To Cook a Bear

by Mikael Niemi

  Behind the old woman came a younger figure. Her clothing was black too and the headscarf was pulled right down to hide her face. Yet there was something that made me gulp and catch my breath, I wanted to rush forward and touch her. I recognized her and was instantly roused. Even though her face was covered, I knew it could only be her. I recognized her way of moving, the way her hips swayed—as when she carried the milk pails—the rounding of her shoulders, the angle of her neck, that lightness in her step I had seen when she was dancing in the artist’s studio, and during the dance in the shieling, when we had come so close.

  But at the same time I could detect that something was different. Something had happened to her, there was a stiffness, or maybe a weight. I had never met the woman who walked in front. Was it Maria’s mother? I didn’t even know which village Maria came from. But it was clear that the older woman was in charge, that she had an errand. It had all the air of a ritual, the white script of the handkerchief against the gray sky, the disaffection of the two women, the coolness between them. When they reached the yard, I saw Maria peer around. I lay flat on my stomach and slithered closer to the potato shaws. When the women entered the parsonage, I followed and opened the front door very slightly. I could clearly detect their scent—the aroma of the hay barn on the old woman, but on Maria the flowery foam of meadowsweet. They stood at the entrance to the kitchen and I heard the pastor chatting about harvesting to make them feel welcome. I moved silently into the pastor’s study, where I immediately looked for somewhere to hide—the bookshelves, the desk, the chest, the drop-leaf table. I heard the pastor’s voice approach, the door opened, and the three of them stopped in surprise. They found me at the folding table with my nose deep in a book.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled, pretending to be startled.

  “Is Jussi in here studying?” the pastor exclaimed.

  He sounded unduly cheerful, obviously trying to lighten the serious mood of his guests.

  “I felt a burning need to read something,” I said apologetically, and rose stiffly to my feet.

  “Loca Parallela Plantarum,” the pastor said with a wry smile. “Doesn’t Jussi find the Latin somewhat impenetrable?”

  I closed the book at once, casting a quick look at the flyleaf. It was the pastor himself who was the author.

  “Yes,” I muttered.

  “We’ll get to grips with Latin, Jussi. Latin will be our next foray.”

  The women stared at me, the old woman’s face full of mistrust, the handkerchief pressed to her mouth as if to hold back the scorn welling up. But Maria looked at me with such a beseeching expression, almost with desperation, that I was forced to look away.

  “So what has occasioned the ladies’ visit?” the pastor went on, drawing up a chair for each of them.

  “We don’t want that noaidi child . . .” the old woman said.

  She jerked her head in my direction and moved the handkerchief to the other corner of her mouth. Her lips were narrow and white, they reminded me of scythe blades when she spoke.

  The air in the room grew even more charged and difficult to breathe. I left without answering and quietly closed the door behind me. In the kitchen Brita Kajsa was busy with a soup pot, peeling vegetables with a short knife. The smell was so good from the melting lard and herbs, from the table beer fermenting in its trough, from the wort and newly churned butter bubbling with freshly chopped onion.

  “Cut flowers wither fast,” she said, with a meaningful nod toward the visitors.

  “What?” I said, though I had heard.

  “What?” said Johanna, one of the pastor’s daughters, holding her hand in front of her mouth to mimic me. “What, what, what?”

  I hurried out. The last of the insects were whizzing around in the evening light. No one paid any attention to me sneaking around the corner of the house, to crouch and sit down underneath the study window. I took my knife out and pretended to be cutting my nails, straightening the ragged edges and trimming the frayed cuticles. With my ear pressed to the wall. The visitors’ voices went through the timbers and straight into my back. I could hear none of the words, but I could feel the vibrations. The old woman must have relinquished the handkerchief and now the words were pouring out. The pastor was silent, letting her carry on. Soon he would suggest they pray together, but as yet it was too soon. Maria’s voice was so weak, it could barely be felt in the pauses before the old woman took up her monologue again with mounting intensity. It was like seeing a staircase leading down into the abyss, every step taking the visitors ever more steeply down into the flames. And the pastor let it happen. He let the sinners smell the sulfur in their nostrils and see the damned, screaming in the depths. Their torment was unspeakable, bloodthirsty worms crawled over their skin, gnawing holes and burrowing inside. It was the heart Satan wanted to reach. The heart’s core. And the pastor thought that was right, and he offered no consolation. Not yet. Instead he let the women’s terror grow. Their hard shell had to split open. Their pride, their self-righteousness. Their complacency.

  And now the old woman really did crack, she fell apart. I heard the wails through the wall, deep like a man’s, and rising, and now I could hear the words as well.

  “Whore, whore . . .”

  Again and again until the screeches turned to gurgles, and then the pastor’s voice of thunder.

  “Get thee behind me, Satan! Be gone!”

  The parsonage seemed to shake as if something from the netherworld were forcing its way out, a gigantic snake’s head lashing and biting. And now another voice rose, sharp as a dagger, shrill silvery cries from a bird of prey plunging to the floor, beating its wings as bodies dived on top of it and held it fast, pressing the room together like the covers of a book. Smoke could be seen seeping out of the window frame, there was the smell of fire, an awful odor of scorched feathers, or maybe it was teeth on fire.

