t stop until nobody on this mountain can trust anybody else!”
He stepped out from behind the table.
“We need to know,” Maija said as Daniel pushed her toward the door. “We must make certain.”
Dorotea was asleep when she came home. Maija and Frederika sat by the kitchen table and listened to her breaths. There was a rush of something—haziness or sickness—and Maija put her hands flat on the table before her.
“We’ll slaughter the reindeer tomorrow,” she said.
Frederika bent her head but nodded.
Maija’s head stopped roaring. She felt better.
From over by the bed came Dorotea’s cough. “I feel hot,” Dorotea said.
Maija walked across the room and sat down on the bed beside her.
Her daughter’s cheeks were swollen red. Maija stroked her forehead. It was warm, too warm. Fever.
Frederika brought her a cup of water. “Here, drink,” she said to her sister.
Dorotea opened her eyes, took a sip.
“More,” Maija said.
Dorotea shook her head and lay back down on the pillow.
Maija removed the wraps around her daughter’s feet. What was left of Dorotea’s toes were black and blistered. The rot continued. But this time there was more: the angry red that had been close to the damaged toes had spread further up toward her ankles. Infection.
Not this. She touched the red ankles. They were burning. Maija felt Frederika’s eyes, but couldn’t meet them.
“We’re going to have to cut into her feet,” Maija said in a low voice.
“No.”
“She’ll die if we don’t. It’s spreading.”
“You can’t decide this.”
“Your father isn’t here, Frederika. We need …”
“There is still hope. We need to trust.”
“But trust what, Frederika? In God? Trust what?”
They stared at each other.
“There is more on this mountain than you know,” Frederika said.
Maija rose. Her heart was banging in her chest. Her stomach seemed to be falling far away from her head. “I don’t want to hear another word from you. Listen to yourself. Think, Frederika. Use your brain.”
“It’s you who don’t listen. You don’t see. There is something the matter with you. Your decisions aren’t good anymore.”
Frederika’s voice broke, and she ran out of the house.
“Frederika.”
Frederika sat up. Something had woken her.
“Frederika.”
Fearless’s voice might as well have been in the same room.
Her fingers trawled the floorboards: trousers, blouse. In her mind she hushed him. Be quiet, or you’ll wake the others. They can’t hear him, she thought then, but she still worried and buttoned the blouse wrong and had to start over. Then she realized that it didn’t matter.
It was an overcast sky, with neither moon nor stars to give light. She walked across the yard holding her hands out in front of her in case she fell. The shape of the barn became clear, and when she drew closer, there was a glow from in between the timber slats.
Fearless waited for her in the barn, lantern lit. Without a word he lifted a shape off the bale beside him. He unwrapped the reindeer skin and held the object toward her. She stepped closer. It was the drum. He nodded, and she took it.
“You will own or be owned,” he said.
There were brown paintings on the taut leather: reindeers, dogs, the sun, signs Frederika didn’t recognize. With her finger she caressed the surface. The skin was so soft, it felt downy against her fingertips.
“Listen to me,” he said. When he was certain he had her eyes, he repeated, “You will own or be owned. It depends on how strong you are. What animal are you seeing?”
“Wolf.”
“Wolf?” He stroked his chin. “Almost impossible to tame. The drum will give you access to other worlds, to their world. That’s where you’ll have to conquer them.” He stepped closer to her and grabbed her arm. “Use the gifts with great care, Frederika. Don’t give in to evil. Don’t give in to arrogance.” He sighed. “The way you’ve chosen … you’ve set yourself up to be the carrier of justice.”
“Yes,” she said.
“No,” he said, shaking his head as if she didn’t understand. “It is not that easy to execute justice.”
He left, and she sat watching the drum.
She sat in the barn until morning. The drum seemed to pulsate in rhythm with the sound in the air. Dum. Tataradum. It beckoned her to touch it.
Their cottage smelled hot and sour. Her mother was by the fire. She turned. Sideways, she was so thin the flames seemed visible through her. The knife blade glowed red from the heat of fire.
“No,” Frederika said.
“She is dying,” her mother said.
“I won’t let you.”
“Look for yourself,” her mother said. “Blood poisoning.”
Then her mother folded over. Her fingers clawed on to the side of the fireplace and she stood there, bent over, before standing up straight again with what looked like a huge effort.
When she spoke again, her voice was soft. “Frederika, you can stay here and help me. I so need your help. Or you can leave and come back when it is done. But I am doing this now.”
“You need to wait. I am getting gifts. I shall heal Dorotea.”
“You’ve lost your reason. Frederika, listen to yourself.”
“You healed yourself when you were a child.”
“I have told you, that’s not how it was.”
“You have to believe.”
