by Mikael Niemi
“Here it is,” he said, holding up a button. There was a white thread still in the hole.
“I could see there was a button missing from her clothes. The perpetrator ripped the collar open to get to her neck.”
The button was folded up in the handkerchief along with the hairpin. Then he crouched down in the grass and sniffed around. He indicated that I should do the same, and all of a sudden I thought I could detect the smell that had been clinging to her skirt.
“Boot grease,” I whispered.
“So Jolina set off home after the dance. And then?”
“The fellow followed her.”
“Possibly. He might have been dancing with her and now he wanted something else.”
The pastor looked thoughtful.
“Remember, someone sneaked after the man and woman earlier. Who probably saw them lie down to . . . embrace. We can assume that he found the sight arousing. The desire of his flesh was stirred. What do you think, Jussi?”
I blushed and mumbled in agreement.
“Afterward he crept away and ended up here.”
“The same man?”
“He was excited by the scene he had witnessed. He had been drinking as well and his judgment was impaired. Maybe he was recalling how he attacked Hilda Fredriksdotter and now wanted to do the same thing again.”
I made no reply. The pastor was humming to himself as he took note of the surroundings.
“The marsh path has quite a long straight stretch just here,” he said. “Which would enable you to see a person from a distance. The perpetrator must have concealed himself here in the grass. Though not precisely here, for he would have risked being seen. If you wanted to hide, Jussi, which place would you have chosen?”
My eye was drawn to the opposite side of the path, where there was a dense growth of small fir trees. I pointed to them and felt slightly nauseous.
“There.”
The pastor agreed.
“We have to try to think like the attacker. Get inside his head. Let’s have a look, Jussi.”
Elias stayed where he was with the dog while we walked over. Behind the firs we found a gray tree stump covered in lichen. The ground in front of the stump had clearly been trampled on.
“Exactly as I suspected. This was where the fellow sat and waited. And look at this. Still fresh.”
The pastor held up a branch of fir that had been lying on the ground.
“He cut this off to gain a better view,” I suggested.
“No, look more closely. You’ll notice the twigs are damaged, and I surmise he was sitting here waving it about.”
“At the insects.”
“That’s right, Jussi. The man had been sitting here for quite a while when Jolina arrived. What can that mean?”
“He hoped she was on her way home.”
“But why Jolina in particular? He knew there was a dance in Kenttä, so maybe he was waiting for any woman who happened to come by. When a group of several girls passed he let them be. He was waiting for someone walking alone.”
Something by the stump had caught the pastor’s attention and he leaned forward.
“But what’s this?”
He gingerly picked up something tiny between his thumb and forefinger. At first I thought it was a sedge stalk, before realizing it was a tiny wood shaving.
“Help me, Jussi. Let’s collect them.”
We started carefully turning over the moss and lingonberry plants, and found several small wood chips.
“What is it?” I asked.
“You’ve seen this kind of thing in my study.”
I turned the minuscule shaving over; it looked as though it had been removed with a knife. There was also the residue of something else, darker, gray like graphite.
“Pencil lead!”
“So the man was sitting here . . . sharpening a pencil,” the pastor murmured. “He was sitting here writing. The monster sat here and wrote while he waited for his victim.”
“Or . . .” I muttered, “or he was sitting here drawing.”
The pastor folded the shavings in a piece of paper and waved to Elias.
“Don’t allow any stranger to visit Jolina,” he said. “A villain is at large here.”
* * *
—
As we walked back to the parsonage something came to the pastor’s mind.
“The injury Jolina had on her right temple—what do you think about that, Jussi?”
“The man must have hit her.”
“Yes. And?”
“With his hand. His fist.”
“Let me try to hit you in the same spot, Jussi.”
I stared at him without understanding.
“Are you going to hit me, Pastor?”
He nodded calmly. He raised his right hand and aimed but stopped just short of my right temporal bone.
“That feels awkward, Jussi.”
“It would be easier if you hit with your other hand, Pastor.”
“My thoughts exactly. You recall that Hilda Fredriksdotter’s hair had been pulled out on the same side of the scalp. The right.”
“So, you think the perpetrator is . . . is left-handed, Pastor?”
The pastor puffed with satisfaction on his pipe.
“Good, Jussi,” he said. “Good thinking.”
23.
People are greatly in fear of the Devil. Especially when he comes in the guise of a wolf or a snake. But he is far more dangerous in human form. And most dangerous of all in the form of an angel. For when Satan himself transforms into an angel of light, it is hard to escape him.
—Lars Levi Laestadius
The mists gradually dissipated. Brita Kajsa gently stroked the pastor’s cheek.
“You slept so fitfully,” she whispered. “Your writhing around made the bed shake.”
“I was dreaming about a bear.”
The pastor’s wet cheeks glistened in the dim light.
“A bear?”
“Yes, there was a gigantic bear under our bed, wild and ferocious. The bed was moving up and down as he tried to get out and I was fighting back with all my strength.”
