Spirits of the Land

[This story contains strong language and fictionalized references to real places/institutions. Any resemblance to actual events/people is purely coincidental. Reader discretion advised]

“Look at you. Pleased as punch, ain’t we?” Gunnar dropped the final pages of her article onto his desk. His voice carried an even mix of exasperation, fury, and (grudging) admiration.

Elsa was feeling rather pleased with herself and had been about to say so, but the flush of pink creeping up her boss’s neck made her shut her mouth.

Don’t poke the bear, she reminded herself.

Patience wasn’t one of Gunnar “Grizzly” Eriksson’s strong suits. Word was, he’d earned the nickname back in the 90s after blowing the lid off a nationwide laundering scheme. She’d asked Jonas about it not long after joining The Ledger, and he’d spun a tale that flirted with myth.

“Gunnar Eriksson…” Jonas sighed at the end. “That man’s got cojones, kid. Big ones.” He chuckled – one of those “lads-will-be-lads” kinds of laughs – but quickly sobered when his eyes met hers. It was almost as if she’d just grabbed him by the balls.

“I mean, it’s just an expression,” Jonas stammered. “Wasn’t implying that not having, you know,” he gestured vaguely toward his groin, “has any, uh, relevance…” He winced.

She could’ve made it easy for him – laughed it off, waved the whole thing away, maybe even added a playful shove – but she wasn’t feeling it. So she blinked slowly, doe-eyed, politely waiting for the rest of his oh-so-insightful thought. Turned out there wasn’t one. Shocking.

Jonas was a decent guy, but like most straight white men over fifty, also an insufferable, condescending prick.

“Oi!”

Gunnar’s snap wiped the smile from her face, dragging her back to the present.

“Sorry.” She rubbed her hands over her face. “Haven’t been sleeping much,” she added, by way of apology.

“I bet. Too busy stirring the pot.”

“I’m not stir-“

Gunnar cut her off, slamming a fist onto the desk. “Enough! I told you to drop it – twice! – and you’re still at it.” He took a shaky breath, fingers fiddling with a pen cap. “The chief of police called me – off the record. Dreyfus made a complaint.” He raised his gaze to her face. “Against you.”

“For harassment?” she scoffed. “That’s rich.”

Gunnar’s eyes locked on hers, steady and unreadable. She looked away first.

“He had evidence, Elsa. God knows you handed him plenty.” He tapped the edge of her article. “This can’t go on. The chief buried the complaint –” he raised a hand to silence her, “on the condition that you stop.” He paused, then added, “I gave him that assurance.”

“Gunnar, I’m this close,” she held up her thumb and forefinger, nearly touching, “I just need more time – a week, maybe two.”

Gunnar was already shaking his head, so she pressed on.

“I’ve got one of his victims talking. She’s jumpy, but when I brought up going on record, she didn’t bolt.”

“Yet,” Gunnar snapped, then sighed. “It’s too late, Elsa. I can’t give you a week. Hell, can’t give you a day. You’re off Investigations.”

She sucked in a breath. If he noticed, he gave no sign.

“You’ve been officially reassigned to Culture. They’re running a piece on midsummer festivals in Lapland. Who better than you, I thought.”

“Midsum–” she blurted. “What the fuck, Gunnar? I’m a reporter, not some fluff writer. My job is to investigate – and I’m damn good at it!” She shot up from her chair and began pacing furiously.

“I’m not saying it’s permanent,” Gunnar hissed. “But it is necessary. You’re good at what you do,” he added with a tight smile, “but keep this up, and you won’t be around to keep doing it. Trust me.”

He stood and rounded the desk, nodding toward the door.

“Your flight’s tonight. I suggest you go home and pack.”

**********

Elsa threw her laptop onto the far side of the bed with a frustrated grunt. She had just landed in Skellefteå, spending most of the flight reading up on midsummer traditions. Her deep dive had taken her down a rabbit hole of bonfires, schnapps, and circle dances. She swore under her breath – if she saw one more picture of maypoles, wreaths, or pickled herrings, she’d lose it.

