Wolf Winter (38 page)

“What is this?” she asked.

“That’s what I want to ask you.”

“Me? Why? What is this?”

Fearless was staring at her. His face was in shadow, his breathing restrained.

“Eriksson is buried here,” he said. “Last night someone killed one of my reindeer. I found the body without its head this morning. I tracked the culprit to this.”

She took a step closer, and now she saw the head of the reindeer, or the skull, for it wasn’t a full head.

“It must be one of your people,” she mumbled. And, by the grace of God, she hoped it was.

“Slaughtering an animal for parts, leaving the body to waste? We would never do something like this. This is …” he struggled.

“… like a ritual,” she said.

“… lawless,” he said.

A ritual. Lawless. Yes.

“What have they done to its head?” she asked. “Why is it black?”

“It’s been burned,” Fearless said.

“Why would anyone do something like this?”

“Burned until only the skull was left.”

Blood,
she thought.
Sprinkling blood and leaving a sacrifice.
You sacrificed to receive or out of gratefulness for what had been given. Or to ask for protection. Appeasing something godly in the heavens—she stared at the antlers—or something vile in the ground.

Evil,
she thought.

“Why are you showing me?” she asked.

“You are the one who came to see us,” Fearless said. “You’re the one saying the settlers are after the Lapps. I only have your words for that. And sorcery is in your family. The connection to Eriksson is with your blood.”

She shook her head. She had no idea what he meant.

“Do you realize,” he continued, “what seeing this could mean to some of my people?”

“A declaration of war,” he added, without awaiting her answer. “You have no idea.”

“This has nothing to do with me,” she said. “What do we do now?”

“We do nothing,” he said. “I will take care of it.” He pointed his finger at her. “You tell no one about this, and you stay far, far away from us.”

“Go and see to the animals,” Frederika’s mother said and banged her ladle in the pot. Her mouth was a twisted scratch in her face.

“Yes,” Frederika said. She had already been, but she might as well go again when her mother was like this.

She met Daniel in the doorway and made a face: don’t talk to her. Daniel was already looking past Frederika.

Frederika walked down the street toward the square. There were lights in the houses. She liked it—walking outside, looking in. Alone, but not lonely. At the square she lingered for a while underneath the one large tree. The frost on its branches made it look as if ashy moss grew straight on the sky. She stepped from one foot to the other. Gustav came out of the stables and walked toward Settler Town. There was no mistaking that walk. Though now Dorotea also walked like that.
If I got gifts,
she thought,
the first thing I would do is heal Dorotea’s feet. Then I would get us food.

Dum. Tataradum.

The sound was faint but clear. It came from Blackåsen, white in the light of the small full moon.

Funny, the mountain seemed so close, even though she knew it was a day’s journey away.

There was … was there something on the side of the mountain?

She squinted and tried to see. Something had moved, she was certain.

A wolf’s lone howl rang out.

The cry rolled down the mountain and became stronger. It bowled in over the square and hit her like a squall. Frederika fell backward into the snow.

And now the pack of wolves was on the move, leaping down Blackåsen’s sides, soaring, black scraggly shapes visible against the
moon. Beasts hunting. Only these weren’t after meat, but something immortal.

Frederika scrambled to get up. She ran across the square, toward the church. Her feet slid in the snow. She angled her feet, tried to dig the side of her shoes in. She was too slow.

She reached the church and fell against its door with flat hands, opened it, ran in, and pushed as hard as she could from the other side for it to shut. It closed with a soft click. All was quiet. She walked backward, staring at the door.

A scraping sound. Claws on wood. Then silence. Frederika waited. This was a church—she’d be safe here.

There was a howl so long and piercing it made her skin prickle. Frederika turned, ran into the hall and down the nave. The large candles in the chandeliers were lit, but the church was empty. Jesus hung on his cross above the altar, and she ran toward him.

The door squeaked open. Wind swept in and blew out the candles. Frederika stopped sharp. There was panting, the patter of wet paws on stone. She turned around.

The wolves’ eyes were yellow in the dark. One shape moved toward her and then waited as the others trotted down the aisles, circled her.

“Go away!” she shouted.

The lead wolf seemed to be laughing.

“Go away,” she said again. This time it was a plea.

A whimper. From her? From deep inside.

And then: a swell growing in that same place, building like the breakers of the sea, mounting.

Frederika put her knuckles to her temples and screamed the thought over the roof ridges, pushed it down past the houses on the streets of Settler Town. Shoved it through the timber of their cottage:

Mamma!

The wolf in the nave was thrust backward and landed on its side.
One of the others fell too, claws rasping against stone floor as it clambered and whined.

Her mother turned around, forehead creased, ladle still in her hand. Soup dripping on the floor.
Drip. Drip.

