The Blood Spilt

by Asa Larsson

  Mildred doesn’t agree.

  “Our task is to take care of the earth,” she says. “Land is exactly what we should own, not shares. And if the church owns land, it can be looked after in the right way. This wolf has made its way into Swedish territory, onto land owned by the church. If it doesn’t get special protection, it won’t live for long, you know that. Some hunter or reindeer farmer will shoot it.”

  “So this foundation…”

  “Would prevent that, yes. With money and cooperation with the Nature Conservancy Council, we can tag the wolf and keep an eye on it.”

  “And by doing so you would push people away,” objects Bertil. “There must be room for everybody within the church, hunters, the Sami people, people who like wolves—everybody. But the church can’t take sides like that.”

  “What about our duty of care, then?” says Mildred. “We are supposed to care for the earth, and that has to include species threatened with extinction, surely? As for not adopting a political stance, if the church had had that attitude down the ages, wouldn’t we still have slavery?”

  They have to laugh at her in the end. She always has to exaggerate and go too far.

  * * *

  Bertil Stensson closed the locker door, turned the key and dropped it in his pocket. In February Mildred had set up her foundation. Neither he nor Stefan Wikström had objected.

  The whole idea of the foundation had irritated him. And now as he looks back and tries to be honest with himself, it irritates him to realize that he didn’t stand up to her because of cowardice. He was afraid of being seen as a wolf-hater and God knows what else. But he did get Mildred to agree to a less provocative name than the Northern Wolf Protection Foundation. It became Jukkasjärvi Community Wildlife Protection Foundation instead. And he and Stefan were signatories along with Mildred.

  And later in the spring, when Stefan’s wife took the youngest child and went to stay with her mother in Katrineholm and didn’t come back for a long time, Bertil hadn’t really thought anything of it.

  Now, of course, it bothered him.

  But Stefan should have said something, he thought in his defense.

  Rebecka parked the car outside her grandmother’s house in Kurravaara. Nalle jumped out and scampered around the outside of the house, curious.

  Like a happy dog, thought Rebecka as she watched him disappear around the corner.

  The next second her conscience pricked. You shouldn’t compare him to a dog.

  September sun on the gray building. The wind blowing gently through the tall autumn grass, faded and lacking in nutrients. Low water, a motorboat far away. From another direction, the sound of someone chopping wood. A soft breeze against her face, like a gentle hand.

  She looked at the house again. The windows were in a terrible state. They needed taking out, scraping down, new putty, fresh paint. The same dark green color as before, nothing else. She thought about the mineral wool packed in the entrance to the cellar to stop the cold air that would come pouring up otherwise, forming rime frost on the walls that would turn to patches of gray damp. It needed pulling out. The place needed sealing properly, insulation, install the right kind of ventilation. Make a decent cellar for storage. Somebody ought to save the hollow-eyed house before it was too late.

  “Come on, let’s go in,” she shouted to Nalle who had run down to Larsson’s red-timbered storehouse and was tugging at the door.

  Nalle lumbered over the potato patch. The bottom of his shoes was soon thick with mud.

  “You,” he said, pointing at Rebecka when he had reached the veranda.

  “Rebecka,” answered Rebecka. “My name’s Rebecka.”

  He nodded in reply. He’d ask her again soon. He’d already asked her several times, but still hadn’t said her name.

  They went up the steps into her grandmother’s kitchen. A bit damp and chilly. Felt colder than outside. Nalle went first. In the kitchen he opened every wardrobe and closet, every cupboard and drawer, completely without embarrassment.

  Good, thought Rebecka. He can open them and all the ghosts can fly away.

  She smiled at his big lumbering figure, at the crafty, crooked smile he directed at her from time to time. It felt good to have him there.

  A knight can look like that too, she thought.

