White Hunger (Chance Encounter Series) (3 page)

‘I won’t leave my children,’ Marja pants, having drunk the water greedily.

‘The farmer’s harnessing the horse. He’ll take you as far as the church,’ her hostess says.

She sits down next to Marja, shyly strokes her guest’s hair.

‘I can’t,’ Marja whispers.

The farmer’s wife nods.

The horse’s ribs resemble fingers clasped in prayer. Its neighs are like the violent sobs of an old woman. It is wizened, just like Father, Mataleena thinks, but then shakes her head. No, Father is strong, he fetches big trees from the forest with the Lehtos’ horse, even though there is so much snow that Mataleena would sink up to her neck in the drift. But she does not sink; Father lifts her from the sledge and carries her in his arms to the cabin. Winter won’t come in here. There is a baby asleep in a basket hanging on a rope from a roof beam, and Mataleena rocks the baby and sings
To-to-tobacco-Ulla
. The lullaby makes her think of Ulla, the former mistress of Lehto, who used to sit on the steps in summer smoking a pipe like an old man. When Mataleena would arrive at the Lehtos’ with Father, the old woman would always express surprise that it was time to get to work again. Father would sit next to her and together they would watch the clouds roaming across the sky. They’re heavenly sheep, she would say, and give Mataleena permission to fetch sugar from the kitchen.

But Mother says the word in the song is
rulla
, not
Ulla
.

The horse is called Voima. When the old woman’s coffin was driven to the church, it drew the cart. Mataleena and Mother were watching as they left the house. Juho was in Mother’s arms. Father drove the cart; Lehto sat next to him, crying. But Mataleena thought of the heavenly sheep and of the old mistress, who would be sitting on a rock the size of a mountain, shepherding them and smoking her pipe.

Mataleena is looking at the pallid grey sky now – no
sign of sheep. Voima stops at a crossroads. The road forms a hollow in the expanse of snow. Fence posts stick out like small, sharp teeth.

Lehto glances over his shoulder at Marja.

She shakes her head. ‘Not to the church.’

Lehto tugs at the reins and Voima begins to pull the sledge towards the neighbouring village. Mataleena realizes that they will not return home. Tears leave warm trails on her cheeks, but they freeze before they reach the corners of her mouth.

Father is no more.

Voima snorts, with a swing of the muzzle. The horse’s head looks bigger than before; the rest of its body has shrunk. Then they hear only the grim crunch of the snow under the runners.

The neighbouring parish is bigger than their own, the church taller. The road descends gently to the river bank, then crosses to the other side via a wooden bridge. There are lots of people near the church: beggars, clearly. Mataleena sees many children her own age. Viewed from the bridge, they blend in with the gravestones; closer up, hats and scarves concealing white faces come into view. Lehto turns the sledge into the road that runs along the river bank, away from the church.

‘I’ll take you to the rectory. They’ll know what’s to become of you. I don’t.’

‘We’re going to St Petersburg,’ Marja whispers, more to herself than to Lehto.

‘Best forget all that. Who knows if it’s possible to get away from here at all…’

On the river bank stands a great white house. Mataleena guesses it is the rectory, though she has never been here before. Lehto waves at a man with a goatee. The man has eyebrows like an owl’s, covered with frost. Mataleena feels like laughing and hooting at the old fellow, who responds to Lehto’s greeting. Suddenly, the man seizes the reins and restrains the horse.

‘You’re not carting your beggars here, surely. Oh, no, you don’t.’

The old man stares with his owl’s eyes; Mataleena’s laughter freezes.

‘You look after your own. We’ve got enough here as it is, no need to ferry in more from neighbouring parishes. And there’s more coming all the time, from the north, the east, the west. We’ll send them on if we don’t know where to return them – a lot of them come from far away. A woman with a small child froze to death yesterday, by the road to the rectory. Don’t bring them here. Oh, no, you don’t.’

‘I’m here on my own business, I’m not dumping anyone on you, damn it,’ Lehto growls. He smacks his lips angrily.

Voima moves forward and the owl lets go of the reins. The horse does not turn into the rectory road, instead continuing along the river. Lehto remains silent, merely smacking his lips angrily from time to time and occasionally striking Voima. The horse’s gait grows heavier but it
does not pick up speed. Then the river widens into a lake; a peninsula cuts into it. In the middle of the peninsula stands a manor house, even bigger than the rectory; the road ends in the front garden. This is Viklund manor house.

