Wolf Winter (36 page)

Maija nodded to herself.

“What?” the priest asked her.

“I was just thinking that that’s why she’s so frightened now. She would have seen her illness as Elin’s retribution.”

They were silent for a while.

“So did something happen that made Eriksson argue for a trial and the bishop against?” Maija asked.

Sofia shook her head. “I don’t know.”

Frederika was washing the dishes. The mound of plates was immense. She had to wipe each wooden plate as she cleaned it. If water sat in them too long, they swelled and then cracked when they dried. She was tired. There were more dreams. They were so vivid, she woke up feeling as if she had been up all night. She kept dreaming about the man in the trench. Those dreams frightened her. It was clear to her that the shapes that followed him were there with ill intent. But the moment that clasped her heart with terror was when the walls alongside him began to crumble. It was such a widespread collapse. Each time she was left with the feeling that it was the whole world that was falling in on itself.

There were new dreams too about Eriksson. She would see his back as he walked up the mountain toward the glade. He too was being followed. But she never saw their faces.

She paused and rested her wrists on the edge of the hand basin. If only Jutta had still been around. She couldn’t talk to Dorotea; she was too little. Antti only wanted his spirits for his people. Her mother could have understood if she had wanted to. That thought made something stir in her chest.

Beneath her hands the filthy water seemed to shimmer. Green-blue sunshine.
Say hello to the sea,
Frederika thought. “Hello water,” she whispered and spread her fingers wide, wide. The water shivered, hesitated, but then it folded away from her fingers. Frederika gasped. The water began to coo, as if she had caressed it.

Then the door behind her opened.

“Come,” her mother said to Dorotea.

Frederika kicked the leg of the chair on which the wash basin was standing. Some water spilled over the edge and onto her legs. The water screeched. She threw the rag on the floor.

And so it came about that she ended up going to the church.

The church was empty. Or so she thought. Then, too late, she realized he was sitting on one of the benches just by her side: Fearless, his arms crossed on the pew in front of him, leaning forward as if in prayer. She thought of leaving, but she too had the right to be there. They flashed before her, a myriad of days and nights, Fearless, alone on his knees on the hard floor under the cross, begging and crying to a silent God.

Fearless sat up, and she knew that somehow she had just walked through his head and he had felt it.

“Still at it then,” he said.

“Help me,” she said.

He didn’t respond.

“I have no choice,” she said.

She felt a sudden pressure on her chest. As if someone had placed a hand against her heart. Warmth spread throughout her torso and opened her up. It made her think of the glimmering water. Then the pressure was gone. She felt cold.

“You like it too much,” Fearless said. She couldn’t quite read the tone of his voice. It wasn’t anger as much as sadness.

“There is still choice, Frederika,” he said, “and I think you know this. But once you begin this journey, you leave choice behind. Then only something of immense importance can hurl you far enough from the path for you to leave it without being killed.”

“Are you free now?”

“Yes,” he said.

She wasn’t certain he was telling the truth.

“Was it your family going missing that hurled you away?”

He turned to look at her, and his eyes were black with anger. She shouldn’t have mentioned them, but now she too was angry.

“You’re being selfish,” she said. “People who hear them have
a …” she was searching for words, “a responsibility toward those who come after and a duty toward all the others.”

“You are talking of things you don’t understand,” Fearless said and rose. “This is not some make-believe. It’s not some childish game. This is for warriors.”

“Eriksson is visiting me,” she said. “We need to find out who killed him.”

Fearless scoffed. “Eriksson? Of all things.” He shook his head. “If you let the spirits take the lead, you’re making your first mistake.”

The spirits? No, she was talking about Eriksson.

She grabbed at his arm as he passed her. “I dream,” she said. “Something awful is about to happen. I don’t understand my dreams.”

He shrugged her off. He didn’t even look at her as he left.

Frederika could have screamed. Stupid Fearless. He had to help. And then she became angry with Jutta too. Stupid Jutta. Jutta shouldn’t have died. She had promised.

“Don’t die until I have grown up,” Frederika would say.

“I won’t,” Jutta would promise.

“I mean it.”

“Me too. Because your mother doesn’t teach you the old ways, it’s my task to guide you.”

And still she had gone and died.

And then, of course, Frederika became angry with her mother.