“You’re soaked with perspiration.”
The pastor was breathing hard, as if he had been running.
“I think I was battling the Prince of Darkness. I feel his presence every day. He wants to destroy all the good we have achieved. Stamp out our faith here in the north.”
“But we’ll fight back.”
“Every Sunday I think the devil has sneaked in among the lambs. He is one of the silent men in the pews, head bared, looking at the cross. Can my utterances bring him to a halt? Can my preaching penetrate the dragon’s scales, reach into the ogre’s hardened heart? Which words can make the evil among us stop?”
Brita Kajsa lay quietly for a moment.
“We have Jolina,” she said, by and by. “She was attacked by the villain but managed to outwit him. I think she could identify him.”
“But the man was wearing a mask.”
“His smell. His way of moving, his breathing when he’s excited, the feel of his hands against her body. Women remember things like that.”
“She appears to be paralyzed with fear,” the pastor said.
“Jolina is strong. Give her time and she’ll get over it.”
“Jolina did in fact contrive to injure the man.”
“How?”
“She stabbed him in the shoulder and drew blood. I think that ensured her escape and survival.”
“Then just look for a man with that sort of wound!”
“It is the sheriff’s business, for all that.”
“Tell everyone we’re on his trail. Spread the word in the village. Maybe that will scare him off.”
The pastor nodded thou
ghtfully.
“Yes, maybe then he’ll stop. Maybe he will.”
24.
The pastor invited me to accompany him to the shop in Pajala. In common with market days in Kengis, the shop was where you could hear most of the village gossip. The inquisitive would install themselves here hoping to pick up some juicy piece of local news about fornication and brawls, sibling quarrels and robbery, sickness and sudden death. Naturally there was talk of poor Jolina, attacked by an unknown man. What had she actually been doing at the dance? Why did she not stay home, like all properly behaved girls? Was it simply her beau she had met that evening, who had finally had enough of her taunting rebuffs?
The pastor asked if he might take a look at the pencils. There were two types in the shop’s range and he bought one of each. Then he asked if he could see the boot wax. The merchant, Henriksson, opened a tub of the smelly fat and praised its water-repellent qualities. The pastor dipped his finger in, held it to his nose, and then let me sniff it, before wiping his finger on a handkerchief. I saw him put it discreetly into his coat pocket.
“The price is a touch high,” he said.
“But it’s the best quality. This wax will never turn rancid. Surely the pastor won’t begrudge himself,” the merchant said fawningly.
“It must be the well-to-do who buy this?”
“The mill owner himself is one of the customers. And the pastor’s sexton too. Ask him what he rubs into his church boots. Well, look who’s here! If it isn’t the sheriff himself.”
Brahe walked through the door and gave a guarded nod when he saw the pastor.
“The pastor is looking at boot wax,” Henriksson simpered. “Perhaps the sheriff could recommend its application?”
“How goes it with the investigation into the villain?” the pastor asked, in a voice just loud enough to make everyone in the shop fall silent and listen.
“We’re on his trail.”
“Is there anything in particular the general public should know?”
“He appears to have been a passing vagabond. A type seen in the area.”
“But could such vagrants afford this fine shoe wax? There were traces of it on Jolina’s clothes.”
Brahe had nothing to say.
“The sheriff did make an examination of her clothes, didn’t he?” The pastor was persistent.
“Obviously, obviously.”
“So you also know the perpetrator was injured?”
“Injured?”
“Yes, a puncture wound. Jolina managed to stab the man in the left shoulder, resulting in his blood on her clothes. It might be useful for people hereabouts to know that.”
“Of course.”
“Because then they might be able to find out if there’s any fellow with a fresh puncture wound. I doubt it’s had time to heal yet.”
“So the pastor went through the girl’s clothing?”
“Yes, but you said you did as well. Let us suppose all the men in the area could be examined. One of them might display a puncture wound on his left shoulder. Or does the sheriff have specific evidence that points to a vagrant?”
I detected the pastor’s pleasure in revealing the sheriff’s incompetence, and how greedily the listeners hung on his every word. The information would soon be spread throughout the entire parish.
“Moreover, I believe Jolina will be able to identify the guilty man as soon as she has recovered.”
“But the man was masked,” the sheriff said.
“There are other distinctive features,” the pastor said, staring defiantly at the sheriff. “Women are adept at noting details that often escape men.”
The sheriff took a step toward us. It looked almost as though he intended to assail the pastor. I hastily pulled him out of the shop by the arm.
“Was that wise?” I whispered.
“Now people know that we’re not looking for a tramp.”
“But Jolina might have been placed in danger?”
“When this gets out, the culprit will know we’re on his trail. Then he would hardly dare attack anyone else.”