Her mother started for the bed, for her sister. Frederika followed, and her mother swirled around. There was a sting, like nettles burning her throat. When Frederika reached up, there was blood on her fingers.
She cut me, she thought, shocked. She cut me.
The knife was still between them, and her mother took a step toward her. The glassy eyes, the twisted mouth: Frederika didn’t recognize her.
“I told you,” her mother said and raised the point of the knife under Frederika’s chin so she had to bend her head back so as not to be hurt.
Frederika felt a low churning in her stomach. Rage.
“I told you,” her mother said again.
Inside Frederika this … black thing swelled and grew. Her head felt light. She couldn’t breathe. Her mother walked forward, knife still to her skin, and Frederika reversed.
You cut me, Frederika thought. She opened her mouth to scream the words.
With what seemed an impossible effort, she turned, found the door handle, opened it, and fell out.
She ran toward the forest. The snow was deep. The wind strong. There was a muted scream behind her.
And then, between the tree trunks, black shapes: men. She recognized Nils, Daniel, and Henrik. Som
ehow she knew they were coming for her mother.
Dawn was growing on the flat coastland. By the vast white that was the sea, the church stretched in its early light.
Snow from the horses’ hooves had stopped spraying Olaus’s face. Beneath them the runners of the wagon sang, but it was more muffled now than when they had set out. They slid more often too and caught: the tracks were softer, the surface of the snow coated with mushy crystals. The air was warmer. Spring was not far away.
As they came closer to the coastal town, charred remnants sighed of war and the enemy across the waters.
Their horses galloped into the churchyard and a boy ran out. He grabbed the reins and helped slow their animals. Olaus stepped off the cart, stiff after the long journey. He swept his cloak around him and walked toward the bishop’s palace. Before he was on the porch, the door opened. A maid curtsied, took his cape, and showed him into a room with a large fire. A bishop’s world. Servants ready to serve the unexpected as well as the expected.
It wasn’t long before the bishop entered.
“Olaus,” he said and clapped his hands together as if joyful. “What a pleasant surprise.” He made a mock face of horror. “No more ghastly revelations, I do hope.”
“You knew,” Olaus said.
“Knew what?”
“You knew what was happening to the children on Blackåsen.”
The bishop looked at him for a second. He walked two steps back to the door, opened it, and said to someone outside, “Bring us some wine. And bread—the white sort. Our visitor is hungry like a wolf after his very long journey.”
The bishop closed the door and walked to sit down in his chair. He gave a tweak to correct the drape of his cloak over his knee and indicated for Olaus to sit down. When Olaus didn’t, the bishop tilted his head with a look of mild disappointment.
“And what is this?” he asked. “A conscience?”
A conscience?
“Children,” Olaus said. “They are children.”
“Yes, it was unfortunate,” the bishop said. He placed the fingertips of his hands against each other and nodded. “Oh, trust me, I haven’t known for that long, but when I found out, for a short while it was necessary to let it be.”
Olaus’s throat was thick. He couldn’t speak.
“More important things have been underway.”
“Nothing can justify something like that.”
“Wake up, Olaus.” The bishop’s voice rose. “For once, look to something beyond yourself. Our country is torn asunder. Our people are dying. We can change that. But we needed more time. We had to prioritize. Some things had to wait.”
“What is it?” Olaus said. His brain was running away with him; he wasn’t certain he wanted an answer. “What is it you are doing?”
The bishop hesitated.
“It’s something really bad, isn’t it?” Olaus said. “But what?”
The bishop spat out the words: “The killing of the one who calls himself King.”
Unthinkable.
“The King is instated by God,” Olaus said.
“God?” The bishop gave a short laugh. “You’re not even a priest and you’re talking of God? Ah, you seem surprised. But of course I knew. Always have done. I brought you here because, with your knowledge of the King’s habits, I thought you might be of use. That was before I realized your infatuation with him was so great.”
The bishop leaned back in his chair.
“No, whatever mandate the King had from God, it is long gone,” he said.
“What is the link to Blackåsen?” Olaus asked.
“Killing a king is not difficult. I could perhaps even do it myself. Managing the aftermath is much more troublesome.” The bishop lowered his voice. “A new constitution is already in the making that will give the power back to the people. With Kristina’s link to the old gentry, we’ll have the support of the two largest factions of the government’s four: the Church and the aristocracy. Once the King is gone, the constitution will be voted through.”
Olaus thought about the entries in the Church Books. After the one stating Elin was being examined for acts of sorcery, the next entry reported the arrival of Nils and Kristina. That’s what happened during the hearing, he thought. The bishop recognized Kristina and saw his chance, through her, to reach the gentry. Eriksson must have overheard the bishop and Kristina speaking about it. Or he had just guessed that there was some reason for the bishop suddenly losing interest in the hearing, and then he had opposed the bishop just to see how far the latter was willing to go.
