Ice

Chapter Twelve

When the ice sets, you need to keep your ears open and your eyes on stalks. How the ice freezes, where there are dangerous currents. Which way the wind is blowing. Black streaks for weak ice, green for glass smooth, milky blue like a blind eye for the thin layer above an invisible hole—you need to know how to watch for such things. Obvious things. Always have an ice pike and a knife in your belt. Listen to the way the ice creaks. Don’t be timid, because then you’ll get nowhere. Don’t be foolhardy, because then the ice will swallow you. The water is cold, you know, and deep.

In addition, there is another way of seeing and hearing that can’t be explained. It’s like seeing and hearing alongside others who have been out there from time immemorial and know everything about the weather and the ice, although they exist in a sphere from which they cannot reach out a hand and call “Beware!” It is you yourself who must listen and see and grasp what they mean. They are there, and their messages and warnings are laid out before you, if only you will see them.

I don’t know how it began. When I noticed them. When they noticed me. As I grew up, we were many children and I was almost never alone. But I was only a little thing when I knew they were there. When I went outside, they stood as close around me as my brothers and sisters did indoors. Not unnatural, not supernatural. Just the world as I heard and saw it. They were part of it, nothing more.

When you are a suckling babe, mama’s teat is the first thing you know about. The second is the weather. They talk about it all around you all the time. About the outlook, about how long it will last. When it will change. The way the sun goes down in clouds or how, still shining, it sinks straight into the sea and sputters like a fireball. The look of the cloudbanks. How currents of cold air move in. The way heat can stand like a wall, while a storm butts its head against the other side. The way the building groans, which is a sign, and you need to know what they mean by it.

A toddler stands on the steps and holds on, which is all he can do to keep from tumbling over. But he has already learned that what there is outside is the weather. That it’s full of messages and warnings. That there are voices and eyes and mouths which you don’t see but which you can hear and see within yourself. I don’t remember when I became aware of it, it’s a thing that was there in me before my memory began to flicker into life. Then I remembered that it had always been so for me.

I was like every other pup of a boy and thought that when people talked about the weather they all meant the same thing I meant. That the weather was the world, and that they were as tight in the world as a hazel thicket whenever there was danger afoot. I remember one time when I was out on the ice as a little boy. I knew suddenly that I needed to get to land as quickly as I could, for they were about to pull the ice out from under my feet. And believe me, the ice broke up behind me as I scurried towards land. But my shoes were dry when I climbed the cliff, and there they knocked me down and smacked me against the rock so hard my whole shank was black and blue. They taught me a lesson that day. You must make your ears hear what they say, although it’s not like ordinary talk or the radio or a voice on the telephone.

It is something outside me that speaks to something inside me. And shows me the look of things, though it’s not like in a theatre or a movie. Then I know where to go, and the mare that pulls the mail from the ship channel at Mellom knows she can count on me even when the ice is creaking. And when I leave her to walk in to a house on one of the outer islands, she stands quietly on the ice and waits, because even though she’s smart and gentle, she doesn’t see what I see, and she knows it. They crowd around her and she feels that they’re there, but she doesn’t know what they mean, and they don’t know much about horses. I’ve learned that from experience.

The thing with them and me is that we have something in common. Although they’re no longer like real human beings, nevertheless they once were, and therefore it’s possible to understand the signs and warnings they set out. So you can move securely when you use your common sense and watch out for the things they’re constantly showing you, in pictures, sort of, or inarticulate sounds. They wake you up, make you lift your chin from where it was buried in your fur collar, and look. They’ve opened a passage somewhere and send you an echo to prick up your ears. You can make your way through great dangers with the help of such signs.

If you’re not receptive to them, you have to cross the ice all alone in the world. Many make it a long way, because the world is not malicious, just heedless. For the world, you’re nothing, but human intelligence can bring us safely through great trials. Horses that are taken out onto the seal ice and tear themselves loose, they often manage to make it home as well, though they show their teeth and lay back their ears in pure terror when the ice creaks under them and they set out across green ice. So I say only that it’s a help to know about those who surround you when you trot along like a dot on the ice and who keep an eye on you when you stop to rest on a skerry. If you leave bread and butter for them they may even shift the wind behind you. That has happened to me many times.

When the ice has set, it lies like a floor between the islands. The incessant wind sweeps away the snow, and skates and kicksleds come to life in the boathouses. The pastor too digs out a rusty sledge, replaces a couple of dowels on the chair and screws on the handlebars. With a whetstone he removes the worst of the rust from the runners. The rig is adequate, and soon enough he’s kicking his way like a comet across the water world. He gets to the villages so easily and completes his errands so quickly that Mona hardly has time to notice that he’s gone before he’s already back. The kicksled also serves as a family vehicle. Now all three of them can go to meetings and gatherings. The pastor figures that Mona will sit with Sanna in her lap while he kicks the sledge along, but Mona is very eager to drive the sledge herself. It’s hard to get started, but once it’s going the sledge sails along in splendid form. Sanna shrieks with delight because of the speed and because she gets to sit in Papa’s lap with his arms tight around her. Then they switch, for when they’re visible from the village windows, it looks better if he’s pushing. On the way home, he kicks more gently while Mona sits with the sleeping Sanna on her lap. The ice is bright from the moon and stars, the islands dark as rain clouds in the rippling light.

The ice is seldom this good, and many are out to try their luck. There is a lot of visiting between villages and there are barn dances on Saturday nights. Everyone is out and about, and darkness doesn’t slow them down. There is a party at the parsonage, too. They’ve had friends on the Örlands since their first day here, there are many to thank for help and advice in word and deed, and it is always a pleasure to see their happy, friendly faces. The organist and Francine, the verger and Signe, Adele Bergman and Elis, and Lydia and Arthur Manström. They always have much to talk about, and with father Leonard in the house, there is competition for the floor. The pastor notes with a certain satisfaction that here he has found, if not his superiors, at least his equals. The talk is as lively as he could possibly wish, and the faces are happy and full of goodwill and interest.

With the extra leaf added, the table has space for all of them. The tea water is singing in the kettle, the china service is for twelve, and Mona’s bread, butter, and rolls are worth travelling many miles for. The oil lamp swings gently in the air above their heads, the tile stove spreads warmth. There is a cold draught around their legs, but everyone has had the sense to dress warmly. The door to the bedroom stands ajar, and before Sanna falls asleep she hears Papa’s happy, dark voice, Mama’s bright laughter, Grandpa’s amazement, and the Örlanders’ happiest party voices.

They talk about the ice, the winter weather, the newspapers that now come only once a week, if that, and about those who believe they’re isolated out here whereas in fact they’ve seldom had such a merry time. The Örlands might well be called the Society Islands in this blessed condition. Oops. They can’t help themselves, they all look at the pastor’s wife, who stares into her teacup, the pastor smiles a little, and for a moment, no one says anything. Then they talk about the way consumer goods are becoming more available and actually beginning to show signs of a peacetime economy, about the situation down in Europe and the terrible poverty and want in the German ports that seamen from the Örlands have reported. About the enormous need for aid everywhere, about the Americans who are starting to get their aid shipments organized, although Finland isn’t allowed to receive anything by order of the Soviet Control Commission in Helsingfors—may it soon return to its Communist paradise! In any case, all this applies only to official aid, because private efforts and family initiatives are getting America packages all the way out to the Örlands.

“Although it makes you wonder who they think we are,” says Adele Bergman. “It’s nice to get good soap, but I don’t understand why they send those funny little toys that toddlers stick up their noses and the older kids trample to pieces. And those terribly tight-fitting little skirts and blouses—who could possibly wear such things at work? Of course the girls grab them and make themselves look a perfect fright and think they’re so modern, but is that what they call aid? We have our own flour and grain and sugar, and anyway it’s better for the national economy to buy those things in a store!”

The pastor has an almost irresistible desire to say “Amen” when Adele Bergman has finished. Everything she says is true and right. She is an uncommonly competent woman who ought to be in the government and help build up what the war has pulled down. But hard-boiled as she is when it comes to the economy, she also has a tender heart and a thirst for what she calls a genuine faith. It is for her sake he says grace before Mona serves the tea, and he knows that she is passionately interested in the parochial issues they will unfailingly get into before the evening is over. Arthur Manström is always uncharacteristically quiet during those conversations, and the pastor suspects he is a free-thinker but likes coming to the parsonage for the sake of the intellectual stimulation. Lydia and Adele on the other hand are members of the vestry, as is the organist, and the verger has a fund of practical experience and incontestable knowledge of the customs of the parish. And he if anyone knows how terribly capricious, not to say malicious, the church’s boiler can be. How many nights he has come plodding through the snow to keep it going. The congregation comes tramping in to warmth and light the next morning as if it were the simplest thing in the world, not suspecting that it has all been touch and go.

Yes, truly, life out here is full of drama, and now Arthur Manström sees a golden opportunity and grabs it. Hypnotized, everyone but Lydia listens to his stories from the First World War when he had a radio hidden in the attic of the east village school and maintained contact with the Swedish Free Corps, on its way across the ice to Åland. The Russians showed up again and again, and Lydia thought more than once that they’d been found out, especially the last time when they went up into the attic with some kind of device that could pinpoint the source of radio waves. But the wise and well-behaved little radio held its breath while Lydia played “Quake Not in Terror, Little Band” on the harmonium in the schoolroom below and led her pupils in loud and measured song. The Russians came back down the stairs, apologized for the disturbance, the officer saluted, and they marched away. Chaos up in the attic, but the receiver was untouched behind a panel in the wall.

Others chime in with additional examples of the way political events in the wider world have had a direct effect on the Örlands—the time the Germans blew up the lighthouse in their fishing grounds during World War I, the Russian submarines that sailed with perfect confidence past the Örlands in the final phases of this last war, when neither the Finns nor the Germans were a threat. What a close thing it had been. How securely the Russians sat in the saddle. How certain it seemed that they would take all of Finland and swallow it up in one bite. Exciting. Terrible. The Coast Guard stood there and looked at them through their binoculars, and sometimes there was a flash of reflected sunlight when the submarine captain had them in his sights.

And when all was lost in the Baltic States, boats started coming from Estonia. They were overloaded, unseaworthy, badly off course. Many of them thought they were already in Sweden. They had no food or fresh water, none of them, just a handful of worthless money to pay their way. Poor souls. Drowned bodies pulled from the sea—everyone remembers the handsome officer with his little black book filled with the addresses of Estonian girls. On the other hand, no one involved says a word about the handguns left behind as thanks for provisions and fuel and sea charts. “Because of course we helped them. The Russian Control Commission was already sitting in Helsingfors, we were required to report refugees to the authorities. But the police was our own Julius, and he didn’t get in our way. ‘It could be our turn next,’ he said.”

“Civil courage,” says father Leonard with sincere admiration. “Julius, you say? From the east villages? I think I’ve seen him.”

Not hard to figure out where Leonard means to take his sledge some day soon. But the verger has weighty things to say about the Estonians. “Two of them are buried here,” he says, “as ‘Unknown Estonian Refugees’. They had no papers on them. We showed them to some others that came ashore, but they turned their heads away and said they didn’t know them. ‘It might have been me,’ said one of them who spoke Swedish. Since the Estonian government had been dissolved and there was no one to take responsibility, we buried them at parish expense. We made a wooden cross, too. Mona, you could plant something on their grave in the spring if you’re willing.”

Of course she is willing, and she contributes to the discussion by saying what a close call it was for everyone in Finland. If the Finns hadn’t had their modern German antiaircraft guns, which forced the Russians to drop their bomb loads in the sea and in the woods, it could have been really bad for Helsingfors. She’d stood out on the granite outside her parents’ house and watched—smoke and flames and searchlights and the drama when one of the bombers got caught in a cone of light and was hit and somersaulted out of the firmament. How the cheers echoed on the Helléns’ hillside!

She sounds so bloodthirsty that Petter wants to tone things down a little. “Yes, weather like today’s was the worst of all. Perfect flying weather, good visibility, you could count on spending the night in the shelter. In those days we could only relax when it was cloudy and raining hard. What a joy that we can now be happy about the lovely weather without a qualm. It’s unbelievable. Every day since the war ended I’ve thanked God for peace. Every day it seems to me a miracle that we live in peace and freedom and that we’re not dead or banished to Siberia. I hope the day will come when we can take it all for granted.

The organist thinks of his sons and the Bible school youngsters and joins in. “Yes, indeed. The young take it for granted already. They don’t look at time the way we do. For them, the war is already the distant past.”

“And may it always be so,” the pastor says. He looks out the window at the moon reflected in the ice, the stars like glittering inlays. “More tea?” Mona says, but Adele takes a different tack for all of them and says that tomorrow is another day and now they need to go home. But first the verger wants them to sing “Shall We Gather at the River”, which the people of the Örlands are accustomed to singing when they part and head home across dark waters.

Sanna wakes up as they sing “That flows by the throne of God” so heartily and warmly that it sounds as if the tiles, stoves and the kitchen range were singing along. “Baa, baa,” Sanna sings too, in her warm cocoon. Now she hears them rise from their chairs, their joints creaking after sitting for so long. Chair legs scrape on the floor and the door to the hallway is opened—Oh, so cold! Mama says, “I’ll bring your things into the kitchen to warm them up a bit. Come on in here to put your coats on!” The hanging lamp in the kitchen is lit, and one after another, the guests put their storm lanterns on the stove and light them. They stand there in their great boots, the women winding long shawls around their heads, all of them pulling on wool or fur coats, unfolding lap rugs. The pastor and his wife can’t stand to see them go, so they too wrap themselves up warmly and accompany their guests down to the shore.

The kicksleds wait eagerly, drawn up on land, and now they are shoved happily out onto the ice, the women take their seats and the men push off, slowly at first, like the first revolution of a flywheel, but then off and away. They call to the pastor and his wife, whose strong voices fade backwards and grow thinner as the kicksleds pick up speed. Maybe they’re not competing, not directly, not grown men, but they certainly give that impression as they strike out across Church Bay in a tight pack held together by their calls. The verger and Signe holler good night and swing round the island in towards their house while the Manströms, the Bergmans, and the organist and his wife head full speed out onto the long bays that separate the parish into two equally large, competing parts. They stay together for a long way until the Manströms head off towards the east villages and the others continue on together towards the deep inner waterways of the west. They are almost home before they part company, the organist and his wife heading a bit farther south at a good clip, the Bergmans swinging off to the west where the hills rise black before falling into the sea, which lies frozen far beyond the territorial limits.

“We can go all the way to Estonia if we like,” the organist shouts recklessly, but he slows down anyway in the narrower passages between the islands and into their own shallow bay. He crosses it brilliantly and, just as he does in his boat, he knows exactly when to slow down enough to land smoothly at his dock.

Kicksleds are faster than boats. When the ice has set, you grasp clearly what the resistance of the water means for a body moving through it. Arthur Manström is silent as he kicks, otherwise he could undoubtedly deliver a lecture on the laws of physics. Beneath the moon and the stars, gliding over the moon and the stars, Lydia is absorbed, utterly and completely happy. No present obligations, no future to worry about, everything is now. As a child, she’d scream with joy when she went sledging. It is not much different from what Arthur Manström thinks he hears beneath his own breathing, in his thoughts. Deeply embedded in his fur hat and wolfskin collar, he is already formulating a description of the majesty of ice as it covers the waterways, sweeping away the wakes of skiffs, dinghies and fishing boats, sealing the fishermen’s pastures and the yachtsmen’s gentle billows.

The pastor and his wife stand shivering on the shore for a while after their guests have sledged away, listening to their shouts far out on the ice. Then these too die away, and they can hear the indescribable silence that comes when the ice has set. Otherwise you hear the sea incessantly out here. It is never so calm that the swells don’t rustle and sigh, and the calm itself is carried by a voice that underlies the lazy days of blazing sunshine. Then the wind freshens and the surge grows stronger. When the wind begins to whistle it is time to take care, but even deep among the islands and indoors, the roar presses in and remains, like a delayed echo after the storm has passed.

Now it could not be more silent, or closer to the moon. The pastor and his wife shiver and put their arms around each other. Their steps squeak in the snow that lies here and there on the ground. The lamp burns in the parsonage window. The sheep in their pen, the cows in their stalls, Sanna in her bed. Peace at last on earth.

Chapter Thirteen

THE HEALTH CARE CENTRE is a gift to the Örlands, but most of all to Irina Gyllen. It is like a lesson in how long-range planning can produce results. How quick the Örlanders are to cite the old maxim, “Rome wasn’t built in a day,” and how easily it comes to Irina Gyllen’s lips when she’s talking to the district doctor. As the plans begin to take more concrete form, so Irina’s hopes grow that the series of quiet inquiries she has made will help her get in touch with her son and eventually bring him to Finland. You need patience while the stones are carried to Rome and the inquiries go unanswered. But the fact that they’ve been made means that a growing number of people are aware of the case, and among them there must necessarily be a few who know the boy’s fate. They do not yet act, but a foundation is being laid, and their knowledge shortens the path to action. Even in the Soviet Union, material conditions have improved since the war, so the boy’s physical situation is less a source of concern that it was earlier.

Especially during the meetings, surrounded by shrewd, self-confident Örlanders, she is able to take courage. She can also let herself take pleasure and amusement in the touching form of democracy they practise. The constant voting and the straightforward distrust of the opposing side is like a lesson in democracy. Oh, if the wretched Politburo could be dragged in, bound hand and foot, and learn how it’s supposed to work! The result is not guaranteed to be good, but the process is honourable, and the project creeps forwards. At times it takes great leaps: when the provincial authorities approve the site and the blueprints, when the first order for materials is called in by the magnificent Adele Bergman, when the first boatload of cement and lumber arrives.

When it comes to her own private project, she can’t help being gripped by anticipation even as she’s seized by panic and impatience. This bitterly cold winter, she sometimes wraps her fur coat around her shoulders and stands on the steps and listens. As long as there is open water, there is the comfort of knowing you can always get away by boat. Now, in this absolute silence, it feels more as if an unseen enemy could attack. Anyone at all could approach silently and invisibly across the ice. Idiocy! Fear of shadows! For shame! Here there is no need to flee, no danger threatens, all is well. Calm. Patience. A cup of tea, a sleeping pill, to bed. She locks her door from the inside, telling herself that the Ministry of Health requires that all drugs be kept under lock and key. Not untrue.

Uninvited, the cold comes straight into the Manströms’ farmhouse, its walls full of wormholes. But Lydia feels younger when she can travel on the ice. Freer, more agile. She takes the kicksled to school, arrives in the morning from the sea and disappears in the afternoon out towards the sound. Like a sea sprite, like who she is. Arthur Manström’s head is full of stories about mermaids and sea sprites, but he doesn’t know he himself is married to one. The sea sprite adapts and lives among people as one of them, but when her boundaries are overstepped, she makes for the sea. That knowledge gives her the peace of mind she needs to stay. Now she steers the sledge into the Manströms’ home bay and goes ashore and in. No one at home except Tilda, who has the coffee ready. Despite being told repeatedly, she always makes it too early and lets it stand and simmer on the stove, God only knows how long. It is hot, at least, and she peels off her plush outer coat, leaving everything else on and pulling on fingerless gloves before sitting down to drink it. A sugar cube between her teeth, coffee in the saucer, the saucer raised in a lovely hand, sipping elegantly. Butters a piece of bread, discusses the temperature outside and in. Seventeen degrees by the stove, six by the window, thirteen in the parlour, minus twelve outdoors. Cold, but refreshing. “The ice is wonderful,” she says to Tilda. Tilda tells her of the traffic she’s seen from the kitchen window. Horses have been out hauling hay from the island hay barns and boys have been out doing what boys do—ducking their work and skating off and ice fishing. But soon the ice will be so thick they’ll get tired of boring holes.

When it’s this cold and brisk, it’s easier to get up and go into the bedroom with her bag of schoolbooks, change quickly from blouse and jacket and school skirt to everyday clothes. Wool all over and finally a big wool shawl, a wool scarf on her head and fishing mittens on her hands. Ought to get started on supper, but sits down instead and starts a “Letter from the Skerries”, a regular feature in the Åbo Reporter:

“How are things out there?” people ask, sympathetically. “Fine, thank you,” we answer. We’re not being brave, it’s the gospel truth. Now that the ice has set, our boundaries have increased a hundredfold, and we’ve got elbow room and polished floors as far as the eye can see. If you care to venture out here, you will see a jolly dance—old and young finding the shortest distance between two errands, giving us traffic like that in New York City but on skates, sleighs, and sledges. A pile of hay glides by over here, a load of sand over there, farther out in the bay comes an Örland grandfather in a go-a-courtin’ sleigh loaded down with goods from the store and Brunte between the traces, as sure of foot as when he was a colt. Boys skate by so fast they are mere streaks, and the smaller children make glassy sliding tracks closer to shore.

“Cold?” you ask. Yes indeed, bitterly cold, but no colder here than in the city where you live. But lonely? Absolutely not!

But she has to stop. There are too many other things to do. Even those are a pleasure, for now that the fire in the stove must be kept going pretty much all the time, she can make baked dishes in the oven that always come out right and that everyone likes. Nestled down into their hay bales, the hens are puffed up like rabbit-fur muffs in the cold, but they are still laying. There is whole milk warming in a spouted bowl. She breaks a couple of eggs into the milk, whisks it a few times, and pours it over sliced potatoes, onion, and salt herring in a baking dish. A few pats of butter on top and into the oven, several sticks of wood onto the fire, and so, an hour later, a splendid, steaming, golden-yellow dinner. Fresh baked bread and home-churned butter to go with it. She will write about that in her next letter when she has time.

By the time Lydia has put her herring dish in the oven, Adele Bergman has closed the store and gone home to the attic apartment. Elis is at home—where else would he be?—and has the coffee ready and warm. She has brought a length of coffee cake that she purchased at the store, which they eat with their coffee. And three hundred grammes of forcemeat that she will fry for supper.

“Lots of people at the store today,” says Elis, “now it’s so easy for them to get here. It’s funny to see them coming on sledges when you’re used to seeing them in boats.”

“Yes,” she says. “There’s almost a party atmosphere. And nearly everyone buys a little something extra. The organist’s boys were here and bought tobacco. They waited until Birgit was alone at the counter, but I saw them from the office. Except this time I didn’t go rushing out and give them a lecture. I let them buy it, but I wonder if I should tell the organist. Sometimes I think we ought to take a vow of secrecy at the store. There’s no other place to shop, someplace where no one knows you, and where are those boys going to get tobacco if they can’t buy it here?”

“It was their lucky day, I see,” Elis says, happy to hear she’s in a good mood. And it will get better, because the post has come, and there are the daily papers, weekly magazines, letters and cards! “Look!” he says. “I shouldn’t have shown them to you until we’d eaten!” They laugh. There are crosswords in the dailies, serials in the weeklies, news and greetings in the letters. Plus The Humanitarian, the organ of the Lutheran Evangelical Society, which has two subscribers on the Örlands—the pastor and Adele. The verger can’t afford it, and the organist doesn’t have time to read it after all his other duties. And the members of the vestry, who ought to subscribe, don’t, out of laziness and lack of conviction. It’s sad. Still, the day has had its pleasures, and thanks to the post, these will now stretch late into the evening.

There is a great deal resting on Adele’s shoulders. She is well equipped to manage her temporal obligations. She needs help with the spiritual. This is why it is so important that the priest on the Örlands should be a kindred spirit. Someone who understands why she worries about the thoughtless Örlanders with their slumbering piety, someone who sees the importance of religious revival, a renewal of faith. Someone who can inspire and lead. Someone like this very young priest who preaches a pure and unaffected word of God and by his very example has won the friendship and the respect of his congregation. God grant that he is the instrument the Lord has sent to preach salvation to the whole community!

The parsonage too is observing a devout newspaper silence. The post is collected at the steamboat channel where the icebreaker Murtaja passes Mellom on its toilsome way to Mariehamn, then carried on to the Örlands by Post-Anton and his mare. Much of the mail goes to the parsonage, so Anton stops there and does an initial sorting, since he passes that way in any case. The mare is hitched in the lea of the sauna and given some oats; Anton gets coffee in the house. The two of them are now on their way home, and the pastor and his wife and the pastor’s eager father throw themselves on the mail—several issues of Hufvudstadsbladet and Ålandstidningen, plus The Churchgoer and The Humanitarian. It’s the pile of letters they rake through most eagerly. Official communications are set aside to be opened later, but they grab the private letters at once, slit them open with anything sharp that comes to hand. Three from Mama, a greeting from the Helléns, a letter from one of Mona’s friends at the seminary and one of Petter’s colleagues, a letter in unfamiliar handwriting on thick, luxurious paper with a Swedish stamp that turns out to come from an elderly gentleman who wants to know how best to lend support to the people of the island world which once, in his distant youth—oh, so long ago—gave him indelible, unforgotten revelations of God’s magnificent creation. Definitely a letter worthy of a hearty reply. But now it’s time to read the newspapers! Even at the parsonage, The Humanitarian is set aside till later and winds up in the study in an accusatory half-read pile while the three adults trade issues of Hufvudstadsbladet and Ålandstidningen among themselves. Sanna has to make do with The Humanitarian. She turns the pages attentively, rustling the paper and exclaiming, “My word!” and “I’ve never heard the like” and “Good ice, it says here.”

The advertisements are also worth reading. The Co-operative Central on Åland announces receipt of a shipment of oranges— they hope Adele has her hand in. Maybe there were some boxes in Anton’s sledge already, although he didn’t say anything. It’s worth asking, and getting there early when the store opens in the morning.

Domestic politics, murder, auto accidents, sports and international news, a sprightly column by one of the many Hellén cousins, the film listings in Helsingfors for the preceding week, book reviews, a new play at the Swedish Theatre, engagements, births and deaths, comic strips at the back of the Saturday edition—a world they don’t miss but love to read about. The voice of home. And even though they’ve been happy to shake off their attachment to home, it’s where they have family, old friends, culture, everything!

At the verger’s house, the verger reads aloud to Signe from Ålandstidningen. Many astonishing occurrences in the province, plus some reflections by one of its priests that calls forth a comparison: “Neither life nor spirit. Ours does it better.” It warms his soul. And there is more to read. He has in any case made a good start, whereas the organist for his part has not yet had time to collect his mail. His sons are nowhere to be found. How can such conspicuous boys be so invisible? And what’s the point of their growing up when they spend their time out on the ice, all the way out to the lighthouses, looking for seals, without doing a blasted thing that might be of use here on land. There’s a cow in the barn with strangles, there’s wood needs chopping, hay to bring home from the island barn now that the ice is in perfect condition, drift nets to be mended so you don’t stand there amazed at the end of July wondering where all the holes came from. Inside the house there are petitions and writs to be prepared, bills of sale to be drawn up, wills and estate inventories to be witnessed, the Co-op’s accounts to be examined and audited, the township council’s minutes to be completed and posted on the notice board at the store, an agenda to be proposed for the coming vestry meeting. No limits or end to it all. Not to mention the need to keep his fingers limber and hymns practised now that they finally have a priest who understands church music.

The organist is the eldest child of an able mother and believed when he married, deeply in love, that all women were the same. Capable and energetic, skilful and enterprising. Like Mona Kummel, he thinks admiringly, not like Francine. For Francine, a great many things are overwhelming. The household, for example. Childbearing and child care are exhausting. Animal husbandry, difficult. The organist is the first man on the Örlands to have been seen going into the cow barn with his wife at milking time. Francine is with him, but it’s he who ties up a refractory wretch of a cow so it can’t kick, and it’s he who carries the pails and scrubs them. Indoors at the organist’s, it’s his mother who runs the household. Francine isn’t lazy. She mends clothes and does a little of everything, but she rarely finishes. Without Mama, they couldn’t manage, but he understands that it’s because of Mama that Francine is less enterprising and always ready to give up too quickly, because Mama will always step in and finish a job when she’s half done.

Maybe this is why Francine has bouts of despair and lies in bed and says she wants to die if she has any more children. No one understands that she doesn’t have the strength. There’s no one who can help her. His mother says she’s small and weak. Is a woman supposed to have the strength of a man? Round and round, a circle of despair.

He chose her against his mother’s express wish. He was calm and bold and certain, he who otherwise is so often nervous and full of doubts. People believe that they make correct decisions when they are calm, but calmness can be a form of self-deception. And what is in fact a correct decision? A prudent decision? Or a decision in line with an individual’s deepest hopes and desires? That was the case when he proposed, and because he has had to defend that act to himself again and again, he has also defended his love and bolstered it on all sides so that he is the only man on the Örlands who openly sees to his wife’s comfort, although everyone knows the way things are.

