Wolf Winter (44 page)

Sometimes that was how the most important insights came, in drips and drops. You took a step back, and there it was: a waterway.

“What were the other carvings?” Olaus asked.

“There were so many,” she said.

Olaus steeled himself.

“There was a B and a U.” Frederika frowned as she tried to remember.

Sofia put her hand in front of her mouth. When she spoke, her eyes were full of tears. “The two children who disappeared on Blackåsen,” she said. “Their names were Ulla and Beata. The first went missing not long after we and the verger had arrived here. We held wakes for them.”

“A K, a J,” Frederika said, “and an A.”

Olaus looked to Sofia, but she was shaking her head.

“I haven’t known all the children by name,” she said.

Olaus thought about the old priest who was said to have died when about to mend the barn roof. It would have been easy. A frail man, a mild push. In the midst of the lambs there had been a wolf.

When he turned, Maija was staring at the floor, her forehead wrinkled. Connecting the dots in that mind of hers, he was certain,
assembling the picture none of them wanted to see but one that she would spend time with until it was all crystal clear.

“On Eriksson’s body I found marjoram …” Maija said. “Marjoram is said to kill the lust. Perhaps Lundgren was wearing an amulet with the herbs, and Eriksson snatched it off before he was killed …”

They were silent.

“Someone needs to tell Daniel,” Sofia said.

The father. The bishop must be on his way to attend Lady Day sermon. Olaus could leave it to him to tell the father that a man of the Church had abused his position and their trust. No. He’d do it himself. This had happened under his watch. And then it would be his turn to face the bishop.

“We need to leave,” Maija said. She was looking at her younger daughter.

Dorotea’s cheeks were red. Her mother was right—she shouldn’t be hearing this. Olaus walked them out. The hallway was dark and quiet. Frederika opened the door, and Olaus felt the chill from outside.

“Strange that the bishop didn’t know about the verger,” Maija said. “I can’t help but think that at some stage he ought to have suspected … with the first child disappearing so soon after the verger’s arrival … well.” She nodded to him. “Good night.”

He reached out and touched her arm.

Instead of stopping, she took a step toward him. She came to stand so close that he felt her against his chest. The top of her head was by his cheek. Olaus didn’t dare to move. He realized he was trembling.

“The bishop will be here tomorrow,” he said in a low voice that turned into a whisper. “In view of … you know … me and …”

Me and my past? Who I am? Who I am not?

He swallowed and felt her hair against his Adam’s apple. “I am certain the bishop won’t punish you now. He will forgive anything he had against you. I’ll speak with Daniel, but perhaps it’s best if you
talk to the bishop without me. Tell him he can find me in my home. I’ll pack my things, and I’ll be waiting for him.”

She bent her head back to look him in the eye and reached up to put her hand on his cheek.

“You’re my priest,” she said.

Their eyes locked.

“Mamma?”

One of her daughters called her from outside.

Maija held his gaze.

“I don’t have anything to say to the bishop,” she said and pressed her hand to his cheek harder, as if to leave a mark.

Then the old church bell above them started swaying, ringing in Lady Day. The dull clang tumbled from the bell tower, out of step, before finding its rhythm. Olaus stood chest to chest with Maija as the bell rang and rang, singing with its broken voice, heavier and heavier, making the air tremble long after it had stilled.

Maija could hear the news about the verger being spread in Settler Town. The whispers grew to the crackle of fire. The verger. The verger! Oh God, the verger! Then the town turned silent, and it was not silence as much as absence, awaiting what was to come. Morning arose and, with it, a ruddy, harsh light that cut the corners of each house sharp, that turned every color shrill, that revealed flaws and shortcomings without mercy. The mountains were spared by the light, and in comparison with the town, they seemed at once soft and welcoming.

There they were: the sounds of runners crushing snow, whips lashing. The calls of men.

“You stay inside,” Maija said to Frederika and Dorotea.

“But Mamma,” Frederika said.

“You stay inside,” she repeated.

Maija followed the stream of people with tar torches flowing toward the church green. The carriages had stopped at the middle of the square. The horses were snorting, moving, adrenaline pumping. The men jumped off the sleighs. Inside one of them was the verger, clinging to its side. There was a murmur in the crowd around Maija. The men dragged the man down in the snow. The verger was shouting something. The mumble of the mob grew into a mutter as it began to move forward.

The priest came running. “Wait!” he called.

Apart from Maija, nobody else seemed to hear.

“Be careful,” she shouted to the priest and pushed to make her way toward him, but the mass of people moved as one man. They dragged and hauled the verger through the square and toward the gallows on the hill. On the hillside the snow was deep. The snow and the cold should have brought the slow advancement to a halt, but
even they could do nothing. The crowd advanced as if driven on by the Devil himself, faces black with hunger and hatred.

There was a shot. The priest stood on top of one of the sleighs, a raised shotgun in his hands.

