by Mikael Niemi
“Stay indoors from now on, Jussi. Stop sneaking around outside. I fear a storm is brewing.”
56.
Night advanced slowly like a dream, dawn’s arrival almost imperceptible as the last mists lifted over the region. My beloved stepped onto the porch, dressed for the cowshed, and I could see immediately that she wasn’t herself. Her steps stiff, she plodded like a sow, and when I crept nearer I could see her face was swollen from crying. I reached the barn door in front of her and held it open. Maria stared at me as if I were a ghost. When I slipped inside quickly, so as not to be seen from the cabin, she came in after me and the door creaked shut. The smell of cattle was strong and sweet. The air was warmed by the mass of bodies and I heard them stamping and banging into the walls of their stalls as they caught my unfamiliar scent. The udders were waiting, their veins taut, waiting for her nimble fingers.
“Maria . . .” I whispered, with my hand in front of my ugly, scarred mouth.
She avoided my eyes. Shyly, I moved closer, my elbow nudged hers. Suddenly she gave a start and threw her arms around me, sending a stab of pain through my ribs.
“You came,” she whispered.
“I’ve been waiting here all night.”
“Why?”
I hesitated. It was difficult to speak, and yet I had to.
“What you said . . . I’ll go with you, Maria. Wherever you want.”
“No, you don’t understand, Jussi.”
“Yes . . . I can say the child is mine,” I muttered.
She pushed me away, staring at me in dismay.
“But how do you know . . . ?”
“I’ll marry you,” I said, with as little breath as possible.
She saw my mouth, my nearly-toothless jaws.
“A whore?” she whispered back.
“You’re not a whore.”
“He promised . . . that we would get married.”
“Who?”
“It doesn’t matter now.”
“I can marry you,” I whispered. “I’d like that, Maria.”
Gently, she embraced me. Her soft cheek against mine, discolored and scarred. I couldn’t move.
“Where would we go?” she whispered.
“North. To Norway.”
“Norway? But when?”
“We can leave now.”
“No, that’s not possible.”
“This evening, then? You do the milking, then pretend to go to bed. When everyone else has gone, I’ll be waiting for you out here.”
“This very evening?”
“We can walk all night. Then no one will catch up with us.”
“But you’re injured, Jussi. Someone has hurt you.”
“We can walk side by side into the land of Canaan.”
“You mean you and I . . . ?”
“Even unto Bethlehem, if it be so.”
She let go of me, as if she were almost giddy. Swallowed, and nodded eagerly.
“Tonight,” she whispered, and caressed the sensitive skin under my chin with her fingertips. Then she hastily looked around and reached for the milking stool, worn smooth with use.
57.
As I hurried back to the parsonage, I could still feel where she had touched my skin and I carried with me the warmth of her, the scent of her. The village was stirring, I could hear doors opening, the clatter of tools, I could see smoke rising from the cabins and barn kettles. Stopped by no one, I made my way to the pastor’s woodshed, crept inside, and sat down on the chopping block. I cut away a piece of birch bark, trimmed the edges with my knife, and then got out my little pencil.
I am human, I carefully wrote in the dim light.
I used the tiniest letters, to fit in as much as possible.
I come from the mountains. It was difficult there. My sister is still there . . .
Writing was hard, my vision blurred. I wiped my eyes with my hand, timidly looked up. I could hear footsteps and just had time to hide the sharp-edged piece of bark under my shirt when the door opened.
It was Brita Kajsa, who jumped and gave a little cry.
“Oh, it’s Jussi.”
I nodded, gathering an armful of firewood and balancing it against my side.
“Take it into the cabin.” She motioned with her head. “And there’s some porridge if you’re hungry.”
I meekly went in with my load, thinking that now the journey had commenced in earnest. The first steps in a very long journey. One day it would be a book.