Adele should have had such a husband—masculine, good-looking, richly gifted, intelligent, responsible. Competent, effective. His only weakness Francine, who would actually have suited Elis better. Elis is a nice person, good-hearted, friendly, interested in much, but without the organist’s industry and drive. In a different world, they might have made a quiet trade, but in this world that’s not possible. You’re married to the person you married, and that way, Adele thinks, you never have to worry that maybe he doesn’t want you. No growing disaffection, no disappointment need ever intrude upon her relationship with the organist. Best that way, but oh! Nevertheless, he goes home to Francine when he’s tired and worn out from work. He comes to the store before the day has sucked the life out of him, looks into the office on some errand having to do with the upcoming Co-op board meeting. Followed by discussions about the final clean copy of the minutes and the never-ending need for further meetings. His hand has held the paper and pen, his dear writing covers the page like his voice, and when he has gone, it lies open on her desk like a bright light all through the busy day.

Francine, on the other hand, after all these years, still feels as if she were living in a strange house, and sometimes she sneaks into her childhood home, desolate now that everyone is dead. So cold she can see her breath, the stove rusty, the beds empty. No one comes here, unless she stays too long and they start looking. She is expecting another child and knows it won’t go well. She’s too old, and she’s embarrassed to say anything. She doesn’t know what she thinks, it’s as if she lay floating under the ice, her hair adrift, her memory adrift. What she’s supposed to think and believe adrift.

He has such good words, he touches her so well. She thought at the time that with him she could live a good, protected life. As she grew up, she could never stand to watch the cow calve, and when her own time approached it was no better. And there was nowhere to hide. She’s heard her mother-in-law say that Francine’s deliveries haven’t been especially difficult. What does she know about it? And then baby after baby, she who wanted to remain a child herself. But once the misfortune has occurred, she can let him come to her without anxiety, for now things are the way they are.

The organist tells her that the pastor’s wife is presumably in the family way as well, though the pastor has only hinted. This news is supposed to be encouraging, but the pastor’s wife is young and healthy and strong and spirited. For her, bearing a child is a dance she’ll do quickly and well, the way she does everything. What does she know about what it will be like for Francine? Just one good push and the baby lies there, that’s all there is to it.

Francine is not entirely mistaken, for the pastor’s wife rarely thinks about being pregnant, and she’s not really worried about the delivery. The former pastor’s wife went to Åbo and sat there for weeks, waiting, but Mona Kummel hasn’t the time for that. Moreover, the midwife on the Örlands has a degree in gynaecology, although her qualifications are formulated in Russian, and there is a homecare sister on the Örlands who can be engaged for the first week. In other words, all the arrangements are made and the pastor’s wife has other things to think about. The household, for one thing, and being constantly prepared for unexpected guests, and the cow barn, where the first-class hay has kept the cows in fine form, their milk as good as it was in the autumn. Mending and darning, writing letters, the church choir created and led by the organist, where the pastor’s wife sings first soprano and the pastor bass. Thanks to the incomparable ice this winter, it’s easy for everyone to get to church. The two halves of the community have an equal journey. The choir members practise their parts as they kick their sledges, and when they get to the church, they and their voices are already warm. They sing a few verses to hear how they sound in the fine acoustics of the church, but then they all move to the parsonage, where they rehearse in the parlour. The whole hall is full of their coats and furs, and the parlour is full of song.

Then Sanna bursts into tears, and Papa senses that what she’s feeling amidst this sea of coats and the choir’s mighty singing is a deep loneliness, which can affect anyone who stands outside of it all—ice, church, song. He picks her up and tells her not to feel bad, and then he whispers a secret—this summer she’s going to get a little brother or sister and won’t that be fun!

The church choir sledging its way home across the ice has figured out the truth. In fact, it’s hardly news, for the rumour began spreading through the villages even before she was pregnant, but now it is confirmed—her breasts, the barely discernible swell of her belly beneath her skirt, her whole demeanor a bit more serene, as if smiling to herself just ever so slightly.

The evening light lingers a bit longer now, and during the day the sun eats at the ice, which softens towards afternoon, making runners sink deeper and sledges move more slowly. During the night it freezes hard, and in the morning the kicksleds run normally. But the sun gains a bit every day, and there is unease in the air. Far out in the sea there is open water, and you can come across seals behind piles of ice. Several hunting parties are on their way out with specially built rowboats on skids. In among the islands, especially where there’s a current, the ice has begun to bulge and turn blue. It’s only a matter of days before small children are forbidden to go out on it. Older, more sensible people go nowhere without an ice pike and a knife in their belt. It is hardest for Lydia Manström to say farewell to the ice, because she must be a role model for the schoolchildren, even though the ice could support her for several more days. Several weeks if the weather turns cold again. But maybe not. Now both the sun and the villagers are bending every effort to hasten the breakup of the ice. People put their shoulders to it and shove, and the ice shows wet patches and dark areas of rot. It is soft and treacherous, and beyond the lighthouses the seal hunters can hear the roar of the open sea. Rifts and fissures open up right under them, and those who aren’t light on their feet and can dance like a crane may easily fall in. That’s as it should be, and the man who takes sensible risks can collect a pile of bloodily slaughtered seals at the edge of the ice. The state pays a bounty for the jaw, the boatyards buy the oil, and you can cure the skins yourself and sell them in Åbo. You can make blood pudding and cook the meat. Those who’ve tasted it say that the meat of seal pups is a delicacy.

For several months, the pastor had his congregation together and available. Now the people he’s looking for are often away, unclear when they’ll be back. The boathouses are seething with activity although the smaller bays are still covered with ice. Tracks from the skids on rowboats lead out and back. For all that was going on in their winter world, it seems like a long sleep compared with the activity now. Everyone has woken up and stretched, and the pastor must learn that Easter is no big holiday on the Örlands. People are in too much of a hurry. The pastor’s wife has forced a crocus in a pot that stands blooming on the altar, the verger has changed the liturgical colours as prescribed, and the pastor stands almost alone in the church draped in mourning on Good Friday and not much less alone at High Mass on Easter Sunday as he proclaims the risen Christ. Christendom’s holiest observance and most joyful festival, he declares into the emptiness, to Mona and Sanna and Papa and Adele and Elis, the verger in his pew and the organist and the pumper in their loft. No less true for that, but it echoes balefully in the empty space.

At home they’ve made the traditional twigs-and-feathers, and Sanna has searched for and found her first Easter egg. It can be opened and is full of small candies. Seeing it is a reminder that the war is really over. Sanna learns to go around and offer candy to everyone else before taking any herself. She’s had a birthday and is now two years old, mature and verbal for her age, with an insatiable hunger for conversation and being read to. When Grandpa leaves in the spring and they themselves are fully occupied with their springtime labours, they plan to hire one of the confirmation-class girls to keep Sanna company.

Grandpa himself is into the starting blocks and listens constantly for signs of the ice breaking up. When there is open water, he can travel home and take care of himself for a good month before Mama arrives with all her possessions. The sun is right, the wind is right, he tells Sanna. Everything that gets the ice moving is good. And once it starts moving, it goes fast. Movement is good. Relocation. Life!

Chapter Fourteen

This is the time when the ice neither bears nor breaks. My mare has had a good rest for a week while I labour with the sledge. I set off very early in the morning when the ice is hardest, and there’s not much mail in my bag, thank goodness. If I keep up a good pace, I’ll get to Mellom before I start sinking into the ice too far.

You have to move fast so you don’t fall through in the worst places, but not so fast that you rush ahead like an angry bull without seeing where you’re headed. You have to pay constant attention to the look of the ice ahead so you don’t go steaming into an area that you can’t get out of. The interesting thing about such ice is that even though you’ve made it far into a field of that kind, the ice won’t hold if you try to go back the same way.

You can’t ever turn and go back. That’s why it’s so important to have a clear picture of where you’re headed. Across Örland Sound I try to take a straight course, though it’s a strain if the wind pulls me to one side. Once you’ve come across and have the large islands in sight, you’ve covered the longest stretch, and then I usually go into the outermost farms where there are warm stoves and a cup of coffee and maybe a letter to put in my bag.

When you’re in a boat on open water, you’re over the worst once you get in among the islands, in the lea of the wind. But when you’re sledging bad ice, you have every reason to be careful. Because that’s where the currents run, and that’s where cracks open up in unexpected places. You don’t always see them, because the water flows and floods under a thin layer of ice, and if the sun is in your eyes you can’t always see the difference between those patches and bearing ice. At this time of the year, I always wear sealskin shoes, because I can feel through the soles how far under the surface the water is moving, so I know when to take care.

You need to prick up your ears so you can hear how the water murmurs and moves. And so you can hear how the ice is alive beneath your runners. Also when your speed slackens on wet ice you should listen to the way it sounds in front of you and be on your guard for when the ice starts to pull apart beneath your feet. You must continue forward no matter how heavy the going and not even think of turning back. Your whole body must be an instrument to register the consistency of the ice. You hold your breath sometimes, and fear can make heat blossom like a rose beneath your furs, and then you kick forward as fast as you possibly can. Your whole body is a gauge, making constant judgments as you move.

And then of course I know that I’m not making my way across the ice alone. Before I leave, I see how the journey will be, and I’m forewarned the whole way. There is nothing odd about that, but neither is it a thing that I can describe in common words. I don’t know what they look like, and even though I often joke with them and tell them to get off the sledge and lighten the load, I don’t believe they have weight in the sense that we do. They exist in the world in a different way, although they once were like us. That’s why they help me and lead me forward. If they had never been like us, they would not understand the kind of guidance I need.

So for the moment I have made it to the Mellom pier and into the waiting room, where I usually boil myself some coffee and have a sandwich and sleep under some furs for an hour or so until it starts to be time to expect the steamer. The Mellom postman and I take turns going up on the hill to watch for it. When it comes, that’s when we have our best chance of getting wet, the postman and I, when we collect the mailbags out at the channel. The boat brings necessities to Mellom and a few passengers, so the ship stops its engines and glides into the edge of the ice and throws out its gangway. The mailbags come tumbling across, and I take mine and head in towards land off the quaking ice. Maybe for the last time this year, or so it begins to feel.

Yes, it has happened that I’ve come with a sledge and had to get myself home by boat. One of the closest calls I ever had was when all of Örland Sound broke up behind me with a great crash and roar just as I came in among the large islands. I knew that day that I had to hurry and I sledged along for all my life was worth while the ice thundered under my feet and floes shot up across one another behind my back. I made it dry-shod to the outermost farms and had to borrow a boat to get home.

The outlook has never been so bad that I didn’t dare go. Julanda has told me many times that I’m not right in the head, going out in all sorts of weather and ice conditions, but I have to say that the salary I’m paid makes it my duty. The ones out there understand that it’s not just about me. The mailbags must also get through. Through all these years, I’ve never lost a mailbag, so I know that they worry about my burden, not just about me, as I travel the ice where they’ve staked out the way.

When the ice is at its worst, the two island priests talk to each other on the telephone. The experienced Fredrik Berg has warned Petter Kummel that they can’t speak freely from the heart, because the operators listen. Petter suggests that they speak Finnish when discussing sensitive matters, but when he spoke to Central about another matter, Edit tactfully let him know that she understands Finnish quite well after her years as a housemaid in Åbo. So they have to watch their words although there is much to discuss. Work first, but then …

“So how are things otherwise?” Petter asks. “Out here we’re completely isolated until the ice has gone. The seal hunters are out, and Anton goes to Mellom once a week with his sledge. We’re stuck where we are. I don’t know how Anton does it. He doesn’t come back until night when the ice has frozen hard, because by then his sledge is weighed down with all the newspapers he brings out, mostly ours, I’m afraid. I’m ashamed every time I open them. Anton risks his life for them over and over again. ‘The mail must go through, whether it bears or it breaks,’ he says, proudly.”

“Yes, it’s a deed worthy of Finland’s White Rose. Did you know he’d won it? The postmen out here usually do—if they survive. It’s easier here, what with the steamboat channel going right past us. If you need to, you can leave Mellom twice a week. But you need to have a good reason. It’s a job getting out to the channel and a job to get on board. Nothing anyone does for the fun of it.”

“No, we’re very happy just to be able to stay at home. People wonder how we’re going to get through the winters here, but we don’t get cabin fever or even get restless. We’re completely content that our world has shrunk. What’s remarkable is that it’s big enough. All the human types in the world at large exist right here on the Örlands. And every kind of conflict and problem. How is everything there?”

Petter has noticed a happy, triumphant note in Fredrik’s voice, as if he were biding his time. “Yes, indeed,” he says. “I hardly dare say it out loud for fear it will vaporize like dust, but yesterday we passed a proposal for a new parsonage. Not just a confirmation of the decision that already exists but a decision about implementation: labour allocations among the villages, appropriation of money from the Central Fund. When the motion passed, we stared at each other as though it couldn’t be true. Good heavens the coffee we drank when it was over!”

“Congratulations,” Petter says. “Do you think that’s the end of the delaying tactics?”

“If only it were. Technically, we’ve come significantly closer to the goal, which will make it harder to delay the process. I feel quite certain on that point. But you can bet your life that they’ll be in very fragile health when it’s time to start building.”

“That’s excellent news, in any case. How did it come about?”

“In January we had a vestry meeting in the parsonage during the worst cold snap all winter. I made sure it was freezing; we lit the fires in the tile stoves just before they got there. We didn’t even need the wind for them to get the hint. The cold came in through the walls and the floor right on cue. The lamps blew out, the curtains fluttered. The coffee was cold before you could get it to your mouth. An icy chill crept up your legs if you sat still for half a minute. The children had colds and coughed and cried so you could hear them through these thin board walls. It was perfect.”

Petter laughs. “Out here, everyone knows that when you come to the parsonage you leave everything on except the outermost layer. Sometimes even then someone will go back for their coat. We’ve had fur hats at the table, and lots of wool scarves. They take those for granted. That’s what it’s like here in winter. In any case we have wood, which is more than I can say for some of the others out here.”

“Maybe it’s time to ask for a new parsonage yourselves.”

“I think I’ll wait until I’ve got my pastoral degree and then see if I can get posted to this parish. Now I’m afraid someone will snatch it out from under my nose. I should have kept quiet about how much I like this place.”

“You seem quite certain.”

“I am. How’s it going with your own degree?”

“Fine thanks. My dissertation is almost finished. I’m thinking of going up for the exam this spring. Then we’ll start building, and in my free time I’ll keep an eye out for available parishes. The parsonage will be done in two years, and our furniture will be on its way to the mainland. And you?”

Petter’s sigh makes the curtains flutter in his study. “Oh my. I had hoped to make a lot more progress than I have. I go absolutely cold when I think that it will soon be spring. We have a thousand plans for the garden and the farm. And then we’ll have all the guests and the preachers. It’s hopeless.”

“Plus I’ve heard you’re going to add to your family.”

“How in the world do you know that?”

“I’ve got my spies. Seriously, you need to know you can’t keep anything secret out here. When will it be?”

“In July. I’m stunned.”

Fredrik has a good laugh into the phone. “We heard about it well before Christmas. But Margit will be happy to have it confirmed. We’ve got nothing on the way, but if that should happen, I’m sure you’ll hear about it before we know it ourselves.”

“Did they say if it will be a boy or a girl?”

“You’ve already got a girl, so of course they think it will be a boy. They call him Little Petter. The priest’s boy. Etcetera.”

“Well, well. Like I’ve said, the people out here are interested in people. I wonder if they know when I’ll be ready for the pastoral exams. It has to be this autumn at the latest. I’ve made up my mind.”

And they go on talking. “Dear Brother” is the way the clergy address one another in letters, and that is precisely what Petter feels towards Fredrik, the older brother he never had. As they fulfil their obligations in their respective parishes, matters often arise that they need to discuss. If one of them doesn’t call, the other one does. One day Fredrik hears an odd rumbling and a chair scraping as if Petter were leaping to his feet. Fredrik interrupts himself. “What’s happening?”

“It must be the ice breaking up!” Petter cries. “I have to go out and watch. Forgive me, we’ll have to talk later.” He hangs up and rings off and hears his father pulling on his boots in the hall. “I’m coming,” he hollers. “Mona, what are you doing? You have to see this!”

It doesn’t matter that the dough has finished rising and needs to go into the oven. He lifts the trough out into the hall, where it’s cold and the yeast will stop working, and helps her get her boots on. He sweeps a quilt around Sanna and rushes out onto the steps. Father Leonard is already on his way to the bell tower and starts climbing. He throws open the shutters with a bang. “Come!” he cries. Mona takes Sanna from him. “Go on up,” she says. “We can see fine from down here.”

And it’s true, they can see and hear the ice breaking up from where they stand on the bell-tower hill. But from up in the tower, there is a view of the whole sea. All the way from the horizon in the west to the cliffs, knobs, skerries, and bedrock of the island world to the north and northeast. The entire landscape holds on tight as great shelves of ice climb across each other and heave themselves onto granite slopes. Suddenly the bays are open and the water surges and leaps and throws itself over the moving ice floes, which crash into each other with a great banging and cracking. The shores are lined with a border of growlers piled up so tightly that they butt and bellow among themselves. They push right across the smaller skerries and scrape them clean the way the glaciers once did, stuff themselves up onto larger islands and build huge jousting, shoving logjams. Out towards the open sea there are streaks of black and green and violet that combine and expand while the ice cover moves in waves, creaking and complaining, breaking and bawling. Farther out they can hear the thunder of the open sea as it tears itself free. There is a golden streak at the horizon from the sunshine of the day, but the deepening twilight brings darkness to the land. Silvery and white, the ice towers up against the blackness. Father Leonard has tears in his eyes. Petter stands in awe.

Down below, Mona is on her way home with Sanna. She is struggling to get free, and although he can hear nothing because of the rush and the roar, he knows that she is squealing and calling and wants to come up to him and that Mona is repeating impatiently that they’ve already seen the ice breaking up and there won’t be anything more. No point in standing out here freezing and catching cold for nothing! Once again, Petter feels that he has failed his daughter. Of course he could have carried her up the steep stairs and kept her warm so she could see. For Sanna, the important thing is to be with him, and all too often he leaves her behind.

He and his father look at to each other again and again and say, “To think that we got to see this!” But the wind that pulls apart the ice is terribly cold once the sun has set, and soon they have to close the shutters and feel their way back down the steps. Tottering and dizzy. What a display! What power! In his head, Petter is already composing his Pentecost sermon about breaking the ice in the world of the spirit, when all the dams of doubt and scepticism will burst. He has now felt rapture in a concrete form and can transfer it directly to the Divinely gifted rapture that loosens our chains and lets us look straight into the world of bliss.

Once the ice has broken up, everything moves quickly. So quickly that you lose your breath and wish you were back in the life-giving isolation of winter, which allowed you to think through your thoughts and plan for the day ahead. Now spring runs away with everyone and drives its own agenda. The seal hunters had their boats at the edge of the ice but got sufficient warning and made it home, squinting and sunburned, without any losses and with seals in a row on the floor. Now the hunt for seabirds will begin, eiders and old squaws, which fly along the edges of the bays and land in their traditional places, and there the men sit in their hunting coverts and blast away. Hardly a man in church, consequently, and only a few womenfolk because of the lack of available boats. In the barns, the floorboards are visible. The cows are dry and people can only hope that they’ll make it through these lean weeks until things start turning green in earnest. It is not the case that summer breaks out as soon as the ice has gone. On the contrary, it can be cold and raw for weeks, and that’s when things get tough.

At the parsonage, the peace of winter has been driven away. Papa paces about, stressed and incoherent, and Petter recognizes the symptoms. Now that the ice is gone he’s going home to tar his boat, put it in the water, and talk Granboda village to death before Mother arrives with all their worldly goods sometime in June. Now Mona has to fit him out, see to it that his clothes are clean and mended and that he has bread and butter to go with the fat spring perch he’s going to pull up from his favourite perch hole. At the parsonage, too, they are happy that net fishing can begin, but it is one more time-consuming chore that steals time from pastoral studies. Once again, he stands and wonders how he’ll have time for all the work that’s falling on him like a house.

Chapter Fifteen

AS LONG AS THE ICE REMAINED, it seemed a long time until Mona’s confinement but now her pregnancy too is progressing with frightening speed. No one knows better than Mona how much they need to get done before she can start thinking about having a baby. They have to finish the haymaking, and before they start on that, there’s a great deal to do in the garden that they didn’t have time for last spring. The kitchen garden needs to be fertilized and enlarged, a new drainage ditch must be dug, they have to sow and plant, and just imagine if they’d had time to break up part of the meadow and sow feed grain! Not to mention that they need to look after the everlasting fences, take the sheep out to the islands, groom the cows so they don’t have to be ashamed of them. They must be plump and shiny for the congregation to admire. It would all be so much simpler if they had a horse! When Petter has passed his pastoral exams and been made permanent vicar, their finances will get a bit better, but the loans, the loans! Should they borrow more and buy a motorboat and a horse, or should they wait a year? Why not break in Darling, Goody’s heifer calf from last year? Then they could plough up another piece of land. Worth a try!

Time rushes by. They get a lot done, as they notice when they look around, but a great deal goes undone as well. When they make lists of all their work, they notice that Sanna is never mentioned once, and their consciences bother them. They’re neglecting their child for all the other important things they have to do, although she’s a little more than two years old, full of curiosity, and loves to talk and philosophize. Most of all, she likes to be read to, but whichever one of them takes the time to read her a good-night story can barely stay awake once there’s a moment to sit down. Time to do something about it, and that’s how Cecilia comes to the house, one of the confirmation candidates who is good with children and reads well. It will be her job to spend time outdoors with Sanna and read her fairy tales all spring and summer. Now, Sanna, you’ll have company and a real pal!

In years and size, Cecilia is the missing link between Sanna and the adult world. She is smaller than Mona, and at fourteen, she is halfway between them in age. She is child enough to be able to play and enjoy the story books as much as Sanna, and old enough to have a sense of order and responsibility. She appears at the parsonage like a young lady, knocks before entering and curtseys, but all with the fluttering heart of a little girl. The pastor’s wife has a reputation for speed and resolve that could frighten anyone, but in reality she is kindness itself and says they are happy she could come. Cecilia gets her own room in the attic—something she has never had before. The pastor’s wife has put some grape hyacinths and narcissus in a glass on the chair meant to serve as a bedside table. It is all lovely beyond description, with a wonderful view across the water. Sanna follows her up the steep stairs on all fours, with careful concentration, and looks at Cecilia rapturously. “Are we going to read?” she asks, eyes sparkling.

“Yes, indeed,” says Cecilia. “As often as we can! And play!”

Sanna is prepared to begin at once, and so is Cecilia, but Mama tells Sanna that first they’re going to let Cecilia unpack, and then she’ll come downstairs and they’ll all have coffee and get to know each other. She takes Sanna with her, and Cecilia hears them talking on the stairs: “Is she going to live here?” “Yes, this summer. Then she’ll go to school.” “I’m going to go to school too, with Cecilia.” “Well, not quite yet. Do you like her?” “Oh, yes.” “Good …” and then they go into the kitchen and Cecilia stands in her room and pretends she’s a grown woman, the children’s nurse at the parsonage. The best view in the house and a bureau where she can keep her clothes. Not many of them, but you don’t need many in summer. It takes two minutes to put everything into the drawers, but grownups generally take such things seriously, so she stands at the window for a while and gets used to the room, and then she goes down the stairs. There is a smell of coffee from the kitchen and the door is open so she doesn’t need to knock. Sanna comes towards her and takes her hand. “Come and have coffee!” she says. “I get to sit next to you.”

The priest has come in. She curtseys and he takes her hand. Sanna curtseys too and takes Papa’s hand, and the pastor says Welcome! And how nice that she could come. “Just look how happy Sanna is.” Both the priest and his wife hope she’ll feel at home, and she says that she already does. She blushes each time she has to speak and hasn’t the courage to look at anyone but Sanna, who looks back open-heartedly and smiles. “Drink coffee now!” she says impatiently. They can all see that she’s eager to start having fun, but the pastor’s wife tells Cecilia not to be too nice and let herself be ordered around by the little princess, who’s been given too much leeway. “Just tell me if she gets too unruly and headstrong! You’re a sensible girl, and you have younger brothers and sisters, and I’m sure you know it’s a mistake to be too indulgent.”

Cecilia wants to ask if the pastor’s wife also had little brothers and sisters, but it’s the pastor who answers, almost as if he’d read her thoughts. “Both Mona and I have younger siblings, so we have no illusions. You have to keep after them or they’ll take over the whole house.” But he says it lovingly and is so sweet to Sanna, who looks at him starry-eyed, that anyone can see that his parenting principles allow for many exceptions. And anyway, who would want to be strict and curb this little girl’s eager expectations!

The pastor and his wife have had great piles of children’s books sent from their childhood homes, and Sanna has received several new books for her birthday. “Don’t read any more than you want to yourself!” says the pastor’s wife, who doesn’t want Sanna to become a tyrant, but Cecilia says she thinks it will be fun. Suddenly she utters several sentences in a row: “I didn’t get to read much when I was little, because no one did. The first stories I read were in my first reader. Once I had learned to read, I read the whole reader in a few days. And I got scolded because I wasn’t helping.”

They give her a kindly look and nod. They sit peacefully at their coffee, take one more piece of buttered bread before the plate of sweet rolls goes around. After only a few days at the parsonage, Cecilia has learned that the pastor and his wife take mealtimes seriously. They sit down to eat no matter how great a rush they’re in, and meals last long enough that everyone leaves the table refreshed. “It will be a broadening experience for Cecilia, who is clearly intelligent,” she heard the pastor tell her parents when he came to ask if she’d like to come and help with Sanna during her summer vacation, and now she sees how that works. When you get to see the way clever, educated people live, you develop thoughts and plans for your own life that broaden you!

As she reads aloud to Sanna and takes her out for walks and answers her thousands of questions—the pastor and his wife have taught her to take them seriously and answer them as best she can—June gallops away. Guests arrive from every direction and are stuffed into the house so that Cecilia must occasionally sleep in the sauna. That comes to an end when an amorous visitor from one of the sailboats forces his way in. Cecilia flees to the parsonage in tears, and the pastor and his wife abandon their guests in the parlour and talk to her in the kitchen.

“He said I was sweet,” she sobs. “He wanted a kiss.” She shudders and cries. The pastor’s wife says she was absolutely right to run away. No one on a sailboat has any business in the sauna, least of all late at night, so of course she was scared. Tonight Cecilia can sleep in the kitchen, and early tomorrow morning the priest will go talk to the sailboat people. The pastor’s wife wants to go herself, and she wants to go now and say what she has in her heart, but the pastor thinks they should sleep on it. He says maybe the man didn’t really mean any harm, but it’s asking too much for a fourteen-year-old girl to know how to deal with a big man who comes barging in at ten o’clock at night. Cecilia is still crying and telling them she’s so sorry for everything, and both the pastor and his wife are kind and tell her not to forget that it wasn’t she who forced herself on someone. She has done nothing wrong and doesn’t need to apologize. “On the contrary, we’re the ones who ought to apologize,” says the pastor’s wife, “for all Petter’s countless relatives who pushed you out to the sauna. It never crossed my mind that you wouldn’t be safe, not even here on Church Isle!”

She gets more and more worked up, and Cecilia stops crying and is frightened in a different way—well maybe it wasn’t as bad as all that! Oh my! And the pastor, soothing and concerned, says that all’s well that ends well. “Now we need to think about the sleeping arrangements, and tomorrow we’ll come up with a solution of some kind.” The pastor’s wife says indignantly that they no longer have any extra bedlinen at all—not a thing!—because of all the people they have in the house. It’s not a home any more, it’s a kolkhoz! In the end the pastor himself, who’s a man, has to trudge down to the sauna and carry up Cecilia’s bedclothes, which she can spread out on the kitchen floor. “So now we’ll sleep in the sauna,” says the pastor’s wife angrily, “and your parents can move into the bedroom.” Her tone of voice is such that for a moment Cecilia feels sorry for the sailboat tourists, who will now really have to watch their step.

In the morning, when they’ve slept on it, the pastor attends to the matter with diplomacy and tact. There is no inquisition, he just installs himself and his wife on the shelf in the sauna, speaks calmly with the summer sailors and explains that they have so many people in the house that they themselves were forced out. Cecilia was frightened by something the night before and shouldn’t have to sleep in the sauna by herself. They spend an uncomfortable night in the sauna, and it occurs to Mona that she is in the final stages of pregnancy and at least has the right to demand a decent mattress to sleep on, not just a collection of winter clothing as if they were hobos in a barn, where at least they’d have hay to sleep on. Here the barn has been scraped clean and there are people everywhere! Having a baby now would be very much like giving birth in a certain stable! This is a joke, but the pastor gets very anxious and questions her in detail about pains and premonitions. How is she feeling? Should he go up to the office and call Doctor Gyllen just to be on the safe side?

