by Mikael Niemi
“There!” exclaimed Heinz, pointing.
A column of smoke was rising several miles away. A tree, a copse? Or a house? Was it a house on fire? And just for a moment the storm clouds were turned into smoke from a fire, the whole of Finland was in flames, being destroyed by a blazing inferno. Heinz was motionless. His icy gray eyes were gaping, transfixed on something far distant. They looked like coins. Then he stroked his moustache with his fingertips. One of the hairs came loose. He held it between his thumb and his forefinger, and he came back down to earth. The hair was stiff, and drooping like a used match. He twirled it around, then let go. Dropped it in among his memories.
* * *
As the rain started to fall, I had the first fit of shivers. I biked back home and collapsed onto the kitchen sofa. When the storm began, Mum closed all the windows and doors and pulled all the electric plugs out of their sockets. The bank of clouds enveloped us in its creepy twilight. The rain pattered down onto the roofing felt, pouring grey curtains down outside the windows. More rumbling. I pulled the quilt and blankets over my head, sweating and freezing in turn. Mum came with a glass of water and a sachet of Samarin, since the healing power of Samarin was uncanny and went far beyond what the packet said it could do. Even so, my temperature rose in step with the thunderstorm. The weather clamped its wet foot down on the village until my head was on the point of bursting. All kinds of strange images were pressed out of it, witches luminescent round the edges launching themselves gently into the air. They all had knives and were cutting pieces out of each other, as flat as cardboard cut-outs. Dancing around in slow motion, they mutilated one another then merged with the bite they’d cut away, constantly changing, mixing flesh. The vision made me feel sick, disgusted, but there was nothing I could do to stop it. It was as if somebody else was thinking with my brain, as if I’d been invaded.
Mum tried to keep calm, but her unease was obvious. She tried to hide it behind a stern expression, pouting and sticking her lower lip out so far that the mucous membrane was in full view. She had reached an age when the skin on her face had started to sag, like a sweater that’s a bit on the big side. When she laughed, her face collapsed into a mass of wrinkles that made her look like a chopping block—and that was about the limit of her facial expressions. The beautiful thing about her was her hair, ginger in color and dense, extending down toward the top of her spine. When she had brushed it and let a lock tumble down over one of her eyes, she could be reminiscent of a film star.
I was so cold, I couldn’t stop shivering. Mum lit a fire in the living room, even though we were in the middle of summer. I could hear her ripping up pieces of birch bark and prodding around with the poker. Then everything went strangely quiet.
The kitchen was lit up. As if the sun had broken through the clouds. But it was still pouring down outside. I made a big effort and sat up. Peered around in bewilderment, and realized that the light was coming from the living room.
“What’s going on?” I shouted. No answer. I staggered out on legs made wobbly by the fever. Mum was standing in front of the open fire like a fencer, the poker stretched out in front of her. The light was coming down the chimney. Yellowish-white, sharp.
“Back off, Mum!” I shouted.
Mum took a step back, still holding the poker, but the light followed her. A glowing globe had emerged from the chimney and was hovering in the hearth. Sparkling like white-hot iron straight out of the furnace, bobbing up and down as if floating in the air. A marked tremor, then it came to a halt, on the end of the poker. I could see Mum lighting up. A blue glow around her head. Her hair stood on end and started sticking out in all directions.
“Let go! Let go of the poker!”
But she seemed to be in a trance. Backed off one step at a time, the poker swaying from side to side. The fireball followed her all the way. She waved the poker more violently, but the fireball seemed to stick to the end of it, as if drawn by a magnet.
“Let go of it, Mum, for God’s sake!”
Instead she started spinning around with the poker. Rotating like a hammer-thrower in an attempt to shake off the unwanted guest. But it persisted. She spun faster and faster. There was a swishing noise. Sparks were flying from the handle. But the fireball was still stuck fast to the end of the poker. She was panting now, gasping and spinning around faster and faster. Soon she was surrounded by a ring, a halo, a circle of electricity. She couldn’t stop. Spun round and round, the swishing sound grew louder and louder, burst into song. The whole room was filled with blue sparks. Faster. Still faster. To the very limit.
