Available Dark: A Crime Novel (Cass Neary) by Elizabeth Hand Read Free Book Online

Scandinavian, but we are Nordic. And the Jólasveinar are Icelandic. But Iceland was settled by the Vikings, so their origins were Norse, and the Jólasveinar tradition is even more ancient than that. I have researched it for many years, and even I don’t know how ancient—thousands of years, at least. Over time the myth was degraded to accommodate Christian beliefs. Here in Finland, it was even worse: We have no record of our own true history.
    “The Kalevala is nothing but stories cobbled together by a single man a hundred and sixty years ago,” he said with disdain. “Stories of men and witches and little gods—but our gods are not the true gods. For that we must look to an older world where the ancient ways remain alive.”
    “Like Norway?”
    “Yes. And Iceland, which is where our purest Nordic culture survived. That is what I believe. Originally there were many Jólasveinar, but manufacturers have chosen only thirteen, the ones who might sell the most toys. The Jólasveinar go creeping around your house in the thirteen days before Christmas, and one visits each night. Gluggagægir is the Peeper: He spies in windows. Then there’s Hurðaskellir, Door Slammer; and Þvörusleikir, Spoon Licker; Lampaskuggi, Lamp Shadow; and Ketrókur, Meat Hook, and—”
    “What, no geese a-laying?” I laughed. “Meat Hook—there’s a Hallmark moment if I ever saw one.”
    “No, the Jólasveinar are not nice like Christmas elves; they never became that Christian.”
    I turned back to the photo. “So did they catch the guy who did this?”
    “Never. None of the bodies was ever discovered, by the police or anyone else, as far as I know.” He lifted his head to stare at me with those icy gray eyes. “I do not mean that I was the murderer. I was not.”
    He returned to the map chest for another photo, set it down beside the first, and peeled back the white tissue. “This is Spoon Licker.”
    I grimaced.
    “I know,” Ilkka said softly. “Horrible.”
    But his gaze remained fixed on the print, his mouth parted as though he stared at something unspeakably lovely. I could see why.
    An old man lay in a snowbank, head turned to the camera. He wore a stained blue sweatshirt, sneakers held together with duct tape, faded cotton pants that looked like hospital scrubs. One eye was open, milky blue clotted with red. Where the other eye had been was a hole, with a pointillist spray of crimson on the snow behind him. A metal spoon had been thrust between his gaping jaws. His tongue was gone, and Ilkka’s signature radiance flared from the spoon like a lit fuse. It was like a scene from some terrible fairy tale: the witch forced to wear red-hot iron shoes, the prince whose eyes are scratched out by thorns.
    Yet it was also stunningly beautiful. Ilkka had captured veins of blue within the snow, and the spray of blood might have been feathers or petals. I searched in vain for footprints, evidence of a killer or onlookers.
    “How did you know?” I asked. “Who tipped you off?”
    “How did Weegee know? I have sharp ears. And eyes.”
    “But the police must have suspected you.”
    “I told you, no one ever knew of these deaths or cared. I did not know this man. Look at him.” He jabbed a finger at the print. “This carcass—who was he? I will tell you: he was nothing. Kulkuri —a ‘tramp.’ If his life had been worth something, someone would have searched for him! Someone would have mourned him. No one did. There was no search party, no investigation. Winters are very long in this part of the world. By spring, he was gone. They were all gone.”
    “Gone?”
    “Wolves and bears, lynx. Ravens.” He gestured dismissively. “Winter swallows everything.”
    “But winter didn’t kill him. Or wolves.”
    “Neither did I.”
    “But you know who did.”
    “‘Death will claim no man until his time has come, and nothing will save a man who is fated to die. Therefore be bold: to die in fear is the worst death of all.’ That is