“Oh come on! Don’t I have the right to complain just this one time? Other people make a big deal of their pregnancies while I get chased out of my own home. I’m not going to sleep here one night more!”

No, of course not, and in the morning Cecilia herself solves the problem. Blushing and curtseying, she says that they’ve told her several times that she could happily take a few days off and go home if she wanted, but she herself has wanted to stay. Now she wonders if she might go home over midsummer. She’d be happy to take Sanna with her if that would help.

“Good heavens, no!” says the pastor’s wife. “If you take her along it won’t be time off. Petter’s sister should be able to do something! You just go on home, and have a nice holiday!”

The next morning, one of the sailboats sails away, end of story. All the boats and the great crowds of guests at the parsonage are there to celebrate midsummer in the outer islands, and when it’s over, the guests need to understand that it’s time for them to leave so that peace can return to the house. As soon as the holidays are out of the way, they’re going to make hay, and only when it’s been taken in can the pastor’s wife take things a little easier, as befits her condition.

Midsummer is the year’s biggest holiday on the Örlands. Midsummer Eve is a part of their pre-Christian heritage, and Midsummer Day, the Nativity of Saint John the Baptist, is a great church festival. They have no difficulty combining their two religions, and the delicious herbal scents of Midsummer Eve, which cause hymens to break and put new life into old people, has no argument with the chaste smell of birch in the embowered church. The church is full to overflowing, and everyone turns a friendly face to the priest and sings the summer hymns, which the organist plays with newfound feeling. It is not perhaps Saint John the Baptist that appeals to people so much as the lovely summer and all the summery, slim-waisted, broad-skirted dresses, blooming with sprays and garlands, visible proof of the rich herring fishing last summer, which filled many pockets with cash.

Sanna too has a new dress, sent to her by the Helléns, beautifully sewn with puff sleeves, a round collar and a wide skirt. To go with it, she has white socks and light summer shoes with a strap. No sweeter child has ever been seen, and the pastor looks at her as if he were in love, and she prances about and flounces her skirt until Mama tells Papa he should stop making so much of Sanna’s dress. The last thing they want is for her to grow vain and insufferable! “Excuse me,” he says, “but it’s just so much fun having such a fresh and darling little girl!”

“Two girls,” he corrects himself quickly, but she just snorts. “Oh, stop being silly. The way I look!”

He’s moved to see that Cecilia, too, has come to church with her family, even though she’s on vacation. Sanna greets her with a cry of joy and holds her hand in the churchyard. And without any of Mona’s mixed feelings, Cecilia says, “How pretty you look in your new dress.” Both he and Mona tell the parents how pleased they are with her and how pleasant it is to have her in the house.

The air is warm, no one is shivering and no one is in a hurry. In small groups, a large part of Örland parish stands gathered by their family graves, pulling weeds and watering occasional flowers, but mostly talking among themselves. Several young people wander down to the church dock and sit there talking and looking at the summer sailors, who feel suddenly very crowded and realize that they’re taking space meant for the churchgoers’ own boats, which swing at anchor anywhere they can find space in the little bay. But none of the Örlanders complains; they all call out cheerful greetings when they see people in the sailboats. The girls sit as if they were posing for a magazine, their skirts arranged prettily around them, their elegant legs in high-heeled shoes draped gracefully along the edge of the dock. Like young dandies, the island boys stand talking casually beside them. The naked eye can see no sign of uncertainty or artificiality, even though the entire arrangement is based on aesthetic calculation and close attention to detail. The weekend sailors are pale. Some of them have drunk too much the night before and are not well. They all feel shabby and unkempt, so one by one they disappear into their cabins and come out again dressed up in their yacht-club blazers, but they are second-rate sales clerks compared with the archipelago gallants, and they would never dare set sail within sight of these sovereign experts!

After midsummer, scruples sweep through the guests at the parsonage, and a few days later all of them are gone. The pastor and the verger cut the grass, and Cecilia curtseys and asks if she can rake. She can keep an eye on Sanna at the same time. She stands with her eyes on the floor and avoids looking at the older woman’s belly beneath her apron, but it escapes no one that she, young as she is, is thoughtful enough to think that the pastor’s wife, in her condition, shouldn’t spend hour after hour in the hay meadow. It takes longer for Signe and Cecilia to rake up the hay now that they’re working at Örland speed. Last summer, Signe had to hurry to barely keep up; the pastor’s wife worked like a whirlwind. It rains in the middle of the process and the hay has to be turned yet again. If the pastor’s wife weren’t so impatient she might learn a lesson from how calmly and imperturbably Signe and Cecilia go about their work. The hay must be turned yet one more time, and the pastor’s wife can smell and see with her naked eye how the quality declines, but Signe and Cecilia move placidly along the windrows—two goddesses of fate who weave and weave. The pastor’s wife suffers and snorts, but then comes a period of high pressure that lasts, and the hay that the Holmens and the pastor cart into the barn, with raking help from Signe and Cecilia, retains nevertheless a decent nutritive value. The pastor’s wife provides the meals and is still so quick that anyone deciding to help hardly has time to rise from the table before she’s already up and running.

Once the hay is in, there is a period of relative calm at the parsonage. Cecilia and Sanna play outdoors in the fine weather, and Sanna asks lots of questions and shows what she can do: climb and run and count to four and, as it happens, five and six as well, and sing “Baa, Baa, Little Lamb”. After supper they sit and read and read until Mama comes in from milking and reads the evening prayer and says good night. Despite the beauty of the summer, Papa spends the quiet days in his study, preparing for his pastoral exams. “I can’t deny that it’s terribly boring,” he confesses to Cecilia, “but it’s a thing I have to do if I’m to become the vicar here. Next year I’ll be happy I did it, although it’s not so much fun right now.”

The pastor’s wife still goes out and milks the cows, but whenever he’s home, the pastor goes with her and carries the milk pails and washes them. It’s hard for her to bend over, and when she sits down to do the milking, she has a hard time reaching the udders and getting to her feet again. But there will be no mawkishness on that score, it’s all perfectly natural, and he ought to know that other women have had a much harder time and have still done what they had to do! On 13 July, she stands in the choir loft and sings “Where the Birches Whisper” at a wedding. The whole church whispers as they turn around, but her stomach is hidden behind the loft railing, which they should have known it would be. She has declined an invitation to the wedding feast. The pastor is there but says his thank-yous early and bicycles home. Those who see him report that he rides like the wind.

On the morning of the fourteenth, the pastor’s wife goes out to the cows as usual. They don’t answer when she calls, so the pastor has to go find them. They’re not as familiar with him, and it takes time for him to drive them back to the meadow gate. She is sitting on a milk pail looking thoughtful. When she starts to milk, it goes slower than usual, and she stops now and again as if listening.

“How are you?” he asks timidly.

“Fine,” she says. “But it may be today.”

Nervously he says, “Shall I call?” Doctor Gyllen, he means, and she snorts.

“No! We’ll wait and see.”

They walk slowly to the well with the strainer and the pails. Petter hauls up water in the pail and washes it out, then he lowers the milk containers so they stand on the bottom. The water is only a few centimetres deep. In a matter of days the well will be completely dry. “With our hay already in, it would be nice to get some rain,” he says. “But for the rest of the Örlanders it needs to hold off another week or so.”

For once, she doesn’t say that the Örlanders have only themselves to blame for waiting too long to make their hay. She walks a little as if she were wading, and climbs the steps slowly. They come into the kitchen, and Mona shows him where she put the big pot with the fish soup she made the evening before, in case anything should happen. Everything is ready, the sheets have been changed, and clean sheets are waiting in the cupboard. He wanders around stricken with tenderness but feeling a little like a young bull following a heifer uninterested in mating. She dismisses him irritably and says, “Stop fussing! What good does it do?”

Nevertheless, she suggests that they eat earlier today, and by eleven o’clock they’ve already got the soup steaming on the table along with good fresh bread and butter. “Goody,” says Sanna. She’s in a frisky mood, and Petter notes that she doesn’t seem to have the least idea that something is afoot. Cecilia looks both worried and uncertain. In her imagination she can see the boat with the doctor sinking so that she herself will have to act as midwife. What is she supposed to do? She hasn’t the least idea! And how will she dare?

The pastor’s wife herself stands up before they’ve eaten their rhubarb pudding. “For supper, there’s soured milk in the cellar, and you can fry eggs and put them on bread,” she instructs them. “Maybe Cecilia would be kind enough to wash the dishes.” It is almost noon. She goes into the bedroom and the pastor follows. When he comes back out, he goes to the telephone and calls Doctor Gyllen.

While the operator spreads the news across the Örlands, Cecilia stands in the kitchen washing dishes. Sanna stands beside her, talking happily and handing her one dish at a time. The pastor comes in and says that maybe Sanna can take her nap in the sauna today, since it’s so warm in the house. Then they can take a walk out to Hästskär and see if they can find any wild strawberries. Sanna is excited at the prospect and again unaware that the pastor has a frog in his throat and is talking oddly. Through the kitchen window they see there’s a boat on its way into the little bay. “It’s the Hindrikses’ hired man coming with Doctor Gyllen,” Cecilia identifies them.

“Thanks be to God,” the pastor says. He hurries back to the bedroom with the news, much more relieved than his wife, who knows that nothing is going to happen right away. Cecilia gets ready, taking Sanna and grabbing a hat and rubber boots and a blanket for Sanna. On their way to the sauna they meet Doctor Gyllen on her way up from the dock. She walks at her usual brisk pace and carries her black doctor’s bag, which the youngsters in the village believe to contain babies. When she’s rummaged around a bit, she finds an appropriate infant to leave behind when she leaves the house. Cecilia’s not allowed to tell that story to Sanna, because the pastor’s wife has told her not to repeat old wives’ tales but to tell things the way they are so that Sanna doesn’t get all confused by a lot of nonsense.

“Good day.” Cecilia curtseys and looks at the ground; Sanna hides on her safe side. “Good day, good day!” says Doctor Gyllen. “So you girls are going out to walk. Good idea.” She walks on, but not as if she were running. Cecilia and Sanna go to the sauna, and of course Sanna can’t even think of sleeping in a new place. She twists and turns on her blanket on the shelf and then sits up, her eyes full of life. Cecilia sings all the songs she knows along with several hymns, and Sanna sings along. Normally, she quiets down after a while, but not today. Cecilia sings several lullabies, but no child was ever more wide awake than Sanna. There are mosquitoes in the sauna, and Cecilia has to agree that it’s not a good place for a nap. But at least they’ve managed to kill almost an hour. Cecilia takes the large dipper from the sauna to hold their wild strawberries, and in boots and sunhats, they head off.

First they must pass the parsonage. The pastor is sitting on the steps, his face grey, and Cecilia is afraid that Sanna will rush up to him, but she is full of the promised expedition and just calls out, “We’re going to pick wild strawberries!” and hurries along the path as if she were afraid of being captured and stuffed into bed. They stride along in their boots, past the churchyard and out into the wilds of Hästskär, where the world loses sight of them in dense thickets and in deep ravines under high granite walls. Where the cows have grazed, it is open and fine, and, just as Cecilia promised, there are wild strawberries. Masses of wild strawberries. A colossal abundance of wild strawberries. They have ripened large and sweet this lovely, dry summer. There are so many that they have to watch where they step so they don’t crush too many with their boots. Sanna picks them one at a time, smells them and looks at them and puts them in the dipper. Cecilia adds hers and tells Sanna that she can eat some if she likes, but Sanna is focused on the picking and is proud of the pile building in the dipper. Time passes quickly. For the first time, Sanna is far away from Mama and Papa and she feels big and full of her task—picking wild strawberries for dessert!

Cecilia is not used to small children with such perseverance, but Sanna is enchanted by her berry picking. “Look Cecilia!” she says every time. Cecilia is picking too, and the dipper fills. Too soon? she wonders uneasily. She suggests that they rest for a while, and Sanna leans against her and falls asleep as if on cue. They sit there in the afternoon sun for almost an hour. Far away, Cecilia hears terrible screams. If she didn’t know that the pastor’s wife was giving birth, she would have concluded that some cow had got its horns caught in a tree. Cecilia shivers and imagines it is she herself. It’s awful. But Sanna sleeps calmly and deeply. Then it grows quiet and peaceful, all she can hear is a seabird crying, and then Sanna wakes up. A little groggy, she sits up. “Good morning!” Cecilia says. “Shall we start home with all our wild strawberries?”

Sanna says she’s terribly hungry, and Cecilia says they’ve been gone longer than she expected and they should have brought some sandwiches and something to drink. “But we’ve got food right here! Let’s eat some strawberries to give us the strength to get home!” They have been sitting in a sort of tiny magic garden, a natural little pasture surrounded by juniper bushes, granite slabs and warm stone cliffs. “Like in a room of our own,” Cecilia says. “And look, here’s our very own privy!” And sure enough, between a big stone and an overgrown juniper bush there’s a little space where they can piddle in complete privacy!

They wander home hand in hand, in complete agreement that it has been a wonderful afternoon. All the rocks are facing in the wrong direction on the way back, and it’s harder to walk, though Sanna marches along energetically. Like the cat with the seven-league boots that they read about, Cecilia says. She can see by the sun that it must be four-thirty by the time they arrive at the parsonage. She reconnoitres carefully but all seems quiet and calm. The door opens and the pastor comes out, beaming. “Come in, come in,” he begins, but Sanna cries out, “Papa, Papa! Look! We’ve been picking wild strawberries! Thousands of strawberries!”

“Well, look at that!” Papa says. “You’ve come at just the right moment, my little strawberry girls. There’s wonderful news. Come in and see.”

The doors to the house stand open, and Doctor Gyllen is sitting in the dining room with her helper, Sister Hanna, calmly drinking coffee. Papa’s cup is half full at the head of the table. Sanna rushes in and shows them the wild strawberries in the sauna dipper. “Let’s put them in a nice dish before we take them in to Mama,” Cecilia suggests. Papa goes to the kitchen with them. Cecilia takes out the good soup tureen and pours the berries into it. Nothing could be prettier, and while Sanna hops up and down with delight and impatience, the pastor says, “Thank you so much, Cecilia. This was perfect. It’s a girl, and now I’ll take Sanna in and show her. Come, Sanna.”

He carries the wild strawberries like the chalice in church and they walk into the bedroom. The window is ajar and the room smells good. Sanna toddles in, “Look Mama, wild strawberries!” Papa holds out the tureen in all its glory and Mama admires it. “What a splendid dessert for this evening! What a good girl!” She’s lying in bed looking happy and satisfied, and there is a tray of coffee on the chair beside the bed. “Coffee in bed is only for birthdays!” Sanna knows to say, and then Papa says she’s right, because today is a birthday. “You’ve got a little sister today, and it’s her birthday. Do you want to see?”

Now she sees that there’s a little packet beside Mama, wrapped in the little baby blanket that once was Sanna’s. Papa lifts it up as carefully as if it were lamp glass, loosens the blanket a bit, and there inside is a tiny little baby. A squashed, vivid reddish-purple face, with black hair pasted along its scalp. You can see from far off that it has no teeth and no eyes.

“Ooh,” Sanna says.

“Not exactly a beauty,” Papa says, “but she’ll get prettier in just a few days. This is your little sister, and you’re the only sister she has in the whole world.”

Sanna says nothing. Of course Papa has talked about a sister or brother, but she thought it would be someone like herself, not this thing. When it’s someone’s birthday, you’re supposed to be happy and sing Happy Birthday, but suddenly she just wants to cry, and cry she does, big tears and a loud wail. Papa puts the strawberry tureen down on the bureau, right under Jesus on the cross, and lifts up Sanna. “There, there, Sanna! You’ve been having lots of fun all day and now you’re really tired.” He rocks her and talks to her and then he says they’ll go and see if they can’t find some supper, and then he’s going to call Grandma and Grandpa and Gram and Gramps and tell them about the wild strawberries and Sanna’s sister!

He would have left the strawberries behind if Sanna hadn’t reminded him. He puts her down and takes the bowl and they walk through the parlour to the dining room, where they see that Sanna has been crying. “It was a shock for her to see her little sister. But she’ll get to be more and more fun every day, I promise.”

Doctor Gyllen has stood up and asks him to call for the Hindrikses’ hired man, but the pastor says that he hopes she can stay and have supper with them. He can hear they’re already working in the kitchen—nothing very special, soured milk and buttered bread and wild strawberries, but they’d be happy if she’d help herself. They have enough soured milk for everyone. Mona clearly had her suspicions when she made it the day before. And at just that moment Cecilia comes up from the cellar with the bowls of soured milk balanced on a tray, and Sister Hanna comes in from the kitchen with small plates and a basket of bread.

“Khleb!” says Doctor Gyllen and sits down, because the only thing she misses from Russia is the bread, the loaves of dark bread that keep that afflicted people on its feet. On Åland, loaves are not a part of the culture, but it does belong to the pastor’s mainland heritage, and here it is, thick slices of splendid bread along with home-churned butter piled on a plate, something the suffering Russian people have had to live without for years. “Ah! Kvass!” she says when the small beer is carried in, suddenly realizing that she has missed that, too.

While Cecilia and Sister Hanna lay out the food, the pastor makes his calls. Sanna stands beside him, and he begins by saying that he has two important pieces of news: Sanna and Cecilia have filled the big sauna dipper with wild strawberries and, meanwhile, Mona gave birth to a daughter. Yes, a fine healthy little girl, although at the moment she looks like a boxer who’s stayed in the ring a few rounds too long, or like Dopey in Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. And yes, everything went well, Mona is healthy and happy and sends her love. The homecare sister is in place and ready to do the milking, all is well.

At the table, Doctor Gyllen has to withdraw her outstretched hand, for the pastor is saying grace. “Bless us, Oh Lord, and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive from thy bounty, through Christ, Our Lord. Amen.”

“And the wild strawberries,” Sanna reminds him.

“Yes, of course,” says Papa. “Bless especially the wild strawberries. Thou hast created them, but Sanna and Cecilia have picked them.”

They can choose how to eat them, either heaped up on the soured milk or by themselves, with sugar and milk, after eating the soured milk with sugar and cinnamon and scraping the bowl clean. Papa and Sister Hanna choose to eat them with the soured milk, but Doctor Gyllen says she’s like a child when it comes to wild strawberries—she means to follow Sanna’s and Cecilia’s lead and eat them separately. “Just with sugar, no milk. Heavenly!” For the first time, Sanna dares to look at Doctor Gyllen, who always looks the same but looks almost happy at the moment.

No matter how hurried you may be when you arrive, and no matter what your eating habits are at home, at the parsonage you will spend a long time at the table. Until finally Doctor Gyllen says they must call the Hindrikses’ hired man so they can have some peace in the house and Sister Hanna can go to the cows. The pastor will go with her and instruct her, but first he calls the Hindrikses and thanks Doctor Gyllen for her services, and she suddenly hears herself say, “My dear Pyotr Leonardovich, you have a good home here and your wife does you honour. I am happy that I was able to help her a little, but on the whole she did it all herself.”

He too is a bit surprised to hear his name in Russian, but mostly he feels honoured. Presumably it means that he and the doctor are now on very good terms, and that with him she can open a chink in her harshness and abruptness and surprise herself. Now she goes in to say goodbye to the pastor’s wife and comes out smiling to say that Mona is now hungry. “Everything looks very good, but if anything should occur, you have only to call, day or night.”

Sister Hanna sends Cecilia in with a tray so that she too can see the new baby, and Sanna goes with her. Cecilia curtseys, blood red in the face, the china rattling on the tray. “Congratulations!” she whispers. “Thank you,” says the pastor’s wife in her normal, energetic voice. “Oh, I’ve been longing for a little something to eat. Bread and butter, soured milk and wild strawberries. You can put the tray right here and then have a look at our little addition!”

Sanna is suddenly an old hand with her sister, and when Mama turns down the blanket, she encourages Cecilia. “Don’t be afraid. It will look better tomorrow.” Then the baby moves, waves its little fists a bit and opens its eyes a crack, enough that they can see a tiny flash of brightness. She opens her mouth and says waaah waaah. “Ooh,” says Sanna. “Does it want a strawberry?” “No,” says Mama. “The first few months she can only drink milk. But I’m going to eat some of your wonderful wild strawberries. It was so nice of you to save so many of them for me.” It’s hard to talk because the baby screams waaah waaah the whole time. “Quiet!” says Sanna, but the baby isn’t listening, and Mama just lets her cry.

“We should go,” Cecilia says, but then Mama says she has something she wants to ask both of them. “What would you say to letting Sanna sleep in Cecilia’s room tonight, what with the baby crying and fussing. If Cecilia agrees, of course.”

“Oh!” Sanna says. “Oh yes!” And Cecilia says, “Yes, of course, if you’ll promise not to chatter all night.” “Good,” says Mama. “Then I’ll ask Papa to carry your bed upstairs when he gets back from the cows. And you need to be nice to Sister Hanna and do what she tells you, because she’s going to be here and help us out for a week. She’s a nice woman and likes children and cows and wild strawberries.”

When they leave the bedroom, Papa and Sister Hanna have gone out to the cow barn. The Hindrikses’ hired man is on his way into the church inlet, and Doctor Gyllen is on her way to the church dock. She’s in amazingly good spirits and wonders if that means bad news is on its way. It seems to be a part of human mentality that people lull themselves into a state of well-being and security just before some fatal blow befalls them. No doubt a characteristic favoured by evolution, since it gives people a small buffer—lower blood pressure, lower pulse, peace of mind—when the blow arrives.

As soon as he’s killed the motor, the hired man yells, “It’s a girl, I heard.” Doctor Gyllen has stopped marvelling. She accepts the fact that in some mysterious way (in which the telephone operator can be presumed to play a not insignificant role), every person on the Örlands, every horse, cow and sheep, knows that the pastor and his wife have had a girl, even though the entire congregation has wished them a son.

Chapter Sixteen

IT’S NICE HAVING THE HOUSE FULL OF WOMEN—Sister Hanna in the guest preacher’s room, Cecilia in the attic, Mona and the two girls in the bedroom. In the parish, people are saying, “Better luck next time,” because out here people want boys who can work and drive boats. Girls are fine after you’ve had two boys. “We’ve still got time,” says the pastor confidently, and it becomes proverbial: “’We’ve still got time,’ said the pastor.” “If you have girls, you’ll get boys,” is another saying he’s picked up on the Örlands. But for the moment, things are quiet. Like a little island of calm in the midst of all the summer’s activities, where the pastor’s family can be by itself with the help of friendly Sister Hanna and dear Cecilia, who keeps Sanna from feeling neglected.

Papa calls her Lillus, and after a few days, Sanna stops calling her “it”. When she turns out to have eyes, and then when she grips Sanna’s fingers hard, Sanna begins to think she’ll be able to have her around even though it’s sad how little she knows and can do. Mama insists that Sanna herself was just as little once, but Sanna finds that hard to believe. They must all help her, Papa says, so she’ll grow up and get to be as smart as Sanna. But it will take a long time, he says, realistically. Both Mama and Papa say she’ll surely turn out all right, although she’ll need a lot of help and looking after on the way.

Sister Hanna is a nice woman and talks to Cecilia and therefore to Sanna. It’s so pleasant to work in the parsonage, she says. Everything is well arranged, and everything was ready when she arrived. They understand her and appreciate her, and she feels like a princess in the guest room. She’s very fond of the pastor’s wife, and the pastor is too good for this world. He takes such good care of his wife! He’s an example for everyone, if only people knew enough to follow his example. This priest’s whole life is like a sermon. You have to admire such a young man who already knows so much about how life should be lived.

She stays for two weeks, but then she has to move on to a house in mourning, she explains, and Sanna cries. “A house in mourning here too, when you go,” says Papa. Mama thanks her heartily, and Papa makes a little speech. “You have been like a good angel in our house,” he says, and all except Lillus walk with her to the boat that has come to get her. Papa goes straight home and writes a letter to the local council about what a blessing this homecare aide has been to his family. He sends his warm thanks to the elected officials who so wisely decided to create this position in spite of strained finances.

Thanks to Sister Hanna, he has also been able to spend hours in his study, and there are times when he begins to foresee the end of his efforts and to believe he’s got a handle on his dissertation. Fredrik has of course passed his exams with flying colours and has sent Petter his questions, not a bunch of hopeless theological hairsplitting but problems that, with rigorous study and thoughtful consideration, he ought to be able to tackle.

Here on the Örlands, it’s a contest between the pastor and Doctor Gyllen as to which of them will finish first. They each ask about the other’s progress when they see one another at the meetings of the Public Health Association. Their conversations these days have an open, friendly tone. They can even tease each other a bit. If only they could do an exchange? So the pastor could get the doctor’s professional experience and the doctor could acquire the pastor’s ability to write Swedish! He has to learn the names of various potentates in the history of the church and she the names of a number of distinguished figures in Finnish medicine and memorize their specialities. She knows clinical medicine from A to Z, but “Ach, Pyotr Leonardovich, the cultural! Medicine is same all over Europe, but each country has its authorities! Titles and designations! God have mercy!” She stops herself, for she doesn’t like to refer to God in the pastor’s presence. He notices her embarrassment.

“Perhaps he will,” he comforts her. “After all, the emphasis must be on your medical, clinical qualifications. And in Latin rather than in Swedish. Which by the way you speak much better than you think. Of course they’re going to pass you. We all think you should have the right to practise medicine even without the Finnish medical exam.”

“Thank you,” Doctor Gyllen says. “And I think I know that the entire parish, I too, think you ought to be permanent vicar even without extra theological examination.”

“Thank you,” he says in turn. Seeing them from a distance, the organist thinks they look like a couple of thieves at a market, and the kindly Hindrikses, who can read their doctor better than she suspects, hope that in the pastor, who is well educated like herself, she will find a person she can talk to about the things that weigh on her mind. The Hindrikses, and the Örlanders in general, don’t need to spend years at a university studying psychology to see that people need to talk to each other to ease their burdens.

Sometimes this thought occurs to Doctor Gyllen herself, who, in moments of weakness, is strongly tempted to speak to this friendly young priest. She would surely be disappointed, as he has so obviously been spared the pain that torments her, but the temptation to expose herself to this disappointment remains distressingly strong. Two things hold her back—the fear that her self-control will collapse and she will go to pieces entirely and sit there sobbing, swaying, unravelling; and the danger that she will calm herself with a pill and then have no need to speak to him, although she has set the time and place.

For the third year she has her parents as summer guests. Petter has met them at the store and at church, where once each summer they attend a service as a kind of social obligation, despite that fact that the general’s wife is Greek Orthodox. Now the pastor gets the idea to invite them to Lillus’s christening, which will take place in the church, with coffee after at the parsonage. The pastor’s own parents will come, along with one of his wife’s sisters and her fiancé, plus friends from the area. It would be an honour if … They owe Doctor Gyllen their thanks and would be delighted if … He is a little embarrassed and almost expects them to thank him and decline, but very cordially they say yes.

The front pews in the church are occupied by Petter and Mona’s relatives and the first friends they made on the Örlands—the organist and the verger and their wives, Adele Bergman and Elis, Brage Söderberg and Astrid, along with Cecilia and Hanna, who’ve been such a great help to them. Everyone in a festive, benevolent mood. Then the general and his wife with Doctor Gyllen, all three of them inscrutable. A warm-hearted christening, Lillus gurgling and delighted by the water on her head, by Papa’s voice, by everything so big. She is frightened when they all start singing, but she gets over it quickly, and after the baptism the pastor once again invites everyone present to the parsonage.

The general knows better than to sit and stare, and his wife learned early how to conduct herself. Doctor Gyllen has trained herself to look a firing squad in the eye without blinking, and no one can see what any of them are thinking. She doesn’t usually attend christenings. Pulling out new babies is not a problem, it’s a job, but freshly scrubbed infants dressed in white as the centre of attention can stir up feelings. Which are held in check with the help of half a pill, which doesn’t leave her muddled but allows her to function normally in social situations. Still, it’s a relief when it’s over and she can stand up, shake hands, congratulate the parents, and take a professional look at the baby, which looks very good! Remembers to greet Sanna as well. The organist, who understands children, says, “Congratulations on becoming a big sister,” to her as she stands earnestly beside her mother, and others follow his example.