She lay back on the pillow for a few minutes, wiggling her toes, then flipped onto her stomach, pulled the laptop closer, and opened a new tab.

“C’mon, Google, give me something,” she murmured as she typed news Sápmi today into the search bar.

She skimmed through the results, passing over local politics, petty crime, and sports updates, until one headline caught her eye:

Missing LKAB Engineer’s Car Found in Aptasvaare Fjällurskog

She clicked the link and began reading:

Axel Vinterström’s body was discovered in Aptasvaare Fjällurskog, weeks after the LKAB rock engineer went missing during an exploration of the Kiruna area. Vinterström, part of a team assessing the viability of mining rare earth elements at the site, has now joined the growing list of missing LKAB personnel. This is the second such incident in three months, following the disappearances of Erik Lundström and Freja Norrfält in late February. Biological traces of the geologists were also found in the same area.

Elsa pushed herself up and moved the laptop to the desk, grabbing the complementary notepad from the side table. Less than an hour later, she knew she was onto something. All she needed now was a car and a good excuse to spend the next few days in Kiruna. She leaned back in her chair, her fingers interlaced behind her head, thinking. And then it hit her. She straightened up with a jolt, pulled the laptop closer, and typed: midsummer events, Kiruna. A smile spread across her face as her eyes scanned the results on the screen. She picked up her phone and dialed Jonas’s number.

“Hey, Jonas. I need a favor…”

**********

It was around nine p.m. when Elsa pulled into the camp’s parking lot. Pine trees surrounded the area, and she inhaled the sweet scent of resin before grabbing her bag and heading for reception. The website mentioned that the camp was run by a Sámi family.

A bell chimed cheerfully as she pushed the door open.

“Coming!” The voice came from her right, and as she turned, a woman emerged through a partition in the wall behind the desk. She halted in her tracks upon seeing Elsa, but her smile, when it came, was welcoming.

“Oh, hello!” the woman said. “Welcome to Stjärnflocka Cabins, Ms…” She scampered to the desk, bending slightly to check the computer screen. “Ms. Jokkmokki. My name is Ailu,” she continued brightly. “I see you’ve booked a single-room cabin for…” Another quick glance, “…two nights. Correct?”

“Yes,” Elsa confirmed, handing Ailu her ID card. “Are you fully booked?”

“I wish! Ever since the mining operations started, tourists have been few and far between. Are you working for LKAB too, Ms. Jokkmokki?” Ailu’s tone was casual, almost innocent, as her attention stayed on the registration system. But when she glanced up, her eyes carried the coldness of a predator’s – pitiless, feral.

Elsa swallowed, her voice coming out more hastily than she intended. “No, God no. I’m a journalist.” A nervous laugh escaped her. “I’m doing a piece on midsummer festivals, and I’ve heard that the one in Kiruna is quite special.”

Ailu pursed her lips. “Special? Hardly.” She frowned, then her lips parted, as if about to add something but deciding against it.

“What?” Elsa asked, smiling.

“No, it’s just –” Ailu shook her head before tilting it slightly, as if sizing Elsa up. “There’s something happening in Aptasvaare Fjällurskog.” At Elsa’s encouraging look, she continued. “But it’s not a festival…more like a ritual, actually.” She shrugged.

“A ritual?”

Ailu nodded, leaning against the desk with her arms crossed, a small smile tugging at her lips.

“Yeah. To most, Aptasvaare Fjällurskog is just a spot for trekking or skiing, but to us Sámi, it’s holy ground. There’s a siedi – a sacred rock – deep in the forest. Every midsummer eve, we go there to make offerings to the spirits of Nature.” She shrugged again. “No maypoles, schnapps, or circle dances. Just joik, loads of sahti, and some bear meat.” Ailu’s eyes briefly met Elsa’s, her expression unreadable. “Not really what you’re here for, Ms. Jokkmokki.”

Elsa waved it off. “Please, call me Elsa. To be honest, festivals and fairs aren’t really my thing, so anything that doesn’t involve herring and flower crowns will be a welcome change at this point.” Ailu raised an eyebrow, and Elsa gave her a rueful smile. “I’m an investigative journalist, and before you ask,” she raised her hand, anticipating Ailu’s question, “let’s just say this,” she gestured around her, “is my personal purgatory.”