Then she let go. The poker and the fireball were launched into space. Hurtled into the wall, smaaaash! A deafening crash, and wood splinters showered down over us. Then silence.
I’d been knocked over and was lying on the floor. Dazed, I slowly raised my head and shook out the bits in my hair. Mum was flat on her bottom, legs akimbo and her mouth spelling out a little “o.” It dawned on us that we’d survived. We staggered unsteadily to our feet and stumbled over toward the wall.
There was a hole in it. A gaping hole through all the layers, as if somebody had delivered a punch and pierced the whole caboodle. There was no sign of the poker. It wasn’t inside the house, nor on the lawn outside, and we thought for ages that it had simply disintegrated.
But we were surprised to come across it that autumn. Hidden among the neighbor’s blackcurrant bushes, two blocks down the road, rusty and twisted like a corkscrew.
I carefully measured the distance. A hundred and ten yards. A women’s world record for throwing the hammer.
* * *
The storm receded, but I was still laid up. The fever continued for two whole days, then developed into a migraine-like headache. My joints were stiff, my eyes over-sensitive to light, and my throat felt loose and furry. My body seemed to be as heavy as an iron hull, torpedoed, slowly sinking down into the depths of the ocean. I could barely lift an arm, and had difficulty in swallowing. As was the norm in Tornedalen, we avoided going to the doctor for as long as possible, as that was the surest way of getting an early burial. Instead Dad went over to a neighbor who had a medical book in Finnish, and diagnosed me as having meningitis, measles, urticaria, brain cancer, mumps, and juvenile diabetes. Then came the coughing and the runny nose, and it became obvious I had gastric influenza. A really nasty attack with painful sinuses, but all in all, nothing serious. Niila came to call on me, but went back out almost before he’d come in through the door, the moment he noticed the smell of the plague.
Outside, the heat of high summer had arrived. The thunders had created a warm front, clearing the way for a mass of hot air drifting in from Siberia. A ridge of high pressure towered up over us like a gigantic circus tent with a blue, blue roof and static heat. Millions of mosquitoes hatched out in the swamps, the cable ferry was going back and forth non-stop over the river to the bathing beach at Esisaari, and Altenburg’s Carnival had pitched their red and yellow saloon in the meadow with shooting galleries, one-armed bandits, and no end of other temptations aimed at the local kids’ pocket money. The carnival manager strutted around shirtless, as hairy as an old he-bear, with a cowboy hat over his mane of gray hair, shouting:
“Lottery tickets, ten for a fiver! Ten fivers for Lotta!”
But I was stuck at home in bed, sweating buckets, and had to ask for a jug of water by my bed. I drank and drank, but could only manage a few dark yellow drops of pee. My face was swollen and puffed up with green slime, and I had to blow my nose so much it was covered in sores. I occasionally tried to pass the time by playing the guitar, but it only made me sweat more and feel dizzy. So I dozed instead. Listened to the bumble bee that had found its way into the house but couldn’t get out again, banging up against the mosquito netting in the windows, buzzing away, while the mosquitoes on the other side stuck their proboscises through the holes.
The cold slowly got better. Early one morning, when the sun was starting to heat up, I sat up in bed and groped for the water ju
g. I drank greedily, wiping the drops from the corner of my mouth.
And then I remembered. The thing that had been in the back of my mind all the time, but kept there by the high temperatures and all that coughing.
I gave a shudder, and got dressed. Heard Dad snoring in the bedroom. I crept out quietly and emerged into the bright morning light. I tried to work out how long I’d been ill in bed, how many days had gone by. With a nasty premonition of what lay in store, I cycled off to the German’s cottage.
You could smell the stench from as far away as the main road. Sickly. Acidic. It grew stronger the closer I came. Sweeter and more disgusting. I put my hand over my nose and mouth. Saw the potato patch with the tall greenery. The barn and the mouse path. The gasoline drum.
