Wolf Winter (23 page)

As the little bird lay dying, in the soil beside it was a worm. The little bird saw it. But now it no longer cared.

Who had told him this story? It was obvious: his father. Who else would tell tales like that?

Dum. Tataradum. Dum. Dum. Dum.

Frederika.

Answer me.

Frederika tried to breathe as usual. In. Out. They’d lived through so many storms. Perhaps more than a hundred. Ostrobothnia’s tempests came the sea way. They were wet and tasted of salt.

But the way this wind tore at the house. As if it might rip the walls down for something to reach in and seize her.

She was being stupid. Storms did not speak. They did not live. Storms happened when there were too many clouds and winds in the same place. It was her mind playing with her because she had pictured it so many times, she knew it: that split-second of nothing and then the violence of being grabbed. The Russians stole children. They did much worse to the adults, but the children, they took with them. They hauled you away and you knew you’d never again see the ones you loved. And your pain would be so great, you’d die. Though you wouldn’t. No, you’d live forever with a black hole inside you that grew until the hole had swallowed all of you. And then you’d become just like them. Everybody had heard about the mother and father who, ten years after he’d been snatched, had seen their own son among the killers. He had not recognized them. His eyes had been dead.

Focus on your sister
, Frederika told herself.
Hold your sister. She’s screaming. She’s hurt.

Dum. Dum. Dum. Dum.

You can’t hide.

Her mother’s profile, grim in the light of the fire. The priest sat with his head bent. Neither of them moved or spoke.
They might as well be dead,
she thought, and then she’d be all alone with her sister, and this time there was no Jutta and they wouldn’t stand a chance against what was outside. It would float through the walls, and there would
be nothing but this swelling darkness until you realized you sat in it and that it had a face, and when you looked, it would be your own face and …

Snow rose in a violent twister and beat at the pane. Frederika cried out. There was a new smell inside. One that didn’t belong.
Earth,
she thought. The air was damp and cold despite the fire. It was like when they’d finished excavating the underground food storage and she’d crept into it for the first time, soil still crumbling down its walls. The roots in the roof had looked like small worms. They’d been cut off by the digging, and their small ends were a naked white. The plants reached out for their amputated limbs, knowing that without the rest of them, they were certain to die …

Open.

Dum. Dum. Dum.

Open to me.

In the Bible Jonah had been on a boat. There had been a gale, and the others had to throw him in for the sea to quiet. If she walked out into the storm, it might settle. It might take her and leave the others in peace. Her sister was so hurt. And her mother. How Frederika loved her mother.

Stop this. Stop this. Stop. This.

Frederika sat up straight. She wasn’t a small child any longer. She was older, and she knew what she knew: there were storms. Things might seem alive—they might make noises, but as long as you were with adults, as long as you were with your mother, you were safe. Her mother always knew what to do. She …

Their world exploded—

Jesus.

The storm was inside. The screams of wind and darkness were all around them.

The priest grabbed the metal sheet they cooked on. He and her mother pressed it to the open hole that had once been a window. She held it while he put a chair on top of the table to block it there.

Dum. Dum. Dum.

Maija lay awake and listened. The tiny house squeaked and groaned. She wondered if the roof would hold the weight of the snow.

It’s built for this kind of weather,
she told herself.

The blizzard gave no sign of abating. In the barn the goats weren’t tethered; they’d be able to get to the dried grass. Water might become a problem. But goats didn’t need much.

Slowly, so as not to make a sound, she turned her head and looked toward the pile of wood. Wood for two more days, perhaps three. They had to go and get more, but more importantly, they needed food. There wasn’t anything left to eat now.

Dorotea was lying close to her side. She was burning hot. The hairs by her temples had curled themselves. Maija wanted to put her hand on her daughter’s forehead, knowing she would find it both hot and cold at the same time. Frederika lay on the other side of Dorotea, her blonde hair on the pillow a bird’s nest. This was all her fault. Why had she taken them on the journey? Why …

“We need to go and get food.”

She startled. In the dark, on the other side of Frederika, the priest was just a shape.

“Yes.” She whispered so as not to wake her daughters.

“We might as well go now. We’re both awake.”

“It’s still dark.”

“The longer we wait, the weaker we’ll be.”

She wanted to stay with her daughters, but he was right. They put on their outerwear in silence. Maija tied her shoes and pulled the end of her trousers down over them. She bound a piece of string around the ankles. Hopefully that would hold the snow out. The priest nodded.