Ailu smirked. “More like hell.” They locked eyes for a few seconds before bursting into laughter.

“You said ‘we,’” Elsa said, wiping her eyes. “Do you take part in the ritual?”

Ailu nodded. “I’m actually the one performing it.” Elsa’s mouth formed a surprised “o,” prompting Ailu to continue. “I’m a Noaidi – a shaman. My mother and her mother before her were Noaidis too. It’s rare for the gift to pass down within a family, you see, and I feel it’s my duty to carry on this role. A lot of our practices have been lost, as has our connection to Nature.” Her mouth tightened. “Outsiders come and go, treating our mountains, forests, and land however they please.” She locked eyes with Elsa. “The ritual is our way of asking forgiveness from the spirits.” A pause. “Forgive me for asking, but your surname – Jokkmokki – sounds Sámi. Are you of the People too?”

Elsa winced. “My dad was half-Sámi, but his parents died when he was just a kid, and he ended up in foster care. He couldn’t teach us what he never learned – how to be of the People, you know?” Her shrug was almost apologetic. “But I’d love to witness it – the ritual, I mean. Is that possible?”

Ailu shook her head. “The siedi is sacred ground, Elsa. Only the initiated are allowed there, I’m afraid.” She handed her ID back, together with a key fob. “But I recommend a trek along one of the trails. The landscape there is to die for.”

**********

Elsa’s eyes scrunched up against the brightness. She turned onto her side with a groan, grabbed a pillow, and shoved it over her head, only to toss it aside a few minutes later, along with the bedsheet that had tangled around her legs.

She lay still for a while, listening to the sounds around her, watching dust motes drift lazily in the sunlight. Eventually, she pulled herself upright with a soft oath.

Her hand fumbled around the bed until it landed on her phone – she’d fallen asleep clutching it, as usual. She unlocked the screen with a tap of her thumb, then headed straight to the notification tab.

An email from Jonas.

She opened it, her eyes scanning the text. She read it twice to make sure she wasn’t imagining things, then dialed his number.

The phone rang. And rang. And rang.

She was about to hang up when line clicked, and Jonas’s voice came through, thick and slurred. “You better have a–”

“Vinterström’s autopsy report you sent me,” Elsa cut him off. “It says,” she quoted directly from the email, “‘abrasions and wounds consistent with a bear attack. Cause of death: deep chest trauma, with exposure of the thoracic cavity. The heart appears to have been severed.’ Severed? You’re telling me the guy had no heart?”

“It’s three in the morning, for Christ’s sake!” Jonas’s exasperated cry was followed by a pause filled with static, then a muttered, “Forensics wasn’t exactly forthcoming…”

“I thought you had a contact there.”

“I do. But there’s a whole system, Elsa – unwritten rules. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. Had to pull some strings just to get that. A little ‘thanks, Jonas,’ would be nice for a change! Weren’t you supposed to be off tying flowers and dancing around the maypole anyway? If Gunnar gets wind of this…”

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” Elsa teased, then her tone sobered. “I think I’m onto something, Jonas. I feel it. The locals are pissed about LKAB messing with their land. Can’t say I blame them. Doesn’t it seem strange to you that three – three – LKAB employees went missing from the Kiruna site, only to turn up dead in Aptasvaare Fjällurskog, miles away? And a bear attack, in summer? C’mon, how likely is that?”

“Not sure about unlikely, certainly unlucky,” Jonas chuckled. “Plus, Lundström and Norrfält are officially missing, not dead. Anyway, the police will issue a bear alert. They’ll probably take out a few just to keep face with LKAB.” A pause. “What’re you thinking, Elsa? That someone got so fed up with LKAB’s digging that they decided to take matters into their own hands?” He scoffed.

Elsa remembered Ailu’s cold stare, her closed-off expression. A shiver ran through her.

“Stranger things have happened,” she murmured, then wished him goodnight and hung up.