The cold air hurt as Frederika walked from the church to the streets in Settler Town. She pushed her chin further into her scarf. The wetness of her breath on the wool came to rest against the bottom of her nose. There were candles in the windows. But here in the streets the black sky had fallen and was lying face down and flat-handed on the earth itself.

She came to their house, just as her mother opened the door. She had the two rabbit skins they had brought to trade thrown over one shoulder.

“I am going to the market,” she said. “Come with me.”

“I don’t want to,” Frederika said.

“These tempers of yours,” her mother said, “they don’t suit you. I asked you to come—you come.” She stopped. “Have you been crying?”

Her voice was efficient. The way she was asking, as if Frederika were just another chore.

“No,” Frederika said.

She turned and began to walk. Her mother paused, but then joined her.

“Salt and alcohol,” she said.

“Alcohol?”

“To clean Dorotea’s feet.” Her mother glanced at her. “She’s brave, but this is not going well.”

“What do you mean? She is much better.”

Her mother sighed. “The rot just continues. I have been thinking about how often in medical matters there is like a rush in the body after injury. The hurt person feels better and you think all is healing. Then it is as if the damage catches up with them and that’s when often it goes wrong.” Her mother pressed her lips together. “I am worried.”

“Then why don’t you do something?”

“I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

Her mother grabbed her arm. “You’d better explain yourself,” she said, eyes narrow.

“You could heal her.”

“I know some things, but I don’t know everything.”

“That’s not what I mean. Jutta said you healed your own legs.”

“God.” Her mother let go of Frederika’s arm and began walking. “Your great-grandmother brought misery on so many people with her superstitions, and yet she didn’t know to stop. I did exercises, I stretched the muscles in my legs and worked to build them up. It had nothing to do with magic. This is why I decided to become an earth-woman. I wanted to know more about the body, its disorders, and what can be done about them. As for Dorotea, we have to keep infection at bay.”

They had reached the market. The square was rolling, a dark mass of people, moving in between the stands lit by tar torches.

Maija headed down one row. Frederika followed her. The dry snow was squeaking underneath their shoes. Frederika was distracted for a moment by a booth displaying amber: rounded drops in ochre and brown.

“Take.” The tradesman’s cheeks were fat, his eyes slits from squinting at his stones against the light. He leaned forward, took off his mitten, and picked up one of the larger beads. His hand was broad with short fingers, and the back of it was hairy. Maija took off her mitten and received it, felt how light and warm it was despite its size, despite winter.

“They can heal,” he said. “Both body and soul.”

She knew it. It was in the light twirling inside the stone.

Her mother’s voice from behind her: “We’re after salt and alcohol …” She interrupted herself and stepped forward, beside Frederika. “You have herbs,” she said.

“Of course.” The tradesman’s voice had taken on chimes as he eyed her mother. “What complaint are you seeking help for?”

Her mother pointed to one of the jars, glowing orange in the light of the torches.

“These?” The tradesman lifted it up.

The spices inside were as long as Frederika’s thumbnail, green or gray, it was difficult to say in the light. The tradesman opened the lid. Her mother leaned forward to smell it. The merchant moved the jar in front of Frederika and she did the same. The herbs smelled like forest, but there was a different sweetness to them, sharper. They weren’t from the woods, she was pretty certain.

“Can I taste?” her mother asked. She put her finger in the jar and then rubbed it against her gums and made a face. “These ones,” she said. “What are they?”

“Marjoram,” the tradesman said. “From the south of Europe. You’ve picked a good herb.”

Her mother raised her brows.

“Marjoram does everything,” the tradesman said. “She kills pain, cleans wounds. Whatever your ailment—phlegm, sneezing, bowel problems, toothache—she is your healer.”

“Toothache,” her mother repeated.

“Don’t give her to your husband, though.” The tradesman winked at her mother. “She kills lust.”

Her mother frowned. She looked the tradesman in the eye and lowered her voice. “You don’t know if she is thought to have any … magical powers?

What? Frederika stared at her mother.

“The list is long.” The tradesman too spoke quietly. “Happiness, love, money, protection.”

Her mother nodded and stood up straight. “Oh well,” she said. “Can’t have it kill the lust.”

The tradesman had a real belly laugh, the kind that made you want to join him.

Frederika was still staring at her mother when they walked away.

“I found some of those on Eriksson’s sleeve,” her mother said. “I didn’t know what they were.”