Mamma!

The lead wolf lifted its head and staggered onto all fours.

Leave me alone.

She threw the thought at the wolf, pushing it toward the animal and through. It shrank back and growled. There was a shine in its eyes. Not excitement. Fear?

Leave me alone.

She was weakening now. She didn’t have much left. The wolf sprinted down the nave and leapt at her. She landed on the stone floor, animal on top.

She tried to throw it off, to roll away, but it was too heavy. There was a sound of teeth tearing cloth. Frederika flailed, found the beast’s throat, and pushed. Her arms buckled.

Above, God’s son watched in silence.

She felt its nose on her cheek, then by her ear. Her last thought was of Dorotea hobbling down a street alone. No one to protect her. No one to make sure she was safe.

Her mother was touching her shoulder. “What on earth are you doing sleeping in the church?” she said.

Frederika sat up with a jolt. Her hands flew to her neck. She gasped. There was no one but her, her mother, and Jesus on the cross.

“It wasn’t a reproach,” her mother said and squatted beside her. “At least, not much of one. Anyone can fall asleep.”

Frederika grabbed her mother and hugged her. She wept. Her mother patted her on the back. “There, there,” she said.

“They tried to kill me,” she choked out.

Her mother moved back, held her at arm’s length. “What? Who?”

“Oh, Mamma. It was spirits.”

Even in the darkness she could tell that her mother’s eyes blackened. Her mother still held her away from her.

“Frederika,” she said, “listen to me. People go mad from these kinds of fantasies. I have seen it happen. The fears take hold. They don’t ever let go.”

“But look at my neck.” Frederika said.

Her mother put the lantern down and gathered Frederika’s hair to lift it.

“There is nothing there,” she said.

That was impossible. Frederika didn’t let go of her. Her mother bent again, not to wrap her arms around her but to help her stand. She put her arm around Frederika’s waist.

“I sent for you,” Frederika said as they walked through the nave. “With my thoughts. And you came. You must have scared them off before they were done.”

“You dreamt,” her mother said and opened the door.

“I sent for you,” Frederika said, “and I knew you would come …”

“Frederika.” It came out as a shout. They both stopped. In the darkness her mother’s breath was a white haze.

“Blackåsen’s parish meeting is tonight,” her mother said. “I came to tell you to go home and stay with Dorotea while I was out. That was all.”

If only Frederika had still been a child, Maija thought as she hastened down the streets in Settler Town, young enough to trust her mother to tell her what was and what was not. Then it would have been easy. But Frederika was a young woman, and to young adults, the experience of others appeared archaic and redundant. Then, too late, as proper adults, they would lament, “My mother knew what she was talking about,” or, “My father used to say …”

Stupid.

Maija half-ran across the church green.
Calm down,
she told herself. There will be plenty of time to talk to Frederika. She ran up the steps to the vicarage, paused to brush the snow off the hem of her skirt with her hand, and opened the door.

She was late. The hallway was empty, the large door at its end, closed. She opened it and stepped inside. The room was warm and dim. At the far end was a blazing log fire. Nils was standing beside it, the flames lighting half of his face. He was talking as she entered. She tried to calm her breathing.

“The settlers on Dagsele Mountain have also had problems—not as bad as ours, but they too are worried.”

Maija unbuttoned her coat. She shrugged her shoulder to glide it down her arm. The priest was sitting on a chair on the other side of the fire, his head bent, chin supported by his hand. Daniel and Anna were standing beside Nils, and, further away, Henrik, Lisbet, Gustav. They were looking at Nils.

“That’s why the settlers on Blackåsen ask the Church to be unyielding when confronting the Lapps,” Nils continued.

Confronting the Lapps? But what was Nils talking about?

The priest looked up. His eyes met Maija’s and widened. He might have been shaking his head, but the movement was so small, she wasn’t certain.

Maija thought of the antlers in the snow. Of what Fearless had said his people might do if they found out. Of Frederika raving about spirits. Of people acting under the banner of fear.

“I assume you are talking of this year’s events on Blackåsen,” she said, “and that you say the Lapps might have something to do with them.”

The priest lowered his head. The others turned toward her.

“I don’t think the Lapps are responsible,” she said.

They were silent now, looking at her.

“How would you know?” Nils asked, and added before she could answer, “Had you been here, you would have heard that the request was for a village to be built on our mountain. Disappearances, killings, misfortune. … We have the right to protect ourselves. I was merely suggesting it might be worth the Church ensuring the Lapps are still on the right path.”

“How do you know the Lapps, Maija?” Lisbet asked.

Nils’s voice gained edge. “Maija doesn’t want a village. As her husband is away, she must be allowed to speak and have her concerns heard, but I caution her to speak with wisdom and restraint so as not to raise any alarm.”