Lundgren had moved to the region from the south, Olaus thought. If there had been a trial and they had begun to dig into his past, who knew how far the matter would go? And the last thing the bishop would have wanted was to attract attention to himself or to his region. Lundgren’s death—what a convenient incident. No wonder the bishop had been willing to write that off as an “accident.”
“Does Sofia know?” Olaus asked.
“Sofia?” The bishop laughed and shook his head. “Sofia has nothing to do with this. She is one of those rare people who is precisely what she seems—an excellent priest-wife.”
Olaus wasn’t certain he was telling the truth, but it hardly mattered.
“I will tell the King. I will warn him,” Olaus said.
“It is much too late. Besides, who do you think the King would believe? A bishop or a priest who is no priest?”
There was a knock on the door.
“Enter,” the bishop called.
Both men stood in silence as only priests can as the servant entered.
The King should never have sent him away, Olaus thought. He had loved him. He would have fought for him. He would have died for him.
“Put it on the table by the fire, please,” the bishop said.
The servant left. The door closed, and they were back with each other.
“I will have no part of this,” Olaus said. “Nobody can decide to take a life—no matter whose life it is. No matter what the cause.”
“That’s not what you used to think, I believe.”
“You were willing to sacrifice the children. It matters. I am not like you.”
“That is true,” the bishop agreed. This seemed to amuse him. “You are nothing like me. When did you ever do anything for anybody but yourself?” Then the smile on his face disappeared. “As I see it, you now have a choice, Olaus. Fight me and, by God, I shall fight you. Or we forget about this. All of …” he made a round movement with his fingers as if to make something dissolve into air, “… this.”
The bishop leaned back in his chair.
“After all, I am an old man, Olaus. I need to start thinking about who will replace me. As a bishop and in the Privy Council.”
The bishop put his hands on the arms of the chair and rose. He walked to the door. “Prepare a room for my guest,” he said.
The other settlers were already in Henrik and Lisbet’s cottage when Maija was brought there. Anna and Lisbet were sitting at the kitchen table. Kristina stood by the window.
Maija had to get back home. Would Frederika know how to care for Dorotea? Yes. She would know.
If she had not run too far away.
She recalled the slight weight in her hand, the blade. How dull it had looked leaning against white skin, and then as it cut, sawed through tissue and bone, the foot becoming something else, her hands turning red, her daughter screaming. She had tried to be fast, but the flesh had been tough.
At once her stomach was in her mouth, and she bent to vomit.
Beside her, Daniel swore and side-stepped.
She wiped her face on her sleeve.
“She’s sick,” someone said.
“It’s the Devil in her that’s afraid.” That was Lisbet.
I cut my own daughter’s toes off, she wanted to say, but nothing came out. And had my other daughter not fled, I might have killed her.
“Tie her so she doesn’t escape.”
Tie? Escape?
<
br /> A chair was put forward and hands pressed her down onto it.
“We will have this out, here and now, once and for all.” Daniel was standing over her. His face was gaunt. He was no longer just on his own. “This is all linked to you. It ends here.”
“It happened before I came.” She looked Daniel straight in the eyes but couldn’t reach him.
“You can make barren cows give milk. You were one of the last people to see Elin before she slayed herself and her children.” His voice broke. “You killed our unborn by the herbs you had Anna drink.”
Anna had bent her head. That’s when it caught Maija. Fear.
“Daniel …” Maija said.
There was a knock on the door. Nobody reacted, but when Fearless opened the door, they still somehow jumped. Fearless looked small in the opening. He looked from one face to another, found the owner of the house.
“My people belong to this mountain too. This concerns us as well as you.”
Henrik glanced at Nils and at Daniel. Then he nodded.
“So be it,” Daniel said, “but it is a settler matter, and so I ask you to be quiet.”
He turned back to Maija. His finger touched his knife in its sheaf.
Maija looked past Daniel toward Henrik. “Eriksson’s killer is still loose,” she said.
Henrik hated fear as much as she did. He might listen. He might be the only one who would. And, apart from Daniel, he had been on the mountain the longest. He would have a say in what happened next. There was a wrinkle on his forehead, and she spoke to that suggestion of uncertainty.
“Lundgren killed Eriksson,” Henrik said.
“No,” she said. “Eriksson’s children were in the school. He didn’t know what Lundgren was up to. Had Eriksson found out, he wouldn’t have confronted him on his own. Or he would have come prepared. He wouldn’t have been taken by surprise and let himself get killed.”
“He confronted each of us about our secrets on his own.”
“That’s because he wanted something out of you and traded that for his silence. But what the verger did was too vile. Eriksson didn’t know, and thus Lundgren didn’t kill him.”
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