more than anywhere else. Most likely they got lost or there was some accident their parents want to hide, but it’s enough to keep the fear alive.”
The bishop interrupted himself. “I want to know with certainty what happened to Eriksson,” he said.
“I will send a message to the law enforcement officers by the coast.”
The bishop hit the desk with his fist. It was so sudden, the priest jumped. The bishop remained so, leaning on his knuckles on the desk.
“No,” he said. “I don’t want fear to spread. I want you to find out what happened, but discreetly. You report back to me.” He rose. “Anvar’s widow, Sofia, could have told you things like this. She was her husband’s right hand. Nowhere else have I seen a woman contribute as much to the service of the Lord. Have you made her acquaintance?”
“Yes, of course.” The vicarage was just across the green.
“I mean really made her acquaintance,” the bishop said. “It is not normal for a priest your age not to be married. It would make it easier on the funds of the Church as well if there was one vicarage instead of two.”
And then, above them, the old church bell started swaying. The priest rose in disbelief. The dry clang bellowed from the bell tower, hammered body and soul. The priest opened his mouth, but his voice drowned in the sound.
Maija was by the edge of the marsh. Ducks flitted in and out of the reeds. Uncle Teppo had said their part of the swamp was the part furthest east, the one that clung onto the mountain. But the sedge was not ready to harvest; the green shoots barely broke water. Seven rack wagons of sedge equaled one cow and one sheep surviving winter, that’s what Uncle Teppo had said. They hadn’t harvested sedge before. Paavo believed that once they took the barley, the grass from their field ought to be enough to feed Mirkka and the goats through winter. “If we can avoid the wet …” he’d said.
A crane stepped broad-legged in between tufts, head pecking in a large arc. Beyond the bird the water was black. Apparently Eriksson had said he’d like to see if they could harvest further out in the wet areas. She wondered how far out they reaped sedge now.
She leaned down and scratched her leg. An insect bite that she couldn’t stop itching. A branch snapped behind her. Gustav’s face tightened as he saw her. He sat down not far from her and unlaced his shoes. His lips were moving as if he were talking with no sound.
His feet. Red stumps, scarred and torn.
Maija looked away. When she looked back, Gustav was already on his way out into the marsh, stepping like the crane, legs lifting high. He headed for some planks of wood. He pulled at them and put them in between tufts, making what could have been a path.
So Gustav had been a soldier. So many of them had lost limbs to the frost in similar ways. There had been winters so cold, birds fell dead to the ground, frozen in midflight.
A brisk voice said, “This marsh used to be a lake.”
She swirled around.
The newcomer was clean shaven and his gray hair short. There were deep wrinkles on his forehead and by the sides of his mouth. What might have been a smile turned his face into a different kindof frown. He was tall and straight. His eyes were streaked red. He’s been drinking, she thought. Although sun on water could burn eyes like that too.
“Nils Lagerhielm,” he said.
“Maija,” she said, and curtsied before she could stop herself.
The skin on his hand was soft, not used to hard work. But then, he’d told her as much already. He had a nobleman’s last name.
“The peasants called her Little Lake,” the nobleman continued. “She wasn’t strong enough. The forest seized her and she became swamp. A part of her turned bottomless. The moss keeps growing upward, feeding off itself. It is impossible to say from the surface where there is firm ground and where there isn’t. The planks are put out so nobody goes past them and drowns.”
Nils was watching
The bishop interrupted himself. “I want to know with certainty what happened to Eriksson,” he said.
“I will send a message to the law enforcement officers by the coast.”
The bishop hit the desk with his fist. It was so sudden, the priest jumped. The bishop remained so, leaning on his knuckles on the desk.
“No,” he said. “I don’t want fear to spread. I want you to find out what happened, but discreetly. You report back to me.” He rose. “Anvar’s widow, Sofia, could have told you things like this. She was her husband’s right hand. Nowhere else have I seen a woman contribute as much to the service of the Lord. Have you made her acquaintance?”
“Yes, of course.” The vicarage was just across the green.
“I mean really made her acquaintance,” the bishop said. “It is not normal for a priest your age not to be married. It would make it easier on the funds of the Church as well if there was one vicarage instead of two.”
And then, above them, the old church bell started swaying. The priest rose in disbelief. The dry clang bellowed from the bell tower, hammered body and soul. The priest opened his mouth, but his voice drowned in the sound.
Maija was by the edge of the marsh. Ducks flitted in and out of the reeds. Uncle Teppo had said their part of the swamp was the part furthest east, the one that clung onto the mountain. But the sedge was not ready to harvest; the green shoots barely broke water. Seven rack wagons of sedge equaled one cow and one sheep surviving winter, that’s what Uncle Teppo had said. They hadn’t harvested sedge before. Paavo believed that once they took the barley, the grass from their field ought to be enough to feed Mirkka and the goats through winter. “If we can avoid the wet …” he’d said.
A crane stepped broad-legged in between tufts, head pecking in a large arc. Beyond the bird the water was black. Apparently Eriksson had said he’d like to see if they could harvest further out in the wet areas. She wondered how far out they reaped sedge now.
She leaned down and scratched her leg. An insect bite that she couldn’t stop itching. A branch snapped behind her. Gustav’s face tightened as he saw her. He sat down not far from her and unlaced his shoes. His lips were moving as if he were talking with no sound.
His feet. Red stumps, scarred and torn.
Maija looked away. When she looked back, Gustav was already on his way out into the marsh, stepping like the crane, legs lifting high. He headed for some planks of wood. He pulled at them and put them in between tufts, making what could have been a path.
So Gustav had been a soldier. So many of them had lost limbs to the frost in similar ways. There had been winters so cold, birds fell dead to the ground, frozen in midflight.
A brisk voice said, “This marsh used to be a lake.”
She swirled around.
The newcomer was clean shaven and his gray hair short. There were deep wrinkles on his forehead and by the sides of his mouth. What might have been a smile turned his face into a different kindof frown. He was tall and straight. His eyes were streaked red. He’s been drinking, she thought. Although sun on water could burn eyes like that too.
“Nils Lagerhielm,” he said.
“Maija,” she said, and curtsied before she could stop herself.
The skin on his hand was soft, not used to hard work. But then, he’d told her as much already. He had a nobleman’s last name.
“The peasants called her Little Lake,” the nobleman continued. “She wasn’t strong enough. The forest seized her and she became swamp. A part of her turned bottomless. The moss keeps growing upward, feeding off itself. It is impossible to say from the surface where there is firm ground and where there isn’t. The planks are put out so nobody goes past them and drowns.”
Nils was watching
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