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  Forty Days Without Shadow

  An Arctic Thriller

  Olivier Truc

  Translated by Louise Rogers Lalaurie

  New York Boston

  Prologue

  1693, Central Lapland

  Aslak stumbled, a sign of exhaustion. He never missed his footing otherwise. The old man kept a firm hold on the package he was carrying. He rolled forward, head over heels. A clump of heather broke the force of his fall. A lemming darted out. Aslak got to his feet. Glancing back, he estimated his advance on his pursuers. The baying was louder now. There was little time left. He continued his silent race. His deep-set eyes burned brightly. His gaunt features and jutting cheekbones gave him a mysterious, hieratic air. He ran on, sure-footed now, trusting to instinct, working his body hard. He smiled and quickened his breathing, feeling fleet and light, sharp-eyed, infallible. He knew he would not fall now. Knew, too, that he would not survive this mild and gentle night. They had been tracking him for a long while. It had to end.

  He took in every detail of his surroundings: the high plateau, the ancient commotion transfixed in the rocks, the sinuous lakeshore describing the outline of a bear’s head, the rounded summits of the distant mountains, bare of vegetation. He could just make out the forms of the sleeping reindeer, a rushing stream. He stopped, barely out of breath. Here. Aslak stood solemnly, clutching the package, gazing at the scene. The stream tumbling into the lake, reindeer tracks threading east across the mountain, where the sun’s gleam heralded the last dawn before the long winter night. He saw a small island in one corner of the lake and made his way toward it, cutting through the dense thickets of dwarf birch with his knife. The islet was covered in heather and scrub. The barking was louder still. Aslak pulled off his boots and tossed the birch branches onto the mud, leaving no trace as he crossed the marshy tract. He reached the rocky island, clambered up, pulled aside a section of heather and buried the package under its roots. He retraced his steps and ran on. He was no longer afraid.

  The dogs tore on, closer than ever. Soon, the men would emerge over the summit of the hill. Aslak gazed one last time at the lake, the mountain stream, the islet. The sun’s rays marbled the clouds with bright streaks of purple and orange. Aslak ran and knew his legs would carry him no further. The dogs were upon him. The growling mastiffs formed a circle but left him untouched. He stood motionless. It was over. The men were there, panting and pouring sweat. They looked vile, but their eyes were filled with dread. Their tunics were torn, their footgear sodden. They leaned heavily on their sticks, waiting. One man stepped forward. Aslak looked at him. He knew. He had understood. He had seen this before. The man avoided the Laplander’s gaze. He walked around, behind Aslak.

  A violent blow shattered the old nomad’s cheek and jawbone. Aslak fought for breath. Blood spurted. He dropped to his knees. The cudgel was raised for a second strike. He swayed in shock, though he had tried to brace himself. A thin man arrived on the scene, and the attacker’s gesture froze. He lowered the cudgel to his side and stepped back. The thin, wiry man was dressed all in black. He shot an icy glare at Aslak and the man with the cudgel, who recoiled further, glancing away.

  “Search him.”

  Two men stepped forward, relieved that the silence had been broken. They tore the Laplander’s cloak from his back.

  “No sense in resisting, savage devil.”

  Aslak said nothing. He did not resist, but still the men were terrified. His pain was overwhelming. He was pouring blood. The men pulled him this way and that, forced him to drop his reindeer-skin leggings, pulled off his boots and his four-cornered hat. One of them hurled it into the distance, taking care to spit on it first. The other took Aslak’s knife, its handle crafted in antler and birchwood.

  “Where have you hidden it?”

  The wind rose, blowing across the tundra. It did him good to feel it.

  “Where, vile demon?” shouted the man in black, his voice full of menace.

  Even his companions took a step back. The man in black began a silent prayer. The wind dropped and the first mosquitoes appeared. The sun secured its foothold on the flank of the mountain. Aslak’s head lolled painfully. He hardly felt the fresh blow of the cudgel as it half-shattered his temple.