We left the courtyard with our wares. A woman dressed in black was standing by the gate. With her shoulders hunched, she looked as though she were cold. She appeared to have been waiting for quite some time and as soon as she saw the pastor she hurried toward us. A pointed nose was sticking out of her shawl, a drip on the end of it. The pastor took the woman’s claw-like hand and greeted her warmly.
“Jumalan terve. God’s peace.”
She was overcome by emotion, and her words sputtered into dribbling froth. Stammering, she held out a piece of folded material, but when the pastor started to open it she snatched it back and clasped it to her chest.
“Do you feel unwell, ma’am?”
“It’s . . . it’s my boy.”
“Your son?”
She turned and hurriedly shuffled away. The pastor rushed after her.
“Tell me what is preying upon your mind.”
“My boy is sick. Very sick.”
“Stay for a moment. Let us pray for your son. What is his name?”
She increased her pace.
“Stop!” the pastor said, more sharply.
At that, she halted, her white lips tightly closed. The pastor tugged the piece of fabric out of her icy hands and carefully unfolded it. It was a child’s vest, so small that it must belong to a baby.
“Do you want to give it to me, ma’am?”
“No,” she whispered.
“First you gave it to me, and then you took it back.”
“The lad needs to . . . he needs to wear it.”
Then the pastor understood. Tears glistened in the corners of his eyes.
“Only Jesus can heal,” he muttered, with forced composure.
“Jesus,” she echoed. “Jeesuksen Kristuksen . . .”
She grabbed his arm again, convulsively, as if to draw him into her own body, swallow him up. He freed himself as she made a deep bow and pressed her greasy, damp brow against the back of his hand.
“Let us pray,” he forced out. “What is wrong with the infant?”
“Measles.”
In his mind the pastor could see little Levi’s swollen face and even today could still hear the boy’s fast, feverish breathing. He had offered a thousand prayers for the child’s soul, a thousand and a thousand more.
“Dear Jesus,” the pastor mumbled, “dear Jesus, hear our prayer.”
The woman began to rock back and forth, back and forth. Her pointed nose was like a beak. A bird pecking seeds out of the mud.
The parson stood with closed eyes, while more and more awakened souls inquisitively joined the tight circle that was forming. Jeesuksen Kristuksen . . . A miracle was about to happen. A child was going to be saved. Afterward, several of them would report that a gust of mild air could be felt, a breeze that came from above bearing the scent of honey.
The pastor was aware of people pushing from every direction. They all wanted to warm themselves. It was he who had kindled the flames that were spreading over the land of the north, he who kept stoking the fire until the whole of Finnmark was ablaze. But what if the revival were merely ignited brushwood that flared up furiously but was immediately extinguished? And all that was left behind was the blackened earth.
Had he tricked them all? Perhaps it was better to lead a lukewarm life? Tepid but persevering? Smolder like the Phellinus igniarius, the fungus known as the fire sponge, producing almost no warmth, giving off a faint wreath of smoke that never ends. Not to do very much, but to do it all the time. The pastor who claimed to despise all those who were priests only in pursuit of material gain, with their dutiful biblical utterances to the pews of the replete bourgeoisie, their grinding litanies that brought no sign of change. Step by step they made their laborious way up the mountainside, when they shou
ld have been running. That was what the pastor thought.
The revival caused a great hullaballoo. Church folk seemed to enjoy a good racket. Sinners’ hearts racing, faces contorting with passion; the patter of curled-toe shoes, as an entire congregation jumped in liikutuksia. Old men and women pushing forward and seeing not a simple village priest, but Jesus.
What if the only thing he had accomplished were idolatry?
25.
The pastor kept a few paces in front of me on the way home from the shop. I could see he was despondent. When he was in a good mood he was happy to reason with me; he would raise his elbows and form words with his hands, as if he carried his thoughts like an armful of unformed bread dough, a fermenting lump that had to be constantly kneaded and knocked back to prevent it from dropping to the ground. But today his arms hung stiffly by his side.
Most people behave like reindeer. They want to walk with others, move forward in a herd. If a female grunts, the others will start to grunt too. If a male gives out a warning signal, they all run, even if they haven’t seen the danger themselves. The reindeer navigates by fear, its enemies the wolverine, the wolf, the bear, and the lynx. A human being is also afraid, created that way by our Lord. Luther’s call was to love and fear God. But we love and fear each other with the same intensity. And most of all we fear losing one another. Being alone, being separated from the protection of our herd.
But the pastor was different. He seemed to represent an alien species. When all around him were shouting, he was silent. When everyone pointed in front, he turned aside. When he was mocked or threatened, he appeared more steadfast in his conviction. He saw what he saw, took note of it, and lodged it in his mind. Opposing the authorities didn’t faze him. Brandy was an obvious example, for everyone loved brandy. Swigged by peasants and enthusiastically refilled by innkeepers, whose pockets clinked with silver coins. How could brandy be anything other than a good thing? The first mouthful spread warmth and happiness, the second imparted good humor and the desire to talk. What was wrong with that? Even Jesus drank wine, didn’t he?