her.
“In my opinion the church should devote itself to its main task, working within the community, and not to forestry. Purely as a matter of principle, I mean. We shouldn’t even own any forest. We should leave the administration of capital to others.”
Mildred doesn’t agree.
“Our task is to take care of the earth,” she says. “Land is exactly what we should own, not shares. And if the church owns land, it can be looked after in the right way. This wolf has made its way into Swedish territory, onto land owned by the church. If it doesn’t get special protection, it won’t live for long, you know that. Some hunter or reindeer farmer will shoot it.”
“So this foundation…”
“Would prevent that, yes. With money and cooperation with the Nature Conservancy Council, we can tag the wolf and keep an eye on it.”
“And by doing so you would push people away,” objects Bertil. “There must be room for everybody within the church, hunters, the Sami people, people who like wolves-everybody. But the church can’t take sides like that.”
“What about our duty of care, then?” says Mildred. “We are supposed to care for the earth, and that has to include species threatened with extinction, surely? As for not adopting a political stance, if the church had had that attitude down the ages, wouldn’t we still have slavery?”
They have to laugh at her in the end. She always has to exaggerate and go too far.
Bertil Stensson closed the locker door, turned the key and dropped it in his pocket. In February Mildred had set up her foundation. Neither he nor Stefan Wikstrom had objected.
The whole idea of the foundation had irritated him. And now as he looks back and tries to be honest with himself, it irritates him to realize that he didn’t stand up to her because of cowardice. He was afraid of being seen as a wolf-hater and God knows what else. But he did get Mildred to agree to a less provocative name than the Northern Wolf Protection Foundation. It became Jukkasjarvi Community Wildlife Protection Foundation instead. And he and Stefan were signatories along with Mildred.
And later in the spring, when Stefan’s wife took the youngest child and went to stay with her mother in Katrineholm and didn’t come back for a long time, Bertil hadn’t really thought anything of it.
Now, of course, it bothered him.
But Stefan should have said something, he thought in his defense.
Rebecka parked the car outside her grandmother’s house in Kurravaara. Nalle jumped out and scampered around the outside of the house, curious.
Like a happy dog, thought Rebecka as she watched him disappear around the corner.
The next second her conscience pricked. You shouldn’t compare him to a dog.
September sun on the gray building. The wind blowing gently through the tall autumn grass, faded and lacking in nutrients. Low water, a motorboat far away. From another direction, the sound of someone chopping wood. A soft breeze against her face, like a gentle hand.
She looked at the house again. The windows were in a terrible state. They needed taking out, scraping down, new putty, fresh paint. The same dark green color as before, nothing else. She thought about the mineral wool packed in the entrance to the cellar to stop the cold air that would come pouring up otherwise, forming rime frost on the walls that would turn to patches of gray damp. It needed pulling out. The place needed sealing properly, insulation, install the right kind of ventilation. Make a decent cellar for storage. Somebody ought to save the hollow-eyed house before it was too late.
“Come on, let’s go in,” she shouted to Nalle who had run down to Larsson’s red-timbered storehouse and was tugging at the door.
Nalle lumbered over the potato patch. The bottom of his shoes was soon thick with mud.
“You,” he said, pointing at Rebecka when he had reached the veranda.
“Rebecka,” answered Rebecka. “My name’s Rebecka.”
He nodded in reply. He’d ask her again soon. He’d already asked her several times, but still hadn’t said her name.
They went up the steps into her grandmother’s kitchen. A bit damp and chilly. Felt colder than outside. Nalle went first. In the kitchen he opened every wardrobe and closet, every cupboard and drawer, completely without embarrassment.
Good, thought Rebecka. He can open them and all the ghosts can fly away.
She smiled at his big lumbering figure, at the crafty, crooked smile he directed at her from time to time. It felt good to have him there.
A knight can look like that too, she thought.
A sense of security came over her-everything was just the same. It put its arm around her. Pulled her down onto the sofa beside Nalle, who’d found a banana box full of comics. He sorted out the ones he liked. They had to be in color, and he chose mostly Donald Duck. He put Agent 69, The Phantom, and Buster back in the box. She looked around. The blue painted chairs around the old gate-legged table, shiny with use. The refrigerator humming away. The tiles above the black Nafveqvarn stove, decorated with pictures of different spices. Next to the woodstove stood the electrical one, with knobs of brown and orange plastic. Grandmother’s hand everywhere. The rack above the stove was crammed with dried flowers, pans and stainless steel ladles. Uncle Affe’s wife Inga-Lill still hung bunches of flowers there to dry. Cat’s foot, tansy, cotton grass, buttercups and yarrow. There were also some bought pink everlasting flowers, they’d never have been there in Grandmother’s day. Grandmother’s woven rag rugs on the floor, even on the sofa to protect it. Embroidered cloths on every surface, even covering the treadle sewing machine in the corner. The embroidered tray holder, where the tray Grandfather had made out of matchsticks the last time he was ill still hung.
She’d woven or crocheted the cushion covers.
Could I live here? wondered Rebecka.
She looked down on to the meadow. Nobody was cutting or burning it nowadays, that was obvious. Big tussocks, the grass growing up through a rotting layer of the previous year’s grass. Thousands of holes made by field mice and voles, no doubt. From up here she had a better view of the roof of the barn. The question was whether it could still be saved. All at once she felt downhearted. A house dies when it’s abandoned. Slowly but surely. It crumbles away, it stops breathing. It cracks, subsides, goes moldy.
Where do you start? thought Rebecka. The windows alone are more than a full-time job. I can’t put a new roof on. It won’t be safe to walk on the veranda before long.
Then the house shook. The door slammed downstairs. The little chime of bells just inside the door with the text “Jopa virkki puu visainen kielin kantelon kajasi tuota soittoa suloista” shook and emitted a few delicate notes.
Sivving’s voice rang through the house. Made its way up the stairs and pushed through the door.
“Hello!”
A few seconds later he appeared in the doorway. Grandmother’s neighbor. A big man. His hair white and soft as pussy willow on his head. A yellowish white military vest underneath a blue imitation beaver jacket. A big grin when he caught sight of Rebecka. She got up.
“Rebecka,” was all he said.
In two paces he was beside her. Put his arms around her.
They didn’t usually hug each other, hardly even when she was a little girl. But she stopped herself from stiffening. Closed her eyes for the two seconds the embrace lasted. Drifted out on a sea of tranquillity. If you didn’t count handshakes, nobody had touched her since… since Erik Ryden welcomed her to the firm’s party on Lido. And before that, six months ago when they took blood tests at the clinic.
Then the hug was over. But Sivving Fjallborg held on to her, his right hand around her left upper arm.
“How are you?” he asked.
“Fine,” she smiled back.
His face grew more serious. He held her for a second longer before he let go. Then the smile was back.
“And you’ve got a friend with you.”
“I have, this is Nalle.”