Maija’s chest ached from breathing the raw air. The square and the hill were still.

“Every man has the right to a trial,” the priest said. “No matter how awful the crime. Every man must be allowed to speak and be heard.”

One of the men who stood by the verger let his hands fall. A woman beside Maija wiped her nose.

“I didn’t do it,” the verger said. “I didn’t kill Eriksson.”

Oh no, no,
Maija thought.
Be quiet.
But it was too late, the mob was growling.

“He will be sentenced,” the priest called. But people were no longer looking at him; they had turned back to the verger. “There will be justice. For every sin he has inflicted upon one of our young ones, there shall be punishment.”

There was a second blast. Maija startled. The priest was craning his neck.
He didn’t shoot,
she thought. He is trying to see who did. But the people had pulled together into a wall, protecting whoever had fired the shot.

When there was a gap in the crowd, she saw the verger lying face down in the snow.

The parishioners waited in the pews in the church. Lady Day Mass was two hours late by the time the priest walked in and, following him, the bishop. The bishop passed the priest and climbed the pulpit so forcefully the structure shook.

Maija tried to see the priest through the crowd, but couldn’t.

“In view of the circumstances it shall be me who gives today’s sermon,” the bishop said. “By the mercy of God, the evildoings
of Johan Lundgren have been discovered. Olaus and I have spent time going through the events, but it is impossible for us to tell who pulled the trigger, and no one has come forward. Perhaps it was, after all, an unfortunate accident.”

Maija moved closer to Dorotea, put her arm around her, and now she could see him. The priest stood underneath the pulpit, and though his face was drawn, his poise was assured and priestly.
The bishop doesn’t know,
she thought, and felt relief. It wasn’t tenable, of course. Sooner or later the priest’s past would become known. Unless he stayed here, with them. Perhaps they could convince Sofia to leave things be …

The bishop kept talking, about how common man was not allowed to take justice into his own hands. The worshippers sat immovable.
One of us shot Lundgren,
Maija thought.
Others among us saw. But no one will ever talk.
Her eyes caught on Daniel and Anna, a couple of benches in front of her on the other side of the aisle. Their children weren’t with them. Nobody sat beside them. It was as if their faces had been cut in stone. Maija’s eyes filled.
Thank you, God,
she thought and felt guilt and gratitude mingle to something exceeding the space in her chest. She pulled Dorotea closer.

They had packed up, and it was time to leave for Blackåsen. Maija had made them late. First, she was convinced they had forgotten to pack the alcohol she had bought to wash Dorotea’s feet, and they had to unpack the bag to find it. Then she wasn’t certain whether there had been a key to the cottage and whether she ought to have locked it and returned it. As she closed the door behind them she had to admit to herself that she had hoped the priest would come and say good-bye. How stupid; they were just members of a flock.

She grabbed the harness of Dorotea’s sledge and tugged at it so Dorotea squealed and had to struggle for balance.

“Do you want me to pull it?” Frederika asked.

“No,” Maija said.

They walked down the street in Settler Town, the last ones to leave. The church green too was almost empty. As they passed the priest’s dwelling, she looked for him in each window. He was probably in the vicarage with Sofia.

At the end of the green they followed the trail in the snow created by all those who had already left. When it was time to turn into the forest, Maija stopped.

Her daughters looked at her.

“Just … wait here,” she said.

She didn’t say any more but turned and hurried back along the path. She reached the empty square and began to run. She ran straight across it toward the church, snow whirling around her feet. She had to grab the handle with both hands in order to open the heavy door. She rushed through the vestibule and into the great hall.

When she entered, he was there, the priest, her priest, standing by his Jesus. He turned, and she froze. He waited. And then she ran down the aisle toward him; she couldn’t run fast enough. He opened his arms and she threw herself into them, and they wrapped around her and lifted her and hugged her. The stubble on his chin grated her cheek.

There was a scraping sound from the church vestibule as the door opened again, and they let go of each other as if they had burned themselves.

The priest’s mouth was half open, his breathing hard. His eyes locked on hers, and hers moved from his left eye to his right, trying to hold both in her gaze at the same time, and of course, she couldn’t. She laughed. The priest smiled too, a diagonal smile that was happy and sad, both at the same time.

The footsteps approached.

“Oh good,” the bishop said. “So you’ve told Maija that her punishment has been made void.”

“Yes,” the priest said. His voice was hoarse.

“We forgot to make it clear in the upheaval,” the bishop said. “Go now, my child, and don’t sin again.”

Still, spring did not come.

Three days had passed since Lady Day—one travel day, and then two of the same low morning glow and slow afternoon light that brought on shadows too fast. The clouds looked gray, although she knew they were white.

Frederika waited and watched. She ought to have felt better, freed of all burdens, but the incessant thrum in the air was as strong as ever. She kept looking up to the top of the mountain.
We got him. Why are you not letting up?