by Olivier Truc
He stood facing the flaming light. Everywhere he looked, the horizon was barred by the smooth contours of low, treeless, snow-covered mountains. The sunlight danced from summit to summit. In the same moment, the whole tundra awoke. The terrain beneath his feet was mostly granite. He took out a map. There would be numerous seams of granulite and quartz running west-southwest to east-northeast. Some of the seams identified on the map would be worth observing.
Racagnal checked Olsen’s old map. The granite was broken by an irregular but quite clear fault line. What was that hiding? The map’s author was meticulous. In places, he had included tiny geological cross-sections relating to specific points. These were highly unorthodox for a geological map. The field book would have provided further, precise detail. This cross-section suggested granulite filled with kaolinitic clay and fragments of various other rocks. Autunite was present, it seemed, in the form of scattered flecks and aggregates. Racagnal was doubtful. This would hardly get him any nearer to his gold seam. The old maps in Malå, and their accompanying field books, would prove vital, he felt sure. But he was a good forty-eight hours’ journey from the Geological Institute. An eternity. And time was running desperately short.
* * *
Nina was making the journey from Kautokeino to Karesuando in daylight for the first time. They had taken the same road by night, a few days before, to reach the Geological Institute in Malå. This region of Sápmi was desolate and uninhabited. An inhuman place, she thought, gazing out at the landscape. The harsh, magnificent scene prompted thoughts of her father. His uncompromising, innate sense of good and evil sat well with this stark panorama. For the people of the tiny villages dotting the Norwegian fjords, that black-and-white view of the world was part of their DNA. And yet it had never stopped her father from—from what, actually? From making her life and her family’s life a misery? Nina refused to ponder the question any further. She shook herself in her seat.
“Tired?” asked Klemet.
“No, just shaking the gray matter up a bit,” she replied, with a sad smile that Klemet missed, staring ahead at the road.
“Yes, it’s a strange business. I’m curious to meet this man Hurri.”
They drove on, preoccupied, for a while longer. The cold air crystallized on the car windows, despite the full-on heating. On the road, the sun shot blue rays across the black ice. The studded tires allowed them eat up the miles without risking their lives on every bend. They had crossed into Finland.
“Aslak told me once that this was where his father went missing, when he was a boy,” said Klemet. “He’d gone out in search of his reindeer. They’d crossed to the wrong side of the border.”
“He would have incurred a fine if he didn’t get them back, was that it?”
“Yes. The national boundaries really screwed things up for the breeders; put it that way,” said Klemet. “I can’t be sure—it was something of a taboo subject at home—but I think that was partly what drove my grandfather to give up reindeer breeding.”
“The national borders?”
“Before, Sápmi was one territory and the Sami lived here alone. But with the borders in place, the Finnish breeders found themselves marooned, unable to cross to the summer pastures on the Norwegian coast, or the winter pastures in what is now northern Sweden. They had no choice but to start feeding their reindeer themselves. Which is how the Finns came to set up reindeer-breeding farms. Stock breeding there is completely different to how we know it in Norway and Sweden. Their traditional, nomadic way of life was destroyed. And that’s why they’ve always been so hard on Swedish or Norwegian herders who allow their reindeer to stray to the wrong side of the border.”
“How strange.”
“Aslak’s father risked his life because he dreaded a fine he would have been unable to pay. So many conflicts have started that way. The frontiers have killed a great many breeders, in my opinion.”
* * *
3:30 p.m., Karesuando
Hurri Manker was an eccentric character, viewed with skepticism by many. His critics had long since decided he was taking shameful advantage of the local tourists, letting them believe he was a true shaman and serving up a mishmash of New Age nonsense. They based their evidence on Hurri’s publicity flyers and his website promising extraordinary shamanic performances. He took people on excursions to his ancestors’ sacred lands, embroidering the outings with horrifying, far-fetched tales and legends. Others claimed he was gifted with genuine powers—of the most mysterious kind, of course—and that he was capable of performing miracles. Even more reason to give him a wide berth, they whispered.