  The wailing changed to deep sobs. I pictured the pastor praying. He fell to his knees beside the women, all three thrown to the floor. The pastor invoked God, appealed to God to have mercy on them all. God, who had power to destroy and punish, who with the simplest flick of his fingernail could tip them all down into the flames. The sinners were balancing on the very edge. Now there was only salvation for the one who could bare her heart, proffer it, naked and pulsing, in her hands.

  Thy sins are forgiven thee. In the name and blood of Jesus Christ.

  Such was the ritual. I dismissed the idea of peeping through the window, terrified of what I might see. The timber wall behind was silent now and I crept away, back to the porch, and waited. It felt cold. The sun was approaching the edge of the forest, I could just see it through the branches, a red spot in my line of vision that turned bright green when I shut my eyes. They were talking for such a long time! Maybe they had gone out into the kitchen for something to eat? No, through the window I could see Brita Kajsa sitting by the chimney breast and she too appeared to be waiting. Her fingers were busy with herbs, ripping dried leaves from the stalks in her apron. She could never really be at rest, never just sit and look out of the window. Every moment had to be used.

  But now she rose to her feet. She had heard the study door open and she would be asking if the guests would like supper. Her face gave no hint of what she thought of the din she had just heard. The pastor came into view and it was obvious the visitors wanted to leave for home. I grabbed the broom, to have something in my hands. The door opened, I stopped sweeping and bowed to the old woman as she hurried past, her face blotchy and swollen. The handkerchief had disappeared, in its place she held a small piece of paper. They were always on the pastor’s desk and he used them to scribble down appropriate words from the Bible for confessants. A sour smell of sweat enveloped the old woman, forcing its way through all her layers of clothing. Underneath she must have been dripping wet.

  Maria walked behind the old woman, her mouth hidden behind her hands. I saw her back shaki
ng with despair in silent, uncontrolled weeping. She teetered forward, almost losing her balance on the porch, and I instinctively held my arm out to support her. She flinched with alarm at the sight of my scarred face and then, quick as a wink, leaned toward me, her face right next to mine, her eyes completely dry. Instead of tears, there were bruises, as though she had been hit, and I was seized with fury. She pressed her cheek to mine and whispered:

  “I’ll go wherever you want, Jussi.”

  The old woman turned round, but Maria had already caught up, her hands covering her face once more. They left the yard and I watched the two women turn off the village road and disappear. The scent of my beloved’s hair was still in my nose. Filipendula ulmaria, meadowsweet. But a hint of onion too, and of sulfur. I had to lean against the porch for support.

  I’ll go wherever you want.

  Her cheek against mine. Forever.

  55.

  Selma came out and said dinner was ready, to which I hastily answered that my stomach was out of sorts and I felt unwell. I went into the cowshed and stood in the half-light, swallowing hard. The cows, newly milked and calm, stared at me without a pause in their constant chewing. I rubbed their hard noses, rested my fingers on the rounded horn buds, felt the smoothness of the cowhide as I stroked the fur. The huge eyes encircled by muscle gazed at me, the muzzles wet, with one or two stiff bristles. A cow lifted her tail, emptied her bowels, and the pat of dung plopped to the floor with a pleasant, pungent smell. I took the rake and scraped the muck, still so warm that it was steaming, into the manure gutter; all the blades of grass that were transformed into shit and milk. Some of it was swept into the gutter and the rest served up in a fine pitcher at the dinner table. Exactly like the human race.

  I heard footsteps coming from the parsonage, most likely Johanna carrying out the slop pail, so they must have finished eating. I waited a little while longer. The pastor usually did a last stint at his desk before going to bed, putting the final touches to his correspondence or taking a look at the bills. Replete and slightly sleepy, he would be relaxed and might be in the mood to exchange a few words. He would doubtless still have the visitors on his mind. The old woman’s shrieks, the girl’s obstinate defiance. Maybe he would like to share his thoughts with someone?

  That was what I was thinking when I entered the parsonage. Brita Kajsa was putting more wood in the stove so that the massive wall could store the heat throughout the night. Like a shadow I slid noiselessly across to the study. The door was ajar and I pushed it farther open without knocking. The silence inside was alarming.

  I found my master bent forward with his forehead on the desk. For one dreadful second I thought he had left us. A stroke, a hemorrhage that caused the rock to break and fall apart.

  Then I realized that he was sitting there praying. His eyes were just slits, as if they were looking into another world. I sank down beside him, knelt on the bare floorboards without daring to touch him. From his mouth, brown tobacco juice had dribbled onto his writing paper. It had formed the letter U. Maybe he tried to raise his arm, his hand, but his body remained motionless, as if he were asleep. Like a leveret clutched in the huge talons of an eagle. He looked like someone being borne away to be eaten.

  I stayed where I was and waited, picked up a book, read, but took nothing in. My knees hurt and I cautiously changed position as twilight fell, and as we were both immersed in the deepening blackness of the autumn night.