At a hundred feet away I was on the point of choking. I took a deep breath and raced like mad over the final stretch.
Gray porridge. So many that they’d died one on top of the other.
I bent down and my shadow fell over the surface. A flash of light. A thick cloud of flies whirled up. I recoiled with a start. You could see the movement down below. Billowing like a sea. A swaying carpet of larvae.
In a state of shock I staggered away into the grass. A nauseous shudder ran right up my body. I heaved, and ran until I collapsed. Spat into a bed of dandelions, tried to be sick but couldn’t.
I eventually managed to get control of myself and kicked off my shoes. Pulled off my socks, which were damp with sweat. Then I bound them over my nose and mouth. The smell was bad but at least it was my own. Spurred on by desperation I scrambled to my feet.
I found the wheelbarrow and started to fill it with soil. I’d fill in the mass grave where it lay. It was the only way. Cover up the whole thing. Spread soil over the top and try to forget all about it.
When the barrow was full I took a deep breath, tied the socks on tighter and moved forward. Get it over with, not think about it. Just do it, as quickly as possible.
If it hadn’t been for one thing.
The money.
That was the problem after all, if you tried to look at it rationally, which wasn’t easy, it’s true. The drum was full of money. It contained pile upon pile of fifty-öre pieces. And I was about to bury them.
I put the wheelbarrow down. Hesitated. Then grit my teeth and with determination born of desperation went to the shed and found a rake. Took a deep breath and returned to the drum. Stuck the rake down into the sludge, making the flies shift out of the way. Fished around and managed to bring up a few dead bodies. The skin had split and white maggots dripped into the grass like rain. Retching violently I drew back in order to breathe. Brought the shears and pulled on a pair of old working gloves. Then forced myself to rush back.
I could see all the details when I got close up. No, it wasn’t possible. It was asking too much.
I lay flat on my face at the edge of the forest and could feel my fever returning. Money! You have to think about the money! There were at least seventy bodies. Maybe even eighty. That meant forty shiny, silvery kronor.
It was only a job after all. That was the way to look at it, a summer job.
Rush back again. Snip, fifty öre. Snip, one krona. Drop the bodies into the slop-pail, then withdraw in order to breathe.
One krona. A whole bloody krona. Bloody hell, a whole krona.
Down with the rake once more. Snip, one-fifty.
It was getting into my mouth. I could taste it.
Snip, two kronor. Two-fifty.
If only it weren’t for the stench.
Four kronor. Five. Six-fifty.
No, that’s enough, must stop now, bloody hell …
It went incredibly slowly. Some were more recent, still stiff. Others fell apart. Little paws with claws spread, shiny yellow teeth. In among the mice were a few voles as well, as big as cats and grotesquely swollen. They were floating around, distorted and stiff after their horrific struggle with death.
A large chunk of the morning had passed before the first slop-pail was full. In a series of short rushes I carried it into the forest. The contents were bubbling and slopping around. I tipped the sludge into the mass grave. Went back to the drum.
There were fewer victims in the smaller water traps, but they were just as rotten. The bodies in the spring traps had been almost entirely eaten by ants and had already started drying out. I struggled on for most of the rest of the day, and could feel my clothes getting sticky from all the splashes. Emptied the slop-pail into the hole in among the trees. Another bucket. Back again. Snip, snip. There was a chilly tickling feeling inside my gloves and I emptied out a few maggots. Flies were swarming around my face, settling all over me. If only I’d had a hat. Bucketful after bucketful. Pull back and breathe. Deeper and deeper down into the drum.
In the end there was nothing but grey, slushy death juices at the bottom. I raked through it, and it was lucky I did because there were four tails there that had fallen off, two kronor, and when I looked more closely I noticed another one, fifty öre—it obviously paid to be meticulous.
To round things off I pushed the wheelbarrow up to the rum, tipped the soil into it and flattened the surface down with a spade. There was barely a trace left of the massacre. Just a bare patch of earth that would soon be covered in grass.