  A sense of security came over her—everything was just the same. It put its arm around her. Pulled her down onto the sofa beside Nalle, who’d found a banana box full of comics. He sorted out the ones he liked. They had to be in color, and he chose mostly Donald Duck. He put Agent 69, The Phantom, and Buster back in the box. She looked around. The blue painted chairs around the old gate-legged table, shiny with use. The refrigerator humming away. The tiles above the black Näfveqvarn stove, decorated with pictures of different spices. Next to the woodstove stood the electrical one, with knobs of brown and orange plastic. Grandmother’s hand everywhere. The rack above the stove was crammed with dried flowers, pans and stainless steel ladles. Uncle Affe’s wife Inga-Lill still hung bunches of flowers there to dry. Cat’s foot, tansy, cotton grass, buttercups and yarrow. There were also some bought pink ever-lasting flowers, they’d never have been there in Grandmother’s day. Grandmother’s woven rag rugs on the floor, even on the sofa to protect it. Embroidered cloths on every surface, even covering the treadle sewing machine in the corner. The embroidered tray holder, where the tray Grandfather had made out of matchsticks the last time he was ill still hung.

  She’d woven or crocheted the cushion covers.

  Could I live here? wondered Rebecka.

  She looked down on to the meadow. Nobody was cutting or burning it nowadays, that was obvious. Big tussocks, the grass growing up through a rotting layer of the previous year’s grass. Thousands of holes made by field mice and voles, no doubt. From up here she had a better view of the roof of the barn. The question was whether it could still be saved. All at once she felt downhearted. A house dies when it’s abandoned. Slowly but surely. It crumbles away, it stops breathing. It cracks, subsides, goes moldy.

  Where do you start? thought Rebecka. The windows alone are more than a full-time job. I can’t put a new roof on. It won’t be safe to walk on the veranda before long.

  Then the house shook. The door slammed downstairs. The little chime of bells just inside the door with the text “Jopa virkki puu visainen kielin kantelon kajasi tuota soittoa suloista” shook and emitted a few delicate notes.

  Sivving’s voice rang through the house. Made its way up the stairs and pushed through the door.

  “Hello!”

  A few seconds later he appeared in the doorway. Grandmother’s neighbor. A big man. His hair white and soft as pussy willow on his head. A yellowish white military vest underneath a blue imitation beaver jacket. A big grin when he caught sight of Rebecka. She got up.

  “Rebecka,” was all he said.

  In two paces he was beside her. Put his arms around her.

  They didn’t usually hug each other, hardly even when she was a little girl. But she stopped herself from stiffening. Closed her eyes for the two seconds the embrace lasted. Drifted out on a sea of tranquillity. If you didn’t count handshakes, nobody had touched her since…since Erik Rydén welcomed her to the firm’s party on Lidö. And before that, six months ago when they took blood tests at the clinic.

  Then the hug was over. But Sivving Fjällborg held on to her, his right hand around her left upper arm.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  “Fine,” she smiled back.

  His face grew more serious. He held her for a second longer before he let go. Then the smile was back.

  “And you’ve got a friend with you.”

  “I have, this is Nalle.”

  Nalle was absorbed in a Donald Duck comic. Difficult to know whether he could actually read, or whether he was just looking at the pictures.

  “Well, I think you should both come with me and have some coffee, because I’ve got something really special to show you at home. What do yo
u think, Nalle? Juice and a cake? Or do you drink coffee?”

  * * *

  Nalle and Rebecka followed close behind Sivving like two calves.

  Sivving, thought Rebecka, and smiled. It’ll be all right. I can do one window at a time.

  Sivving’s house was on the other side of the road. Rebecka explained that she’d come up to Kiruna because of work, and stayed on for a short holiday. Sivving didn’t ask any awkward questions. Why she wasn’t staying in Kurravaara, for example. Rebecka noticed his left arm was hanging limply by his side, and that his left foot was dragging slightly, not a lot, but still. She didn’t ask either.

  Sivving lived down in the boiler room in the cellar. It meant there was less cleaning to do, and it was cosier. He only used the rest of the house when his children and grandchildren came to visit. But it was a very pleasant boiler room. The china and household equipment he needed from day to day were on a string shelf, stained brown. There was a bed and a little Formica table, a chair, a chest of drawers and an electric hob.

  In her basket next to the bed lay Sivving’s pointer bitch, Bella. And beside her lay four puppies. Bella got up quickly, wagging her tail, and came to say hello to Rebecka and Nalle. She hadn’t time to allow herself to be patted, just gave them a quick sniff, then butted her master a couple of times and gave him a lick.