  Suddenly a wave seemed to go down his spine and like a ghost he sat up straight, his upper body leaning against the back of the chair for support.

  “Ah, it’s Jussi.”

  I stood up, stiff and frightened. He was back, as if he had just woken up. But then I recognized his wry smile.

  “Well, Jussi, what did you hear when you were eavesdropping out there?”

  The blood drained from my face.

  “Noth-nothing, Pastor.”

  “Who else would have been sitting by the wall? The grass underneath the window was flattened, and besides, you dropped something.”

  I instinctively felt for the knife on my belt. It was still there.

  “The pastor is mistaken,” I lied, with a little more daring.

  He held something up between his thumb and forefinger. With his other hand he grabbed a tuft of my hair and tugged.

  “A strand of your hair caught on the wood when you pressed your ear against the wall,” he said. “I can see that the color and length match.”

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  The pastor dropped the hairs on the floor.

  “What did Jussi manage to gather?”

  “Please forgive me.”

  “Just tell me what you heard.”

  “‘Whore,’” I whispered doubtfully. “The old woman shouted at Maria. That she was a whore.”

  “Is she?”

  “Maria . . . no, never. No, not Maria.”

  “Jussi is taken with her.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s why Jussi was eavesdropping. Because surely Jussi doesn’t have the bad habit of hiding outside every time I hear a confession?”

  “No, no.”

  “Then, if I may, I’ll ask a straight question. Has Jussi been intimate with Maria?”

  “We have . . . danced together.”

  “I mean in the carnal way. If so, I need to know.”

  My thoughts spun, and then I recalled her suddenly vomiting in the yard.

  “I . . . There is nothing I would rather have done than be intimate with her.”

  “So what stopped you?”

  I didn’t know how to answer. If only I had dared to ask her. If only I had been able to carry her pails. If only I hadn’t been a young noaidi . . .

  The pastor lit his best pipe, the enormous one with a bowl as big as a child’s skull. He let the smoke percolate through his nostrils with tiny peeping noises.

  “You have to take stock,” he said then. “She is not the person you believe her to be.”

  “What does the pastor mean?”

  “I have a duty of confidentiality as a priest. But it made me worried, Jussi. Or rather, fearful.”

  “Not for Maria?”

  I’ll go wherever you want, Jussi. Wherever you want . . . Till death do us part . . .

  The pastor’s eyes closed to slits again. I couldn’t look at him and instead I walked over to the window. Outside, the night sky was darkening and the thickening clouds threatened rain on its way. He shook himself and seemed to brush away an invisible spider’s web. He changed position, the chair creaking under his weight. With a trembling hand he lit the oil lamp standing on the desk. I studied his profile in the light from the flame, his large potato-shaped nose, which some of his children had inherited.

  “Autumn’s coming,” he murmured.

  “Mm.”

  “A cold autumn after a grim summer.”

  “The summer’s been hard,” I agreed.

  “Peace be with Hilda and Jolina. And peace be with Nils Gustaf. And you yourself, Jussi, with your dreadful injuries. Shouldn’t I have been able to stop the evil?”

  “The pastor has done everything he could.”

  “Shouldn’t I have felt the devil’s presence better than this? Shouldn’t I, as priest, have been the first to expose him?”

  “The wiles of the devil are boundless.”

  “That is true.”

  “He finds our weakest points.”

  “Yes, alas,” the pastor agreed. “It’s about the human being’s inner construct, our psychology. Even I have weaknesses, no matter how strong I like to think I am. In every fortress there is always a hole, a back door unlocked, a cellar window someone forgot to hasp. While the master of the house sits at the table buttering his giblets, robbers are sneaking in and waiting for night.”

  “We are all only
human.”

  “Yes, but how? In what way am I human? Where is my weakest place? That is what I reflect upon.”

  He puffed and offered his pipe to me, but I shook my head.

  “Pride,” he said dryly. “My damned pride.”

  I was startled by the profanity. He removed the tobacco juice from the corner of his mouth and wiped his hand on his trouser leg.

  “We are all proud,” I said, barely audibly.

  “I had pictured my portrait handing in the sacristy. Mine would be the first in the long line of pastors’ portraits. Henceforth I would hang there like Abraham for all Pajala inhabitants to see.”

  He smiled apologetically, his teeth a dirty yellow.

  “Nils Gustaf’s murderer is sure to be caught one day,” I said.

  “I fear you are wrong,” he said thoughtfully. “I am afraid it will all get much worse.”

  “Worse?”

  “What if our suffering has essentially been caused by the revival? By the force of the revival movement? I fear that the evil we have hitherto experienced is but a foretaste of something much darker.”

  I stared at the pastor, aghast. He looked terrible, his eye sockets appeared to go right into his skull. The coal-black pupils looked as though they had been cut out of the earth, they had seen everything. I had a premonition of what he would look like when he was dead, how I would stand by his bier and hold his icy hand. With a shiver I dismissed the image, but the unease lingered on. The pastor lowered his voice, filled with anxiety.