Dusk in Kalevia Read online

  Table of Contents

  Credits

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  Dawn in Valle del Cauca

  The Range

  Bonus Art Gallery

  Credits

  Chapter 1

  Dearest friend and much-loved brother,

  Best beloved of all companions,

  Come and let us sing together,

  Come and chant with me the legends,

  Since at length we meet together,

  From two widely sundered regions.

  Seldom can we meet together,

  Seldom one can meet the other,

  O’er this cold and cruel country,

  O’er the poor soil of the Northland.

  -Prelude, The Kalevala

  It was barely four o’clock, and already the sun was sinking low in the sky, throwing its last long rays across the tarmac of Kalevia airfield. From above, the shadow of the control tower stretched out like an arrow, pointing east to pine forests and the distant gray shadow of the city of Vainola. As the twin-engine craft dipped its wing, flying a last sweeping circle over the runways to prepare for landing, the lakes and marshes dotting the landscape suddenly caught the sunset’s fire. Red flashed across still water, and then was gone, replaced by the rapidly falling darkness.

  Toivo leaned his cheek against the chilled double-pane of the airplane window and felt the roar of the engines in his teeth. He watched the lights of the airstrip approach from below, uncomfortably aware of the pressure in his ears and the falling sensation in the pit of his stomach. It was times like these that he felt the most ill at ease in his body--dogged by the senses of the flesh. He wasn’t used to flying like this.

  The landing gear met asphalt with a jolt, startling the sole other passenger awake. The pale, middle-aged Swede jerked upright, glanced at his watch, and ran his fingers through his thinning hair.

  He’s anxious about a meeting, thought Toivo. He just started a new assignment...big responsibilities. A cultural attaché, perhaps?

  As the plane taxied to a stop, Toivo tried to catch his fellow traveler’s eyes in some small gesture of reassurance; the man was too busy rooting around in his traveling wallet to notice.

  After some moments, the door hatch opened and Toivo emerged into the northern twilight. He paused at the top of the stairs and filled his lungs with a deep breath of freezing air, sharp and deliciously clear, almost to the point of pain. He was, at last, in Kalevia.

  With almost surreal swiftness, a crew of uniformed ground crew surrounded him. He was hurried off, along with his suitcase, in the direction of customs.

  His luggage and the diplomat were spirited away to other rooms, and Toivo found himself alone, his visa and papers in hand, facing the dour young woman at the intake desk. She regarded his Finnish passport with arched eyebrows, glaring through her horn-rimmed glasses at the lion rampant on the cover.

  “Not many flights coming over the western border these days,” she said in the local dialect, flicking her gaze up to his face before returning to his paperwork. “Toivo Valonen. It says here you’re a journalist.”

  Toivo nodded, trying not to shiver. It was barely warmer in the airport than it had been outside. He noticed that the border officer was wearing thin leather gloves that reflected the wan industrial lighting, and that she rubbed her fingers one by one, her breath making clouds in the air of the frigid terminal.

  “I’m writing a feature on life in the People’s Republic of Kalevia. A profile of a hard-working people.” Toivo smiled mildly, nodding his ash-blond head. He had heard that these sessions could take hours, especially for people in his line of work.

  She looked up at him again. Although the documents indicated his age to be 29, Toivo was aware that he wore the face of a wide-eyed youth, improbably smooth-skinned and innocent. He saw her pallid cheeks flush with color as she reevaluated his appearance, and he sensed a faint flicker of warmth flare within her.

  Toivo could work with that. He conjured images of fire in his mind--of the heat of a porcelain stove in winter, of summer bonfires--and sent them through the space between him and the woman. Small miracles, just enough to guide the memories she needed most.

  The clerk stopped working her numb fingers. Somehow, for the first time in weeks, she didn’t feel cold. No, more than that. It was like a weight had disappeared, dissolved away like an ice cube in a cup of tea. The chill monotony of stamping papers, the facelessness of her life as a civil servant--none of that worried her for the moment. Nothing seemed as important and vivid as the scene that swept into her memory.

  She was once again a small child lying on her grandmother’s hearthrug on Christmas Eve, playing with a small wooden horse. She galloped it back and forth across the stones, the heat from the fire prickling her back. Her tummy was pleasantly full of rice pudding. Lulled by the soft murmur of the adults around the table, she drifted off to sleep on the floor and dreamt of reindeer. How strange that she should think of that now.

