The Blood Spilt

29


Rebecka Martinsson is buying a packed meal from Mimmi. She is on her way down to Kurravaara. She might stay there tonight. When Nalle was there, it felt fine. Now she’s going to try it on her own. She’s going to have a sauna and swim in the river. She knows how it will feel. Cold water, sharp stones beneath her feet. The sharp intake of breath when you jump in, quick strokes as you swim out. And that inexplicable feeling of being at one with yourself at different ages. She’s bathed there, swum there as a six-year-old, a ten-year-old, a teenager, right up until she moved away from the town. The same big stones, the same shoreline. The same chilly autumn evening air, pouring like a river of air over the river of water. It’s like a Russian doll with all the little dolls safely inside, so that you can screw the top part and the bottom part back together, knowing that even the tiniest is safe and sound inside.
Then she’ll eat alone in the kitchen and watch television. She can have the radio on while she washes up. Maybe Sivving will come over when he sees the light.
“So you were off on an adventure with Nalle today?”
It’s Micke who’s asking, the bar owner. He’s got kind eyes. They don’t really go with his muscular, tattooed arms, his beard and his earring.
“Yes,” she replies.
“Cool. He and Mildred were often out and about together.”
“Yes,” she says.
I’ve done something for her, she thinks.
Mimmi has arrived with Rebecka’s food.
“Tomorrow evening,” says Micke, “do you fancy working here for a few hours? It’s Saturday, everybody’s back from their holidays, the schools have gone back, it’ll be packed in here. Fifty kronor an hour, eight till one, plus tips.”
Rebecka looks at him in amazement.
“Sure,” she says, trying not to look too pleased. “Why not?”
She drives away. Feels full of mischief.


YELLOW LEGS

November. The gray light of dawn comes slowly. It has snowed during the night, and feather light flakes are still floating down in the silent forest. From somewhere comes the croaking of a raven.
The wolf pack is sleeping in a little hollow, completely covered in snow. Not even their ears are sticking up. All the cubs but one have survived the summer. There are eleven members of the pack now.
Yellow Legs stands up and shakes off the snow. Sniffs the air. The snow has settled like a blanket over all the old scent trails. Swept the air and the ground clean. She sharpens her senses. The keen eye. The alert ear. And there. She hears the sound of an elk rising from its overnight resting place, shaking off the snow. It’s a kilometer away. Hunger makes its presence known like an aching void in her stomach. She wakes the others and gives the signal. There are many of them now, they can hunt such large prey.
The elk is a dangerous quarry. It has strong hind legs and sharp hooves. It could easily break her jaw with one kick, like a branch. But Yellow Legs is a skillful hunter. And she is daring.
The pack trots calmly in the direction of the elk. Soon they will pick up the scent. The cubs, now seven months old, are told with irritated silent yelps and nudges to stay behind the rest of the pack. They have already begun to catch small animals, but on this hunt they are allowed to come along only as observers. They know something big is happening, and are quivering with suppressed excitement. The older wolves are saving their strength. It is only their noses, raised in the air from time to time, that reveal the fact that this is not just a normal relocation, but the beginning of a demanding hunt. It is more likely that it will fail than succeed, but there is a determination in the way Yellow Legs moves. She’s hungry. And these days she works hard for the pack, all the time. Daren’t leave to go off on her own as she used to do. She senses that she is on the way to being driven out. One fine day, she may not be allowed to return. Her half-sister, the alpha female, keeps her on a tight rein. Yellow Legs always approaches the alpha pair with her hind legs bent and her back low in order to show them her submissiveness. Her backside drags along the ground. She crawls and licks the corners of their mouths. She is the most skillful hunter in the pack, but that no longer helps. They can manage without her, and somehow they all know that her days are numbered.
Physically, it is Yellow Legs who is superior. She is fast and long-legged. The biggest female in the pack. But she doesn’t have the mind of a leader. Likes to take little trips on her own, away from the pack. Doesn’t like trouble, prefers to turn aside a quarrel or a fight by fawning and starting a game instead. Her half-sister, on the other hand, gets up after a rest and stretches, looking around at the same time with a rock hard question in her eyes: “Well? Anyone thinking of taking me on today?” She is uncompromising and unafraid. You fit in with her or you leave, soon her cubs will learn that lesson. She wouldn’t hesitate to kill them if there were a fight. With her as one of the leading pair, rival packs have to be wary of encroaching on their territory. Her restlessness gets the whole pack on its feet in the hunt for prey, or moving on to extend their territory.
The elk has got the scent of the pack. It’s a young bull. They hear the crack of breaking branches as they gather speed through the forest. Yellow Legs moves up to a gallop. The fresh snow isn’t deep, there is a considerable risk that the elk will get away from them. Yellow Legs breaks away from the rest and runs in a semicircle to overtake it.
After two kilometers the pack catches up with the elk. Yellow Legs has made it stop, launching small attacks but keeping well away from its antlers and hooves. The others gather around the massive animal. The bull tramps around in a circle, ready to defend itself against the first one who dares to attack. It’s one of the males. He sinks his teeth into the elk’s haunch. The elk pulls itself free. There’s a deep wound, muscles and sinews torn away. But the wolf doesn’t move away quickly enough; the elk kicks him over and he rolls backwards. When he gets up on his feet he’s limping slightly. Two ribs are broken. The other wolves retreat a few paces and the elk breaks away. Bleeding from its haunch, it disappears into the brush.
It has too much strength left. Best to let it run for a while, bleeding, let it tire itself out. The wolves set off in pursuit of their prey. The pack is spaced out this time, trotting along. There’s no hurry. They’ll soon catch him again. The wolf that was kicked limps along after them. For the immediate future he’ll be totally dependent on the others’ success in hunting in order to survive. If the prey is too small, there won’t be anything but bones left for him when he’s permitted to eat. If they have to travel too far to hunt, he won’t be strong enough to go with them. When the snow gets deep, it will be painful to get along.
After five kilometers the pack attacks again. This time it’s Yellow Legs who moves in first. She closes on the elk at a gallop. The distance between the pack and the elk diminishes rapidly. The others are so close behind her that she can feel their heads with her hind legs. There is only the big elk, nothing else. His blood in her nose. She’s caught up. She seizes the elk’s haunch. This is the most dangerous moment, she doesn’t let go, and the next second a wolf is clinging to its other haunch. Another instantly takes over from Yellow Legs when she lets go. She dashes ahead and fastens her jaws around the elk’s throat. The elk falls to its knees in the snow. Yellow Legs tugs at its throat. The huge animal tries to summon its strength to get to its feet. Stretches its head up to the sky. The alpha male sinks its teeth into the elk’s muzzle and drags its head down to the ground. Yellow Legs gets a fresh grip on the throat and rips it open.
Life runs quickly out of the elk. The snow is stained red. The cubs are given a signal. Help yourselves. They come racing along and hurl themselves at the dying animal. They are allowed to share in the triumph of the hunt, shaking its legs and muzzle. The older wolves slit the bull open with their powerful jaws. Steam rises from the body in the chilly morning air.
In the trees up above, black birds gather.