* * *
—
I pretended to eat the porridge, but saved it in a small bent-wood box, along with some tough bits of dried fish in my knapsack, so difficult to chew that I would have to soak them in water later. As long as we were prudent the food would last two days, maybe three. Then we would have to see. I packed the fire striker and a ball of thread. Along the way I would be able to whittle a fishing rod and sharpen a needle of juniper wood to thread through a worm. When the fish bit the worm the needle would lodge sideways and I would be able to pull the fish ashore and then we could grill it over the fire at night. The pouch of salt should last a few months. And in Norway it was easy to get hold of more. There were still plenty of berries in the forests. I took an old blanket. As for me, I could sleep in the clothes I was wearing, but Maria needed help to keep warm at night. I would sit and tend the fire in the forest, stay awake all night while the firelight played on her rosy cheeks. They were sure to come after us and we would have to be careful. Start using different names, profess to be on our way to relatives on the Arctic coast.
I hid my knapsack in the cowshed, up in the loft. Then I treated the wounds that still hadn’t healed. They looked worse like this, in the daylight. The pus was seeping out and I made a face at the nagging pain. I scooped up cobwebs and laid them over the wounds, as I had learned from the old Lapp women, spat on them and protected them with bandages. If the pain got worse I would have to burn the wounds clean with the blade of my knife, make the steel red-hot and press it on. There was a sour taste in my mouth from the tooth stumps. And it was still bad between my legs. But it would be all right. It had to be all right. They would search for us in the south, but we would go north, to meet the cold. Now I had to sleep. Gather my strength. In only a few hours, a few brief, short hours, I would hold her hand. And never let it go.
58.
Evening came and the parsonage started to settle down. I made an effort to act normally, washed my face at the well, and huddled up on the floor by the door on my straw-filled mattress. I pretended to have already fallen asleep by the time the pastor read the evening prayer, and I saw the last candle be blown out. I lay motionless for a long time, until everyone stopped tossing and turning and I could hear their breathing become slow and steady. I rose like a shadow, picked up my boots, and stole to the door as quietly as possible. Tjalmo thought I was going out for a pee; she stretched and yawned so that I could see her white eyeteeth in the dark, then she curled up in her corner by the door. Like a shadow still, I fetched my knapsack from the hayloft and set off along the village road. It was as if I had never existed, I just dissolved into the darkness.
The cold sky was clear and starry, a crescent moon hanging on the horizon as a guiding light. I tried to avoid the holes in the road. Every misplaced step sent pain shooting through my body, but I still managed to make good time and every step brought me closer to my beloved. We would walk side by side all night, for as long as we were able. When dawn began to break, we would take shelter under a fir tree and lie down close together. I could hardly believe it was possible.
I could soon make out her farm between the trees. I took up my usual post at the edge of the forest, not wanting a dog to start barking. The yard appeared to be empty. Or perhaps she was already waiting in the semidarkness? I sank down into the grass, which was slightly damp with dew. Like a cat, I raised my head and strain
ed my eyes. The windows in the house were dark, no sound to be heard. I resolved to wait. Still with my knapsack on my back in readiness, I settled down. The crescent moon sailed slowly up above the forest and in the distance I could hear the roar of the Kengis waterfall. The noise wasn’t constant, but rose and fell like far-off breathing. There was the sound of an animal approaching through the undergrowth. I listened to the gentle rustling, until it caught my scent and froze. I raised the back of my hand to my lips and sucked in the skin so that it made a little mouse-like squeak. The old trick worked and I saw a young fox peep out hopefully. But then he spotted my shape and disappeared back into the shadows.
Suddenly I heard the front door open and someone came out onto the porch. A figure moved across the yard and seemed to stop, to hesitate. I couldn’t see who it was in the gloom and didn’t dare to shout. Instead I began to inch nearer. Yes, it was a woman. My heart was pounding. The figure looked around, unsure. It had to be Maria. I moved forward as quickly and quietly as I could, holding my arms up as a shield against the saplings whipping at my face. Should I whistle so she would know I was there? No, there was too much of a risk that it would wake the others. Now she looked around again and I thought she whispered something. Was it my name? Then she turned and hurried back to the cabin. No, she changed course toward the barn. She opened the door and slid in through the black gap. I waited to make sure no one was following her. No, everything was still quiet. Taking a deep breath, I stepped out into the yard and sped silently across to the door of the barn. I looked around one last time. There was no one about, no light in the cabin. I silently grasped the door handle and pulled open the heavy door.