My fever came back, though, when I stumbled off in a daze to fetch the gasoline can. Only the final act left to complete now.
The grave in the forest was overfull. The last bucketfuls had spilled over onto the parched brushwood. Flies flew up in thick clouds but soon settled again like a shaggy blanket, injecting eggs into the sun-warmed mass of decay. The stench was worse than I could ever have imagined, a fermenting dough of death with millions of microbes swelling up and reproducing.
I had to run back again in order to get some fresh air. Unscrewed the lid of the can and sniffed at it. The gas cleared out my nose, sweet and strong. I pulled myself together and prepared for the final act, the only thing still left to do before it was all over. Before I could relax and forget it.
In a dream I sprayed gas over the dead bodies, gave them a good splashing, a good soak. It felt like a religious act, as if trying to atone for something, to put things right. I struck a match, and dropped it onto the pile. There was a deep, sad cough as it burst into flames. A barely visible flame shot up stiffly, cracking. The nearest bushes were scorched, the brushwood caught fire. I stamped out the flames. Then I realized I’d splashed my trouser legs with gas, and flames were creeping up toward my kneecaps. I screamed, flung myself to the ground and ripped off my trousers. They got stuck around my shoes, which were also burning. I frantically kicked my shoes off and put out the fires by flapping with my hands.
Back at the grave, the fire had caught hold in the parched undergrowth. The nearest bushes were already ablaze. I broke off a leafy branch and tried to beat out the flames, but everything was so dry that they continued to spread. Before long they’d reached the nearest tree. I tried desperately to prevent catastrophe. There was a sudden breath of air through the forest, a gentle breeze closing in on the hearth. The fire was sucking all the oxygen from the surrounding area, the fire’s own breathing, a wind getting stronger and stronger as the flames worked their way up through the branches. And at the heart of it all, at the center of destruction, the crematorium was bubbling away.
I was petrified. The flames spread through the forest with astonishing speed, throwing their torches from tree to tree. I started beating again with my leafy branch, flailing around in terror, but the catastrophe grew worse by the minute.
“The fire brigade!” I thought, and wanted to run for help. But I couldn’t, something was holding me back, I carried on beating, my eyes stinging. The fire spread inexorably toward the edge of the forest, a raging battle front. The hay barn started smoldering and would soon be beyond rescue. And the wind was blowing toward the cottage. The sparks rained down thicker and thicker. Sharp nails of fire cascaded down. And soon they had taken hold of the roofing felt.
&nb
sp; It was war. A wild animal had been aroused and could no longer be restrained. And I was the one responsible. It was my fault.
At that point Heinz materialized. Eyes staring. Panic.
“The manuscript!” he bellowed, wrenching open the front door. The roof was alight and belching thick smoke, but he crouched down under it. He had to get inside, and surged forward. Tears poured from his eyes as he was forced to retreat, empty-handed. Another swift attempt, and now there were flames, not just smoke—there was a yellow glow inside the cottage. And this time he came storming out clutching a bundle of papers. He held them close to his chest, as if they were a child, embraced them passionately, then collapsed into the grass, coughing.
I went up to him. Covered in soot, stinking, wearing nothing but my underpants. In my hand was the string tied round the decaying tails. They were bundled together in tens, to make counting easy. Easier to check.
“One hundred and eighty-four,” I stammered. “Ninety-two kronor.”
Heinz stared vacantly at me. Then he grabbed hold of the string with the stinking tails and hurled them into the raging fire.
“It was all your fault!”
No brown leather wallet. No money. No electric guitar.
Heartbroken, I reached for his bundle of papers and flung them into the fire. Then ran for it, for all I was worth.
Heinz leaped to his feet with a roar. He tried to force his way in, but this time he was driven back.
When the fire brigade finally arrived, he was sitting on the lid of the well, the old soldier, sobbing.
CHAPTER 13
In which we acquire a music teacher with a thumb in the middle of his hand, and get to know an unexpected talent from Kihlanki