Until Thy Wrath Be Past

I carry on rowing. Two ravens come flying over the tops of the pine trees. They circle above us. Round and round. I glance up at their long black outstretched pinions, their wedge-shaped tails. I hear the sound of their wings beating above our heads. Then they glide down and perch on the rail of the boat. Just as naturally as if they were taking seats they’d booked in advance. I wouldn’t be surprised if they each produced a little black suitcase from under their wings. Their feathers are shimmering like rainbows in the sun, their beaks are so full of strength, curved and sharp, with little moustaches near the base, and they have thick, feathery collars. One of them lunges at a horsefly that has accompanied them out over the water. They chat to each other with all their r-sounds; they seem to be saying, “Rave-rave-raven”. But then one of them suddenly sounds like a clucking cockerel, and the other one seems to burst out laughing. I don’t know what to think about these birds.

I carry on rowing. Dip the oars deep into the water. I enjoy feeling my body again. The sweat running down my back. The wood of the oars made smooth by many years of handling. The feeling in the muscles of my back and arms with each stroke, summoning up the strength, the effort, the tiredness, the recovery.

The sun is hot. The ravens open their beaks. They are silent now. I feel nothing but happiness. It wells up inside me like the sap in a birch tree.

The ravens cry and take off. They fly with powerful beats of their wings in the direction from which I came. Disappear through the sky.

I row. I am strong and as untameable as a river, and I row.

I press hard with my feet, and row with long, powerful strokes.

I’m coming, I think happily. I’m coming now.

SUNDAY, 3 MAY

The weekend is over. The soft light of the evening sun glides into Rebecka Martinsson’s kitchen in Kurravaara.

Mans Wenngren looks at Martinsson. Even though she is sitting only half a metre away, he wants her so badly. Her dark, straight hair. Her eyes with that dark grey edge round her irises. He has hugged her. Made love to her. Albeit cautiously. She is covered in bruises. Still feels sick, has dizzy spells and is very tired from the concussion.

He looks at the scar above her lips. He likes it. He particularly likes that scar. Especially as it is ugly. He is filled with the same kind of tenderness he felt when he held his daughter for the first time.

“How do you feel?” he asks, pouring a glass of wine.

Martinsson reads the label. Much too fine. Wasted on her.

“I’m O.K.,” she says.

She has no feelings about what has happened. No thoughts. What was it like, being in that hole in the ice? Being dragged under the ice? Awful, of course. But it is all over now. She can feel that Mans is worried. That he thinks she is going to have a relapse. His voice is gentle, too gentle.

There is some kind of barrier between them. She longed so much for him to come up and give her a hug, but now that he is here she is hiding herself away in her tiredness and her bruises.

And there is something she cannot stop thinking about. When Tore Krekula came towards her on the snow scooter and she thought her number was up. When she almost drowned under the ice. At no time did she think of Mans. She thought about her farmor and her father. But not about Mans. She did not think of him until Mella handed her the mobile.

They hear a car pull up outside. Martinsson walks over to the kitchen window. It is Krister Eriksson. He gets out of the car and walks towards her front door, stooping noticeably. She taps on the window pane, points at him and then points upwards, making a come-on-up gesture with her other hand.

Then he is standing in the kitchen doorway. Wenngren gets up.

“Forgive me,” Eriksson says. “I didn’t know… I should have rung first…”

“No, no, it’s O.K.,” Martinsson says.

She introduces the two men. Wenngren puts out his hand.

“Just a moment,” Eriksson says. “I’ll just…”

He unzips his jacket.

Inside it is a puppy. Small and snub-nosed. Having fallen asleep in the warmth of the jacket, it sniffs and starts treading with its paws when Eriksson opens the zip.

“If you can hold it, Mans and I can shake hands,” he says to Martinsson, handing over the puppy.

The delighted look on her face makes him laugh.

The puppy wakes up. It is still blind. So little that she can hold it in one hand.

“Oh God,” she says.

It is so soft, warm and helpless. It smells of puppy.

Vera comes over and fusses at Martinsson’s feet.

“You can say hello another time,” Martinsson says.

“Is it Tintin’s?” she says while the men are shaking hands. Wenngren has pulled himself up to his full height and tucked in his stomach. Gives Eriksson’s face an inquisitive look, but is careful not to stare.

“Yes,” Eriksson says. “It came a bit early, but everything went well. It’s yours if you’d like it.”

“You can’t be serious,” she says. “A puppy of Tintin’s, it must be worth…”

“I’ve heard what you did,” Eriksson says, looking right at her.

He ignores the fact that her boyfriend is there. All the men in the world can be there if they want. He looks into her eyes, fixing her with his gaze.

She looks back.

“You certainly can’t have a dog,” Wenngren says to Martinsson. “You’ve said yourself that you don’t know what you’re going to do with Vera. You work so hard. And when you move in with me in Stockholm… Dogs shouldn’t live in cities.”

He takes hold of Martinsson’s neck playfully but firmly. The gesture is aimed at Eriksson. She is mine, it means.

Then he asks Eriksson if he would like a glass of wine. Eriksson replies that he is driving, unfortunately… Martinsson looks at the puppy.

“What’s happened to Kerttu Krekula?” Eriksson says.

“She hasn’t been interrogated yet,” Martinsson mumbles, her lips and nose pressed against the puppy. “She says that she and Tore tried to stop Hjalmar. We’ve let her go. There’s no proof apart from Hjalmar’s statement, and that’s not enough to charge her.”

Eriksson closes his eyes briefly. Tries to imagine Kerttu Krekula isolated in her home in the village, with only Isak Krekula for company.

“She had an opportunity,” he says. “But she’s condemned herself to a tougher punishment than a court would have done.

“I’ll have to go,” he says eventually. “I can’t keep her away from Tintin for too long. She’s at home with the other three.”

He wants to feast his eyes on Martinsson for just a little while longer.

“You don’t need to make your mind up now,” he says. “Think it over. She’ll become a lovely dog.”

“Do you think I don’t realize that?” Martinsson says. “I don’t know what to