There she was. I sensed her outline, watched her walk toward me.
“My beloved,” I whispered. “My heart’s desire . . .”
She threw her arms around me. But they were hard and sinewy, they clasped me so hard I groaned with the pain.
“I’ve got him!”
A man’s voice, a man’s smell, the rasping skin on a cheek as I tried to twist free. The barn door was thrown open, heavy feet lumbered closer, and I saw the flickering light from a lantern. Strong hands grabbed me and hurled me to the floor. I felt my knapsack being torn off me, my arm yanked backward at a painful angle.
“We’ve got the swine!”
I recognized the voice all too well. Sheriff Brahe. In the light from the lantern I could make out the men from the farm, the master and both sons, each armed with an ax. And next to me, dressed in Maria’s blouse and kirtle, stood Constable Michelsson, tightening his grip on me until I moaned with pain. His face was contorted in a triumphant grin.
“Jussi, Jussi, now you’re really in the shit-pot!”
I heard the clinking of metal and rattling of chains and felt my knife being taken out of my belt.
“You are under arrest, Jussi,” Brahe said, barely able to conceal his glee.
“Get the wagon ready,” Michelsson shouted.
The master of the house hurried off to harness the horses. The older son advanced, an ax shaking dangerously in his hands.
“Voi saatanan . . .” he mumbled, over and over. “Voi saatanan piru . . .”
“What have you done with Maria?” I whispered.
The kick hit my shoulder blade, followed by a wad of spit. Then I felt a burning pain as my arms were wrenched backward.
The night would be a long one.
PART FOUR
The priest in his church
Alone in prayer
Nobody hears
What he lays bare
Before our Lord
We bow and esteem
Jesus above
May sinners redeem
59.
These are my people, the people of the north. It is for them that I preach. They are so few in number, so dispersed. If the city dweller is an anchor, then the Northman is the wind. He weighs nothing. He moves with no trace, makes no noise, no fuss. If you take a pinch of writing sand and fling it across the room, the sand will disappear. It is there, but you can’t see it anymore. So it is with the people in the north. They gather in large numbers only when the signs are auspicious. When the salmon are passing. When the wild berries ripen. When the capercaillies play in the glades of the ancient forests and the seabirds lay their eggs. Then they walk together and reap from the abundance until it is time to move on. Northerners’ homes are made from the forest, from the forest’s bones and heart, from wood and skins, from stones that are laid round the hearth to warm tired bodies long after the evening fire has gone out. They wander across heaths and swamps, they paddle along winding streams, they travel on skis faster than by horse, they carry their knife, their wooden cup, ready to face anything, they carry the knowledge of how to survive the winter. They know death, they know that the one who stops wandering will die, and that a knife wound, a broken bone, a sudden cough can be the parting sign. They know grief. They know that for every living person there are ten dead, for every child twenty dead are waiting, that it is the thinnest child that usually survives while the fat one gives up when the breast gives out. They know that happiness is a net dragged in, heavy with fish. A bucket filled with fresh berries. A well-tanned reindeer hide. A squealing puppy. A marrow bone newly split, still warm from the slaughter. They know that love is lying by the fire with a friend, turning away from the dark, nestling close together and telling stories through the endless winter. The best way for people to keep warm.
* * *
—
One day during my term of service in Karesuando I received a visit from two very determined gentlemen. They came to my parsonage wanting help in procuring Lapp skulls. They were young and ambitious, their clothes seemed still to be quite new, despite their long journey; perhaps they had several changes of clothing in the trunks their bearers put down to catch their breath. Authentic Lapp skulls. The lecturer wore spectacles, for all his youth, and had the hands of a noblewoman, smooth and hairless, with pointed fingers. As part of his research at Copenhagen University he had examined authentic Negroid skulls, fingered the prominent eyebrow ridges and studied the even, flat shape of the nasal bone. In his logbook he had kept a careful record of the measurements; what he lacked was a comparison. Perhaps the Lapps were closely related to the Negro race? Could one not discern a certain southern pigmentation in a number of the specimens?