Cecilia has run to the parsonage and got the fire going in the stove, and Mona and Sanna hurry after her with Lillus, who has filled her nappy and can be smelled from a great distance. Lillus! The others follow along at an easy pace. The pastor brings up the rear, walking quickly, and falls into step with the Gyllens, honoured guests who nevertheless draw attention to the fact that they are not members of the inner circle of friends. “A beautiful christening,” says the general’s wife, and the general adds, “Beautiful weather too. I allow myself to hope it is a good omen.”

“Thank you,” the pastor says. All sorts of things stumble on his tongue until he says, “A day to remember for us. I’m happy you wanted to be here.”

Doctor Gyllen is walking beside him, full of something she wants to say. She stops and takes off one shoe and shakes it. Nothing comes out. Her parents walk quietly on, arm in arm. The pastor waits politely. Doctor Gyllen straightens up, as tall as he. She talks the way she did when she didn’t want people to see that she was talking, without looking at him. “I too have a child. I am in such distress.”

The pastor pauses long enough to keep himself from blurting out some empty phrase. No religious talk, as he knows what she thinks of that. “Is he still in Russia?” he asks, a neutral question.

“You know that it’s a he?”

“People have mentioned it. Not gossip. With all respect. But still that you had to leave your son behind. The way things are in the Soviet Union, everyone understands.”

“I abandoned him. How can I live with that?”

“My dear friend, when it happened you couldn’t know you’d be separated for such a long time. I understand your sorrow and pain. I admire your strength and composure.”

“You don’t know what it was like. You never knew when you saw people if it would be for the last time. Colleagues. Friends. Your husband. Your child. If I had stayed, KGB would have separated me from my son. But that’s no excuse. I can never forgive myself.”

“In many situations, we’re our own strictest judges. I don’t want to force my beliefs on you, but as a priest I can offer you one comfort. There is one who offers mercy and forgiveness when we can’t offer them to ourselves. He understands your choices. He sees your anguish. He forgives you.”

She has not looked at him, but now she looks away even more, if that’s possible. “The important thing is not how I feel. The important thing is my son. No contact possible. Letters have been sent. Official. Private. Red Cross. Nothing. Not even my father. Russia is like another planet.”

“I know. I don’t know if it would help you if we went through what can be done. I’m certain that you and your father know all the possibilities and have tried every channel. But sometimes it can help to discuss matters with an outsider who is sworn to silence. Nothing we speak of will go further. Maybe by pure chance we’ll come up with something new. In my line of work there are also examples of miracles.”

He smiles, understands perfectly well that she sees things differently, but he nevertheless enjoys shocking her with his naiveté. She almost smiles back, digs in her purse and shakes a pill into the palm of her hand and swallows it without water, throws her head back so it will slide down. “Yes,” she says. “Thank you. And forgive me for detaining you. Now we must go to the parsonage. Christening coffee cannot begin before Papa and Pastor arrive.”

They go in. The doors are open between the dining room and the parlour, there is a great buzz, and all the chairs are in use. The idea is that Mona should sit with the baptized baby in her arms while others serve, but it’s hard for her to see how slowly it’s all going, and she hates having her mother-in-law in the kitchen. Soon enough, Lillus is put to bed and Mona takes over. With help from Cecilia, who is willing and biddable, everything goes smoothly. And when the guests who are not staying on – in every corner of the parsonage – get up to to, the pastor says to Doctor Gyllen, “I’m planning to come to the village tomorrow. We need to talk about the roof-beam celebration for the Health Care Centre. Would it be all right if I look in during the afternoon?”

“That will be fine,” says Doctor Gyllen. “But I don’t expect any miracles.”

And here he is, where everyone can see, his briefcase in hand, knocking on Doctor Gyllen’s door. A long meeting, there is clearly much to discuss concerning the Health Care Centre. Her parents are out rowing in the nice weather. The general’s wife has a parasol raised against the sun, the general has a handkerchief on his head with knots tied at the corners, his braces over his undershirt, his trouser legs rolled up, and his lily-white feet on the duckboards. They row to an island in the bay and have coffee on the granite slope.

The pastor greets her with a smile, the doctor thanks him for yesterday’s reception. “It was all very pleasant.” As for the roof-beam party, maybe better to return to it when Sörling is ready to suggest a date. In any case, they need to discuss the refreshments with Adele Bergman. So:

The pastor has to start, he’s used to that. “All of this must feel like small potatoes compared with your own struggle.”

“Don’t misunderstand me. I do not think what happens here is unimportant. This is the right way to live—normally. Precious for me.”

“Yes, I feel the same way, ever since the end of the war. It’s good that we understand each other on that point. Moreover, I realize that here in Finland there’s a great deal we don’t understand about Rus—, about the Soviet Union. This Iron Curtain they talk about makes it hard for information to get through. Propaganda on their side, propaganda on ours. What are things really like over there?”

“A little better, I hope, now that the war is over. Materially. Maybe not the same hunger. But otherwise my information is quite old. Years have gone. No channels which function. Total isolation. We know nothing. We do not hear even rumours.”

“Before the war there were lots of rumours. People disappearing. No one knew anything for sure.”

“People who have never lived there don’t understand. No one knows what it was like.”

“No. Did you know other Finns in Leningrad? My father was in contact with Finns he met in America who moved to the Soviet Union, but then there were no more letters.”

“Many are dead. Others in camps. Yes, I knew Finns. In happier times, in their youth, my father knew Edvard Gylling. He looked me up in Leningrad. You will think it comic, but we always spoke Swedish together. Except last few times. We didn’t dare. We spoke only Russian, only the most common phrases. ‘I am happy to see you, dear Edvard Gylling.’ ‘And I to see you, dear little Irina Gyllen.’ ‘How is your dear family?’ ‘Fine, thank you, in good health. Fanny especially sends greetings.’ That was his last visit to Leningrad. Then arrested. Fanny taken away. Grown children, no contact.”

“Terrible.”

“He was a good person. An idealist. A socialist. Ach, if he had only stepped back when the civil war in Finland could no longer be prevented.”

“Like our own great donor, who knew enough to flee to Sweden. He had relatives here who helped him move on.”

“Gylling could have done the same. But he could not betray his ideals. What he saw as the cause. He could not betray his comrades.”

“He made the wrong decision for the right reasons. While things are happening, we have no access to the final accounting.”

“If he could have persuaded Fanny to stay in Sweden with the children or go to Finland when it was still possible! We were such good friends. Our names so similar. We had nicknames for each other. We always spoke Swedish. About our youth. Although I had more Russian than he and had lived longer in Russia. I was admitted to medical school before the Revolution.”

“You lived through all of it.”

“Yes. I knew how poor, ignorant, dirty, helpless the people were. We were many who thought the Revolution must happen to change these evils. How could we? So stupid.”

“You believed in reforms, ideals. That’s not stupid.”

“Years went by before we understood, and then we didn’t want to believe. I could pursue my studies, I took examinations, specialized. Got married. My husband like me. Those years, when we could have emigrated to Finland. The Finnish immigrants also.”

“People act on the information and the hopes they have. No one can demand that you should have known then what you know now.”

“Yes, but later. People start to disappear. Arrests. Everyone afraid. People afraid to talk. Afraid to telephone. Suspect each other. It takes astonishingly long time, my dear Pyotr Leonardovich, before you realize you are not paranoid to suspect your friends of being informers. You do everything from fear—wrong things, immoral things, ugly things. You’ve never had to see what you can be driven to do.”

“No.”

“And the worst of all, you let time pass until you can no longer save yourself. Contacts with Finland broken. No more invitations to consulate. Russian police at the gate, always asking for invitation, name, papers. The best doctors gone, new doctors and commissars, surveillance. My husband and I told ourselves for long time the regime needs doctors. They can’t manage without us. We’re safe. If we just work, not talk, not attract attention. Then we had our son, born in ’thirty-two. For him we do everything.”

“Yes.”

“There is so much envy. Everyone has something that someone else wants. Your job at the hospital. Your apartment. Something so unimportant you can’t even imagine. We discuss all the time, my husband and I, what is best for the child. If one of us is arrested, the other gets divorce. Disclaim the other, we forgive each other in advance. Live quietly with child. Hope for better times.”

“I sympathize completely with everything you say.”

“Yes. But then just betrayal. He is arrested, for what? Enemy of the people, saboteur. Divorce as we planned, but not right, immoral. And no use. If he, Russian, blameless, is arrested, why then not me? You cannot imagine such terror. I thought only of saving us. Me and my son. Then I got chance—I cannot tell you how or through whom …”

“Of course not!”

“… but I got chance, without my son. And I was so terrified, I deserted him. I thought: in Finland we can arrange exit visa for him, legally, with help of legation. Selfish, wrong! Then came the war, all diplomatic relations broken. Five years! I can never forgive myself.”

“For pity’s sake! If you had stayed you would have been arrested yourself. You’d have disappeared like so many others. Your son would have lost his mother anyway. Now at least you have a chance of getting back in touch.”

“Thank you. Yes, that is rational thinking. But think of the child. Abandoned by his mother, completely alone in the world. He doesn’t think like you. He has simply been abandoned.”

“Do you know anything about the people you left him with? Your husband’s relatives?”

“No. Strangers at that address, no contact. Unable to trace father’s parents either. Maybe also arrested.”

“The Finnish Consulate?”

“Yes, father has certain contacts. A brave person rang the bell of the apartment where I left him. Other people there. No information about earlier residents. Nor about father’s parents at their address. But otherwise Finnish legation in Moscow very cautious. We must not provoke great powerful Soviet Union that swallows us in next war.”

“I suppose you’ve tried to contact orphanages in the Leningrad area.”

“Yes, but you understand—evacuations. And I’m glad for that. Otherwise the boy would not have survived the siege. But it meant chaos in documentation.”

“He’s a teenager now. Maybe he’s tried to find you? He knows that you came from Finland. He knows your maiden name, maybe even remembers the name of his grandfather. If he contacts the Finnish legation … Or no, he doesn’t know you fled, and it can’t be easy for an adolescent in the Soviet Union to contact a foreign legation.”

“His parents are enemies of the people, Finland an enemy in the war. How could he, a fifteen-year-old boy?”

“No, that was silly of me, too optimistic. What I mean is later, in the future. But it’s now you need to make contact.”

“I don’t even know if he’s alive. If he is alive—a boy at the worst age. If we saw each other now, it might not be a happy meeting. Accusations, hate towards me. Hate towards Finland.”

“You can grieve about that later. What’s important now is to find out if he’s alive and how he’s getting along. Everything else follows from that. My dear Doctor Gyllen, I will keep all of this in my mind and in my heart. You may well believe that there is nothing to be done, and for the moment perhaps you’re right. You’ve thought of everything, you have contacts that I can’t even imagine. But believe me, it helps to talk about things, the person you talk to can keep his eyes and ears open and perhaps stumble across something that proves to be useful. Things happen all the time that no one ever expected.”

“Miracles?”

“Forgive me. I know you don’t believe in them. Neither do I, but I hope for them. Allow me to do so for your sake. Please don’t take it the wrong way, Doctor Gyllen, but I’m going to pray for you. For your reunion. Privately, of course,” he adds quickly.

“Yes of course, naturally. What can I say? Thank you.”

They both smile. The pastor is not going to embarrass her by saying a prayer at the table. She is not going to depress him by telling him how she feels about religion. She is happy that she’s been able to maintain her self-control. No tears, no turgid self-accusations. On his side, he has not been unnecessarily pious. He gets ready to stand up and smiles apologetically. “Remember you can always talk to me. My vow of silence is absolute and includes even murder. You have your own medical confidentiality. Oh my, it’s only two months now until we both face our respective examinations. Thank you for talking to me, but now we have to study.”

“Thank you for coming,” she says, finding it absolutely impossible to say anything more.

“Don’t mention it. My wife and I owe you a huge debt of gratitude, you know that.”

She stands in the window and watches him as he cycles homewards. Before he’s out of sight, he stops at some bushes and eats raspberries. Only then does she realize how totally absorbed she was by her own problems when he was talking to her. Örlanders never let anyone leave without offering food or drink. Even when food is scarce, Russians never forget the rules of hospitality. She should have given him coffee! She should have bought a coffee cake at the store now that such things are available again. He tried to give her hope, and she sent him away hungry!

The pastor has added Doctor Gyllen’s son to the list of things he prays for, and he prays a first prayer as he rides. He thinks of Doctor Gyllen, unnaturally self-controlled or perhaps petrified and frozen to the core after all she’s been through. And he thinks about what it would be like to have to leave Sanna and Lillus, to suddenly not come home one day. If it was a matter of saving their lives, certainly, but if it was a question of saving his own? A terrible choice, and slim comfort he came up with for Doctor Gyllen: that under present circumstances she would have been separated from him in any event. But which sounds better to an adolescent? My parents were liquidated, or, My mother abandoned me and fled to Finland? Doctor Gyllen lives with this every day. Dear God, let her be reunited with her son.

Chapter Seventeen

A YEAR AND A HALF AFTER HIS ARRIVAL on the Örlands, Pastor Petter Kummel is about to make his first trip to the mainland. It is the end of September, beautiful Indian-summer weather. Bareheaded, because his handsome head of hair lifts his hat off his head, light topcoat not used since his arrival, cassock in his suitcase. His dissertation sent on ahead, notes about it in his briefcase. Since the trip is a long one—boat to Mellom, steamboat to Åbo, train to Helsingfors, bus to Borgå—there is reason to believe he’ll have time to rehearse a number of fine points in church law and theology and polish his prepared sermon, so his briefcase is stuffed with abstracts and other papers of every kind. The heart inside the shirt is relatively calm. In his free moments, he has actually managed to read a great deal and has real faith in his ability to elucidate a variety of topics. And it would be presumptuous to believe his dissertation the worst ever written!

The postal boat leaves in the evening to meet the night boat from Mariehamn at Mellom. All three of his girls are down at the church dock to wish him a good journey. Lillus is asleep in her carriage and, like so many times before, it is Sanna who clings and kisses and Mona who says brightly, “Now don’t worry! You’re going to do beautifully. But watch out for the traffic. You haven’t been on a city street since May 1946 and cars aren’t like cows. And give our love to the Helléns and tell them we’ll all come to visit next summer.”

The verger rows him over to the steamboat pier, and when he turns his head in the rowing boat, he sees them smile and wave and then turn and go back to the parsonage, for the evening air is chilly and it’s time for Sanna to go to bed. He holds out hope nevertheless and, sure enough, when half an hour later Post-Anton passes Church Isle, Mona and Sanna are standing up on steeple hill like dark silhouettes against the light sky, waving. He can almost hear them calling, “Have a good trip! Good luck!” Everyone on the boat smiles, because people don’t do this on the Örlands. Here you’re gone when you step into the boat and at home when you step ashore.

Post-Anton, like all other two- and four-legged creatures on the Örlands, knows what this is about—the pastoral examination, which means that the pastor could obtain the post of incumbent vicar of Örland parish. Cecilia and Hanna, the organist and the verger, have all seen how he sits and reads and reads and writes and writes. For once the entire population of the Örlands is in agreement. It is senseless that such a good priest should have to be grilled by the high priests in Borgå before he can apply for a post he is clearly cut out for. There are not many passengers, and he manages to exchange a few words with Post-Anton before they reach the Mellom islands.

They speak of the lovely weather and how long it may last and about his travel plans. Anton is familiar with Åbo and Helsingfors, but Borgå is an exotic place where the bishop resides and where the diocese’s well-being is decided for better or for worse. Anton knows there is an ancient cathedral there, like a shell around the bishop’s exalted person, and the pastor tells him about the chapterhouse, which is from the Swedish time. His thoughts are fully transparent, and finally he cannot restrain himself from asking, “How do you think it will go?”

He laughs as if it were a game of some sort, and I smile as well, and I say, “I’m sure you’ll do fine on your examination!” But I have my own interest in the matter, for I am used to seeing seaways in my mind but think very little about the way things are on land. I saw him stand there waving to his wife and daughter as if he already longed to be home, so I don’t know why I also saw another woman, of a kind he should not meet. For heaven’s sake, I cannot tell the pastor to “Watch out for fallen women” like a fortune teller in a tent. No, God forbid. But there’s someone there who’s a real stone in his path. What can I say?

“But there will be headaches,” I say. “You must be prepared for that. I don’t have such powers of divination that I can tell you what’s going to happen, but this much I can tell you from experience, that there are things which do not go as planned. There are stones on a person’s path. If you are prepared for that and can avoid them, you’ll be fine.”

It is painful to see how uneasy he becomes. I should have said nothing. “I am as well prepared as I can be,” he objects. “I have train and bus timetables and I’ve booked lodgings in Borgå. Brought my alarm clock so I’m sure to wake up. What could go wrong? Even if the boat should have engine trouble, I have so much leeway that I should get there with time to spare.”

“Yes, yes,” I say. “All of that will be just fine. Pay no attention to what I think, but when things get difficult, it’s generally about people. For women, men; for men, women. You know a lot of people in Finland and who knows who you’ll run into?”

“I’ve arranged things so I won’t see anyone until after the exam,” he says. “But then it will be a real circus. I’m prepared for that.”

“Good,” I say. “Then everything’s as it should be and everything will be all right.”

It’s late when we get to Mellom and dark as pitch, but who should be standing on the pier to meet us but the Mellom priest. It’s nice of him, and our priest is really, really happy to see him.

“Well I’ll be! What are you doing here?” he shouts. “In the middle of the night!”

“Of course I had to be here to wish you luck!” the Mellom priest says. “It’s not every day the island deanery gets to send one of its own to the Inquisition!”

That’s the last I hear, but I can see that they stand there chatting and then the pastor asks me if I think he’s got time to run up to the parsonage for a few minutes before the steamboat arrives. “Yes indeed,” I say. “It would be a major miracle if it sticks to the timetable now that they’ve got the fore hold full of animals on their way to the slaughterhouse. You can safely take it easy for an hour. If it does come I’ll send Kalle up to warn you.” He leaves his suitcase in the waiting room but takes his briefcase with him, though it’s equally heavy.

The priest from the Örlands sits at the Mellom parsonage surrounded by goodwill, drinking tea and eating a cheese sandwich. He has his own sandwiches with him, but the pastor’s wife at Mellom says he should save them. “Oh, the days we’ve spent on those boats in our time!” she exclaims. “And what an awfully long time it takes! And we’re only going between Mellom and Åbo, whereas you’re coming from the Örlands and going all the way to Borgå. You’ll be happy to have those sandwiches tomorrow morning.”

So there he sits keeping them up in the middle of the night, drinking tea and being grilled in a very friendly way by Fredrik, who is an expert on the pastoral exams, which he passed with the highest marks. He thinks Petter sounds collected and sensible and is convinced that the exam can only go well. Of course he’s nervous, and it’s understandable that he takes his leave relatively soon and says he feels easiest down at the pier where he can hail the boat himself. Now he’s feeling on top of the world and thanks them for their hospitality and good luck wishes.

When he’s gone, Fredrik stands at the window looking out, although his wife has gone to bed and repeats that it’s late, middle of the night, soon the wee hours. Yes, yes, and finally the steamship arrives, seriously delayed. He can see Petter in his mind’s eye, frozen, shivering, sick of waiting, nervous. And he was so happy that I came down to meet his boat!

No one can see a ship approach in the darkness, its side lanterns glowing, its bridge lit up, without feeling yearning and sadness and, at the same time, strong, unalloyed excitement and expectation. Change, in short, although even as a child he had learned to be suspicious of the change that was the very breath of life for his inconstant, unstable father. Now he’s on his way, be it to sink or swim, and after the cathedral there will be a whole series of stimulating get-togethers and a visit he’s been looking forward to in particular—to Mona’s home and the Helléns, where he can talk to his heart’s content about all Mona’s wonderful achievements and about Sanna and Lillus.

As the ship thumps across Delet Bay, he manages to get an hour’s sleep on a sofa in the smoking saloon, but then it’s time for all the landings in the Åbo archipelago. The moment he falls asleep, he hears the change in the engines as the ship nears land, the footsteps of heavily burdened crewmen, shouts between the ship and land, bumps and blows as the ship hits the pier. Then loading and stowing, shouts and orders, new passengers who come in talking loudly and slamming doors. He has to sit upright on the sofa in case it gets crowded. On and on, a long series of repetitions through the far-flung archipelago.

He can smell Åbo from as far away as Erstan, and when they approach the river, the fumes they encounter are suffocating to a man who has lived undefiled in the fresh sea air of the Örlands. Åbo reeks to high heaven, but at the same time he has to go out on deck and look at the city, which is large and mighty and clamorous. The shipyards work around the clock building ships to pay the war reparations to the Russians. The vessels in the docks will all go east. Farther up the river in the mechanical workshops, men are welding, grinding, and scraping. Slowly, skilfully, with dignity, the Åland II approaches its berth. Above the trees, he can see the tower of the cathedral where the clock strikes nine as the giddy, sleepless passengers stagger ashore. The calves and other young animals in the open hold look around with eyes that are used to seeing greenery and twitch ears that are accustomed to a gentler kind of noise, not knowing what awaits them as the slaughterhouse truck backs up to the edge of the quay.

By now the pastor is already moving briskly towards the railway terminal, a trim figure between a suitcase and a briefcase, walking with the bustle of the city in his step. He has already missed one train and needn’t rush to catch the next, but hurries anyway because others do. Much to look at, he stares like the country bumpkin he’s become, puts down his baggage on the floor of the terminal with relief. Buys his ticket, clatters away through a familiar landscape. Nothing has changed, as if he’d left it all astern when, liberated, he sailed away to the Örlands. No one he knows boards the train at stations where he has acquaintances, no one knows that he sits on this particular train, and, incognito, he sweeps past his old school station and what was for many years his home. Free from all of it!

Then Helsingfors, where he went to university, marked by the war when he left, marked by the war still. But the same restless activity as in Åbo, building and repairing. He will see many people here on his way home. Now he crosses Mannerheim Road to the bus station, finds the Borgå platform, sits down in the sun and waits for the next bus. He takes out his notes and tries to read, but with so much activity around him he finds it hard to concentrate, and his eyes are as curious as a child’s—there’s so much going on, cars and trams, the ice-cream stand that has sprung up after all the years of war. As an adult, he is happy that everything has returned to normal, while his childish eye hunts for everything new— automobile models, clothing, the new design of the street lights. Of course he hasn’t missed traffic and crowds! Of course he loves seeing them again! If only he were free of his exhaustion, his aching unease. That’s why he’s travelling directly to Borgå, so he can rest and read his most important notes one more time and then sleep one long, quiet night. Wake up rested and clear-headed.

When he arrives in Borgå late that afternoon, still in possession of his suitcase and briefcase, he leaves his things at the small hotel and asks about an inexpensive restaurant. He’s been travelling all night and plans an early evening. The desk clerk gives him a meaningful look and tells him a person has been there asking for him—a woman.

The pastor is amazed. “I don’t know anyone here. Did she say who she was? Did she leave any kind of message? Are you sure it was me she was looking for?”

No and no and yes indeed, she asked for him by name.

“My goodness. Well, since I wasn’t expecting anyone and don’t know who she is, I’ll get something to eat and go for a little walk. I ought to be back in an hour or so.”

Why this intense unease? Mostly, of course, because he desperately needs to be alone this evening and collect himself for tomorrow. But also because the clerk called her “a person—a woman” in a certain tone of voice, not “lady” or “young lady”. If it had been someone from the cathedral chapter, she would have left a message. But also, and most of all, because he can in fact recall a certain female person from this area. No no no.

Mona has admonished him to eat a good meal once he gets there, despite the expense, because he’ll need his strength the next day. If she knows her husband, he’ll be way too nervous in the morning to eat anything but bread and butter. Obediently, he orders meatballs served with boiled potatoes and gravy and lingonberry jam. It smells good, but it nauseates him. It’s all the rocking and bouncing taking its toll, he tells himself. He’s also nervous and, he can’t deny it, scared. He picks at the food without the sensual pleasure he had anticipated. Finally he orders a cup of tea and an apple pastry, an unnecessary expense the way he feels. When he’s finished, he goes for a walk, watches the traffic in the river and has a look at the houses and streets of the old city, the cathedral looming overhead. Such pleasure he’s had from that walk in the past, and so little he has now. He must return to the hotel because that’s where he has his things, even though the weather is so nice that he could sleep under a bush or in a boathouse by the river.

Pastor Kummel enters the hotel the same way the animals on the Åland II were herded into the slaughterhouse trucks on the quay. And sure enough, a female person sits in one of the chairs by the window. She stands up at once. “Petter! Do you remember me? It’s me, Hilda.”

He extends his hand. “Of course I remember you, Hilda! How are you! And how in the world did you know I would be in Borgå?”

“Your mother wrote to tell me. It made me so happy in my adversity. You come as if sent by Providence.”

“Has something happened?” he asks sympathetically, while thinking of his mother. It’s kind of her to stay in touch with her former housemaids. And typical of her to spread far and wide the news of her children’s plans and intentions. Including, apparently, times and places. Mama! You think you’re an adult and live your own life, but in the background, always and eternally, is Mama.

Hilda bursts into actual tears. “My husband is dead and I don’t know what to do. I must talk to you.”

“Hilda, dear Hilda, this comes so suddenly. Didn’t Mama tell you that I have a big examination at the cathedral chapter early tomorrow morning? It’s very important, and I need to spend the evening preparing.”

She weeps. “When a person’s in distress, she has the right to speak to a priest.”

She has clearly boxed him in, and clearly he has to do as she asks. But it is not what the desk clerk expected as he stands there following every word and gesture. The pastor has registered as Pastor Petter Kummel, and this woman appears to want comfort from this man of the church. If only he knew how complicated it was. If he had the slightest idea, the clock on the wall would stop and the ivy wither. Petter points to the chair she sat in. “Shall we sit down? Tell me what’s happened.”

She rolls her eyes towards the desk clerk. “Please, Petter, in private. You must have a room?”

Petter is in despair, and it’s good if the staring desk clerk sees it. This is nothing he has arranged. But, as a priest and a human being, what is he to do? Petter turns to the clerk apologetically. “I understand perfectly well that there is a rule against entertaining guests in the rooms. But this lady is a former servant in my parents’ home, and as a priest I cannot turn her away in her need. Could you permit us to talk in my room?”

“Well, all right, then,” the man says. “As an exception, this once.” He hands Petter the key.

“Thank you,” he says. “Please, follow me,” he says to her and walks ahead down the corridor, unlocks the door and holds it open. One chair, which is for her, and the bed, where he is forced to sit. As inappropriate as it could possibly be under the circumstances, for Hilda and a bed figured in a nighttime episode that gives him considerable anguish.

The same pressure in the bladder then as now. Hilda slept in the kitchen, and it was through the kitchen he had to pass in order to get to the outhouse. He was sixteen years old, obsessed with the stories told him by the men in the hospital ward where he was taken for his tuberculosis. He thought constantly about women and sex, masturbated, begged God for forgiveness and the strength to resist. Never thought of the women in the house in that way, was only afraid of disturbing them when, quiet as a mouse, he closed the kitchen door before tiptoeing up the stairs to the boys’ bedroom.

She, awake, “Is that you Petter?”

“Sorry, Hilda, did I wake you? I didn’t mean to.”

“Don’t be sorry. Come and sit here.”

“I think I’d better get back to bed. It’s the middle of the night. I apologize again.”

“Don’t be silly. You’re a big boy and can do as you like. Come over here and sit down like I’m telling you.”

And he, obedient, sits down. She: “Like that. Only a little closer.” She laughs quietly, deep in her throat, and presses up against him. He leans away, tries to stand up, she pulls him down. “Now, now. Don’t you know what to do? Such a big boy.”

It’s as if he’d been clubbed. No will of his own. Only half conscious. Knows only that he must be quiet so he doesn’t wake up the whole house. She throws off the covers, and there it is, the smell those awful, obscene men talked about, the smell of sex that makes it stand up straight! She reaches her hand down to the crotch of his pyjamas. “Yes, you are a man.” Contented sigh. She takes his hand and puts it on her body. Her nightgown has ridden up. “What do you think of this?”

It is hairy and wet. Warm, alive. She takes one of his fingers and puts it into what he realizes is her vagina. “Do you want to try? So you’re not so shy next time?” She sighs again and wriggles a bit and moans. “Don’t make me beg. Come on.”

She is amazingly strong, or maybe she needs no strength, his body is willing and lets itself be pulled onto her and presses eagerly when she leads it to the right place. Suddenly and irreversibly engaged in what the encyclopedia describes as coitus, when the male organ is introduced into the woman’s vagina. Conception occurs when, on ejaculation, sperm cells swim to the fertile egg in the woman’s uterus. Oh dear God.