In reality, Hurri Manker was a town-dwelling Sami, one of the first of his people to complete a university education. Using a borrowed family name, he had followed in the footsteps of his uncle, a Swedish ethnologist noted for his systematic study of Sami drums. Hurri Manker held a doctorate and was a member of several learned societies, often invited to speak at conferences. He was a true scholar, widely considered by museum curators and the academy at large as the world’s leading living expert on shamanic drums, a reputation he had forged over many years of travel, research, and study.
His more colorful local reputation stemmed from his exploits as a young student in the 1970s, when he had thrown himself into the Sami people’s first politicized struggle. In this resolutely traditional, conservative milieu, he had earned himself a number of fierce enemies, who readily accused him of every Marxist-Leftist evil under the sun. Cultivating his cynical streak and caustic humor, Hurri delighted in his thoroughly undeserved reputation and did nothing whatever to dispel it. On the contrary, he did everything he could to ensure it became even more exaggerated over time.
Hurri was researching the parish records in Karesuanda. Klemet and Nina found him, as arranged, in the candlelit presbytery of the small church. The wood-and-stone building was covered in thick hoarfrost, and the boughs of the surrounding trees were weighed down with the burden of snow. Karesuanda’s four hundred inhabitants straddled the Swedish-Finnish border in scattered farms paralyzed by the cold. Nothing moved, but smoke rose from the chimneys, and faint lights flickered here and there at the windows. There were no curtains, of course, in this high place of Laestadianism. The preacher Lars Levi Laestadius had spent several years here, leading his crusade against sin and alcohol, setting out to conquer Sami souls. In this forgotten region, far from anywhere, visitors quickly understood that alcoholism or devout religion were the only alternatives. Karesuando was not a place of subtle nuances. Gray was banished. Black or white. Everyone must choose.
The pastor was out on his rounds, and Hurri Manker greeted Nina and Klemet as if to his own home. He was small and balding, with plain round spectacles, a thick khaki-colored parka, snow trousers, and reindeer-skin boots. He wore a scarf pulled up over his nose, to warm his face. Manker had removed his fox-fur chapka, but quickly pulled it on again once their greetings were over. The pastor had turned down the heating on his way out and the temperature was no more than 50°F indoors. Hurri, who wore thin gloves allowing him to turn the pages of the registers, rubbed his hands vigorously from time to time. He removed his spectacles, peering at the officers with sharp, twinkling eyes.
“The Reindeer Police,” he said, in a lively, lilting voice. “I’ve often heard talk about you. And now here you are in the flesh. This is an honor!”
Klemet and Nina had no idea whether he was serious.
“We’ve come to see you as part of a criminal investigation, and we must ask for your absolute discretion,” said Klemet immediately. “This is in the strictest confidence.”
“I understand,” Manker reassured them. His breath condensed in clouds of vapor. “You mentioned a Sami drum in your possession and, as a prelude to our conversation, I should tell you straightaway that I am extremely skeptical. Extremely. I know all the extant Sami drums. If I haven’t seen a drum personally, I’ve studied every document relating to it. None has ever come to light after being passed from hand to hand l
ike that.”
“This is the drum that was stolen from the Juhl Center,” said Nina.
“And you’ve found it! Congratulations. But my view is unchanged. I was deeply skeptical about the Kautokeino drum from the outset. It seemed to appear from out of nowhere.”
Manker’s uncompromising stance matched his current surroundings.
“But you’ll agree to take a look at it, won’t you?”
“Of course! And perhaps it’ll be Christmas morning all over again, who knows? I’m fascinated by anything to do with a Sami drum, genuine or otherwise. So, show me your treasure.”
Delicately, Nina opened the blanket on the heavy presbytery table. Hurri Manker replaced his spectacles. Klemet and Nina held their breath, looking for all the world like an expectant couple waiting to see their first baby scan. Manker’s breath hung in clouds. He peered closely at the drum but said nothing. The silence was unbearable. He took a magnifying glass out of his battered briefcase and studied the signs drawn on the skin, then moistened a finger and passed it over one symbol. Put the finger to his tongue. He touched the skin. He took a fine scalpel and cut a miniscule sliver from the edge. He did the same with a sliver of wood from the frame.
