To Cook a Bear

by Mikael Niemi

  “Kirkkoherra?”

  Suddenly I saw the sauna door open, and Kristina was standing there, a puzzled expression on her face. The pastor hastily gathered the clothes together into a pile.

  “Were these Jolina’s clothes? Was she wearing them when she was found?”

  Kristina nodded nervously. The pastor tried to adopt a stern expression as he laid the bundle on the sauna bench.

  “Please don’t wash them before the sheriff sees them,” he said.

  “Brahe and Michelsson have already left.”

  “Oh well, you may do as you please, then. Presumably it doesn’t matter. But perhaps we could see Jolina again?”

  22.

  The room smelled musty and stale. Jolina lay still, with a sheet over her face as if she were already dead, but the slight movement of her breathing was just discernible. Her fear was palpable; the sheriff must have asked some painful questions. The mistress of the house, Kristina, sat on a stool with her arms wrapped round her thin body and appeared to be trembling. Elias and the sons stood in the doorway, their hands clasped.

  In his warm, clear voice the pastor began singing the hymn “You Bore Your Cross, O Gentle Jesus,” as he opened his etui with the small chalice and the pyx. Kristina quickly clasped her hands and pretended to sing too, though she didn’t know the words. The pastor recited part of Psalm 25 from memory, a prayer for guidance and for deliverance:

  “The troubles of my heart are enlarged: O bring thou me out of my distresses. Look upon mine affliction and my pain; and forgive all my sins . . .”

  The singing and the holy words appeared to reach Jolina. Her breathing became deeper when she realized it was the pastor and not the sheriff who had returned. The pastor moved on to the confession, followed by the words of absolution, while the people of the household bowed their heads. Without haste the pastor continued with the ritual he had performed many times at the bedsides of the sick and the elderly. I could feel the room become fresher and smell better, feel the weight of death being displaced. At a sign from the pastor I went up to the window and took down the piece of material that was hanging there. The life-giving afternoon light streamed in. The girl began to writhe under the sheet as though the light caused her pain, as if the demons within her were in retreat. Next the pastor read the Eucharist Prayer, slowly so that every word would sink in, and after that the Lord’s Prayer. And at the very first words—“Our Father who art in heaven”—Jolina drew the sheet away from her face with trembling fingers, and I saw her raw lips move silently.

  When Jolina received the body and blood of Christ, the effect was unmistakable. Her body was seized by a forceful movement, a warm wave of unimaginable strength swept through the room, and the pastor was obliged to remain on his knees for several moments before he was able to gather himself for the final prayer. Kristina sensed his hesitation and proffered him the damp cloth. He took it and gratefully wiped his brow. Then he applied it gently to the girl’s wet cheeks.

  “Jolina,” he said in a low voice. “Jolina . . . my dear Jolina.”

  The third time she heard her name she opened her eyes.

  “The evil submits,” the pastor said. “The power of darkness.”

  She didn’t meet his eye, but it was clear that she was listening.

  “We must stop the man of violence. He shall not do this again.”

  The pastor indicated to everyone else that they should leave the room. It was obvious they wanted to stay and listen, but he bowed his head in prayer until he heard the door close. He signaled for me to stay, and swiftly took out a sheet of paper and a pencil and handed them to me.

  “What happened to your head?” he asked Jolina in so low a voice that no one outside could hear.

  She showed no sign of answering.

  “I can see a wound here on your right temple. May I push your hair back a little?”

  He gently moved aside the hair sticking to her cheek. A nasty bruise on her scalp was visible. The pastor indicated I should make a note of the injury, which I hurriedly did.

  “Would you be able to uncover your neck?” he went on, at pains to make his voice kind and compassionate.

  Her gaze met the pastor’s now, her pupils large and black.

  “I only want to look. There’s no danger.”

  The pastor was reluctant to touch her, after everything she had been through. But Jolina just lay there, rigid, breathing fast.

  “If I may fold back the sheet just a fraction . . . There, now I can see better. You have injuries to your neck, I see. Does it hurt?”

  She nodded now and took a deep breath.

  “How did it happen? Do you remember?”

  Jolina tried to say something, but her voice wasn’t strong enough. Instead she raised her hands and bent her fingers into claws.

  “Is that what he did? Did he try to strangle you?”

  Her gestures became more emphatic; she demonstrated how the man shook her by the throat and how she herself gradually stopped moving.

  “What happened, Jolina? Did he let go?”

  “No,” she suddenly whispered.

  “But did you do something then?”

  “Outside . . . on the path . . .”

  “So the attack took place outside. The assailant squeezed your neck with his fingers. . . . But then something happened?”

  She nodded uncertainly.

  “Did someone come?”

  “No, it was . . . it was me. . . .”

  The throttling had damaged her voice and forcing out the words caused her obvious pain. Instead of continuing to speak, she lifted her arm and brandished it in front of her.

  “You hit him? You hit him hard?”

  She pointed to her head, to the back of her neck. And then the same stabbing gesture.

  “I don’t understand, Jolina.”

  She turned her head to the side, pulled her hair forward, and pointed.