As she opened the door the cold and the wind rushed in. Her heart flipped over, and she was wide awake. The priest stepped out
beside her and they pressed the door shut behind them, the wind forcing them to move slowly. Maija stared into the dark. The snowflakes hurt, and she bent her head. She tried to judge in which direction the food storage would be and took the shovel. Luckily they’d taken it inside. She had to make sure they never left it outside or else they wouldn’t find it again in the snow. She put out her hand, feeling for the porch railing. Once she had found it and located the top of the staircase, she took a step down and sank to her waist in snow. The priest reached for her, but she shook her head and pointed. They had to continue.

But the snow was too deep. It was impossible to move forward. She needed to get out of the snow, get on top of it somehow, and so she leaned to crawl, using the shovel to support her, but her other hand sank straight down and she caught a mouthful of snow.

This wasn’t going to work.

The skis, she thought, before remembering they had left them on the ground on returning from the Lapps. They were gone now. She tried to get on top of the snow again.

The priest had squatted down on the porch. He was waving to her. She turned and stretched out her arm. He grabbed it and pulled her up with him on the porch.

“Snowshoes,” he yelled in her ear. “We need snowshoes.”

Snowshoes. Of course. The branches, she thought. They had a big pile of spruce branches they had gathered to use to wipe the floor. Perhaps they were still not dry and some of them might be big enough for them to construct something. She pointed to the door. They pulled it open and tumbled inside.

She removed her scarf and wiped her nose. She took off her woolens. The silence inside hurt her ears after all the noise.

“We gathered spruce branches before you came,” she said and opened the door to the wall cupboard. She squatted down and selected the largest and greenest ones.

“We’ll need string,” he said. “Take a lot,” the priest said then. “We should make two pair of shoes each.”

He was right. If the shoes broke or got ruined on the way, they needed a reserve.

They sat down by the kitchen table. She had seen snowshoes used many times and couldn’t believe they hadn’t thought to make some when they had had the time.
The broadest part should be toward the front,
she thought.
And we’ll weave with the string.

They worked in silence by the light of the tallow candles, looking every now and then at each other’s efforts and adapting their own. Maija tried not to hear the howling of the wind outside. If only Paavo had been here. He would have known how to do this.

“That’s not a knot,” Paavo said once, laughing as he watched her attempt to tie two cords together to make a longer clothesline. They had just moved into the house in Ostrobothnia. He took the strings from her, made a knot on one of them and then stuck the second one into the knot of the first and made a second knot that sat above it.

“This is a knot,” he said. “A real fisherman’s knot.”

She snorted. When she looked up, he was watching her, his eyes on her lips. He came closer.

“Then there is the water knot,” he said in a low voice. He tied the two strings together with just a normal overhand knot but followed it by feeding the ends through in the opposite direction.

She felt the warmth of her man against her stomach and held her breath.

“There is the true lover’s knot,” he said in her ear. She watched his hands as they moved to tie an overhand knot and then a second overhand knot inside the first. As they worked, his hands bumped against her chest. “This knot is supple,” he said, “but the strings don’t ever come apart.”

“We’ll tie them to our feet with strips of fabric,” the priest said. He held up what looked like a sweeper.

Maija looked down at the thing in her hands. He was right. It might just do it. The priest looked out of the window at the storm, visible now in the morning light.

“Don’t look,” Maija said. “Focus on this.”

“Is that how you do it?” he asked, and he wasn’t talking about now or about the storm.

She rose and pulled her woolen jumper over her head.

“We’ll go now,” she said.

She bent down to tie the brushes of spruce to her shoes. When she looked up, the priest’s face was taut and he was staring at the door, steeling himself.

She opened it.

It was as if the wind screamed at them, mouth open wide. Maija turned the side of her face. She found the shovel, took a deep breath, and stepped off the porch. She sank down to her knees, and at first she thought the snowshoes were a failure, but then she realized that they would do. It was good enough to allow her to walk. She took a step and fell forward, snow entering her sleeves, her mouth, and nose. It took some time for her to struggle upright again. She spat. She was going to pull off her mitten to wipe her face but thought better of it.

Exaggerate,
she thought, as the wind tore at her front. She lifted her foot up high and put it down.
Keep your balance,
she thought. That was it—large, high steps. She glanced over her shoulder. The priest was coming.
Concentrate,
she thought, but she felt joy and raised her hand to hit in the air for him to see. They were moving forward.