  “Good girl,” said Sivving. “So, Nalle, what do you think? Aren’t they nice?”

  Nalle seemed as if he hardly heard what was said. He was staring at the puppies the whole time, with an ecstatic expression on his face.

  “Oh,” he said, “oh,” and squatted down beside the basket, reaching out for a sleeping puppy.

  “I don’t know…” began Rebecka.

  “No, leave him,” said Sivving. “Bella is a much calmer mother than I’d have thought she would be.”

  Bella lay down beside the three puppies that were still in the basket. She kept an eye on Nalle all the time as he lifted the fourth and settled himself, leaning back against the wall with the puppy on his lap. The puppy woke up and attacked Nalle’s hand and sleeve with all its might.

  “They’re funny,” laughed Sivving. “It’s as if they’ve got an on-off switch. One minute they’re charging about like lunatics, the next, bang, fast asleep.”

  They drank their coffee in silence. It didn’t matter. It was enough just watching Nalle lying on his back on the floor with the puppies tumbling over his legs, tugging at his clothes and clambering up onto his stomach. Bella took the opportunity to beg for a bun at the table. She was dribbling as she sat down beside Rebecka.

  “You’ve learned some fine manners,” laughed Rebecka.

  “Basket,” said Sivving to Bella, waving his hand.

  “You know, I think there’s something the matter with her hearing in the ear on your side,” said Rebecka, laughing even more.

  “I’ve only got myself to blame,” said Sivving. “But you know how it is, when you’re sitting here all on your own, it’s easy to give in and share. And then…”

  Rebecka nodded.

  “Anyway,” said Sivving cheerfully. “Since you’ve got this big strong lad with you, you can give me a hand to lift the jetty. I was thinking of trying to pull it up with the tractor, but I’m afraid it won’t hold.”

  * * *

  The jetty was sodden and heavy. The river low and sluggish. Nalle and Sivving stood in the water, one on each side, struggling away. The summer’s last flies took the opportunity to bite the back of their necks. The sun and the effort meant that their clothes ended up in a pile up on the bank. Nalle was wearing Sivving’s spare boots. Rebecka had fetched some other clothes from her grandmother’s house. One boot was split, so her right foot had soon got wet. Now she was standing on the bank pulling, her sock squelching inside the boot. She could feel rivulets of sweat pouring down her back. And her scalp. Wet and salty.

  “This certainly lets you know you’re alive,” she groaned to Sivving.

  “Your body, anyway,” replied Sivving.

  He looked at her with pleasure. Knew there was a kind of release in hard physical work when the soul was tormented. He’d certainly get her working if she came back.

  Afterward they had meat soup and crispbread in Sivving’s boiler room. Sivving had conjured up three stools, they just fitted around the table. Rebecka had found some dry socks.

  “Glad to see you’re enjoying that,” said Sivving to Nalle, who was shoveling down the soup along with big pieces of crispbread spread with a thick layer of butter and cheese. “You can come and help me again.”

  Nalle nodded, his mouth full of food. Bella was lying in her basket, the snuffling puppies beneath her stomach. Her ears moved occasionally. She was checking up on people even though her eyes were closed.

  “And you, Rebecka,” said Sivving, “you’re always welcome.”

  She nodded and looked out through the cellar window.

  Time passes more slowly here, she thought. Although you do notice that it’s passing. A new jetty. New to me, it’s already been around for many years. The cat disappearing in the grass isn’t the Larssons’ Mirri. She’s dead and gone, long ago. I don’t know the names of the dogs I hear barking far away. I used to know. Recognized Pikki’s hoarse, bad-tempered bark, always looking for a fight. She could keep going forever. Sivving. Soon he’ll need help with clearing the snow and shopping for food. Maybe I could cope with staying here?

  Anna-Maria Mella drove her red Ford Escort into Magnus Lindmark’s yard. According to Lisa Stöckel and Erik Nilsson, this was the man who’d made no secret of the fact that he’d hated Mildred. Who’d slashed her tires and set fire to her shed.