  “Did he pull your hair? Tell me, Jolina.”

  “Hairpin . . .” she said, in a barely audible wheeze.

  “You removed your hairpin and you stabbed the man with it?”

  She nodded quickly.

  “Can you show me where you stabbed him?”

  With a shaking finger she pointed at the pastor’s left shoulder. I noted it down.

  “In his shoulder, here? Thank you, Jolina. That is a very important piece of information. The hairpin, could I see it?”

  A vague shake of the head.

  “Did you recognize the man?” the pastor asked. “Do you know who it could have been?”

  Jolina began to say something, but her voice lapsed into a croak. Instead she pulled the sheet up over her mouth and nose.

  “He had covered his face? With a cloth?”

  Another nod.

  “Did you notice anything else? How he was dressed? Was he a tramp? Or maybe a farmhand?”

  “Hhhhh . . .” she wheezed, and started coughing. Then she tried again.

  “Hhherrras . . . mies . . .”

  I nodded silently. Herrasmies. A gentleman.

  “Thank you, Jolina. God bless you.”

  Her lips contorted, her face tensed. She held her breath for several seconds, her body contracting in spasm. The pastor remained beside her, silent. Then he bent forward and made the sign of a cross on her forehead with his finger. And again. And a third time. He spoke in a whisper and I could hear only snatches. That it was not she who had sinned. That she had saved her own life by defending herself. That Jesus Christ walked by her side and at any time she could reach out her hand to him and receive his help.

  Eventually I heard someone timidly opening the door. It was Kristina, who looked anxiously through the crack.

  “Sleep beside her tonight,” the pastor said. “There is room for you both on the settle.”

  Kristina nod
ded.

  “And I would like to borrow this. You’ll get it back later.”

  He took the damp cloth that had dabbed Jolina’s brow and folded it into his pocket.

  * * *

  —

  The shieling at Kenttä was gray and silent. There was no music to be heard here now, just the lowing of ruminating cows in the distance. An empty bottle lay in the grass. The pastor picked it up, poured the last drops onto his palm, and sniffed it with a scowl. He walked over to the shed and looked inside. In my head I could still hear the stamping of the ring dance and the lithesome singer’s tune, and I could see Nils Gustaf’s elegant steps. And when I closed my eyes I could still feel Maria’s waist beneath my hands.

  The pastor muttered when he saw a hair ribbon that must have come off in the swirling dance. He came back out and walked toward the edge of the forest.

  “Was it here that Roope attacked Nils Gustaf?”

  “Yes, it was right here. But how could you know that, Pastor . . . ?”

  Without a word he picked up a short, thick piece of wood from the grass. He gave it a tentative swing and held it in the way Roope had. He looked around intently and then began to follow the tracks into the forest. I followed close behind and could see him leaning forward, his eye sweeping the ground just as it did when he was hunting for rare plants. After a while he came to a halt and pointed at a blueberry thicket in which some of the stalks had recently been snapped. He parted them carefully, pushed his hand down into the soft moss, and brought out a knife in its sheath.

  “It’s Roope’s,” I confirmed.

  “It’s easier to find what you’re looking for in daylight,” the pastor said dryly.

  He placed the knife in his coat pocket and looked about.

  “We need to search along the path Jolina took. You can go first, Jussi. Shout if you find anything unusual.”

  “Yes.”

  We walked slowly along the Kenttä path. The pastor stopped every now and then to examine something that had attracted his attention. There was evidence of the revelers everywhere and the path was well trodden. We found several bottles, clods of ash where people had raked out their pipes, and a wad of spit the color of chewing tobacco on the leaf of a Trollius europaeus, the globeflower. I heard the pastor call out. When I turned, I could see him pointing into the forest.

  “What do you think of this, Jussi?”

  “What?”

  There was the clear outline of footsteps in the cushiony moss.

  “There . . . there are some big footprints,” I said. “And smaller footprints next to them. A man and a woman must have walked through here.”

  “And a third person has walked here, to the side. Strange.”

  The pastor followed the impressions in the moss. I sensed the eagerness in him, almost like a tracker dog’s excitement. Farther on, where the ground became softer, he stopped and pointed. The outline of a woman’s boot could clearly be seen.

  “Make a sketch of this, Jussi. Wait, here’s a piece of paper. Draw the imprint as accurately as you can. Try to include every detail.”

  I sat there drawing for some time, fighting off the mosquitoes. Meanwhile, the pastor walked on.

  “Look, Jussi. The man and woman walked next to each other the whole time, with the third person walking nearby. The distance between his steps is short, as if he were sneaking along behind them. You can see how he took cover behind bushes and tree trunks!”

  I hurried after him and handed him the sketch.

  “And this is where their pursuer stopped and hid.”

  The pastor indicated where the moss behind an uprooted tree was squashed flat. The footprints were no longer distinguishable in the moss. He bent closer to inspect more carefully the sprigs of wild rosemary growing there.

  “The pursuer stood here for quite a long time watching something that must have piqued his interest. Aha! Look at this, Jussi!”