**********

The trees stood still, their shadows stretching at strange angles, as if each were bathed in a different, unseen light. She blinked and spun in slow circles, arms wide, fingers splayed, her hands reaching out blindly in the disorienting glow.

She knew it was close to midnight, though her sense of time had become utterly warped. Her insomnia had grown worse since crossing the Arctic Circle. Days merged into nights, nights into days, and she struggled to recall the last time she’d slept. A week ago? A month?

Tut-tum. Tut-tum.

Her spinning stopped. A faint, pulsing beat came from her left. She followed it, pushing through thorns and underbrush, her steps muffled on the moss. She walked for an hour – or was it only a few minutes? Time had become a blur. The rhythmic throb deepened, now a thundering pulse that reverberated through her. She entered a glade, its low grass dotted with rocks and tangled undergrowth. Her eyes swept over the clearing – empty, save for a massive stone. As soon as her gaze settled on it, Elsa felt an undeniable pull, and before she knew it, she stood before the monolith, her palms pressed against its warm surface. The pulsing, which she now realized came from the stone, quickened. Just as her heart seemed ready to explode, it stopped.

Her ears rang in the suffocating silence.

Unnaoappáš.

The Voice echoed in her mind, more sensed than heard. It carried both the harshness of motherhood and the gentleness of fatherhood. It was primal and human, life-giving and death-bringing.

She fell to her knees, trembling with a mix of fear and awe.

Unnaoappáš. The Voice called again – her soul-name: Little Sister.

A rustle ahead, followed by a soft grunt and a sniff. Warm air brushed against her brow, bringing with it a foul, musty scent as a shadow loomed over her. She kept her head down, too afraid to look up. When a clawed paw entered her vision, she squeezed her eyes shut.

We need you, Unnaoappáš.

Elsa stifled a scream. The Voice thundered inside her mind, threatening to split her skull. She wanted to press her hands over her ears, to beg, to grovel, but her body refused to obey.

The Gáŋccat are destroying our land, the Voice continued. They cut and they dig. They fish and they hunt. Their greed knows no limit.

Elsa felt every word of the Voice as though her body were the land itself. She bled from a thousand cuts, died a thousand deaths.

The Gáŋccat kill each other…

Visions flashed before her eyes: a man, his chest torn open, blood pooling around him. Two half-rotten bodies in a gully. She knew it was Vinterström, Lundström, and Norrfält.

…and blame Us.

She heard the howls of dogs, the cruel taunts of hunters, as she ran through the forest, her cubs trailing behind, lost, just as she soon would be…

“What do you want me to do?” she rasped, her throat raw.

Take the fight to them, Unnaoappáš. Stalk them, chase them, plunder them, hunt them, as they did with Us. Justice is the offering We ask of you, Unnaoappáš. The price you must pay to be one of the People.

“I can’t…” Elsa stammered, voice trembling with panic. “I have no proof, no –”

She jolted awake with a sharp gasp, the seatbelt tugging her back into the seat. Her head whipped around, heart racing, hands raised in defense.

Only when her pulse began to steady did she take in her surroundings. She was in a car – her own, by the looks of it. The sign outside the windshield read Aptasvaare Fjällurskog – how she got there was anyone’s guess. She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to clear the fog in her head.

She remembered calling Jonas – had it been yesterday? She’d planned to follow Ailu to the reserve that evening, meaning today, Midsummer’s Eve. That must explain her presence here. But how she got in the car, let alone drove all the way to this place, was a mystery.

She checked for her phone, tapping herself down until she found it in the pocket of her jacket. She pulled it out and checked the date: June 25th. Midsummer’s day.

“Shit!” she hissed, staring in disbelief. A whole fucking day lost. She slammed her fists against the steering wheel in frustration.

That’s when her eyes landed on the bear claw lying on the passenger seat. It hit her then: a crushing wave of numbers, names, addresses – information she shouldn’t have – racing through her mind, like headless chickens.

You need claws, Unnaoappáš. We’ll give you some.

Elsa sat frozen for what felt like an hour. Then, mechanically, she grabbed her phone and dialed a number.

“Gunnar, it’s me. I’ve got that piece from the Lapland you wanted. But you’d better sit down first.”