“I’ll be back,” he said.
Nina and Klemet stared at one another. Hurri Manker soon reappeared. He placed a small case on the table and took out a portable electronic microscope.
“You’re very well equipped,” said Nina. “That’s the model our forensics people use.”
“When you work in Sápmi or Siberia, as I do, you can’t just pop back to the lab to fetch something you’ve forgotten. When I set off on a field mission, I take my mobile lab with me, every time. Costs the taxpayer a fortune. Here, hold this lamp, like that, please,” he instructed Nina.
Hurri made another study of the skin, then jotted notes in an exercise book. “I’ll be back.”
He disappeared again. Klemet shook his head, exasperated. Nina said nothing, overawed by the tense, icy atmosphere. Hurri Manker returned almost immediately with another, larger case lined with insulating material. He took out a cotton bud, dipped it in a phial filled with solution and rubbed one of the symbols. The bud colored faintly. He repeated the operation several times. He prepared several test tubes and soaked the cotton buds in more solutions. He plugged in an electronic device. A series of dials and tiny indicator lights lit up.
“We must wait a few minutes. What would you say to a really hot chocolate and some cinnamon rolls?”
He disappeared again without waiting for their answer. Manker seemed to relish keeping the officers in suspense. He returned with a small tray, set it down on the table, checked the test tubes and the machine.
“Aren’t you interested in what the symbols mean?” Klemet’s irritation was clear.
Hurri responded with a wicked smile. He was enjoying this. “Of course I’m interested in them. They’ll interest me even more once I’ve confirmed the drum’s authenticity, or otherwise. You might argue that it’s still interesting even if it proves to be a fake. But in that case it cannot be analyzed in the same way. And we cannot expect the same things from it. So I must know what materials have been used to make it: the wood, the type of skin, the ink. And so on and so forth. Always keep the best till last, no?”
Klemet forced a smile.
“First, the wood. Birch, which is a good start, is it not? The drum has been carved mostly from a knot of birchwood. An elaborate, traditional method indicating expert knowledge. You see, the knot has first been hollowed out into a bowl shape, after which a hooped strip of wood is added, as a stretcher for the skin. It’s a very fine skin: de-haired calfskin, from an animal roughly a year old. A female, apparently, in the very best tradition of such things. Whoever crafted this drum was going by the book. I can tell you that it comes from the Lahpoluoppal region, between Kautokeino and Karasjok. Now the ink. Good old-fashioned work here, too. The dark-blood color, the taste, and the results of my initial tests leave little room for doubt: red alder sap mixed with saliva, I’m 95 percent certain. Very traditional. Reindeer blood was sometimes used, too. Whatever was to hand. I would need to carry out more tests, but I’m sure this is traditionally made ink.”
“So the drum is authentic?” Nina demanded to know.
Hurri Manker looked at the young policewoman and her colleague, his expression serious now. He bent over the drum, examining the symbols, then looked up again. Klemet and Nina saw the intense emotion in his face. When he finally spoke, his voice was choked.
“We are in the presence of an authentic antique drum. And no ordinary one at that. Of the hundreds or thousands of drums that existed in Sápmi, only seventy-one remain—seventy-one known drums, documented, catalogued, authenticated. I know each one by heart. Some are in private collections, others are in museums. And still others have disappeared. But we have precise descriptions of them all. So I can assure you,” Hurri spoke slowly now, with due solemnity, “that we are in the presence of the seventy-second drum.”
Klemet and Nina saw tears in his eyes.