A man stands outside, a hired hand. Lehto greets him; he responds faintly, then snarls that beggars will not be admitted. Lehto strides past him up the steps. Mataleena follows but turns back when she realizes that Mother and Juho are still standing by the sledge. The hired hand also disappears through the door.

After a while, a young woman opens the door and waves Marja and the children inside.

The large room is bright. A white cloth covers the table. Old Mr Viklund sits in a rocking chair, smoking a porcelain pipe. Mataleena looks at the man’s bushy sideburns. One of his eyes is covered by a cataract and this frightens her. It is as if the old farmer’s eye were inhabited by frost. She has to be careful to avoid looking at that eye of frost: the coldness could burst out and wrap a too-curious child up in its shawl, keeping her captive there for ever.

But the landowner’s smile is gentle, and so is his good eye, with which he looks at Mataleena. The frosty eye stares past her, into the distance somewhere.

‘The visitors must take their coats off. Ella will put something on the table.’

Ella, who let Marja and the children in, curtsies, glances at Mataleena with a friendly smile and crosses the large room.

Mataleena tiptoes to a mirror with a gilded frame. Beyond the glass lies an identical room, from which Mataleena looks back at herself. There are black circles round the eyes, deep lines at the corners of the mouth. The Mataleena looking out from the mirror is like a tiny old lady, and that amuses the Mataleena looking in the mirror.

‘I’m a child, you’re an old woman,’ Mataleena whispers to her reflection.

Then she spots Ella in the mirror; the maid is carrying a big, white tureen.

‘We’re short of food, too, though we’re one of the wealthiest houses in the parish. We’ve had to dismiss some of the servants because we can’t afford to keep on extra mouths to feed,’ old Mr Viklund tells Lehto.

Mataleena strokes the china soup tureen with her fingertip. It is as white as snow, but warm. The most beautiful thing about it is the pink rose with gilt-edged petals. She moves her finger over the raised rose, a living, beating heart blooming amid snow, unvanquished even by winter.

Ella lifts the lid of the tureen and a cloud of steam rises up. A china bowl with a rose identical to the one on the tureen is placed before Mataleena. Ella ladles broth into the bowl. Mataleena can still make out the rose.

In the morning, Lehto hands Viklund a banknote. Briefly, he bids Marja farewell, pats both Juho and Mataleena on the head and steps outside. Through the window,
Mataleena watches Lehto’s sledge leaving the yard, then riding the narrow road away from the peninsula, turning to the river bank and lingering for a long time in the landscape, shrinking all the while as Voima trots on, as if fleeing them. Ella takes Mataleena in her arms, and the girl wishes they were staying here in the manor house.

She would never tire of admiring the pink flower at mealtimes. Looking at the rose, she would remember Father. Father is happy for them, but Father will not come to Viklund; he is sitting on the edge of a cloud, and whenever it rains in summer and she looks out of the window and sees water trickling down the glass, she will know Father’s tears of joy are falling to earth.

But Ella puts Mataleena down by the door next to Juho and wraps the shawl tightly round the girl’s head. Mataleena understands that they must leave now.

The hired hand who was reluctant to admit them yesterday comes in through the door. He bangs his gloves together angrily, though there is no snow left on them. He gives Marja, Mataleena and Juho long looks, each in turn. His eyes exude a cold contempt. Mataleena dares not look back at him, and Marja, too, stares at the floor. Only Juho meets the man’s stare. The boy’s gaze is vacant; the gale of anger bounces back, powerless. The man is forced to surrender and his eyes travel the length of the endless-seeming planks in the ceiling of the hall. Ella returns from the kitchen and hands Marja two loaves. You can tell straight away they have no bark in them.

The road has been blocked by snow, into which the horse’s feet sink. Mataleena stretches her hand out over the side of the sledge and scoops some up. It melts in her mouth, as if it were springtime on her tongue. Her tongue is a rough field emerging from under snow, still frozen. Mataleena passes some snow to Juho. Marja, too, gathers a handful.

‘If you fall out, I’m not stopping for you,’ the hired hand states over his shoulder.