  * * *

  The pain woke him. Near-unbearable pain. As if his head would burst. The sun was high, now. The stench was all around him. Men, women, and children were bending over him. Their teeth were rotten. They were in rags. They looked murderous, reeking of fear and ignorance. He lay stretched out on the ground. Flies had replaced the mosquitoes, clustering at his gaping wounds.

  The small crowd parted and the man in black stepped forward. Pastor Noraeus.

  “Where is it?”

  Aslak felt feverish. His filthy tunic was soaked in blood. The smell of it dulled his senses. A woman spat at him. Children laughed. The pastor slapped the child nearest him. Aslak thought of his own son, how he had tried to cure his sickness by invoking the gods. The gods of his own people, the Sami. The children hid behind their mother.

  “Where have you left it?”

  A man in a sky-blue shirt stepped forward and whispered in the pastor’s ear. The pastor gave no reaction, then jerked his head. The man in blue held out his hand to Aslak. Two others caught him under the arms, heaving him to his feet. The Laplander gave a sharp cry, his face a mask of pain. The men dragged him to the low wooden house used for village business.

  “See these vile icons?” The Lutheran pastor began his interrogation. “Do you recognize them?”

  Aslak was barely able to breathe. The pain beat against his skull. The heat rose. His wounds itched appallingly, seething with flies. His torn cheek swarmed with life. Villagers piled into the room. The heat became suffocating.

  “The swine is riddled with maggots, already,” said one of the men, grimacing in disgust. His spittle stung Aslak’s skin like a dagger point.

  “Enough!” shouted the pastor. “You will be judged, Sami devil!” He thumped the thick pine-log table, calling for silence.

  These country people sickened Noraeus. All he wanted was to get back to Uppsala as quickly as possible.

  “Silence, all of you! Show some respect to your God and king!” His dark gaze fell on the icons of the Sami gods, and the image of Tor. “Lapp, have these icons ever brought you the slightest good?”

  Aslak’s eyes were half closed. He pictured the lakes of his childhood, the mountains he had roamed so often, the dense tundra he loved to explore, the dwarf birch trees whose wood he had learned to carve.

  “Sami!”

  Aslak’s eyes remained closed. He swayed slightly.

  “They brought healing,” he whispered, his breath rattling. “Better than your God.”

  A murmur ran around the room.

  “Silence!” The pastor’s voice thundered. “Where is the hiding place? Where is it? Say it, or you burn, cursed demon. Speak, damn you. Speak!”

  “To the fire! Burn him!” yelled a woman holding a baby to her wan, flaccid breast.

  Other women took
up the refrain.

  “Burn him! Burn him!”

  “Silence! Take him to the pyre. And damn his soul.”

  * * *

  The pastor was sweating. He wanted this over with. The stink, the proximity of the swarthy devil with his blood-soaked face, the vile, brutalized peasants—all had become intolerable to him. A trial sent by the Lord God himself. He would be sure to remind the bishop in Uppsala of his zealous service to the Lord here in the virgin territories of Lapland, when no other pastor was prepared to set foot. But for now, enough was enough.

  “Sami,” he pronounced, raising his voice and his finger for silence. “You have lived a life of sin, clinging obstinately to your pagan superstitions.”

  Silence fell, but the tension was stifling. The pastor drew a thick, illuminated Bible towards him and pointed at the accusing words:

  “He that sacrificeth unto any god, save unto the Lord only, he shall be utterly destroyed!” His thunderous voice filled the company with terror.

  A thickset peasant woman with a red, congested face sighed heavily and fainted, overcome by the heat. Aslak crumpled to the floor.

  “This soothsayer, this peddler of lies shall die, for he has preached apostasy, denying the true doctrines of Yahweh, your Lord God.”

  The men and women fell to their knees, muttering prayers. Children gazed around, wild-eyed with fear. Outside, the wind rose again, bringing oppressive gusts of warm air.