This is what he thinks only seconds after his orgasm. That she could be with child. That he can become a father at the age of seventeen and have to live in a forced marriage for the rest of his life. Was it for this he was saved? His promises to God? Come to this? Terrified, he tears himself free, grabs his pyjama trousers, almost sobbing. “Well, where are you going in such a hurry?” she asks from where she’s lying. “Wasn’t it good?”

“I didn’t mean to,” he blurts out. In any case he can still move, to the attic stairs, up. His brothers sleep and snore. He can’t moan out loud, he can’t hang himself without waking them when he kicks away the chair. Powerless, he lies down on his bed, sticky and smelly. He has a math test at school in the morning and should be rested and alert, but what does that matter now, whether or not he succeeds at school, since he’ll have to leave when it becomes clear that she’s with child.

How did he survive the night? How did he get through the following year, when he came down to the kitchen as late as possible, snatched a slice of bread and grabbed a gulp of coffee without sitting down before rushing off to the station. Came home and ate with the others, left the table as soon as possible and studied, skipped evening tea so that he would never ever have to go to the outhouse at night. Peeked at her out of the corner of his eye to ascertain whether she’d grown heavier, an expert at avoiding her gaze. She, hurt and angry. Mama: “How have you managed to get on Hilda’s bad side?” Total terror for eight months. Meanwhile, he has started thinking that the possible child isn’t even necessarily his, that she had planned it in order to frame him instead of the actual father, who had taken to his heels. Then exhaustion mixed with relief when he realized that she wasn’t pregnant, that no one knew anything. At the same time, disgust and fear at the thought of how easily it happens, almost before you know it. Without the love he’d imagined was the basis of everything.

Now an exact parallel. The same merciless pressure in his bladder. He never should have drunk that big cup of tea. Where she’s sitting blocks the way to the WC in the corridor. He unhinged from discomfort and fear. She in tears. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Tell me what’s the matter.”

“I don’t know where to start. I’m so unhappy I just want to die.”

“Hilda, you said that your husband died. Was it recently?”

“Not exactly died. Ran off. I’m completely alone.”

“Do you have any children?”

“No. Or rather a girl who’s with my mother. I have to work.”

“What work do you do?”

“I clean for families in town. I can’t hardly manage.”

“I understand it must be hard. And badly paid. And when you’re depressed … Do you have friends you can talk to?”

“Who’d take the trouble?”

“Don’t say that. I remember that Hilda had a lot of friends. You were a whole group of girls who went out together on your free afternoons.” If his bladder bursts, he’ll be an invalid forever. He has to get up. “Excuse me. I just have to …” He sidles to the door, leaving it ajar. An endless distance to the end of the corridor, but at least the WC is free. Ah! The flush can be heard in the whole house, you might as well stand on the roof and shout what you’ve been doing.

He left the door ajar so she wouldn’t start going through his things, and maybe she hasn’t, either, but of course she’s searched the room with her eyes. He smiles benevolently, as relieved as that night he came into the kitchen from the outhouse. More relaxed, he sits back down on the bed. She has had time to think about the conversation they’ve had and doesn’t like his interrogation.

“I didn’t come here to talk about how I live and work. Everyone who works has the same life—drudgery and bad pay. What I need to talk about is where I’m to get the strength to bear it.”

“Yes.”

“When I had a man, I thought I had something to live for. He was no great shakes, but all the same he was a kind of protection or what should I call it. I had someone to wait for. It’s more fun to cook when there’s two of you. More clothes to wash, of course, big heavy men’s clothes, but it’s still better. Do you understand what I’m saying? That I don’t know how I’m going to live all alone. It’s dreadful. Nowadays there aren’t any live-in housemaids any more, like at your place. Back then I thought it was horrible, you didn’t have any life of your own. But it’s awful being alone. Do you know what I mean?”

“I’m trying. At least I think I understand. You miss your husband. So it’s lucky he’s not dead, just gone. Do you know where he is? Because then maybe you can repair the damage. Maybe you had a fight when he left. Maybe he doesn’t know that you feel the way you do. Tell him! The same way you’ve told me.”

“Well of course he’s got someone else. Younger than me. And now they’ve got a kid together. I had my girl with another fellow. What would he want to come back to me for?”

“I see.” Suddenly he can’t repress a colossal yawn. “Excuse me. I got no sleep last night on the way to Åbo. My head is spinning.”

“I’ll be going,” she says, giving him hope. “But first I have to ask if as a priest you can’t give me some comfort. What would Jesus say?”

He knows very well what Jesus would say. “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” But he can never, ever say to her, “Come unto me.” He smiles crookedly, feeling almost drunk. “Jesus says, ‘Follow me.’ He means that if we live as true Christians in prayer and faith, we can experience a different sort of joy and meaning in our lives. One way of approaching that kind of life is to go to church. There is a genuine fellowship in a congregation. There you’re not alone.”

He can hear how empty it sounds, and she objects, quite rightly, “That’s all very well. But I wonder. Just look at me. You can see I’m working class and not the kind of person who moves in refined circles. They don’t accept people like me at the drop of a hat.”

“Don’t think that far ahead. Just try to develop a spiritual life. Don’t forget to pray. We can bring everything that oppresses us to Jesus. Go to church. Sing the hymns. Listen to the priest. It may seem dry and irrelevant, but by and by it will all open up. The stories from Jesus’s life turn out to be about our own lives. The lessons and parables give us counsel and instruction if we’re open to them. We think not only about what we want ourselves but about what may be God’s will for our lives. In prayer, our thinking grows clearer and we can find solutions to problems that seemed insurmountable before.”

“You can certainly talk. Just like your father.”

“I take your question about Jesus seriously.”

“It’s hard to think about Jesus in heaven when what you need is a man here on earth.”

Slow steps in the corridor that almost stop outside the door. Someone is listening. Petter, self-controlled: “If we read the New Testament we see that Jesus was not so otherworldly. He was a carpenter, a worker. He knew what it meant to be poor. He sympathized with the sorrows of his fellow men not by pitying them but by showing them new paths to follow.” The steps move on. “When he saved the adulteress from being stoned, he showed that we are not put here to judge one another. But he also showed her how to change her life. ‘Go and sin no more.’”

“Do you think I’m an adulteress? Then what are you?”

“That’s easy to answer. A great sinner. No one is free of sin. That’s why Jesus came into the world, to save us from our sins.”

“I came here to get help and comfort, and you just talk about Jesus.”

“Hilda, you came here because I’m a priest. But if we leave that aside, what is it you want to talk about?”

“That life shouldn’t be so boring! That you ought to get to have some fun! That someone should like you. That you shouldn’t have to get old. That work shouldn’t be so hard. That you ought to get paid better. That you shouldn’t always have to skimp and save and borrow money. That you ought to be healthy and not have to go to the hospital. That you should have a husband who likes you. That people shouldn’t be so mean. That you shouldn’t ever have to cry.”

Against his will, he is touched, and he answers with warmth. “There are a lot of us who could subscribe to that. There’s much that every one of us has to do without.”

“No, I really don’t think you can compare yourself with me. Your mother writes about eminent postings and rectories and a fine wife and darling sweetie-pie kids. Money in your wallet and folks that bow and treat you to coffee. What do you know about it?”

There are many things he could reply to that, among them that there is truth in what she says. He counts himself fortunate at having come out of darkness into light. It means he owes everything to other people. He can’t show her the door because that would be the most comfortable thing to do, indeed the only sensible thing to do given tomorrow morning’s examination. His peace of mind is already deeply shaken, time is passing, and nothing can be repaired. By virtue of his ordination, he is put in a position to be the servant of his fellow men. She is unhappy and bitter and cries genuine tears. If his calling means anything, he must find the strength to sacrifice his convenience even in situations where his own future career is at risk. He can hear Mona’s furious objections, even the amused forbearance of the cathedral chapter, but here he sits. Nevertheless, he makes an effort.

“Not so much, I admit. But I’m trying to understand. But Hilda, it’s very late. Goodness, it’s eleven o’clock. And here we still sit. What are people going to think?”

She gives him an ugly smile. “Tomorrow you’ll leave. What difference does it make?”

“I’m also thinking of my examination tomorrow.”

“You’ll come through with flying colours. You’re so smart.”

“I’ve never said I was. It’s Mama who brags. It embarrasses me to think of it. The truth is, I haven’t had time to prepare the way I should have.”

“I’ll go. But I also came here in order to see you. I hope you haven’t become so sanctimonious that you’ve forgotten how I slept in the kitchen.”

“No, Hilda, you’ll have to forgive me. That was twelve, thirteen years ago. A half-grown boy isn’t really responsible for his actions.”

She snorts. “Grown up enough when it came right down to it.”

“Please, Hilda. We did wrong, both of us. But we never did again. Nothing further happened. Now let’s change the subject.” He is sweating under his shirt and exhausted. In his bag he has his cassock and collar, which he can never again wear with honour.

She snorts again. Her behaviour is equal parts genuine despair and a desire to wound and torment. She is not only spiteful. It’s rather that cruelty and envy are parts of her misery—people grow malicious when everything goes against them. “Easy for you to say, with a wife and children, nothing wrong with your married life. But I have nothing. Utterly alone.”

“Yes,” he says. “I know.” And thinks that if he is silent and lets her talk, she will eventually get it all out. Then he can go with her to the front door and say goodbye in the presence of the desk clerk and wish her good luck.

But he’s not to get off so easy. She has a great deal to say, and she has to say it several times because he doesn’t react in the wonderfully comforting way she wants. He sits there like a block of wood, nods occasionally, is cross-eyed with exhaustion, bleats, “I’m trying to understand. It must be hard.” She weeps, almost shouts, and he hushes her. “Think of the other guests, who’ve already gone to bed. Please, Hilda, it’s late.” Sometimes he sneaks a look at the clock. It’s twelve. It’s twelve-thirty. Thinks of Mona, who wouldn’t be as angry with Hilda as with him. “How can you be such a milksop! There’s no one on earth let’s himself be used the way you do. You should be in an institution!” And then finally he stands up, three hours too late.

“I know it’s hard. But it’s when we’ve come through such despair that we reach clarity and can leave some of the pain behind. Then the worst is soon over. But now I have to say good night. I’ll see you out.”

She leaves, indignant and disappointed. He remains, devastated. No point in even thinking about his notes, the important thing now is to get a few hours sleep so he’ll know his own name in the morning at least. He takes out his pyjamas and is suddenly freezing, lies shivering uncontrollably, his teeth chattering, beneath the thin blanket and the flimsy bedspread. A tremendous headache hovers behind his brow. A little sleep is all he needs, but at four o’clock he is still awake and remembers that he hasn’t set his alarm clock. Gets out of bed and sets it. Thinks that now he dares to fall asleep and still has time to get three hours. But he’s as wakeful as if he were paralysed and taken for dead, full of horror, unable to move, unable to do anything to keep the coffin lid from being nailed into place.

He is still awake at five, five-thirty, thinks he might just as well get up and try to read a little, but falls asleep as he thinks the thought. Flies out of bed when the alarm goes off, stumbles to the floor with a violent headache, doesn’t think he can stand up if he tries. Remembers that Mona has packed a tube of aspirin just in case. Climbs arduously to his feet and, moaning, swallows three. Forces himself to get moving, washes in the sink, shaves laboriously and naturally cuts himself and has to stop the bleeding with a piece of newspaper. Takes out clean underclothes, a clean shirt, his cassock that Mona has folded so carefully that it looks fine even without being hung on a hanger all night, fastens his collar at his neck with difficulty. Good morning, Pastor Kummel, slept well? Well prepared, to all appearances.

Rakes everything else into his suitcase. Makes an ineffective sweep of the room to see if he’s forgotten anything. Shamefacedly checks that his wallet is still in the inside pocket of his coat—yes, his money is safe. Checks his watch, checks his watch, checks his watch, the face of which is blurred and the numbers drifting. His headache has entrenched itself in his left temple and feels as if it were pushing out his eye. Its tentacles have a grip on his skull and are squeezing. He doesn’t know how he’s going to deal with the desk clerk but takes his things and locks the door and goes down, heavy steps like an old man. “Good morning.”

“Well, good morning, good morning. Yes?”

“I’d like to pay for my room, but I’m hoping I can leave my suitcase here until I’m finished at the cathedral chapter sometime this afternoon.”

“That will be fine. Yes, of course. You had a late night.”

“I must apologize if we disturbed anyone. It turned into quite a lengthy pastoral session. One of the drawbacks to my calling, to put it crassly.”

“Pastoral session?”

“Yes. When someone seeking help speaks to a priest.”

The desk clerk laughs right in his face. “That’s good. First time I’ve heard that one.”

The pastor sees this as the first station in today’s Via Dolorosa. Receives the ignominy graciously, lays his bills on the desk, thanks the man, and goes.

Straight out into the autumn morning’s stinging sunshine. His eyes ache and throb. Half blind, he walks to the restaurant and orders coffee, a glass of milk, and a cinnamon roll, in hopes that the sugar will give him a little energy. Compares his watch with the clock on the wall. “Is your clock right?”

“A little fast, but not much. If you’re starting at nine, you ought to make it.”

“Thank you.” But the chicory coffee tastes awful, the milk is tepid, and the roll expands in his mouth and catches in his teeth. He runs his tongue around his mouth, no chance to brush now. Leaves most of the food behind, takes his briefcase and leaves. He was ordained in this cathedral, received his appointment from this cathedral chapter. Neither the place nor the people are unfamiliar. He has met them all before—the dean, the priest assessor, the bishop himself, who personally congratulated Fredrik on his exam. He himself is a known face and name for them too, that’s what’s so awful. Once called promising, now about to be exposed as an utter mediocrity. He who’d thought to walk in with the stout heart and openness given him by the people of the Örlands, a priceless gift.

He has an open and unaffected face that he cannot hide. The secretary at the front desk greets him with an encouraging, comforting smile. “Pastor Kummel? Welcome. You’ve had a long journey from the Örlands. Has everything gone well?”

“Yes, thank you,” the pastor says.

She smiles maternally. “How nice. The dean is a little late, but he’ll be here, he always comes. Maybe you’d like to sit down and wait for a moment.”

He sits down in a chair with his briefcase like a baby in his arms. The nice secretary brings him a cup of coffee. “We have some real coffee from Sweden,” she says. “Have some, you’ll feel better.” There are two cubes of sugar on the saucer. He stirs them in and drinks the coffee leaning forward, afraid of dripping on his collar. His hand is shaking. The dean doesn’t come and then does come, noisily, through the door and up the steps. “Good morning, good morning,” to the secretary, “not terribly late am I? And this is Pastor Kummel? Hello, how are you. Yes, I remember you. I’ve found your dissertation very edifying. Come in, come in, we have a great deal to talk about.”

The priest assessor sits on his bench as if carved in wood, but he stands up and shakes hands. Both men are cordial, prepared for all to go well. They begin gently with some small talk about Örlands parish to put him more at ease. They ask him how he likes it there, and he answers honestly, “I love my congregation. I loved the work right from the start and have been hugely well received.”

At least he gets the words out of his mouth without slurring them and can form whole sentences. If he’s had a brain haemorrhage, it must be very small. The priest assessor asks him what aspects of parish life he would classify as particularly important.

“My first thought is High Mass, which is well attended on the Örlands, but there are also the other offices, paper work, and my work on committees and boards, where I have good people to work with. Then there’s the instruction of confirmation candidates, Bible readings and study in the villages, which brings us to the unofficial part of my work, in other words, a priest’s unscheduled activities in day-to-day encounters with members of the congregation. But if I’m to prioritize, then it’s Divine service that I consider most important. You gentlemen have certainly heard that Örland is a singing congregation, and consequently the liturgy is dear to their hearts. Sermons are no simple matter and require a lot of work, but they are gratifying because the congregation actually listens, and if I say anything they think is cockeyed, they let me know.”

They nod appreciatively, thinking that now they’ve got the pastor warmed up and the rest will be merely a formality. They have no reason to suspect that his energy has reached its limit, and that his answers in the discussion of his dissertation on the Sixty-eighth Psalm will grow steadily more and more fragmentary and incoherent. When they switch to an examination of his command of church law, they find troubling gaps in his knowledge and an uncertainty about terminology that they had honestly not expected. As regards the works of theology and church history he was required to master, they would have preferred a more comprehensive grasp of the material and a more coherent analysis of the passages under discussion. They don’t know exactly how much sweat is running down his back, pasting his shirt to his body, but experience does perhaps tell them that an abundance of sweat is his reason for sitting so stiffly and holding his arms at his side, knowing as he does that every careless gesture releases a cloud of body odour.

The session drags on and on because they are so eager to give him a chance to redeem himself. Both of them wonder silently if he is ill—he raises one hand and presses his thumb and forefinger to his eyes, as if to keep them from falling out. His face is rigid, and his mouth moves reluctantly. Very painful for all parties. Of course they can pass him, but he has simply not risen to the high marks that his dissertation seemed to promise. A real shame, since high marks are required for the more qualified postings.

The dean clears his throat. “The dissertation was excellent. On the other hand, the discussion regarding it was less rewarding. When it comes to knowledge of the literature, there are a surprising number of gaps. On the basis of the dissertation, I recommend ‘approved’, but without honours. What does my colleague think about his understanding of church law?”

The priest assessor clears his throat. “Somewhat sketchy, I have to admit. The terminology is insufficient. But there was good understanding of practical application. Commitment to the life of worship a plus. I too recommend approval without honours.”

“Then we’re agreed to give Pastor Kummel a grade of ‘approved’ on his pastoral examination?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you,” the pastor says. “Almost better than I deserved.”

A short pause. The dean: “Now that we’re finished and your answer cannot affect our judgment, may I ask you, Pastor Kummel, if you’re not feeling well?”

A pause and a sucking in of breath, a suppressed sigh. He focuses with difficulty. “I don’t mean to make excuses, but I have a headache that’s killing me.”

“We thought there must be something. It might have been better for you to have claimed illness and come back in the spring. But done is done.”

“Yes,” the pastor says.

“Hrmm,” says the priest assessor. “The bishop said he would like to, hrmm, congratulate the pastor on his examination. I’ll go and see if he has time to see you.”

This takes some time, and the pastor is not wrong to suppose that the bishop gets a description of the exam. Then he’s told to go in, and there stands the bishop, smiling benignly, so full of health and well-being that Petter’s eyes swim. “Good day, good day,” he says and takes Petter’s hand, gripping it so hard that he can feel it in his head. “You’re a long way from home! How are things on the Örlands?”

“Fine, thank you. I’m grateful for the appointment. I think I’ve found my place.”

“I’m so pleased. Hmm. On the other hand, I was sorry to hear about the result of your examination, which was something of a disappointment. I understand you’re indisposed.”

“Yes, you might say. A tremendous headache. But I’m not trying to excuse myself. The way things went, I’m happy to have passed.”

“That’s one way of looking at it, of course. But your ambitions were rather greater.”

“I’m happy with ‘approved’. It means I can now apply for the incumbency as vicar. When the position of incumbent vicar of Örland is posted as vacant, you will find my name among the applicants.”

The bishop chuckles. “I don’t think we need to use the plural in this case. I don’t know when was the last time the Örlands had an incumbent vicar. Interesting! Pastor Kummel, have you considered the possibility that your talents might be put to better use in an urban parish where young people and workers face greater challenges?”

Petter smiles self-consciously. “I have marks indicating that my talents are meagre. And my calling is to the Örlands.” Which sounds false, though it’s true.

“In that case,” says the bishop, still genial, “then I’ll simply have to plan on a pastoral installation off the edge of the map. Try to arrange it for the summer so we’ll have nice weather and the priest assessor won’t get seasick. But now I’ll let you go so you can start to do something about that headache. Where will you be staying?”

“At my wife’s family farm outside Helsingfors. Tomorrow I’m going to officiate at the wedding of one of her sisters.”

“Well, how nice. Yes, then I’ll wish you a pleasant journey back to the Örlands and ask you to give my regards to your young wife.”

“Thank you,” Petter says. They shake hands. His briefcase waits loyally in the chair outside. The secretary hands him his freshly typed certificate of completed pastoral examination, discreetly enclosed in a brown envelope. He pays the stamp fee, thanks her, and reaches for his coat. “I’m very sorry about your headache,” she says behind him. “Be sure and get some real rest.”

So out into the fresh air, the sun cruelly blinding. Walks by way of the hotel, thanks the desk clerk humbly for watching his suitcase, whereupon the man triumphantly produces his alarm clock, which he’d left in the room. “Other things on your mind?” he supposes. Petter thanks him again, avoids stumbling on the doorsill, has to put down his bag to open the door, two murderous steps down to the sidewalk. He’s sweating terribly in the sunshine, wades like a drowning man to the bus station, where of course the bus to Helsingfors has just left. He sees a park bench under a tree and sits and waits and waits. When he’s finally on his way, he falls asleep with his briefcase in his arms and is lost to the world for almost an hour. In Helsingfors, people are starting to leave work and head home, there is a lot of traffic at the bus station and it’s a wonder he doesn’t run straight into the arms of someone he knows. He tries to avoid looking at people, and no one expects to see him, and they don’t.

One more bus ride and he finally arrives at the Helléns’. Most of the people in the house are at the clubhouse getting things ready for the wedding, but Mrs Hellén has been waiting for him and is happy to see him. “Well, now we can have a wedding, now that the priest is here,” she says. “I was starting to worry.” She smiles and then turns serious. “Come in and sit down. How are you? Didn’t it go well?”

“Yes, it was all right. I passed. Just barely. I haven’t slept for two nights and I have an unbelievable headache.”

“It shows. Now you need something to eat, and it’s important to get a lot to drink. We’ve got the house full of people and they all need to eat, so I’ve made a big pot of meat soup, and you can have bread and butter with it. Now, tell me all about it.”

Mona often says of her mother that she’s like a wall. A clam that never opens. Impossible to have an intimate conversation with. She never gives a personal answer to a question that can be a matter of life and death. Always the same—courteous, tactful. All the things that Petter likes her for. Most of all, he loves her discretion. Mona sees it as lack of interest, but to him it’s like a miracle compared with his own mother’s loose talk and constant gossip.

“Yes, I will,” he says. “Just between the two of us. I’ve had some really bad luck. I thought I was pretty well prepared and I’d arranged things so I’d have a quiet night in Borgå. So I reach the hotel in good spirits, only to be confronted by a housemaid we had years ago, Hilda, maybe you remember her? Unfortunately, Mama had told her I was going to be in Borgå, and there she sat, red-eyed from weeping. She’d lost her husband. What could I do? People have the right to turn to a priest. I’m to comfort them and give them courage. How could I have lived with myself if I’d turned her away on account of my exam? It turned into an awkward situation. She wanted to come up to my room, and then she wouldn’t leave. She talked and cried, and I was so tired I couldn’t get her to stop. It was past twelve-thirty when she left. And by then I was so shaken I couldn’t sleep. I got up with a burning headache and made a pretty poor show of it at the chapter house. I didn’t deserve any better than the miserable passing grade I got. I should be happy it didn’t go worse. I’m ashamed of myself. And now I have to call Mona, who’s waiting to hear how it went.”

“She’s already called. She thought you’d come on the three o’clock bus, but I told her you’d probably come with the five. I was right. Go and call her right away, then you’ll have that out of the way before the others come home.”

The telephone is on the wall beside Hellén’s desk. Petter sits down and orders the call. Fru Hellén doesn’t leave the room, and he’s grateful. She sits there as if she understood that he needed a protector and can’t be left alone. The call comes through almost immediately. He can picture the operator on the Örlands at full alert. She’s very businesslike about reporting long-distance calls.

Mona: “Hello!”

He decides to begin with the news that all of the Örlands is waiting for. “Mona!” he shouts. “I’m sorry you had to wait. But everything took so much time! Anyway, I passed, that’s the main thing. So how are you and the girls?”

“Fine. But how are you? You sound funny.”

“I’ve got a terrible headache. I have to admit it didn’t go exactly the way I’d planned. I’ll tell you all about it when I get home.”

“But anyway you passed?”

“Yes. But … Mona, I’ll see you in a few days, and then we can talk more. I just need a good night’s sleep and I’ll be human again. It will be absolutely wonderful to get home.”

He leaves her with all her suspicions aroused. She doesn’t sound good when he ends the call. He turns to his mother-in-law apologetically. “You can’t start explaining things on the phone. In any case, I’ll soon be home.”

“Absolutely,” she says. “I’m thinking about how we can get you to bed as quickly as possible. I’ve put a bed in the weaving room, and I’ll tell everyone not to disturb you. But there’s going to be a lot of activity in the house all the same, so I’m going to give you a bromide to sleep on. Now don’t look so horrified, I take them myself when I need one, and I’ll be taking one tonight. Tomorrow you’ll wake up clear-headed and you’ll be in fine form for the wedding. If you want to wash, there’s warm water in the sauna, and I suggest you go out before the others come back. You’ll all have time to talk in the morning.”

He wonders if she’s noticed how bad he smells. And his cassock! He can’t possibly stand before the bridal couple smelling like a pigsty. She sees that he’s deeply embarrassed about something and leans her head to one side.

“I know how much you must have to do,” he begins, “but the truth is that I’ve been sweating like a pig all day and you can smell my cassock a long way off. If you know any means of getting out the odour, I’d be more than grateful.”

A tiny sigh escapes her. The sweat pads have to be unstitched, washed, ironed, and basted back in. But she tells him he can leave his cassock—and his shirt too—in the sauna. And in the morning she’ll deliver it to him in better shape, along with his washed, ironed shirt. “Thank you so much! I’m like a child, and you’re never rid of us!”

And indeed he does feel significantly better the next day. Yesterday feels pleasantly distant, surrounded as he is by friendly faces and lots of questions. The wedding goes well; of course it goes well when you follow the prayer book and the bride and groom say yes! The next day he visits relatives in Helsingfors and theological friends in the evening, and in between he shops for the clothes and necessities on Mona’s list. He also makes a private visit to a goldsmith and buys a piece of silver jewellery for her—in memory of his pastoral exam was his idea—now a memento of a somewhat different kind. He had thought all this would be diverting and fun, but what he feels most of all is a consuming homesickness. Of course he’d imagined how nice it would be to climb aboard the Åbo train and happily return to the Örlands, but not that it would feel as if he’d escaped with his life by the skin of his teeth.

How willingly he puts up with the dreadfully uncomfortable journey just for the joy of going ashore at Mellom quay. In September, the night sky is dark, but he knows that Post-Anton is there with the connecting boat and that it’s only a matter of hours. It is also a quite unexpected pleasure to see Fredrik, in the middle of the night, standing on the quay as he steps ashore with his suitcase and briefcase and an extra box.

“Well, welcome back! May I offer my congratulations?”

“Is it really you? Giving up a night’s sleep? I don’t know what to say. I passed, but not with honours. I’d like to tell you the whole story, but there isn’t time. And the telephone … I’ll write you a letter.”

Fredrik has stood there beaming benevolently, ready to pound him on the back and congratulate him. Now his happy anticipation is visibly replaced by a worried question—what has happened? Simultaneously, for one fleeting moment, his concern is overshadowed by an almost parenthetical realization that he is not altogether displeased by Petter’s not having passed with honours. But the moment passes, and the concern remains. “Now I’m really curious! If you need pastoral counselling, I’m at your service.”

Cargo is quickly transferred. We don’t stand here dawdling, for everyone has come a long way, and those on their way to the Örlands have a good distance yet to go. The pastor and the Mellom priest shake hands warmly, promise to write, hope to see each other soon. “Thanks for coming. Sorry the news wasn’t better. Best to Margit. Best to Mona,” they say. He’s put his things on board, his person as well, the whole priest and his effects on their way home.

Kalle and I have our hands full navigating our way out through the tight passage in the dark of night, but once we’re out in more open water, he comes into the wheelhouse and says hello. “You were right about the headache,” he says. “I barely managed to get through the day. How in God’s … how in the world could you know that?”

“Not so hard. I had a headache myself when I went to meet the Governor of Åland.”

“You mean bigwigs give us a headache? Well of course. But you were right about stones on my path, too. There was a real boulder.”

“In human form, I’ll wager.”

“Yes indeed. The case falls within my vow of silence, but how could you know?”

“I couldn’t know. Only imagine.”

“Like when you’re out on the ice. You can see how it’s going to be.”

“You shouldn’t take me so seriously. I just talk the way we do when we get older and know that things seldom work out the way we’d expected. If you’re prepared for that, you somehow get through it. And you did. You passed.”