Marja stops eating snow, but after a moment Mataleena reaches out over the side again – further than she needs to, defiantly. Marja grabs the hem of the girl’s coat.

The journey is as long as the hired hand’s stare at the snowdrift that opens out in front of them. Finally they arrive at an inn. No other houses in sight. The hired hand turns round on his box seat, tears Marja’s winter coat open and snatches the loaves Viklund gave her from her breast.

‘There are other starving people, for whom no masters buy bread. They’ve got more of a right to these loaves than you.’

He breaks one of the loaves in two, flings one half into Marja’s lap, jumps down from his seat and goes into the inn.

When Marja and the children enter, the hired hand is having a chat with the landlord about a cargo of grain. He glances over his shoulder and looks at them as if he had never seen them before.

‘Vagabonds, not from these parts.’

‘Let them go to the waiting room,’ the landlord says to the hired hand.

When Marja and Mataleena wake up, Viklund’s man has disappeared. Marja carries the sleeping Juho outside.

‘If only we had the skis with us, at least,’ Marja laments.

There are another two sledges in the yard. The night before, a young boy brought a clergyman to the inn in one of them. The boy is still asleep in the waiting room. The inn driver is harnessing a horse to the other sledge.

‘Where are you going?’ Marja asks.

The driver does not respond, does not listen; he merely looks at the copse opposite from beneath the horse’s head. Marja stares at the man’s back for a long time. When she finally gives up staring, the man turns.

‘North. I can’t give beggars a lift because of that clergyman. And the landlord wouldn’t approve.’

Pity and guilt flit over the driver’s face in turn.

‘We’re not going north, that’s where we came from,’ Marja replies.

‘You should head in the other direction. I’ll go and give that boy a kick, wake him up. He can pick you up further down the road. So the landlord won’t see. You should manage to get out of sight before the boy sets off.’

Just then the door opens and the vicar comes out into the yard, dressed in a thick fur coat and accompanied by
the landlord. Mataleena feels like laughing: the vicar’s fur hat looks like a fluffy dandelion clock, but brown instead of white. If you blew on it, bits of fluff would fly off and float over the snowdrifts, and only a stump would remain on the clergyman’s head. The fluff would fall outside the inn, and in summer, yellow, flower-headed clergymen would grow all over the yard and sway in the breeze.

But Mataleena does not dare to blow, and the wind whistling round the corner also fails to snatch the down from the vicar’s hat.

‘Well!’ the landlord roars at Marja.

That is an order to leave. Marja lowers Juho to the ground, takes her children by the hand and begins walking along the snowy track.

‘Oh, such times, and such a people. How the Lord is testing their faith now,’ the vicar laments.

They walk for a long time. The short period of daylight is drawing to an end. No sign of the boy or the sledge. Mataleena walks behind her mother, treading in the footprints, holding her coat more tightly to protect herself from the blizzard. She does not hear the rumbling of her stomach, but she feels it.

Hunger is the kitten Willow-Lauri put in a sack, which scratches away with its small claws, causing searing pain; then more scratching, then more, until the kitten is exhausted and falls to the bottom of the sack, weighing
heavily there, before gathering its strength and starting a fresh struggle. You want to lift the animal out, but it scratches so hard you dare not reach inside. You have no option but to carry the bundle to the lake and throw it into the hole in the ice.

Mataleena bumps into Marja’s back; Mother has stopped. All around, heavy snow makes the shoulders of spruces hunched.

‘This is the end,’ Marja says faintly, but Mataleena hears the whinnying of a horse on the road behind her and tugs at her mother’s sleeve. Marja lowers Juho and waves, but the boy driving the sledge looks past her, straight ahead, and fails to stop. Marja sinks on to her knees and falls into the snowdrift. Her body shakes slowly, her sobs come out jaggedly, in time with her breathing.

Mataleena tries to pull her mother up.

‘He stopped at the turning over there,’ Mataleena says.

Marja gets up and sees the sledge. The boy continues staring ahead in the direction of travel. Marja lifts up Juho and, summoning all her strength, begins striding towards the sledge.

Once they have climbed in, the boy gives them a single glance over his shoulder. One of his eyes is identical to the old farmer’s at Viklund. He says nothing, merely smacks his lips to get the horse moving.