  A little farther on, a blueberry thicket had been flattened.

  “They must have lain down here. I assume it was a man and a woman. Don’t you agree, Jussi? They lay here embracing while someone was hiding over there watching. But who can they have been?”

  “Jolina and the attacker?”

  “Maybe. But the barn where Jolina locked herself in is quite some distance from here. Could she really have run so far after the assault?”

  The pastor knelt down. He gently picked up a little brown stump.

  “Look at this! Can you see what it is, Jussi?”

  He gave the object to me. At first I thought it was a tiny fir cone, or possibly an animal dropping. Until I saw that it was burned at one end.

  “Siggar . . .”

  * * *

  —

  The pastor was tight-lipped and thoughtful as we continued toward the barn where Jolina had been found. He questioned me again and again about which men had danced with Jolina, whether any of them apart from Roope had appeared to act aggressively or oddly, and who among them was dressed as a herrasmies. I tried to recount what I remembered, but I had the feeling that I was disappointing the pastor. I had seen Jolina with the other girls, she had been one in the crowd. But everything seemed to pale into insignificance beside Maria.

  After we had walked quite some distance, we saw a man coming toward us along the marsh path. It was Elias, Jolina’s father, and he had the dog with him on a leash. Elias made me think of an ox, with his broad torso and his stooping posture. His head seemed to lack a neck, as if it grew straight out of the top of his body. He was unwilling to meet the pastor’s eye, but turned his face from side to side as he spoke.

  He started to walk in front of us to show us the way to the barn. After a while he veered off into the forest, where, beyond a small marsh, there lay a hay meadow with a tall storehouse. It was timbered in the traditional way, with a loft above jutting out.

  “Was it in here Jolina was found?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the door was latched on the inside?”

  “Yes.”

  “Has the sheriff been to see it?”

  “He has, and the constable.”

  The pastor gave me a knowing look. There were unlikely to be any clues in there now, other than those left by Brahe and Michelsson.

  “Did they look outside as well?”

  “Well, they walked about.”

  “Did they search very far?”

  Elias couldn’t understand what the pastor was driving at and just scratched his mallet-shaped chin.

  The storehouse had been left unlocked. The pastor entered and climbed up the ladder to the loft.

  “So up here was where she was lying?”

  “Yes, over there by the wall. Under the sacks.”

  The pastor bent down and picked up some mouse droppings.

  “These got caught in her skirt,” he whispered to me. “But I see no blood here.”

  We climbed back down. The pastor asked me to lock the door on the inside with the crosspiece that was propped up next to it. I positioned it in the slots and heard him rattle the handle.

  “That should have kept her safe,” he said. “Was Jolina familiar with the storehouse?”

  “Everybody in the village is.”

  “She must have run here to hide. But the assault took place elsewhere.”

  “The sheriff thought—” Elias began, but broke off.

  “What?”

  “That she’d arranged to meet a man here. But Jolina would never do that!”

  The man’s voice had suddenly become shrill, and he looked as though he wanted to hit something.

  “We’ll soon know,” the pastor said gently.

  “Jolina isn’t that sort of girl!”

  When the pastor walked up to the dog we had tied to a birch tree, the mutt stood up and patiently licked her lips. H
e took the cloth bearing the scent of Jolina out of his jacket pocket and the dog eagerly buried her nose into it. The pastor took the leash and followed the dog back along the path.

  “Seek!”

  The dog pulled hard on the leash and we half ran over the uneven ground. A short distance along the path she stopped and started sniffing in the verge. Just a few paces in, among the short birch trees, we came across an area where the grass had been compressed. It looked very much like an elk’s resting place, and I thought at first it was indeed an elk scent the dog had detected. But she thrust her nose in and started scrabbling vigorously with her front paws. The pastor let Elias take the leash while he crouched down and examined the ground. In among the vegetation was something shiny. He carefully freed the object and lifted it up. It was a long, thick brass pin.

  “Do you know what this is?”

  “It’s Jolina’s hairpin,” Elias said.

  The pastor scratched at some rust-colored marks and tested it with his tongue.

  “Blood?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “Jolina stabbed the man with the pin. That was how she managed to escape. Then she ran to the barn and barricaded herself in.

  “It’s hers,” Elias repeated. “It was a gift for her confirmation.”

  He reached out to take it, but the pastor folded it into a handkerchief.

  “The sheriff has to see it. May I quickly borrow your shirt as well?”

  “My shirt?”

  “Yes, your shirt. I need to polish my spectacles.”

  Elias looked nonplussed and hesitantly removed his shirt so that the pastor could polish his glasses. Meanwhile, I observed the pastor eying Elias’s upper body. His shoulder was unharmed, with no pin marks to be found.

  “Thank you,” the pastor said, returning the shirt.

  With his spectacles on his nose, he bent down and scrutinized the ground.

  “I think you’re right, Elias, that Jolina hadn’t arranged to meet anyone at the barn,” he said. “This was where the attack took place.”

  The pastor began to go through the flattened blades of grass, bending them over gently and looking at them closely from every angle.