“Yes, thank heaven. Now I can apply for the incumbency here and settle down in earnest. Oh my goodness, how good it will be to get home after this ordeal.”

It is autumn and so still dark when we get across the bay, and in darkness we tie up at the steamship pier. The church is still there, and the parsonage, and the pastor’s rowing boat is pulled up on the granite. The verger has rowed it over for him, and now the pastor transfers his things to it and pushes off. He vanishes in the darkness and all you can hear of him are his oars creaking in the oarlocks and the oar blades dipping into the water. His wife has been lying awake and heard us pass, for I see a lantern moving swiftly down to the church dock. The water in the church inlet is bright, and I see him gliding in towards the lantern like a black shadow drawn to the light.

“Welcome home!” she calls and he calls back “Thank you” and “How I’ve been waiting.” Quickly he hands his luggage ashore and steps ashore himself, pulling the boat up after him with one hand, the other already embracing Mona. It feels almost the way he had imagined this homecoming before he left, with his pastoral exam completed and much to tell. His distress is nearly gone, maybe he can get through this as well!

They don’t know where to start, if they should go in the house or sit down here on the dock and talk. “The wedding,” Mona says. “How did it go?” “Like clockwork!” he says. “I bring greetings from absolutely everyone. They all asked about you and the girls! And they all wanted to see the pictures! They’re excellent and went from hand to hand.”

While they’re talking, they’ve started walking as well, since she imagines he’d like some breakfast after his long trip. She carries his briefcase—“Like a stone! How can you walk around with this thing?”—and he his suitcase and the box full of the things he bought in Helsingfors. “I think I got everything,” he brags. “Wait till you see!” He’s looking forward to showing and telling. About Hilda, too, but not yet, and it’s a deliverance that there’s so much else to talk about—the wedding, her relatives, his purchases, the trip, all sort of things, while they reacquaint themselves and recapture each other’s trust.

Once inside the parsonage, Sanna wakes up and is joyous, more than Mona, who is suspicious and on edge, and while they’re eating, Lillus wakes up, and eventually Mama has to go out to the cows, who have picked up his scent and know that he’s home. As long as Sanna is around, it’s enough to talk about the wedding and give the silver brooch to Mona, who thinks it an extravagance, and the little things he’s bought for Sanna and that the Helléns have sent to her, but when Sanna quietly takes her nap and they sit down together in the kitchen, he can no longer put it off.

“Now tell me what happened in Borgå. I’ve been really anxious. You did pass didn’t you, after all your studying?”

“Oh yes. Approved, but not with honours. It’s really embarrassing that I did so poorly even when it came to questions where I was on home ground, what should have been like mother’s milk to me.” When he says ‘mother’s’, he gives a little grimace of pain, which she picks up at once.

“Don’t tell me your mother has anything to do with this!”

“You read my mind. Yes. I don’t know where to start. You remember Hilda?”

Dear God, of course she remembers Hilda. Their marriage was preceded by detailed confessions. No sin was left untouched. Hilda was the greatest. Hilda was also the sin he’d wanted to confess to everyone in the perfervid atmosphere of a Moral Re-Armament meeting. Hilda is the person Mona hates most in the world. Her pulse quickens. She gets red spots on her neck and the tip of her nose turns white. She would like to scratch the woman’s eyes out. “What does Hilda have to do with your pastoral exam?”

“Mama had written to tell her I was going to be in Borgå. She came to the hotel. Completely hysterical. Her husband had left her and she had to talk to someone. I reminded her of my examination but there was no stopping her. It was like I’d been drugged. You can imagine what I was feeling. As a priest, it was my duty to listen. No priest can refuse a human being in spiritual need. You can imagine the horrible conflict I felt. Privately, I was in despair. Time was passing. As she talked, I developed a terrible headache. Then I couldn’t get to sleep.”

“She was in your room?” He nods. “Dear God.”

“Yes, it was awkward. It was ghastly.”

“What time did she leave?”

“Twelve-thirty.”

“Twelve–thirty! What’s wrong with you? You know what a slut she is, and you let her destroy your peace of mind and your future career? It’s one thing to talk to her for an hour and send her on her way, it’s another thing altogether to let her sit there—what was it? Over four hours!—and let her sabotage your prospects. And what do you think people thought!”

“She was desperate.”

“And what about you?”

“In such a situation, a priest isn’t supposed to think about himself.”

“You really believe she came to you for spiritual counselling? From you?”

“It’s not an either or. It’s a matter of both and. She came because it was me. That doesn’t mean she wasn’t also miserable and desperate. That’s what I had to keep telling myself.”

“And comfort her? Are you out of your senses? I can just imagine the kind of comfort she had in mind. You must have known that yourself.”

“When you put it that way, yes. But I was so intensely uncomfortable that I couldn’t imagine that she … Ugh!”

“Did she try?”

“In words maybe. I changed the subject to Jesus.” He gives her a crooked smile. She doesn’t smile back.

“The fact is that you allowed her to destroy your examination. What kind of Jesus complex do you suffer from? Although not even Jesus … There are lots of examples of him going out into the desert because he couldn’t deal with people any more. Sometimes I don’t understand you at all.”

She stands up vehemently and begins pacing back and forth. Mona at her most unreasonable. Mona when she is most like her temperamental father, who can pace about in a rage for several hours amidst a torrent of words. The whole household cowers and keeps its mouth shut, and now Petter stays silent and draws his head down between his shoulders. It’s not his fault that Hilda appeared at the hotel. Even if he had shown her the door, she would have ruined his night’s sleep. There is no possible defence, because Petter owed it to his wife to throw out the baggage that has caused so much unhappiness!

Quite right, but he was so flustered, he was virtually paralysed.

Rubbish! For a year and a half, she’s walked on eggshells because of his pastoral exam, and then he throws it away in a single evening, one night, with a trollop who had led him astray once already. Doesn’t he ever learn? Is he a complete idiot? A total milksop?

While she rants, she starts working in the kitchen, refusing to let her indignation interfere with the efficient performance of her duties. Food is scrubbed, peeled, sliced, shredded, and mashed while she scolds him. He just sits there, unproductive in his stupidity and lack of enterprise, a sheep rather than the shepherd he had meant to become.

An oppressive afternoon, which he spends as a refugee in his study, with his letters and newspapers. At some point, he must also concoct a sermon for Sunday, which under the present circumstances he needs to manage discreetly and without complaint. Now that he’s free of his studies, he has also promised to spend more time with Sanna. She stands looking at him from the door. “Come,” he says. “I’ve been so sad without you.”

At the supper table, she puts his plate down hard. “I was mad because I missed you so. I could hardly wait for you to come home. And then all this. As if you hadn’t learned a thing. It’s almost enough to make me lose my mind. And of course I’m maddest of all because it was so unpleasant for you. I should have gone with you, but how would that have looked, with a two-month-old baby? Then it would have been my fault that you couldn’t sleep! And anyway at your age you ought to be able to take care of yourself!”

She’s well on her way to starting again, and Sanna sits in her chair stiff with fear. But she stops talking, sits down, and bursts into tears, and Petter is no longer a failed clergyman but a husband, who finally knows how to use the beautiful voice he’s been given, the unshaven cheek that he can press against hers. A warm breast and good, knowing hands.

Chapter Eighteen

A TERRIBLE STORM ON CHRISTMAS EVE. If it keeps up, there won’t be a soul at the early service Christmas morning. It’s not a problem of thin ice, because the ice hasn’t set yet, only made small attempts in the bays, where snow and ice trim the beaches while the open sea rolls free. Now full storm, squealing, wailing wind, and dark as a coal cellar by three in the afternoon. It rains as if the sea lay not only around the Örlands but also above it, pouring its water over them in great cascades. In the worst gusts, the beacon light is invisible, and the whole world is drowned by the merciless waves.

“For those in peril on the sea,” the pastor prays. “And keep the parsonage afloat, too,” he adds, more or less as a joke. For the rain forces its way in where the window frames are in poor condition, and the foam from the wave tops is thrown against the glass like snow. The wind howls through the house and drives the smoke down the chimney. Open doors slam shut, the boards creak in the walls, the rag rugs meander across the floor. It’s impossible to get the Christmas prayer on the radio, which just crackles and stutters in Russian and Finnish.

The pastor understands better than he did last year why Christmas prayers are not held on the Örlands. At this time of year, it’s enough that the congregation comes to the Christmas morning service. Earlier, when the weather was nice, he thought they might hold private Christmas prayers in the church, just the four of them, but now he’s lost the desire. It’s bad enough that Mona has to go out to the cow barn in this storm. They don’t really know how much of a fire they dare have in the tile stoves, and the kitchen range spits out smoke and sparks through the burner rings in the worst gusts of wind, so someone, he, must be both babysitter and fire warden. He lights the hurricane lamp, checks that it’s filled with lamp oil. Mona bundles up, they joke about her getting lost on the prairie. “Aim for the light in the window!” he calls farewell as the door closes.

The cow barn is more protected than the parsonage, lower and sheltered by hillocks. It’s still cold inside, and even though Apple and Goody stand there like a couple of stoves their breath is visible. The calves are freezing in their pen, pressed up against each other. The sheep are in their winter coats and doing fine. All of them turn to look at the hurricane lantern and greet her the way they always do, bleating, bellowing, tossing their heads.

Mona is completely at ease in the cow barn. Completely natural. She enjoys herself here in a different way from up at the house with the children whining, Petter on the phone, a thousand tasks waiting to be done, everything she hasn’t had time for like a noose around her neck, keeping her from breathing freely. Here things are simple—mucking out, providing hay and water, washing and lubricating udders, milking, straining, hooking the milk cans to the yoke—Merry Christmas and good night. Those who bleat and bellow never say too much, hurt no one’s feelings, avoid irony, do not philosophize, never quibble. No hidden meanings, no complications. There’s heat and cold, hunger and satisfied hunger, waiting and arrival, peaceful darkness until dawn. It is her repose, although many think the work is hard. She is happy to spend time here, and now that it’s Christmas she talks a bit more, pats and scratches a little longer, is a little more generous with the hay, pours out some oats from the sack special-ordered from the Co-op. The milk is warm and frothy, creamy and nutritious. Peace.

In the cow barn it seems like the wind has died down a little, but when she steps outside, it tears at her hard. If the milk pails weren’t so heavy, she’d fall down. The rain pounds on her like surf, she loses her breath, thinks that out here on the Örlands you can drown on dry land. Makes her way up the steps, which are shiny in the light of her lantern. Pulls open the swollen door, Petter comes to her at once. “How did it go? I was afraid you’d blow away!” He takes the milk cans, the sieve, helps her out of her outdoor clothes. In this weather, they wash the milk cans in the kitchen. No problem cooling the milk today.

They are all bundled up to the teeth, Lillus in her sleeping bag with a cap on her head, Sanna in wool from head to toe, parents wearing all the wool clothes they own, Papa with earmuffs on his sensitive ears, Mama with a large woollen scarf around her head, everyone with layers of warm socks on their feet, the whole family a hymn of praise to the native Finnish sheep. Brrr! And the temperature hasn’t yet fallen below freezing!

But this is Christmas Eve, and now the Christmas supper is put on the table—lutfisk with white sauce, potatoes, a Christmas ham straight from the oven, stewed peas and carrots, Christmas cakes and coffee for dessert. The Christmas candles flutter and drop wax on the Christmas runner. Sanna is exhausted from waiting, and whines and complains. Lillus is screaming in sympathy. It’s enough to take the joy out of being parents, but they make an effort and group themselves around the tile stove in the parlour, very carefully light the candles on their Christmas juniper but have to put them out again, to Sanna’s intense disappointment, because otherwise the draughts will ignite the whole tree.

In the terrible storm, they can’t hear if Santa has come, but Papa goes out to the back hall to have a look. The verger has explained to them that the Örland Santa is a little shy and doesn’t like to come into the house but leaves the presents just inside the door instead. Sanna is afraid he won’t come because it’s blowing so hard, but Papa has heard that he came with Post-Anton two days before Christmas, so it can’t hurt to have a look. And, glory be, it turns out he has snuck in and left a whole pile of Christmas presents in the firewood box!

Oh. But first we need to think about why we get Christmas presents this evening. Well, it’s because the baby Jesus was born this very evening. It’s in memory of his birthday that we receive our own presents. And that’s why the Christmas gospel is read in every home in Christendom this night. So Papa opens the Bible and reads a long story, and even though Sanna loves stories, she gets bored. She twists and slides back and forth in her chair and scratches her itchy wool socks and, finally, bursts into tears. Not exactly the way her parents had pictured this Christmas Eve, which had less squealing and commotion and lacked the nervousness they’re all feeling because of the storm and the danger of fire on a night like this. But they must celebrate Christmas, so Papa closes the Bible and takes Sanna on his lap, and Mama carries in the basket of presents. Red sealing wax and string, it’s a shame to unwrap such pretty packages! First of all, there are books, mostly for Papa but also for Mama and three story books for Sanna! In addition, socks and mittens and a Santa for Sanna and a Christmas angel for Lillus, who immediately stuffs it in her mouth like a cannibal. And still more—marzipan pigs and a box of homemade toffee for everyone. In a bowl on the table are all the Christmas cards Post-Anton brought, along with Christmas magazines to read over the holidays. It’s overwhelming, and Sanna gets sick to her stomach and throws up on the rug before she’s even had a piece of toffee. Sanna! My goodness, as if all the Christmas cleaning wasn’t enough to deal with, now this! Don’t cry, Sanna, Papa knows you’ve got a delicate stomach and you didn’t throw up on purpose.

Whew! When they’ve finally got the girls into bed and might have a little quiet time, just the two of them, there is no peace. They make their rounds and check the tile stoves and the kitchen range, where they now let the fire go out, and Petter says that if he had a slightly more active imagination, he could easily believe he heard calls for help from a shipwreck among all the sound effects produced by the storm. He wanders from window to window and laughs at himself a little. “Soon I’ll be just like Papa in a storm, nervous and confused. For that matter, I’ll bet they haven’t gone to bed yet. Shall I call and thank them for the Christmas presents and get that out of the way?”

His poor mother is celebrating her first Christmas on Åland, resigned and teary-eyed when she thinks about earlier Christmases on the mainland, surrounded by her children and happily anticipating the many Christmas parties given by her relatives and friends. Never been a storm like the one raging across even the large island of Åland this night. Papa will be no comfort, running around the house groaning like a wraith. The least Petter can do is call and talk to her cheerfully and supportively, but when he cranks the phone, with an apology already on his lips for interrupting the operator’s own Christmas celebration, there is no response. He cranks and cranks and waits and tries again, but realizes at last that the storm has blown down the lines somewhere and that they won’t be able to call out until after New Year’s. Poor Mama, who has undoubtedly been counting on a chat.

There isn’t much more they can do except make another circuit to check for fire and see that the girls are firmly anchored under their quilts but have their noses free. The door to the parlour is closed, and the tile stove keeps it warm into the wee hours, but it’s still cold! At last they lie in their own beds, talk a little about the weather and how the excitement was too much for Sanna and wonder if a living soul will come to Christmas morning service. “The one day of the year when the sermon comes easily!” Petter says, disappointed in advance. They doze off but sleep lightly and wake up again. Remarkable, the pastor thinks, how uneasy you can be in a storm even though you’re safe and secure on land with your whole family gathered around you. What must it have been like for the holy family without a roof over their heads that fateful night?

There is a lot of nasty creaking and crackling in the house, and at two o’clock he’s up again with his flashlight in hand, checking the stoves and opening the door to the icy attic stairs, listening and sniffing, but there is nothing to suggest that the stove chimney has cracked or that sparks are smouldering in the insulation. There is still some warmth on the ground floor and all is well. Remarkable that he can nevertheless feel such disquiet, anguish almost. It has stopped raining, and the beacon blinks reassuringly, the storm gusts are not as strong as they were earlier. The storm is putting itself to bed, so you can too! he scolds himself. He finds his way back to his bed where there is still a little nest of warmth.

“What’s wrong?” Mona mumbles.

“Nothing,” he answers. “Everything’s fine. Sorry I woke you.” He sleeps again a little, and when he finally sleeps deeply, the alarm clock goes off. He jumps up as if it were an air raid warning, but sinks back down when he realizes where he is. Still pitch-black, but he smells Mona’s good scent as she gets out of bed. He hears the rasp of the match on the matchbox and then she lights the lamp. They listen—complete quiet. When she gets to the kitchen, Mona suddenly screams and Petter rushes out to her with his trousers at half-mast. It’s nothing. For an instant she thought that the church was in flames, but there is a light in the sacristy window simply because the verger is there to build a fire in the boiler, which is one of his duties.

At least someone believes there will be a Christmas morning service. They’ve thought about how they’ll do this. The simplest would be for Mona to stay at home and fire up the stoves and make breakfast, but Christmas morning is one of the high points of the church year. It’s not a long service, so they’ll have time to build fires and have breakfast at almost the normal time when they get back. Now they have just a cup of last night’s coffee from the Thermos and a quick sandwich. Then Petter goes off to the church while Mona dresses Sanna and Lillus and follows after.

The verger meets him at the church door, expecting praise and getting it, profusely. The bulging radiators in the church are banging away, and the church is getting warm. With every minute that passes, the air is a little less raw. “My dear fellow,” says the pastor, “what time did you get here?” “Four o’clock,” says the verger proudly. This is his big night of the year, when he overcomes his fear of the dark and can calmly proclaim that the dead do not celebrate Christmas Mass at midnight, at least not in Örland church. The pastor reports that he himself was up at two o’clock and the storm was still raging. Then it calmed quickly. “But my goodness the size of those seas!” “Yes, it takes a time for the surf to settle.” They talk quietly as they prepare the church. They had the candles ready back at the beginning of Advent, and two potted tulips stand on the altar. The verger has posted the first hymns on the number board. Now they light all the candles, on the chandeliers, on the altar, on the pulpit. The church is to shine like a lantern as the congregation approaches. While they’re at it, the organist comes running in and takes the pastor by the arm.

“Come! You’ve got to see this!”

The Örland congregation is coming towards them across the hills. The seas are too high for anyone to want to come by boat in the dark. So they’ve started early from all the villages and now they can be seen in a long row of blinking, swinging lanterns descending the last slope. The verger runs to the steeple, for the bells must ring as they approach, the big bell and the small one tolling for all they’re worth.

The organist warms his hands on a radiator, and the pastor hurries to the sacristy. The first to come in fill the church with footsteps and noise, rustling and shuffling. “Merry Christmas!” they wish one another in their strong, Örland voices. The long walk with swinging lanterns, watching their step on the slippery rocks, has made them bright and talkative. But then the voices change and grow rapid and frightened, and soon the organist comes into the sacristy. “You need to hear this before we start.”

It seems one of the last to arrive is a ship’s pilot from the west villages who has heard on the pilots’ radio that a large American freighter has gone aground and sunk off the island of Utö. The pilots on Utö have rescued many of the crew, but a number of them are missing. “Many of us had a bad feeling last night,” he adds, understandably enough.

“Thank you,” the pastor says. “I’m glad you told me. I’ll say a prayer for them.” He looks at the clock and sees that it’s past time. Mona is sitting in the church wondering why they don’t start. The verger stopped ringing the bells some time ago. But now the organist hurries to the loft, the organ pumper starts to work, and the organist begins playing the opening bars of “When Christmas Morn is Dawning”—a little too fast.

The whole church is glowing in its Egyptian darkness and the talking dies down reluctantly. When the organist indicates that the hymn is now beginning, they are ready. It is one of their favourite hymns, which they’ve waited all year to sing, but now they’re distracted, the dissonances are unexpectedly great, the bellowing more distinct, the differences of tempo more audible. The pastor is at the altar, singing as he always does, but not happy, horrified, as is everyone who’s already heard the news. “The Lord be with you,” he sings, as usual, and Lillus answers happily a little ahead of everyone else. Anyone would be inspired in these wonderful acoustics, and the pastor takes them through the liturgical embroidery and through the lesson. When they sing “Starlight on Sea and Sand”, there are people talking out loud in the back rows, and many in the front pews turn around. In the loft, where the younger boys have gathered, they talk and run around without restraint.

No calm, no collective expectation when the pastor climbs into the pulpit. “Dear friends, brothers and sisters in Jesus Christ,” he begins as usual. “Let us pray.” The older people obediently bow their heads and then everyone listens, for now the pastor will give them the information that led to all the hubbub. “This night, on Christmas night itself, the whole crew of a freighter has been fighting for their lives in the storm off Utö. We thank you for the pilots on Utö, who put their own lives in danger to rescue many. We pray for those who have lost their lives at sea. God, be merciful to them and receive them into your fatherly embrace. Let the light eternal shine for them. Amen.”

After this, it’s easy to return to the subject of light, the church lit up for celebration, for the feast of our Saviour’s birth, but also to the light in the bell tower that faithfully and steadily blinked all through the storm-lashed night. And on to the Star of Bethlehem that wandered through the night and led shepherds and wise men to the stable and the manger. We ourselves surrounded by deep darkness, but in the centre a light that guides us from age to age. The light is Christian hope, personified in the body of Christ, which is a lantern to guide our steps and light up our path. In the silence that follows, everyone can clearly hear a foot colliding gently with a storm lantern on the floor, a little clinking that jingles through the church. The candle flames flutter in a draught, no one misses the parallel with their own trek with swinging lanterns through the deep darkness towards the shining church.

They sing “Lo, How a Rose E’er Blooming from Tender Stem Hath Sprung!” while the pastor changes his robe and returns to the altar. In his closing prayer he prays especially for all those struggling at sea, then the Our Father and the blessing. Finally, Topelius’s “I Seek No Gold or Majesty, No Pearl or Shining Gem”. The organist is about to begin his postlude, his showpiece, but the organ pumper is facing the other way, talking to someone, and people are already standing up in their pews and talking loudly. When the organist finally starts playing, they just talk louder. The pastor takes off his vestments quickly and the verger is back in the church before the postlude is over. As soon as he’s finished, the organist leaves his music on the organ and comes down to the others. In the middle is Anders Stark, the pilot who heard the news on his radio. He’s in a hurry to get home to hear more news, but repeats what he knows once again: The freighter is called Park Victory, a big devil, oh, beg pardon, and he himself was her pilot once. From the American South, lots of Negroes and such people. A crew of at least twenty-five. The pilots on Utö have rescued at least half, they think. The ones still out there haven’t got a chance. The Coast Guard has been out all night but has no hope of finding anyone else alive.

Then the pastor notices that no one from the Coast Guard is at church today. It’s starting to get light outside, and a couple of boys who’ve been up on a hill having a look around come back to tell them that both Coast Guard boats are gone, obviously to take part in the rescue mission along with the military from the base on Utö. They must have been called out during the night, over the radio. “Good Lord, you’ve got to have guts to go out in a small boat in this weather,” someone says. Brage’s parents and wife are in the church but didn’t know he’d gone out. He was on duty at the station and celebrated Christmas there. “First Christmas pike at home and then Christmas ham at the station, because Björklund’s from the mainland and pike won’t do,” Astrid explains. She doesn’t seem particularly worried. It’s another thing the pastor admires in his parishioners— their fatalism. What happens is what’s meant to happen.

Definitely light outside now, grey on grey, black where the sides of the hills are whipped with rain. Icy cold. Mona can guess that there will be a lot of visitors during the day and hurries home with the girls. They have to sit in the kitchen while she gets a fire burning in the range and puts pots of water on the rings. Then she quickly builds fires in the tile stoves and manages to measure out the coffee and slice the bread before the first of them arrive. First they have to count the collection and make certain every candle is out. The verger goes down to the boiler room two extra times to make sure that no coals are smouldering and that the insulation is not smoking anywhere. The radiators have started to go cold, but you never know, and the pastor promises to check again at dinner time.

No one really wants to go home, except Anders, who left in a rush, and by and by the pastor, the organist, the verger, Elis and Adele, and several men from the west villages, who are hoping the pastor’s phone is less dead than other people’s, head for the parsonage. There’s a lovely warmth coming from the tile stoves and the open oven door, and they all crowd around the kitchen table and pass around chicory coffee and bread and butter and slices of Christmas ham. “Such luxury!” Adele says about the ham, and the pastor’s wife thinks the same thought as, mournfully, she watches the disappearance of the ham, which would have lasted them three more days. But she comes from a farm herself, and she knows there’s nothing worse than having a reputation for stinginess and lack of hospitality.

Several of them crank the telephone energetically and fiddle with the radio, and in the midst of the static and the hissing they suddenly hear a clear voice from Finnish Radio talking about the Christmas Eve tragedy, the American freighter Park Victory, that sank off Utö. The U.S. Embassy conveys its gratitude to the pilots on Utö for their heroic rescue efforts. The Embassy has arranged for the survivors to be taken to Helsingfors, where they will be housed until they can travel home. The pilots have rescued fourteen men. Eight bodies have been recovered and two are missing and presumed dead.

The men look out the window. “With this wind, they’ll be coming here,” they predict, and it takes half a second for the pastor to grasp that they mean the two missing crew members, whose bodies will be driven towards the Örlands by the wind and the currents. That’s why they figure the Coast Guard from the Örlands is still out. They’re moving slowly, with the wind, and searching the whole way. Nevertheless, they come home empty-handed, and it’s Post-Anton who finds one of the bodies shortly after New Year’s.

Much can happen to a body that winds up in the water in a storm. You can figure the direction roughly, but you also have to reckon with currents which, in places, can move in the opposite direction to the wind and carry you on great detours. Then, when you start to approach a coastline, you have to deal not only with the current among the islands but also with reefs and rocks that you rub against and have to work your way around before you can move on. In amongst the skerries, the wind trundles around any way it likes, and if you’re a corpse at its mercy, you can end up in odd places.

I thought it was a seal, I did. But when it didn’t move, even though I came so close that it should have caught my scent, since I was upwind, I realized it was a man who’d washed up on the rocks like a big bull seal. A lifebelt and dark clothes, there’s no big difference between seamen and old bull seals.

It was a Negro. Not as black as I’d thought they were but more grey, maybe they lose some of their colour when they die. Otherwise just like a human being. A cap with earflaps so I couldn’t tell if he had woolly hair like they say Negroes have. Oilskins and good shoes on his feet. I wondered if I should try to pull him into the boat, but he was heavy as hell, and postal boats are supposed to carry the mail, not dead seamen. So I just pulled him up a little more so he wouldn’t drift away, and then I stopped by the Coast Guard and told them where he was, and then home with the mail.

“How did you happen to find him?” they asked, of course. “Those rocks aren’t on your usual route.”

“Well, no,” I said. “But I saw which way I should steer.”

Brage knows what I mean. But Björklund was irritated. “What do you mean, you knew which way to steer?” he said. “If you can tell us where the other one is too, then we can stop searching.”

“No,” I said. “If he’s caught on something and is on the bottom, or inside the wreck, for example, then I can’t see anything. Any fool knows that.”

This is the darkest time of the year, and there’s a lot of movement in the water, storms and currents. These are hard trips for me, even though I go only twice a week. That Christmas night I slept like a dead man. All the light was knocked out of me, I didn’t know a thing. Not a dream, not a sound could have woken me. In my sleep there was only the storm thundering away, while I lay deep down in my furs, dry and out of danger.

If I had been awake and able to hear and see, what could I have done, even with a thousand signs? There were a lot of people who did have them. The pastor himself said he was up wandering around the house and heard all sorts of things. The one who should have heard and seen was the captain of the Park Victory. They were waiting for a pilot, and the bridge was fully manned. Their radio was on, calling and crackling, which makes it hard to hear anything else, hard to figure out why there’s such an urgent unease in the pit of your stomach and where your fears are coming from. Do they carry a message, or are you just suffering fearful premonitions in the terrible storm? The pilots said that they tried to call on the radio and tell them to move farther offshore, but others who were out that night said they could hardly hear anything, mostly just occasional words, many of them Russian, so chopped to pieces they were impossible to understand. The engines pound and roar and the props thrash and whip. In that kind of hell, it’s not easy to grasp that there are spirits out there who are trying to get you to see how you can save yourself.

I have the greatest admiration for the pilots. When they are dead and gone, they’ll be out there too, that I know, and anyone with ears and senses will be safe. They were ready to sacrifice their lives, it says in the newspapers, but let me tell you that they knew exactly what to do to save themselves and still rescue as many as possible. You need one man to manage the engine and the rudder, and he needs a voice that can be heard and eyes that can see. And then you need men who know precisely to the tenth of a second when to fend off and which wave to turn on. That they managed to rescue so many in two little pilot boats, I respect them for that. More boats came out later from the military on Utö, but without the pilots they would have pulled out maybe three or four still alive. They all had lifebelts, but there’s a horrific power in the waves, and it was indescribably cold. Those who drifted in towards land were dashed to death on the rocks.