  The pastor was silent now. Dogs barked. Then they, too, fell silent. A stench filled the village assembly room.

  “Sentence has been confirmed by the royal courts in Stockholm. Sami, may divine and royal justice be done.”

  Two filthy men took hold of Aslak and dragged him outside. The pyre stood ready, halfway between the lakeside and the ten or so wooden houses making up the village.

  Aslak was bound fast to a thick pole that been brought upriver specially, from the coast—there were no trees tall and strong enough for the purpose here inland. The pastor stood stoically while the mosquitoes sucked at his blood.

  No one noticed the arrival of a young man, down at the lake, his boat loaded with skins to trade. He saw what was taking place in the village and froze. He understood the tragedy unfolding before his eyes. He knew the man on the pyre. A member of a neighboring clan.

  One of the peasants set the pyre alight. The flames spread quickly, engulfing the branches. Aslak began to tremble and shake. He struggled to unstick the lid of his one good eye.

  He saw the lake in front of him and the hill. He saw the silhouette of a young Sami man, standing as if transfixed. The flames licked at his body.

  “He saved the others of his clan, let him save himself now!” grinned a man blind in one eye and missing a hand.

  The pastor struck him hard.

  “Do not blaspheme!” he hollered, and hit the man a second time.

  The peasant scuttled off, his one hand pressed to his head. “Sami, Sami, burn in hell!” he yelled as he ran. “Cursed demon!”

  A child began to cry.

  Suddenly, the Laplander gave a piercing shriek. He was raving now, gripped by the flames, uttering bestial moans and cries. The wailing of a man no longer human. The cry sank into a hideous rattle, then rose again in a new register, a new dimension, beyond pain. A kind of harmony, utterly alien and unexpected, born of suffering, but clear as crystal to anyone capable of listening through the torment.

  “Curse him! The demon is chanting to his gods!” cried a frightened villager, pressing his hands to his ears. The pastor stood by, impassive, searching the Laplander’s face as if, in the heat of the fire, the man might suddenly reveal the whereabouts of the thing he had been sent to find.

  Aslak’s cry petrified the young Sami in his boat. Afraid but fascinated, he recognized the guttural chant of a joïk, a Sami song. He was the only one present who could understand the words. The song transported him to another world. The words were fragmented now, tumbling out fast. With his dying breath, the condemned man was doing his duty, passing on what he knew.

  Then the singing ceased. Silence fell. The young Sami was silent, too. He turned back the way he had come, his head ringing with the dead man’s screams. His blood had turned to ice. There could be no mistake. He knew now what he must do. And after him, his son. And his son’s son.

  1

  Monday, January 10

  Polar night

  9:30 a.m., Central Lapland

  It was the most extraordinary day of the year, pregnant with the hopes of humanity. Tomorrow, the sun would be reborn. For forty days, the men and women of the vidda had survived, their souls huddled against the dark, deprived of the source of life.

  The taint of original sin, thought Klemet Nango. Why impose such suffering on ordinary human beings otherwise? Forty days without shadow, crawling like insects upon the face of the earth.

  And what if the sun failed to show its face tomorrow? Klemet smiled to himself. He was a rational man after all, a police officer. Of course the sun would be reborn. The local daily paper had even proclaimed the hour of the lifting of the curse in its morning edition. Now that was progress. How could his ancestors have coped without the Finnmark Dagblad to inform them of the return of the sun at winter’s end? Perhaps they never knew what it was to hope.

  Tomorrow, from 11:14 to 11:41 a.m., Klemet would be a man again, casting his own shadow by the light of the sun. And the day after that, he would hold on to his shadow for forty-two minutes more. Things happened fast once the sun was minded to return.

  The mountains would stand proud once more, sculpted in sharp relief. Sunlight would pour into the depths of the valleys, bringing their sleeping vistas back to life, awakening the quiet, solemn vastness of the semidesert covering the high plateaux of central Sápmi—the region’s traditional name.