  He was washing his Volvo, and he turned off the water and put down the hose as she drove in. Around forty. A bit on the short side, but he looked strong. Rolled up his shirtsleeves when she got out of the car. Probably wanted to show off his muscles.

  “You’re driving a steam engine,” he joked.

  The next moment he realized she was from the police. She could see how his face changed. A mixture of contempt and cunning. Anna-Maria felt she should have had Sven-Erik with her.

  “I don’t think I want to answer any questions,” said Magnus Lindmark before she’d even managed to open her mouth.

  Anna-Maria introduced herself. Took out her ID as well, although she wasn’t in the habit of waving it about unnecessarily.

  Now what do I do? she thought. There’s no chance of forcing him.

  “You don’t even know what it’s about,” she ventured.

  “Now let me guess,” he said, screwing his face up into an exaggerated expression of thoughtfulness and rubbing his chin with his index finger. “A slag of a priest who got what she deserved, maybe? And now I’m supposed to feel something or other, well no way, I don’t feel like talking about it.”

  My my, thought Anna-Maria, he’s really enjoying this.

  “Okay,” she said with an unconcerned smile. “In that case I’ll get back in my steam engine and chug away.”

  She turned around and walked to the car.

  He’ll call out, she just had time to think.

  “If you catch the guy who did it,” he yelled, “give me a ring so I can come in and shake him by the hand.”

  She walked the last few steps to her car. Turned toward him, her hand on the handle. Said nothing.

  “She was a fucking slag who got what she deserved. Haven’t you got your notebook? Write that down.”

  Anna-Maria pulled a notebook and pen out of her pocket. Wrote down “fucking slag.”

  “She seems to have got on quite a few people’s nerves,” she said, as if she were talking to herself.

  He came over to her, positioned himself threateningly close.

  “Too fucking right,” he said.

  “Why were you annoyed with her?”

  “Annoyed,” he spat. “Annoyed, I get annoyed with the fucking dog when she stands there barking at a squirrel. I’m not the hypocritical type, I’ve got no problem
admitting I hated her. And I wasn’t the only one.”

  Keep talking, thought Anna-Maria, nodding sympathetically.

  “Why did you hate her?”

  “Because she broke up my marriage, that’s why! Because my son starting pissing in his bed when he was eleven years old! We had problems, Anki and me, but once she’d spoken to Mildred there was no more talk of sorting things out. I said ‘do you want to go to family counseling, I’ll do that if you want,’ but no, that fucking priest messed with her head until she left me. And took the kids with her. You didn’t think the church approved of that sort of thing, did you?”

  “No. But you…”

  “Anki and I used to quarrel, sure. But maybe you and your old man have words now and again?”

  “Often. But you got so angry that you…”

  Anna-Maria broke off and leafed through her notebook.

  “…set fire to her shed, punctured her tires, smashed the glass in her greenhouse.”

  Magnus Lindmark smiled broadly at her and said sweetly:

  “But that wasn’t me.”

  “So what were you doing the night before midsummer’s eve?”

  “I’ve already said, I stayed over with a friend.”

  Anna-Maria read from her notebook.

  “Fredrik Korpi. Do you often stay over with your little friends?”

  “When you’re too fucking pissed to drive home…”

  “You said you weren’t the only one who hated her? Who else?”

  He made a sweeping gesture with his arm.

  “Just about anybody.”

  “Well liked, I heard.”

  “By a load of hysterical old women.”

  “And a number of men.”

  “Who are nothing but hysterical old women. Ask any, excuse the expression, real man and they’ll tell you. She was after the hunting fraternity as well. Wanted to cancel their permit and fuck knows what else. But if you think Torbjörn killed her, then you’ve got that fucking wrong as well.”

  “Torbjörn?”

  “Torbjörn Ylitalo, the church’s forest warden and the chairman of the hunting club. They had a terrible quarrel back in the spring. I reckon he’d have liked to stick his shotgun in her mouth. And then she started that fucking wolf foundation. And that’s a class thing, you know. It’s easy for a load of fuckers from Stockholm to love wolves. But the day a wolf comes down to their golf courses and their terrace bars and gobbles up their poodles for breakfast, they’ll be out there hunting!”