The pilots, yes. As they worked out there, they had others toiling beside them in harmony, I know that. It must have been so, for I’ve had the experience myself, many times.

Chapter Nineteen

PEOPLE MIGHT WALK ON THEIR OWN LEGS right up to their death. But that’s the end of it. From then on they are a weight to be moved, lifted and carried. Be spoken of and talked about in their very presence, important decisions made. Doctors will examine the body and determine the cause of death—drowning and hypothermia. The authorities grant Doctor Gyllen, no, Midwife Irina Gyllen a dispensation to perform this duty, which eliminates a good deal of trouble and expense. The local policeman, Julius Friman, is present as witness and recording secretary. An easy procedure at the present temperature. The seaman still looks newly drowned, washed clean by the sea and odour free.

On the Örlands, the bodies of those newly dead are kept in a shed at their home farm until the burial. Traditionally, dead seamen are kept in the pastor’s boathouse. The Coast Guard brings the body, and it turns out there are trestles and planks stowed away in a corner for this very purpose. Pure good luck that the pastor never sawed them up for firewood. Österberg, the carpenter in the east villages, brings a smoothly planed coffin in his boat. The pastor’s wife lines it with white paper curtains from the war years that she’s found in the attic, and she contributes a pillowcase and pillow. The pastor and the verger heave the seaman into the coffin, staggering under his unexpected weight. They cover him with a paper shroud and the pastor reads The Lord’s Blessing. Together, he and the verger sing, “Now the labourer’s task is o’er; now the battle day is past; now upon the farther shore, lands the voyager at last.”

Then he lies there and waits for Sunday, because the pastor knows that many people are interested in this burial service and Sunday will give them a respectable reason to be present. It seems right, too, that this man who died alone in a howling gale should thus be embraced by a large parish community.

While they wait, the verger struggles to dig a grave in the cold, rocky soil. He gets help from the church crofter, for pay, and from the pastor when he has time between phone calls. There is much to be discussed and organized. The man’s wallet is sent to the U.S. Embassy, and he is identified as Eric Alexander Cain, from Brooklyn. A Swedish-speaking official at the Embassy calls and there is a vigorous discussion of the arrangements. The dead man was a Baptist, but the Baptists and the Lutherans are close, and a traditional Örland burial will not be a problem. Whirr, he rings off, and then in the afternoon he calls again. He has spoken to the Baptist Church in Helsingfors, but it’s a long way for the Baptist minister to come, so he has no objection to Pastor Kummel, assuming the pastor is willing? “Yes,” Petter promises for the second time, and whirr, they ring off. The next day the fellow calls again to talk about the expenses, and the pastor answers that the parish itself pays the very modest expenses for the burial of a stranger. He reports that the man is already in his coffin and what the coffin cost, and the official says that of course the Embassy will pay for all costs verified by an invoice. Petter thanks him, and, whirr, they ring off. Ring ring, he calls back to discuss a possible floral tribute. Petter explains that flowers have to be sent out from Åbo and won’t survive the long trip from Mellom to the Örlands in an open boat. What they can do, and his wife has already started, is to make wreaths of juniper greens. There are frozen, dark blue juniper berries in the greens, and to give the wreaths some colour, she picks sprigs of red rosehips and uses them as decoration. “Beautiful and dignified,” Petter assures the Embassy functionary, and the man sounds impressed but also distant, as if he were talking to an Eskimo. “That will be excellent,” he says, and promises to arrange for a spruce wreath with a ribbon from the Embassy to be sent out on Thursday’s boat from Åbo. “Thank you,” Petter says. Whirr.

And on Friday morning, Post-Anton arrives weighed down by an enormous wreath of spruce and red paper flowers, plus a ribbon with gold lettering, a little American flag, and a large rosette in red, white, and blue adorned with an American bald eagle. Mona’s wreaths from Örland parish are smaller, but together they make an attractive arrangement on the coffin and later on the grave. The men of the vestry carry the casket up from the boathouse and set it down on the coffin stone outside the churchyard gate, as tradition dictates. The bells ring, and the congregation sings the departed to his grave. The pastor performs the burial service. In the biting wind, freezing temperatures and icing in the bays, he says a few words about the seaman from the vast land of America who met his death in the cold north. Alone, a stranger, but now reunited with the worldwide community of Christians. His body sinks into the cold earth, but his spirit rests by the heart of Jesus.

And that’s the end of Eric Alexander Cain and his story, or so they think. But a month later there arrives a pretty blue airmail letter from the U.S. Embassy addressed to the Rev. Peter Kummel. When he opens the envelope, twenty-five dollars fall out. The pastor can see that the letter was written by a Mrs Inez Cain, the mother of Eric Alexander, but he has never studied English, just Finnish and German and a little French and Latin, plus Ancient Greek and Hebrew, and he has to ask his father for help with the translation. Papa is in his glory, and the translation comes back at once. The letter is well-written and expressive. Mrs Cain thanks Pastor Kummel for giving her son a Christian burial. It would give her comfort in her great grief if he could tell her something about the funeral and the grave itself. She is enclosing twenty-five dollars for its beautification, which she hopes he can use for that purpose.

The pastor is ashamed. Dreadfully ashamed, for two reasons. First, because he did not himself write a short letter to tell her about her son’s funeral and the churchyard where he lies. And second, even more shameful, because he unconsciously assumed that the seaman came from a background where his people slaved on cotton plantations and could neither read nor write. How could he be so thoughtless, so prejudiced? What reason does this woman with the lovely handwriting and the friendly message have to believe that he will put her cash gift to proper use?

Now the letter goes quickly back to father Leonard, who is given detailed instructions about what to write. 1) A warm thank you for her kind letter. 2) The deepest sympathy for her son’s tragic and untimely death. 3) A description of the funeral and burial. 4) An assurance that the pastor’s wife herself will see that flowers are planted on the grave the following spring, together with their thanks for the monetary contribution, which will be used for a cross with engraved nameplate. 5) A final word about Jesus’s promises, which conquer death.

If he believes for a moment that Papa will follow his instructions, he is quickly disabused of his error. Petter has at least had the foresight to have the letter returned to him for his signature, which has kept his father from immediately mailing it off to America, beaming. What his father returns to him is a terribly long, tightly written letter. Even without knowing English, it is easy to see that Petter’s instructions have not been followed. Papa begins by writing four pages about Negro slavery, which he opposes. Then he writes three pages about his own difficult years as an immigrant in America. Next, he writes about the weather in this part of the world, which has given him rheumatism, destroyed his nerves, and brought the life of Mrs Cain’s son to an end. On the last page, when he has tired of writing, he has scraped together a few lines about the funeral, the plantings, and Christian hope.

Papa! Why does it have to be this way? Every time Petter begins to develop slightly friendlier feelings towards him, it turns out to be misguided. How is a man to honour such a notoriously foolish father? Who rushes off half-cocked, who lacks balance and all sense of proportion? As usual, Petter is left feeling bitterly disappointed at the end of an unnecessary detour by way of a father who can’t even help him with a simple letter in English, a language he is so proud of knowing. There is no one else on the Örlands who can help him. A couple of older men have been in America as carpenters, but their English is spoken and practical, and he doesn’t want to embarrass them by giving them a task they won’t be able to handle. He himself is childishly unwilling to admit that he doesn’t know English, and he lets several weeks go by while he goes around feeling ashamed of himself for various reasons before he does what he should have done in the first place—writes an appropriate letter and sends it to his contact at the U.S. Embassy and asks him to translate it.

By then he has much else to think about. Mona, whom he’s always considered to be healthier and to have a stronger constitution than he himself, has come down with rheumatoid arthritis and has been ordered to take medication, stay in bed, and, the worst part for her, have complete rest for four weeks. Again they have reason to be extremely grateful to Doctor Gyllen, who made the diagnosis, and to the local council, whose newly established homecare service makes it possible to get help with the milking and the two little girls.

Doctor Gyllen frightens Mona into realizing that unless they can drive her illness into remission, she will wind up a cripple. Mona has seen cases in her own village that make her listen, and she now lies wrapped up in bed, as protected from draughts as it is possible to be in the draughty parsonage, with woollen arm warmers drawn up over her elbows and wool on top of a flannel nightgown covering her body. Her joints are swollen and painful at this acute stage of the illness, but total rest will help the body to fight it.

Petter feels terrible guilt for having dragged his wife out to this icy lair, this abode of wind and weather, and possibly having destroyed her health for the rest of her life. Is it the cold that’s to blame? he wonders contritely.

Not necessarily, Doctor Gyllen thinks. It is hard to explain why a particular disease affects only some of the people in a population living under identical circumstances. It seems to be the case that there is more than one reason why disease breaks out. She is only speculating here, but in the course of her quite comprehensive practice in Leningrad she noticed that when women Mona’s age came down with acute rheumatoid arthritis it often happened some time after a completed pregnancy. Almost as if the body’s adjustment made it more susceptible to this kind of illness.

And, she adds, before he’s had time to ask, “A large percentage of this category regained full health under conditions I have prescribed for this patient.”

This is of the greatest interest to Mona, because she has seen her rheumatoid arthritis as an indictment of her failure to wear enough warm clothes. In fact, she has dressed warmly, and the doctor’s words are a considerable comfort. She means to follow doctor’s orders to the letter even though complete inaction is going to make her crazy. She is not allowed to do handwork or even strain her wrists for any extended time by holding a book or a newspaper.

Four weeks! It’s hard to imagine how she’ll be able to hold out for such a long time when there’s so much to do. They can’t hope to keep Sister Hanna for four weeks, and in any case she wants to take care of her cows and her children and her house herself—separate and churn butter, knit stockings, write letters, and go to the outhouse. Now she has to answer the call of nature in a potty chair in the bedroom, which others then have to carry out.

She listens to the radio for as long as she can stand the static. As often as he can, Petter comes in and tells her what he’s busy with, and when the mail comes she can read the papers if she’s careful turning the pages. The pastor is busy as a bee, for, in addition to all the duties of his office, many of the practical chores fall to him as well. Mona was so efficient that they were hardly noticeable before, but now he’s got more than he can handle. Sister Hanna has her hands full too, and he tries to help her as much as he can—fetches wood and water, builds fires in the tile stoves, and often goes with her to the cow barn to help with the mucking out and the feeding. In the evenings, they lie in the dark and talk. These conversations are her greatest comfort and the bridge that leads from one day to the next. His voice, his hand holding hers, his thumb massaging the inside of her wrist, the hope in his words.

Of course Sanna often sits on the edge of the bed or moves about the room and talks sensibly. She has started liking her little sister now that she knows her mother can’t devote herself to her. Sister Hanna places her at her mother’s breast when she’s hungry, but Mama can’t lift her or change her. It’s so cold on the floor that she mostly has to sit in her crib, where she would live like an animal in a cage if Sanna didn’t keep her company. As soon as she walks into the bedroom, Lillus gives a happy shout, and when she’s in the right mood she thinks everything Sanna comes up with is fun.

Sanna also talks to Sister Hanna, who goes quietly about her work in the kitchen. When she has time, she comes and talks to the pastor’s wife. About her duties, about what she’s to do and how, about where some things can be found and where others may be hiding. But also about many other things, about terrible diseases that have struck people on the Örlands, whole clusters of children left motherless, a helpless father left alone with his entire brood, his animals in the cow barn and no way to deal with it all. The need for help is inexhaustible, and still it was overwhelmingly difficult to get the local council to pass the proposal to create a home aide. Sister Hanna looks sad and bitter at the memory, and Sanna listens. “It’s awful when the people who have our fate in their hands have no feeling for the troubles of their fellow creatures.”

Mama and Sanna are all ears as Sister Hanna tells the story. Votes were taken again and again, and she names all those who voted no. She emphasizes that it was only when the organist became the new chairman that he managed to persuade his cohort to vote for the resolution and then cast the deciding vote himself. Mama and Sanna heave a sigh of relief and cheer, for the organist is their idol, and they can both bear witness to how badly Sister Hanna’s services are needed. The bedroom becomes a zone of warmth and mutual respect. Mona, who has always had difficulty accepting help, finds it a little easier when Sister Hanna tells her again and again how comfortable she is in the guest bedroom.

If only no wife and mother becomes acutely ill and dies! For the moment, everything is working nicely at the parsonage, but how will it be in future? Was he selfish and thoughtless, Petter wonders, when he applied for the post of pastor on the Örlands? If Mona can’t stand the climate and the cold, draughty parsonage, that puts his decision in a whole new light. Is it fair of him to insist on staying on if doing so puts his beloved wife’s health at risk? When he was in Borgå, the bishop was very friendly and understanding and implied that a priest of Petter’s calibre could make an important contribution in a significantly larger parish. At the time, of course, he said that his calling was to the Örlands, but if that calling means that he must sacrifice his wife’s health, then it’s time to reconsider.

He says, in the darkness of the bedroom. In just a couple of weeks, a good deal of Mona’s pain and swelling has abated, and she is in good spirits. “Oh, now don’t go rushing off again half-cocked,” she says. “Let’s wait and see how things look a month from now. Appointments won’t be announced until the spring, so we can wait. Doctor Gyllen said it wasn’t necessarily due to the cold. If I get well, I want to stay where you feel at home, it’s as simple as that. No point in wasting energy on a lot of unnecessary speculation!”

“Don’t say that just for my sake,” he tells her.

“For my sake too, you dimwit. You’ve become much nicer since we came here. And where else do you think I could have my own cows? Don’t forget I feel at home here too.”

For even though the islanders are in many ways her rivals for Petter’s time, attention, and favour, there’s no denying that they have a great attraction for Mona as well. She hasn’t come to know as many of them as Petter has, but the ones she’s met she likes, and she is much more particular than he. She had thought she would have to spend much of her enforced confinement with the radio and Sanna’s chatter as her only company, but it turns out that many of those who have business on Church Isle come in to say hello. Without the least embarrassment, they sit down and talk for a while and it is as naturally as an eighteenth-century queen receiving visitors while lying in her bed. Then they have coffee in the warm parlour and discuss their errand with the pastor. Best of all, of course, is when the organist stops by, gallant and handsome, with a warming smile. “And how is the patient today? Just fine? And the young ladies?” He looks at Sanna, who stands on the threshold admiring him, and at Lillus in her crib.

“Sit down for a moment if you’ve got time and tell me what’s going on out in the world,” says Mona. Insightful as he is, he talks about the conditions in his cow barn where he has five cows and various younger animals, a horse in his stable, and nine ewes and a ram in his sheepfold, always of interest to the pastor’s wife. Then he tells her of the latest schism in the local council about the allocation of funds to the school library in the east villages that is open a few hours a week. The opposition—short-sighted, narrow-minded, uncultured— cannot see that reading is an important educational benefit for the public good. Then about the winter communications, functioning relatively well this year although Anton has his work cut out for him. Finally, less willingly, and only when she asks, about Francine.

Yes, the boy was born severely retarded. Doctor Gyllen said so and the hospital in Åbo has confirmed it. In addition, a congenital heart defect. Blue, due to poor oxygenation. Best, frankly, if he were to die. Poor child, poor Francine. Exhausted and unhappy, of course, thank heaven they have Mama in the house. What would they do without her? So the housework is getting done, but Francine is miserable. It’s a shame about their daughter. He’s trying to be both a mother and a father to her, which isn’t easy when he has to be away so much. Which reminds him that, however pleasant it is to sit and talk, he has to go find the priest and discuss the coming vestry meeting and then get home. So thanks, and see you again. Hope you’ll be feeling better soon.

Yes, for however singular and beautiful the Örlands are in themselves, nevertheless the people are their main reason for wanting to stay. Mona doesn’t want to mention it for fear of tempting fate, but she feels that she’s getting well and wants desperately to get started on all the springtime work. It will be their third spring on the Örlands, and they’ve already accomplished much. Conditions in the cow barn are good, they’ve added to their farmland, their crops will be a joy to behold when the time comes, the fences are repaired, and they’ve put money aside towards a horse and a motorboat. It will take a catastrophe to get them to leave all this.

Chapter Twenty

WHEN THE PASTOR’S WIFE starts getting dressed for the installation of the new vicar, she finds she can no longer get her arms into the little black wool dress that witnessed Petter’s ordination. It’s not that she’s grown fat, just that hard work on the Örlands has developed her muscles and joints. Her girlhood is behind her, and she can only laugh. “Look there!” she says to Petter. “No seam to let out, and anyway I really don’t have time to let out seams.” She sounds surprisingly cheery, he notes, and the fact is that his wife is not a bit unwilling to revolt against the unwritten law that dictates black, black, black as the festival colour for women of the church. Black wool is not recommended for the pastor’s wife as she leaps like a doe among her many duties. Instead, she has no choice but to wear her new summer dress, recently arrived in an American package, which fits beautifully and has a pretty collar, bloused sleeves, and a wide skirt. It has a pretty pattern in blue and fuchsia and is cool as a dream compared with the black wool. The first time such a creation has appeared in the front pew at the installation of a vicar! Petter’s engagement necklace around her neck, her hair rolled and combed, cleared for action!

“You’re so pretty today,” says the pastor, although he knows she’ll answer, “Oh, go on!” The vicar-to-be can still get into his cassock. Perhaps it has grown with him, since he has worn it every Sunday since his ordination. To be sure, it sits as tightly as a suit of armour, but the seams hold. He will simply have to see to it that he grows no more substantial than he is right now. It’s as warm as burning Gehenna on a day like this, but they have decided never to complain about the heat on the few warm days they are granted on these wind-tortured islands. And it is truly a good thing to have such fine weather on this day, when Church Isle will be covered with people all day long.

What would they have done had it rained? After the service, they will serve coffee to at least four hundred people, and after the open-air programme of speeches and songs, the guests who have come a great distance will be served dinner—potatoes, fried pike with horseradish sauce and several square metres of lettuce that the pastor’s wife has raised in her kitchen garden, tender and delicious, which she’ll serve with a dressing of eggs and cream mixed with a little sugar, salt, and vinegar. The famous local breads—black and homemade white, her own butter, her milk, and her well-brewed small beer. For dessert, prune whip with whipped cream, an Åland speciality. Help in the kitchen, of course, but under her own watchful eye. Plates, coffee cups, bowls, and silverware borrowed in big baskets from the Martha Society and the youth centre. All this food and activity spreads out across the kitchen and the dining room, but the parlour is a protected zone. Here the visiting dignitaries are served a substantial breakfast of porridge, cheese sandwiches, and coffee or tea, to hold them through the long installation service.

It’s like a royal visit. First the bishop, the bishop’s wife, and the assessor will arrive from the east on one of Åbo’s fast Coast Guard cutters. Many of the Örlanders have already arrived and stand on the bell-tower hill keeping a lookout. When the foaming prow of the boat is seen in the distance, a message is sent to the parsonage at once, and the vicar-to-be and his wife stroll down to the church dock to receive their visitors with a smile. Welcome, welcome! And thank you, thank you! The Coast Guard crewmen, like aides-de-camp, ready with discreet hands as the bishop—in his doctor’s hat, cassock, and bishop’s cross—steps ashore with his wife. Handshakes and great delight on all sides about the weather, about seeing one another again, about the Day and all it will mean for the life of the faith in the outer islands. “And it’s so beautiful here. So indescribably lovely!” The gentlemen walk slightly ahead, scrutinized by Apple and Goody, who then focus their attention on Mona, who does not stop and pat them but informs the bishop’s wife, “Yes, they’re ours, I tend them myself. Without cows of our own, we’d have a hard time feeding ourselves out here.”

When the dignitaries from the east have been settled in the parlour, word arrives of the boat arriving from the west. “A big devil of a boat, oh, excuse me, the biggest Coast Guard ship on Åland. From the station at Storkubb, a real destroyer. Does thirteen knots. Going like hell out there on the sound, oh, beg your pardon.”

The priest would like very much to be up on the hill watching the party from Mariehamn come flying across the water—the Åland governor and the dean with their wives, reporters, plus the priest from Föglö and Fredrik Berg and his wife, picked up in Mellom—but his role today is too dignified for that, so he makes his excuses to the group in the parlour and he and his wife receive their guests on the dock. The newcomers are effusive and hearty. The governor is charmed by the pastor’s young wife, while the dean gets his first impression of his new ecclesiastical colleague, truly a pleasant meeting! Apple and Goody stand nearby in a cloud of flies and watch and, out on the bay, the clatter of motorboats steadily increases. The congregation is on its way to church early in order to get a good seat. Cecilia is watching Sanna and Lillus, at a comfortable distance but still close enough to see all the people. Sanna is deeply offended at not being allowed to attend the installation even though she has promised to be quiet and good. She could sit with Grandma and Grandpa and Lillus could stay outside with Cecilia. Like all of Sanna’s arguments, it is sensible and well thought out, but Mama has decided otherwise, so that’s all there is to that.

Consequently, Sanna does not get to see her father standing before the altar surrounded by the dean and the priests from Mellom and Föglö, who read the words of the Bible and lay their hands on Papa’s head as he kneels before the altar. The bishop says, “God hath given thee all them that sail with thee.” That means that the parish of Örland is his, and he is theirs. Nor does she get to hear the organist sing his showpiece “A Precious Thing to Thank the Lord” while accompanying himself on the organ with one hand, but when they all leave the church, it’s more fun. Cecilia and Sanna and Lillus go up to the attic, and when Cecilia opens the window they have a good view and can hear what people say.

It must have gone well in there, for everyone is happy and talking cheerfully. The congregation pours out first and then they stand and wait, dividing themselves into two groups so that Papa can guide the bishop to the coffee table outside the parsonage. Behind them come the dignitaries and the guests and Grandma and Grandpa and Mama. When she gets there, she makes a sharp survey of the coffee table and then hurries quickly and, she hopes, unnoticed, to the kitchen. Several well-briefed coffee ladies stand at the ready. Gaily and graciously, they pour coffee for the bishop and his wife and wish them bon appetit. There are great heaps of sandwiches, and more are brought out on trays, and when the bishop, his wife, the assessor, and the governor have seated themselves, the congregation can help themselves. There are planks laid on sawhorses where older people can sit, the younger sit on rocky outcroppings or on the grass. It’s like when the children of Israel made camp in the wilderness, Cecilia tells Sanna, and manna came from heaven. “Coffee and sandwiches,” Sanna translates, and Cecilia runs down to the kitchen and brings some sandwiches and juice up to the attic. Fortunately, Lillus has fallen asleep, and Cecilia and Sanna stand by the window and drink their juice and eat sandwiches while the children of Israel laugh and talk below them.

When they are finished eating, the church choir performs. They have to wait a moment for the priest and his wife, who come running, and then they sing with all their might. They begin with “Bright Clouds Sailing”, and anyone concerned that the wind will carry away their voices can stop worrying. They sing “Great is God’s Mercy” and “Imagine When the Mists Have Vanished”, and when they are done, the bishop stands at the top of the steps so his voice will carry. The Örlanders are experts at public speaking, so they appreciate the fact that he makes himself heard, although to tell the truth, the content is a little too general and sounds like any other sermon, all about Christian upbringing and the importance of piety at every level, whereas the congregation longs to hear what he thinks of the Örlands and the lovely weather and whether he didn’t feel a little giddy when the Coast Guard cutter really opened up.

The lean assessor follows his bishop and he too delivers a discourse on how impossible it is to hide from the living God. All too true, and everyone present can also agree that the majority of human beings wander a path of affliction, captured in the iron grip of sin, but would it have been out of place to say a few words about the Örlands and about how people here wander the path of salvation, at least today? The vicar himself lightens the atmosphere after the final choir performance by signalling that now the celebration is over. He thanks the congregation for making the day festive and unforgettable with their singing and by their very presence. “Now we part for today, but I hope we shall see one another again every Sunday. Getting to Church Isle can be difficult, but the church awaits you with open arms.”

That means they should be off, for only the guests are invited to dinner. Among them are the Örland church council and vestry, but the rest of the lay people start moving towards the church dock, where their boats are tied up in multiple rows. It goes quickly after all the sitting, and soon the bay echoes with the clatter and sharp detonations of motors cranked to life. Cecilia and the little girls go down to the dock with all the others, and as they’re coming back they run into Fredrik Berg, the priest from Mellom, who understands that these must be the parsonage children. Cecilia knows that normally Sanna hides and Lillus cries when any stranger comes too close, but there’s something about Fredrik Berg—maybe the fact that at home he is often mentioned as Papa’s good friend—which makes them stare up at him with delight. As they approach the parsonage, Mama and Papa see with astonishment that Lillus is sitting on Fredrik’s arm and beaming, while Sanna holds his hand, talking for all she’s worth.

“Quite the ladies’ man,” says Papa, and Mrs Berg, who appears for once at a party instead of just toiling in the kitchen, in black (although she has now learned something from Mona), adds, “Yes, that’s the way he likes it. One around his neck, one holding his hand, one in reserve.”

They’re all in good spirits, relieved perhaps that the heavy programme is over and that an easier socializing lies before them, among friends and colleagues. Food will be welcome as well, to tell the truth. The long dinner table has been set on the grass below the stairs. The sun is shining, there is still no wind, an uncommonly lovely afternoon. There is a buzz of conversation, the new vicar and his wife are beaming with happiness, nearly everything has gone off without a hitch. The food is on the table.

And now the event takes off! When they’ve all found their seats and tucked in and rejoiced in the day and the company, there breaks out a feast of speechifying that will live in memory. Cecilia has taken the girls’ food up to the attic, and while Lillus gobbles down her mashed potatoes and gravy and adorns her whole person with the prune whip dessert, Cecilia and Sanna stand at the window and listen.

Papa speaks first, welcoming everyone and thanking them for making the day so festive. He extends especially warm thanks to the bishop and his wife, to the governor and his wife, to his visiting fellow priests and their wives, and to his parents. Above all, he speaks of his love for Örland Church and its parishioners, who have won his heart and boundless respect. “We will grow old here,” he promises. He speaks beautifully, and everyone looks appreciative and pleased. Sanna applauds enthusiastically. Cecilia thinks Sanna should have been allowed to sit at table, smart and sensible as she is.

Papa’s speech opens the floodgates, and the fireworks begin. The bishop responds by saying how delighted he is that the Örlands have their first permanent vicar since time immemorial, a young, hearty pastor, passionate in spirit and faithful to the Lord, and at his side a wife to stand with him through all of life’s vicissitudes. The congregation could not have chosen a better way to manifest its support for this young couple than with its song and its presence here today. It is a sad fact that Örland parish often winds up beyond the edge of narrowly drawn maps, but today’s celebration has, at one stroke, established it as a central and valued member of the diocese. He pauses for a moment and then, with a slight bow to the governor, he expresses his gratitude to the representative of civil authority for showing such a kindly interest in the affairs of the church.

This is sufficient to bring the governor to his feet. He assures those present that it was a great honour for himself and his wife to be invited. It has been an unforgettable occasion. He has met old friends and made new acquaintances. It is a dear sight to see the people of the outer islands dressed for a celebration. Surrounded by such goodwill, the vicar of Örland can count himself truly fortunate. It is a pleasure for him to take this opportunity, on behalf of all the guests, to thank the host and hostess and the elected representatives of the parish for this perfectly wonderful day.

Then Uncle Isidor speaks. His voice quavering, he begins by conveying greetings from the entire family and the members of his former parish. “Dear nephew,” he says. But he has become emotional in his old age, and his voice breaks. He starts over. “Dear nephew. To see such a young man find his calling and win his place in the world—it fills us all with inspiration and gives us hope for the future.”

The assessor, who is the next to speak, reveals his earlier prejudice against the fishermen and fisherman-farmers of Örland when he says that this day has given him an entirely different picture of the Örland Islands and its laity. This is a smiling countryside with gifted and affectionate people. The hymns were memorable, and what collections! This poor parish actually leads the collection statistics for Åland. And what can one deduce from this? That the vicar is to be congratulated for such a congregation, and that the congregation is to be congratulated for having received a vicar who can bring out their best qualities.