  For now, the sun was a mere glimmer of hope, reflected orange and pink in the clouds scudding above the blue-tinted snow on the mountain tops.

  As always, gazing at the spectacle of the landscape, Klemet thought of his uncle Nils Ante, renowned as one of the most gifted joïk singers in the region. A joïk singer and a poet: the hypnotic rise and fall of his uncle’s chanting told of the wonders and mysteries of their Arctic world.

  Nils Ante’s mesmerizing joïks had been the lullabies of Klemet’s childhood, magical tales worth all the storybooks read by Norwegian children, safe at home. Klemet had had no need of books. He had Uncle Nils Ante. But Klemet had never been a good singer, and mere words, he had decided as a child, could not describe nature as he saw it, all around him.

  “Klemet?”

  Sometimes, as now on patrol in the vast, empty plateau of the vidda, Klemet allowed himself a brief, nostalgic pause for thought. But he said nothing. Awed by the memory of his uncle’s joïks, he was incapable of poetry.

  “Klemet? Can you take my picture? With the clouds behind.”

  His young colleague brandished a camera, retrieved from a pocket in her navy-blue snowsuit.

  “Honestly, Nina, is this really a good time?”

  “Is this really a good time to stand there daydreaming?” she retorted, holding out the camera.

  Klemet grunted. Nina was always ready with an answer, the sort of reply that generally occurred to him when it was too late. He pulled off his mittens. Might as well get it over with. The clouds had thinned, and the cold bit harder still. The temperature was close to minus 16°F.

  Nina removed her sealskin and fox-fur chapka, shaking her blonde hair loose. She sat astride her snowmobile with her back to the speckled pink-and-yellow clouds, and aimed a broad smile at the lens. She wasn’t stunningly beautiful, but she was charming and attractive. She had big, expressive blue eyes that betrayed every nuance of emotion—a trait Klemet often found useful. He took the photograph slightly off-center, on principle. Nina had joined the Reindeer Police three months ago, and this was her first patrol. Until now, she had sat behind a desk at the station in Kiruna, the local headquarters over on the Swedish side, and
after that in Kautokeino, here in Norway.

  Irritated by his colleague’s constant requests to have her picture taken, Klemet always made sure he poked a fingertip into the corner of the photograph. Every time Nina showed him the result, she would smile and explain sweetly, without fail, that he should be careful to keep his fingers to the side, out of the way. As if he was ten years old. Her tone irritated him beyond words. He had given up with the finger thing, found something else instead.

  A light breeze was blowing, instant torture in this cold. Klemet glanced at the GPS on his snowmobile, a reflex. He knew the mountains by heart.

  “Let’s go.”

  Klemet climbed onto his snowmobile and set off, followed by Nina. At the bottom of the hill, he followed the bed of an invisible stream, frozen solid under the snow. He ducked sideways, avoiding the low branches of the birch trees, then turned to make sure Nina was still following. But, he was forced to admit, she had already mastered her machine to near perfection. They rode on for another hour and a half, threading through the hills and valleys. The gradient steepened as they approached the summit of Ragesvarri. Klemet stood up astride his snowmobile and accelerated. Nina followed. Two minutes later they pulled up, drinking in the complete silence.

  Klemet removed his helmet, worn over his chapka, and took out his binoculars. Standing on the step plate of his snowmobile, one knee resting on the seat, he scanned the surrounding landscape, peering at the hilltop ridges, looking for moving specks on the snow. Then he took out his thermos and offered Nina a coffee. She struggled forward, up to her thighs in the dry, powdery snow. Klemet’s eyes glittered mischievously, but he held back a smile. Revenge for the endless photos.

  “Looks quiet enough, doesn’t it?” asked Nina, between gulps of coffee.

  “Seems that way, yes. Johann Henrik told me his herd had begun to disperse. His reindeer are already short of food. And if they cross the river Aslak will blow his top, if I know him, which I do—stubborn as a rock.”