46
Tuesday, January 25
Kautokeino
The Kautokeino police station bustled with activity. There were no secure cells standing ready, like those in stations down on the coast. One or two interview rooms were used for partygoers sobering up on a Saturday night, with the duty officers keeping a quiet eye. The last time anyone had been held at the station for questioning was the previous summer, when two tourists—a German and a Finn—had got into a fight over a girl who had found herself unable to choose between them. The station’s only real lock-up had to be emptied of jerricans and piles of firewood. Meanwhile, Olaf Renson and Johann Henrik had been installed in the kitchen. The duty officers dropped in from time to time for coffee and a chat. Johann Henrik sulked openly, refusing to talk to anyone, while Olaf maintained his state of high outrage, cursing everyone in sight.
A small group had collected outside—just a few hardy souls undeterred by the biting cold. The gathering merited a brazier, nonetheless, and a handful of the Spaniard’s supporters took turns in front of the fire. Two hastily scrawled placards read “Free the breeders” and “Justice for the Sami.” Other partisans huddled for warmth in the entrance of the Vinmonopolet liquor store next door. People moved between the two at ten-minute intervals, warding off the effects of the cold. Tomas Mikkelsen had already conducted an initial round of interviews and broadcast his first report. Photos were circulating online, too, attracting the usual crop of hate mail in their comment threads.
In the station kitchen, Rolf Brattsen gloated over the two breeders with thinly disguised glee.
“Your room will be ready in just a few minutes, gentlemen,” he said, grinning broadly. “At last we can offer you some appropriate accommodation. A nice little cell, same as any other self-respecting Norwegian. You wouldn’t be wanting any special treatment now, would you? Or perhaps you’d prefer one of those wigwams of yours?”
He guffawed with laughter, watched by the two other officers posting guard at the kitchen door.
“You’re making a very big mistake. You’ll pay for this,” said Renson. “You’ve got nothing on us. The business with the ears is sheer nonsense. Our dispute was resolved a long time ago and everyone knows it.”
“Yeah, yeah—and everyone knows Laplanders’ feuds are never-ending, too. Spread like cancer. You think the fire’s out and it springs up again somewhere else. But we’re going to see to it once and for all, this time. Your pals in the Reindeer Police have been very helpful.”
“They’re no friends of ours.”
“Oh, really?” said Brattsen in a tone of innocent surprise. “Everyone out in the tundra thinks of them as the Lapps’ own private security force, don’t they?”
“Go to hell, Brattsen. You’re all the same. We’re going to change all that. You’ve had it all your own way in the region for far too long.”
“Ooh, I’m trembling in my boots,” said Brattsen, leaving
the kitchen. “Then again, we know all about your unorthodox methods, don’t we, Olaf?”
* * *
Karesuando
Hurri Manker sat in silence for several minutes. Collecting his thoughts, Klemet guessed, as he watched the Sami academic. He seemed to be meditating. At last, he looked up, his expression calm and serene.
“This is the first time an authentic drum has been identified since the Second World War.”
“Are you absolutely certain it’s genuine?” asked Nina.
“Yes, absolutely. I reserve my opinion as to its exact date. I don’t have the equipment for that here. Either it’s very old and beautifully preserved, or it’s more recent, but made using traditional materials and techniques.”
“Do you know anyone capable of making a traditional drum like this now?”
“I knew someone, yes. But he was murdered two weeks ago.”
“Mattis Labba—,” stammered Nina.
“Yes, Mattis. A tortured soul, but exceptionally gifted and skilled. I worked with him for a long time, learning the ancestral techniques. But he’d been drinking to excess in recent years. He had become unreliable.”
“Mattis could have made a drum like this?” Klemet was astounded.
“Not lately, no. His skills had diminished, sadly. But he had once been capable. And his father before him, and his grandfather, and his great-grandfather.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that he came from a family whose exceptional knowledge of Sami culture had been handed down from generation to generation. Not only handicraft skills, but the symbolism and power of signs like these. Mattis tended to misinterpret that power. He expected too much of it. He was forced to grow up too soon. His father, Anta, distanced himself from his son. I think he thought that Mattis was not equal to the task. And Mattis suffered greatly because of that. But that’s another story. The Labba family tradition reaches back over centuries.”