Still amazed, he sits down, and then Sanna’s idol rises, Fredrik Berg, in sparkling good humour. For him, this has been a splendid day. All these people have had an intoxicating effect on him. He has spoken to the bishop and the dean and has met the governor and had long conversations with the organist and Adele Bergman and chatted about shared concerns with the priest from Föglö. Now he knocks them all out with his wit. Out here in the outermost archipelago, he begins, conditions are so special that people have to come up with their own solutions to problems and make their own independent decisions. Against this background, the distinguished gentlemen present may perhaps see fit to look with indulgence on the creation, on their own initiative, of an island deanery, where clerical concerns can be aired and mutual decisions reached by means of telephone conferences. As dean of this illegal deanery, it is the speaker’s particular joy to be able to take part in the consecration of his esteemed fellow clergyman as vicar. “My dear fellow priest!” he concludes. “Your name, Petrus, puts you under obligation. On the rocky cliffs of the Örland Islands you shall build your church, and here you shall carry the keys to the kingdom of heaven.”

The whole table applauds enthusiastically, and Sanna up in the window claps and claps and wishes that Uncle Berg would look up just once, but he doesn’t. He looks quickly at the people at the table and then down at the tablecloth and tries not to smile. His wife appears to like him better than she did earlier in the day when he ignored her completely and seemed not to care that she knew hardly a soul.

Priests are good at talking, and there is no one with a clerical collar under his chin who doesn’t feel called upon to say a few words. The bishop and the dean of Åland rise at the same moment, but the dean must yield to the bishop, who takes the words from his mouth. “The Archipelago Deanery comes as a complete surprise to me,” he says in an authoritative tone, but smiling, so everyone will see that he is mocking the gravity of his office. “But after due consideration I am prepared to give it my blessing. Everything that contributes to harmony is a benefit to the diocese.”

The priest from Föglö wants to know how to join, but Fredrik Berg is strict and says that he must first give up his bus connection to the Åland main island. The Föglö priest won’t do that, but he very much wants to belong to the archipelago group. This gives the dean of all Åland’s parishes his chance, and he extends a chivalrous invitation to the new group to attend all future meetings of the Åland deanery. He salutes the new vicar on behalf of all his fellow Åland clergymen.

Now all the priests have had their say, and it is admirable that father Leonard has been able to restrain himself all this time. Of course Petter has known all along that Papa will have to open his mouth at some point, and now he smiles from fear and looks down at his plate. Papa! No nonsense now, he wants to say, but Leonard has already started, as usual without the slightest idea of what he will say but with complete confidence that it will be excellent. “My dear son!” he begins. “If I, young and undecided, like a reed in the wind, sailing along between the Scylla and Charybdis of temptations, if I had been told then that my eldest son would become a priest and vicar, maybe a dean one fine day, I would have laughed out loud. Me, a free-thinker, with a son who’s a priest! I can truthfully say that God guides our steps in mysterious ways. Spiritual breezes blew my vessel past hidden rocks and into the bay where your mother waited. I give all the honour and credit for your becoming what you’ve become to her, not to myself.” And so on, mostly about himself, his own inconstancy and restlessness, whereas even as a child, his son showed himself to be calm, responsible, a rock. “Which, by the way, another speaker today has already referred to, quite rightly. Consequently it is perhaps forgivable that on a day like this, an old father can feel like a youth, who still has much to learn, compared with such a son. Or like an old ram in a herd of which the shepherd is his son. Perhaps it is meant to be so, as generation follows generation. Humble and chastened, my wife and I this day thank God for our son, who has given us such joy.”

Here he actually stops. Petter gives him a friendly nod and mouths thank you, and the whole table applauds. “Original, fantastic,” they say to one another. Meanwhile, the organist is collecting himself for the speech he’s to give on behalf of the Örlanders. He is nervous and begins in a thin, strained voice and gets a frog in his throat. It is hard for him, usually so humorous, to find the light-hearted tone that prevails around the table. It feels like some kind of upper-class mannerism and it makes him more serious than he’d meant to be. Adele looks at him, knows how nervous he can get, even though he manages everything so well.

“Dear Petter, dear Mona,” he says, now in a normal voice. “Young and lively and irresistible, you stepped straight into our hearts. In the beginning, we didn’t dare to believe you’d stay. Today, we dare to express the hope that we won’t have to change priests for a long time to come. We’ve been given a spiritual guide who understands us, a man who is not only educated but who also possesses great practical competence. In this poor little parish, he can make a real contribution, God willing, a life’s work. For example, we’re working to build a bridge to Church Isle. The foundation has been laid, thanks to the help of a generous Swede, and our vicar himself heads the volunteer effort that began last winter. But more money is needed. Perhaps there is someone at this table who can help us move ahead. This kind of work is one of the chief activities of a priest out here, while at the same time he must preach the word and administer the sacraments. Two tasks of great importance, and we hope that you, Petter, will remain our vicar for years to come, and you, Mona, his tireless helpmate.”

He sits down, and the former verger, retired but in service again on a day like this, rises, beaming as only an old man can, and insists that in the course of his long life he has seen the local priest change so many times that he’s lost count. “Now our only wish, Petter, is that you remain with us.”

It is now so late that the little girls must go to bed. Sanna is very, very tired after her intense participation in the drawn-out events of the day. Lillus, who has taken several naps in the course of the afternoon, is wider awake but still willing. While the speeches continue outdoors, they come down the attic stairs. There are people working in the kitchen, and Cecilia takes the potty into the bedroom along with a bucket of water so they can wash their hands and faces at the washstand. Then they sit in their beds while Cecilia says their evening prayers with them, adding on her own initiative a thank-you for the beautiful weather, which made the day so lovely. Sanna falls asleep almost at once, while Lillus sings and speaks. Cecilia wonders how much she’s understood of what has happened and what she thinks about it. She herself feels a bit superfluous. In the kitchen, they’re preparing coffee and cakes that the pastor’s … the vicar’s wife has made in baking pans. Wild strawberries mashed with sugar with a layer of whipped cream between the layers, topped off with sweetened whipped cream. When the cakes are carried out, there may be some left on the baking sheets, and anyway they’ll need help with the dishes, so she leaves the door ajar and heads for the kitchen.

She stops for a moment in the hall and listens—such a merry babble, and such happy, loud voices. The whole crowd draws its breath when the cakes are put on the table. Delighted cries. Is there no end to his hospitality? Is there no limit to what can be stuffed into a dean’s belly? The bishop helps himself first. With all his authority, he urges the others to be cautious—the cakes are so tall that no matter how thin a piece you cut, your plate will overflow.

Cecilia can see the vicar’s wife in her mind’s eye, smiling and saying, Oh, it’s nothing. They have eaten and eaten all evening long, and now they’re still eating, as if they were trying to make up for the shortage of food all through the long war. Adele sits lost in thought, trying to figure out how much food she would have to order if this whole bunch lived on the Örlands.

The temporal side of the event has also been a great success, and out in the kitchen by the dishpans, the Marthas are in high spirits. When the vicar’s wife comes scurrying in to ask if they don’t need to take a break, sit down, have a cup of coffee and taste the cake, they say yes indeed but they’ll soon be done and then the coffee will taste extra good. “It went really well,” says Lydia Manström, who is working in the kitchen as a Martha even though she has every right to sit at the table like a Mary, that is to say, as a member of the vestry. Quietly she wonders if they’re never going to leave, and the vicar’s wife laughs and says she thinks they’ve started to discuss it. The long-distance guests have their transportation all arranged—the Coast Guard cutter is waiting patiently. Mona is exhilarated and happy even though she’s so tired she’s reeling. But now she must go back out again, because she can hear that people are starting to stand up, singing their thanks before they leave the table, and Petter is already on the steps asking for her. And so they stand arm and arm and say farewell to their guests, although they’ll be going down to the dock to say farewell again, so hard it is for all of them to part.

The vestry and the council also head off in the wake of the surging Coast Guard cutters, but for them a quick reunion awaits. The very next day, all the Örlanders who helped or contributed to the celebration are invited back for coffee, which will give them a chance to relive the events of the day in relative peace and quiet and allow the priest and his wife to thank everyone properly, as they deserve, with great warmth, communal song, and the love and respect of their new vicar.

But now, finally, they stand there stupefied—Petter and Mona, Grandma and Grandpa. Thanks to the Coast Guard, the house is not full of overnight guests. Grandma and Grandpa are to sleep in the guest room, Cecilia in the attic. It is utterly quiet, a slight chill in the air, and they shiver as they stand on the steps. Petter, who has been standing as if bewitched, shakes himself loose. “Now let’s go in. Wouldn’t it be nice if we all caught cold on the warmest day of the year? We’ll have a cup of tea, and then everyone to bed.”

Mona looks out across the desolate party site. A couple of her finely woven tablecloths overlapping on the long table are covered with ugly sauce and coffee stains, but it’s a small price to pay. Before they went home, the Marthas did a huge job— all the serving dishes, platters, and bowls have been cleared, washed, and sorted according to where they came from. There is warm water on the stove, and before long it’s boiling and everyone gets a cup of tea. Not even father Leonard has more to say. The lively conversations, speeches, and babble of the day echo in everyone’s head, along with the music from the organ and the breasts of the Örlanders. Cecilia has said goodnight and gone up, the others say goodnight and pour wash water into pitchers and go to bed. The vicar and his wife long to lie flat on their backs and say a few words, entire sentences if they have the strength, before they sleep.

But Mona has a hard time relaxing. It’s midnight, but she worries that there aren’t enough pastries left over for the locals. She set aside a considerable quantity of sweet rolls in the cellar, but at some point during the day she grew nervous and pinched some of the reserve and put them on the table. In the middle of the night, she stands in the cellar with a flashlight in her hand and counts sweet rolls and counts Örlanders and counts the people who may wander in uninvited. If no one takes two, there may be enough.

It is not true that you can lay your troubles before the Lord and lay your head calmly to rest, trusting in Him, because the church of Christ is heavily dependent on its ground crew. Ask and you shall receive—well, yes you shall, if someone has done the baking and set the table. Everyone has thanked God for this fine day, and Mona can go so far as to thank Him for her health and strength, which, thanks to Doctor Gyllen, allows her once again to work like a dog. But if the dog didn’t work, they’d all sit there twiddling their thumbs while their stomachs rumbled. Miracles are thin on the ground; work is everywhere waiting to be done!

Chapter Twenty-One

IN THEORY AT LEAST, the vicar and his wife can take it a little easier now that his pastoral exam and installation are behind them. For Petter, it means that he allows himself to enjoy the beautiful days that August still has up its sleeve. The congregation is busy with its fishing, and he has no pressing duties except Sunday’s sermon and occasional functions. He makes his pastoral visits to the elderly and deals with the recurrent paperwork in his office, but he does have a little time to himself, so he sometimes goes out for a walk with Sanna. It is a great concern to him that a good clergyman must neglect his family. A shepherd who devotes most of his time to his family must necessarily neglect his parish.

It breaks his heart to look at them, Sanna and Lillus, the way they love him and forgive him everything, no, do not even see that there is anything to forgive. Adoring and happy, they cling to him and love him however much he is away, however little time he has for them, however much he forbids them to stick their noses into his office, however often he goes off and leaves them. They stand and wave for as long as he’s in sight, and when he comes back after what must seem an eternity to a child, he can hear their joy even before he opens the door. There are a lot of sentimental verses written about a mother’s love, but as far as he knows, very little has been written about children’s love, which is like God’s, unconditional and boundless.

However much Sanna watches over Lillus and however hard she finds it to believe that Lillus could survive without her big sister, she abandons her nevertheless when she and Papa go out for a walk. They wander around Church Isle and look at plants and birds and Sanna learns all their names. They climb hills and jump on rocks and splash in the water, and as they walk Papa talks about things that he knows all too well what Mona would think of. Like this business of studying. “It’s remarkable,” he says to Sanna, “but after all the trouble I had studying for my pastoral exam, which was sometimes terribly boring, I still have a desire to study. Not theology but something else. Botany, for example. Someone could make a terrifically interesting study of the flora in a well-grazed landscape like this one. You could have ungrazed areas as test sections for comparison. My suspicion is that an intensively grazed landscape will have a greater diversity of plants, whereas in the ungrazed area just a few dominant species will take over. It would be fascinating to study the way plants adapt to intensive grazing. The ones that manage to bloom have to grow low and fast, maybe creep along the ground. Where the soil is shallow, the way it is here, it dries out quickly, so the species that survive have to be better than average at tolerating dry conditions. It’s questions like that that interest me! Would you like to be my assistant? That means my helper. What do you think?”

“Yes!” says Sanna, where Mona says, “Don’t you think you have enough to do? When you were finally done with your pastoral exam I thought we’d get a little rest on that front.” True, true, but Sanna says, “Yes!” Willing, full of love, her hand lies in his. All right then! Botanical assistant it shall be.

But then he goes on thinking out loud. “But even more, I think I’d like to get into ethnology. What an unbelievable field of study the Örlands could be! In fact, I have a unique opportunity to get to know people here and to understand how they think. What other job lets you go into people’s houses and get to know people the way I can do as a priest? You know what? I think I’ll study ethnology as an academic discipline and have botany as a side interest, just for the fun of it.”

“Yes!” says Sanna.

“Thanks,” says Papa. “As soon as we’ve got a motorboat and a horse and the bridge is finished and everything gets much easier, then we can start. I’ve got lots of ideas about what I could write my dissertation on. People’s ideas about signs and omens, for example. The old skin-clad men who warn of dangers, dreams that carry messages. Those kinds of things. The closest word is folklore, but I could also write about information-sharing in a rural community. Communications are difficult and everything is far away, and yet when something happens, word spreads like wildfire. Of course the telephone has a lot to do with that, but what’s interesting is that it was probably the same way before the Örlands had telephones. If people call each other in a certain pattern then I’d guess that same pattern was the basis of information-sharing even before the telephone. Family relationships are decisive here, and my hypothesis is that newcomers without family ties remain far outside the well-established information networks. But I have to test the theory and be able to prove it. There are an incredible number of interesting dissertation possibilities just here on the Örlands. It’s a small, defined area, in the winter it’s even isolated. It’s fantastic that all this is here just waiting for me!”

“Yes!” says Sanna. She looks at him earnestly and understands that he’s talking about important things and she’ll be allowed to be part of it as his assistant. His hand is warm, his voice deep, but then he sighs.

“But where will I find the time? Mama and I have way too much to do, and we never get enough sleep. We can’t go on like this indefinitely. And yet I’d still like to find a new subject to study, now that I’m finished. Do you think I’m out of my mind?”

Sanna stops and laughs, and Papa starts laughing too. “Oh well,” he says. “You’ve got to have plans for the future, even when you don’t know how you’re going to make them happen. Come on, let’s go get those perch from the live box and clean them like Mama asked us to.”

As if to prove his hypothesis about the way information travels on the islands, a large quantity of smuggled liquor arrives on the Örlands, and the parsonage is the last place to hear about it.

If the priest hadn’t come cycling to the store on a perfectly ordinary Wednesday afternoon, they would never have had to know that a large cargo had been dumped in the outer archipelago and taken in hand by local Örlanders, this news having made a detour around the Coast Guard, the parsonage, and the police. The scene was utterly peaceful as he approached on his bike. For some reason, the phrase “pastoral idyll” crossed his mind—peacefully grazing cows, no visible activity anywhere, woolly clouds in the sky, a benevolent sun shining down on all of it. Like life on earth before the Fall, he thought, smiling, and the faces he began to see as he pedalled into the largest of the west villages beamed with goodwill and bonhomie. Down by the village harbour they were remarkably stationary, sat where they sat, waved slowly and royally in answer to his greeting. Like a quiet Sunday in the middle of a weekday.

What was it they put down in the grass when he came? They were clearly on some kind of break, half sitting or half lying down, and they made no effort to rise or get busy with something when he came. One of them started to sing and the others hushed him but burst out laughing. Their good spirits were perfectly normal. Their particularly good spirits were not.

“May I sit down?” the vicar asked. “Please do,” they said, as they always did. But they laughed and wouldn’t look at him.

“Would I be wrong if I guessed that something amusing has happened?” he said.

They glanced at each other furtively and their bellies bounced with mirth. One young smart aleck said, “Yesterday’s catch was a little better than usual.” They lay back on their elbows and guffawed. The phrase “drunk with laughter” occurred to the vicar, and then simply the word “drunk”. Quite simply, plastered. Drunk as lords, or maybe not—able to talk but clearly unsteady on their legs.

A tough situation for the priest, who was seen as a kind of authority figure and who might be expected to report them. He found himself in a situation where he didn’t belong and wasn’t welcome but where the level of inebriation led to his being cordially received. He couldn’t just get up and leave, so he said, breezily, “Fish with corks and labels, sounds like. Fish that sort of gurgle.”

They laughed till they cried. And of course one of them, in accordance with the rules of hospitality, asked if he wanted a taste. They looked at him expectantly. His answer would show what calibre of priest they had. Whether they could feel respect for him. They wanted him to have a drink with them, but on the other hand, if word got around that he sat tippling with the men that time the load of liquor came in, he would never be able to regain their respect for his office. “Thanks for the offer,” he said. “But I catch my own fish.”

There was no great reaction to this statement, and he started to walk to his bicycle. “Have a pleasant day,” he said in farewell. “And congratulations on your catch.”

For the first time, he felt like a total outsider. Who should have had the sense to stay away. He did his shopping at the Co-op without seeing Adele and biked straight home. Both Coast Guard cutters lay at their dock, he noticed, neither out on patrol. He heard later that both Brage and the police had been at home and invisible, seized with a sudden strong yearning for the home fires and old newspapers that needed to be read from cover to cover.

There was a great deal that he heard afterwards, and his already multifaceted congregation gained one further dimension— they appeared to possess intimate knowledge of the various types of distilled spirits, knew the names of the most exotic brands, and seemed to have considerable insight into the prices they would bring on the black market and in restaurants. He himself was like a newborn baby in that area and full of conflicting emotions. On the one hand, he should strongly disapprove and condemn what had occurred. On the other hand, it was a manifestation of the anarchic and pragmatic attitude towards land-based law that he found so exhilarating and admirable in his sovereign Örlanders. On the third hand, he saw more clearly than ever before that he was excluded from certain aspects of their lives, no matter how much he had convinced himself otherwise.

Chastened and torn, he turns inward instead towards his neglected children. During all the preparations for his installation as vicar, Lillus has her first birthday. At breakfast, Papa puts a rose on her plate. Quick as a wink, she stuffs it in her mouth. Mama leans forward and digs it out amidst Lillus’s injured screams. “On her plate!” she scolds her husband. “You know she puts everything in her mouth, and you put it on her plate! We’ve been trying to teach her to eat only what’s on her plate!”

Papa looks abashed. Thoughtless. As foolish as father Leonard himself. But was it really so dangerous? Anything Lillus doesn’t like, she immediately spits out. She investigates things by stuffing them in her craw, and there an automatic sorting process takes place. Stones, bits of wood and birchbark from the woodpile, candle wax, soap, napkins, pen wipers, erasers, buttons are all rejected. As far as they can tell, she rarely swallows things she shouldn’t, and when she does, they presumably come out the natural way. She chews larger things experimentally. The parsonage contains nothing at Lillus’s height that she hasn’t nibbled on. Towels, curtains, tablecloths that hang over the edge—all have damp hems, and she chews on the hem of her dress and on her collar, and she tastes boots and wool socks in the hall. Her father notes that she goes about it calmly, almost scientifically. Mama rushes over and stops her, but when Papa sees her gnawing on the leg of a chair in the parlour, he laughs and knows what he’ll say next time some sailboat visitor asks why the Örlands are so barren. It’s because of Lillus, he’ll say. The Örlands were once covered with pine forest, but then Lillus came into the world and started to nibble. Eventually the forest was chewed down, and then she started on the broad-leaf trees and the bushes. But mostly she munches on the furniture and accessories in the parsonage. Miss Woodworm, he calls her, the scourge of the Örlands.

She’s beginning to be so much fun, he thinks. She’s started to walk, and soon she’ll start to talk. He can already communicate with her. They play while Mama milks the cows. “What does the cow say?” “Moo!” “What does the ewe say?” “Baa!” “What does the pig say?” “Oink!” “What does the kitty say?” “Meow!” On an impulse, he says, “What does Papa say?” Lillus is in ecstasy, laughs so her eyes disappear. “Moo!” “Does Papa say Moo?” he asks, and she shouts, “Moo!” and throws herself on the floor with hilarity. Then he says, “What does Mama say?” She stops for a moment as if weighing his ability to get a joke. “Usch! Pugh!” she says, looking at him out of the corner of her eye, which sparkles with merriment. He is so surprised that he whoops with laughter, and then she laughs too. When Mama and Sanna come in from the milking, they are lying in a heap on the floor shouting, “Moo!” and “Usch pugh!” and “Baa!” and “Moo!” and “Usch pugh!”

“What are you doing?” Mama wants to know. “Don’t get her all excited just before her bedtime!”

“Sorry,” he says. “Do you think a person can have a sense of humour even at this early age?”

“Maybe,” says Mama. She has already dragged Lillus off the floor and Papa stands up shamefaced. She examines Lillus, who has accumulated new stains and wrinkles since she saw her last. Her hair is like Kivi’s Seven Brothers, the whole child like an unmade bed. “Sanna was always much tidier,” Mama says. “Lillus looks like she lived in a sty, and yet I run myself ragged trying to keep her clean.”

Lillus screams and cries. Left to herself and Sanna and Papa, she is sunny and content, but Mama, who does the actual parenting, finds altogether too much in Lillus’s character that must be driven out and replaced with regular habits and sound morals. In principle, Papa agrees with all of this and bows to his wife’s methods because she’s the one who takes the day-to-day responsibility. But he understands why big tears run down Lillus’s cheeks. Lillus doesn’t like regular habits. Left to herself, she happily takes a couple of naps in the course of the day, rolled up under the cupboard or next to the tile stove, but when Mama discovers her, she hauls her out and forces her into bed, and then she can’t sleep. One of Mama’s tasks is to teach Lillus that you take naps in bed, and that you don’t eat when you’re hungry but at fixed times. When she wakes up at night and cries, Mama lifts her crib into the study and closes the door so she’ll learn not to expect to be picked up in the middle of the night and coddled. At night, you’re to sleep, and in the morning, you’re to wake up bright and cheery!

Regular habits and sound morals are well and good, but it’s a little sad for children raised with such consistency. Sanna, who is Lillus’s other influential mentor, makes no such demands but is more sensitive to Lillus’s nature. When she has fallen asleep somewhere, Sanna doesn’t report the fact, although she answers when Mama asks, and when the sisters work on something together, there are no screams or tears. But there are when Mama gets involved and gives Lillus instructions. Poor Mona, Petter thinks. Someone has to do the essential parenting and so be the least popular person in the house. It’s not fair. Easy for him to be popular, he who only appears in their lives sporadically and gets all the love.

The question now is whether he has witnessed a newly awakened sense of humour in his fifteen-month-old daughter. There are many reasons to think so, and there is a great deal going on in her present phase of development. In the kitchen they have a newly arrived household piglet in a box by the stove. There he squats, shivering and unhappy, bereft and fearful. Here the priest sees the awakening of compassion in Lillus, the realization that other creatures are like us. She sees how frightened he is, and how utterly alone. His skin, which is like her own, trembles over his whole body, his eyes blink in terror, he drools a little the way she does and whimpers. “Oink, oink,” says the piglet, and then Lillus goes to him in his distress. Glowing with compassion, like the angels who came to Swedenborg in his deepest adversity, she sits down by the box and pats his head, the way Sanna often pats hers. She talks to him in a friendly tone of voice, and the piglet listens and understands. He takes small hops with his legs and leans across the edge of the box and nudges her with his head, and she nudges back. He has stopped trembling and found courage and hope, secure in the knowledge that there is another creature like himself in this world.

The telephone rings in the study, and Papa has to answer it. It’s a long call and, when he comes back to see what’s become of Lillus, she’s lying in the box beside the piglet. Both of them are asleep, lightly, silently. In his sleep, the piglet is sucking on the hem of her dress, and she has a potato skin in her hand that she has shared with him. It is hardly a sanitary arrangement and ought to be stopped, but Petter finds it difficult to tear her away. It’s as if he were looking into another world where there is no distinction between species. Carefully he retreats to the dining room and sits down with a newspaper so he can keep an eye on Lillus but can pretend that he didn’t see her climb into the box with the piglet.

Soon Mama and Sanna come back from the cow barn and Mama gives a shout. “Come and look!” she cries and grabs Lillus out of the box. The piglet collapses, trembling, when the dress is torn from his mouth, and Lillus screams in terror at being so abruptly awaked from her animal sleep. “Usch!” says Mama. “Pugh! You stink of pig! Look at this mess! She’s been lying right in the pig filth! You were supposed to be watching her!”

This last to Petter, who is ashamed of his disloyalty. It’s not as if he didn’t know what Mona thinks of Lillus’s piglet life. It’s hard, because he’s so impressed by the humanity he has seen awakening in Lillus, even if it’s directed towards a pig. He mumbles that he’d begun to read and was apparently blind to space and time. While he’s excusing himself, she gets the clothes off the screaming child and mixes bathwater in the big washbasin. The dress, which was washed and ironed, must now be washed and ironed, and the child, too, needs washing, not gently, while she screams and squirms.

Sanna looks at the pig with interest, and at Lillus, and when order has been restored, Swedenborg banished to a partition in the cow barn, and Lillus scrubbed and stuffed into her nightgown, Sanna suggests that Lillus behaves the way she does because she doesn’t know she’s a person.

Papa is awestruck. What a daughter he has! Yes, how could Lillus know that she’s a person? She’s at an age when she could just as well live with the cows in the barn or the sheep in the sheepfold. She would see it as perfectly natural, even though her prospects for the future wouldn’t be good. Compared with calves and lambs, she is little and defenceless. Sharp hooves would step on her and large bodies crush her to death. It’s not clear that she would understand how to suckle a cow, and nevertheless she would not know enough to wish for any other life.

Sanna obviously has a scientific bent, and she immediately tests her hypothesis. Lillus is sitting in her crib and is wide awake, as she usually is when it’s time to sleep. Sanna hangs over the edge and gets her sister’s undivided attention. “Lillus, are you a pig?”

Lillus is in a good humour and ready to go along with whatever Sanna suggests. “Oink, oink,” she yelps and laughs.

“Are you a cow?”

“Moo!” Lillus shouts and laughs at the top of her lungs. This reply can be considered a yes, and Sanna continues. “Are you a sheep?”

“Baa,” comes the answer, strong and persuasive.

“Are you a kitty?”

Papa notes with surprise that Lillus is thinking it over. She does not continue the game with the animal noises but is clearly considering her relationship with the cat and looks uncertain and unhappy. She looks at a big scratch she got on her underarm when she tried to eat from the cat’s bowl and the cat struck out with claws bared. Her mouth trembles at the memory, Mama chasing out the cat and scolding Lillus for not knowing better than to steal its food. No, Lillus is no cat, and Sanna continues.

“Are you a dog?” Sanna looks at her disapprovingly, angrily, and shakes her head, and Lillus shakes her head and looks appalled, for Sanna hates and fears dogs and does not want a sister who is a dog. “No! No!” Lillus assures her, and Sanna summarizes. “Lillus thinks she’s a pig and a cow and a sheep. But not a cat or a dog.” “Right,” says Papa, and Sanna goes on.

“Are you a person?”

This is hard. Sanna gives her no hint. How is Lillus to know if she’s a person? She looks at Papa for help, and he smiles and nods just slightly. Aha, but she hesitates when she looks at Sanna, the great authority, who says only, “Answer. Are you a person?”

Lillus vacillates. Papa seems to think that she is, but she has no strong feelings one way or the other, not like pig or cow or sheep. Uncertain, she looks at Sanna. “Yes?” she tries.

Sanna is pleased. “She doesn’t know. You heard it yourself!” she says to Papa.

“But she’s inclined to think she is,” he says. “Good, Lillus! Sanna is a person and Mama is a person and Papa is a person and you’re a person. We’re all people. The organist and the verger and the whole congregation!”

That’s a large group, and Lillus looks overwhelmed but rather pleased since both Sanna and Papa are included. Mama comes in and puts Lillus on the potty. Sanna reports that she has taught her she’s a person, not a pig.

“Good!” says Mama. “A big improvement. Now I want my two human children in their beds and I’ll read you a story.”

Papa stays and listens to Children of the Forest, although Mama signals that he can go. Sanna is completely absorbed. She knows the story by heart and moves her lips as it’s read. Lillus lies in her own world, a worm in the mould. What she reacts to is direct address, touch, smells, tastes in her mouth, things that move—a story read aloud still has no meaning for her. He has no memory of when they noticed that it was time to start reading to Sanna. How could he be so unobservant about his own child? Now he has a second chance with Lillus, and he means to be there when Lillus responds to her first story.