The assistant was a few years his senior and had a croaky voice, his head was bald and shiny, and he moved his arms incessantly while he spoke, as if laboriously grinding out the words from a reluctant barrel organ. He said he had tried to wash a Lapp child clean while it greedily stuffed its mouth full of sweets, and under a thick layer of grease and soot a dark, almost African skin tone had emerged.
I advanced the notion that the child doubtless played outside all the time, instead of sitting in a reading room, nose in a book. Both men gave me a long stare, as if transfixed, before deciding I had made a joke, and then laughed in that formal, academic way in which they avoided showing their teeth.
So, Lapp skulls, then. They were extremely keen, making clear that I would be generously recompensed for my assistance. Would there be somewhere out in the wild where a person of Lapp descent might have met his death and been buried? I explained that since the advent of Christianity, Lapps were buried in churchyards, just like the rest of us. This answer troubled the gentlemen, not to say depressed them. Were Lapp corpses never discovered eaten by wild animals, the body perhaps chewed up beyond recognition but the skull left more or less undisturbed? I said that of course such things could happen, but sooner or later these unfortunates would be found by their family and friends, who, by means of the clothes and baggage, would generally be able to confirm their identity and put them to rest in the family grave.
What about a criminal, then? Even Lapps must commit an act of violence once in a while, a dreadful murder punishable by death? Maybe the execution
er could be asked when the next murderer or assassin was going to the block? The authorities could be contacted in good time and give permission for the body to be donated to science. Well, primarily the head.
I replied that access to murderers was highly unpredictable in these parts, and that I wasn’t aware of any such trial currently. Perhaps they could contact the judicial services themselves and supply a suitable box filled with salt for this purpose?
They went so far as to attend a funeral. The coffin was open, as is the custom, and these fine gentlemen pushed to the front and bowed their heads reverently, while excitedly noting that the deceased was most decidedly of Lapp stock, an old reindeer herder now lying there in his ceremonial finery. I saw them approach the widow, standing with her children and immediate family. The researchers took her hand, something she was unaccustomed to, and she couldn’t understand their flowery condolences, translated by the sexton. I don’t know what they thought they would do next, but when they found themselves immediately surrounded by a large group of curious kith and kin, they deemed it wise to retire.
They were exceedingly disappointed. I helped them collect all manner of everyday implements, such as objects carved from masur birch or reindeer antlers, the magnificent handiwork the Lapps surrounded themselves with. I explained at length about Lapp mythology, which predated Christianity and still left an impression on their minds. The men managed to get wind of a place of sacrifice on a migration route and caused a great deal of damage by using spades to dig deep holes. Maybe they were hoping to discover a silver treasure trove, even though the offerings at this place traditionally consisted of reindeer antlers or bundles of reindeer hooves.
Finally, I guided them to the site of the old church at Markkina. Some ten years or more previously the church had been pulled down and moved and the settlement abandoned. But the churchyard remained. And I can barely describe the zeal that seized the men when they realized where they were. Literally trembling with anticipation, they gripped their spades. After glancing in all directions to assure themselves there were no unauthorized witnesses, they selected a grave where the earth had sunk in and they started shoveling. It wasn’t long before they struck rotting wood. With great care they began to uncover their find, which proved to be a buried reindeer sleigh. In it lay a male person, stretched out on his back, his hands clasped as if in prayer. Both the sleigh and the leather costume clearly indicated this was a nomadic Lapp, a male of short stature. As soon as there was enough room in the hole, the two men climbed down and continued digging with smaller trowels and brushes. They folded back the cloth covering the face and sighed with pleasure.