  Toivo saw the change sweep over her, her eyes suddenly bright and wet. He felt the memory resonate, and rejoiced at the beauty of the one she had chosen. She turned to him, beaming.

  “Welcome to Kalevia, Mr. Valonen.”

  What followed was a pleasant conversation, and probably the most painless border interview ever experienced in the Soviet state. Toivo wished good luck upon the woman, who waved goodbye with a smile on her face, and willed that the blessing stay with her until dawn.

  Upon his exit from customs, Toivo was reunited with his luggage, adorned with a tag that proclaimed it “cleared for entry” in blocky Cyrillic letters. He glanced around the arrivals wing, searching for the government escort that was supposed to be waiting for him. The airport was almost empty save a few silent travelers; the echoes of their solitary footsteps bounced off the glass walls and resonated among the beams of the high ceiling.

  A short, square figure in uniform stood alone in the middle of the vast floor. The man cupped a hand over his eyes and squinted in Toivo’s direction. Toivo waved tentatively, and the officer puffed over, brandishing a paper sign with Toivo’s surname in black ink. He looked as though he were about to be swallowed up by his service cap and overcoat--two surly eyes and an impressive brush of a mustache completely surrounded by wool.

  “Welcome. Saw your flight come in.” The man extended his gloved hand in a brusque greeting. “Name’s Sergeant Aarne Isokoski; I’ll be looking after you.”

  Toivo accepted the handshake and winced as the man’s anger rushed through him like a jolt of electric current.

  What had he done to disappoint his superiors? Now he was stuck playing chauffeur for this journalist, this busybody. What kind of work was that--muckraking about in other people’s countries instead of doing good, solid work for one’s own? It was damn shameful.

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Toivo Valonen, Angel of the Light.

  As the Volga Sedan sped down the highway toward Vainola, Toivo watched the lights of the airport sign fade into the distance, the red Russian characters lingering after the rest had been swallowed by darkness. As the forest rose up on either side of the car, he turned from the window and closed his eyes, happy to be alone with his thoughts.

  It had been such a long time since he’d been incarnated for a mission. He’d almost forgotten the closeness of the emotions--a constant barrage of raw feeling that he received every moment he was in conta
ct with human consciousness. Like one of those transistor radios that grabbed waves out of the aether, his mind always buzzed with the static hum of life.

  He’d come down in 1959. Nine months, and he still wasn’t fully used to this body. It wasn’t that he hated every moment of life on Earth. He’d occasionally enjoyed the United States, with its white church steeples and high summer skies, ice cream and baseball games. He had ridden his first bicycle there. He’d had his first martini, and gone for a walk around Capitol Hill, flushed and happy in a new gray suit.

  In Washington, he’d wandered mostly unnoticed in the offices of the CIA, studying tradecraft and the perilous balance of international relations to prepare him for Kalevia. Toivo had the ability to belong where he wasn’t supposed to be--to effortlessly insinuate himself into situations where he heard secrets not meant for outside ears. His presence felt so natural and comforting, no one ever questioned it. Even the most seasoned of agents accepted him into their midst and instructed him, despite the fact that if questioned afterward, they wouldn’t have been able to explain his identity or function in the agency.

  In the beginning it was tolerable, and he did what he could, but he soon grew fatigued. Fear seethed beneath the brash exterior of those intelligence men, and he’d been assaulted daily by visions of brutal violence and atom bomb annihilation. They feared the Reds, they feared the world, they feared themselves--and fear made them cruel. He would sit in front of his television every night, watching the seven o’clock news with tears streaming down his cheeks, cursing the limited reach of his powers.

  He was relieved when he was finally was able to flee to Europe, where he settled into the life and role of Toivo. But body and mind still weighed heavily on him. He yearned to shed them and soar, pure as a beam of light once again, as if duty hadn’t called and left him anchored to the sullen ground.

  Sergeant Isokoski brooded in the front seat, emitting an irritated funk. Toivo wondered if it was advisable to try and engage him. He decided to take a chance, and tentatively reached out with the tendrils of his consciousness.

  “How long have you been in the service?” Toivo inquired.

  “Since the war.”

  The war. The scream of the air raid sirens over Vainola, the crying of lost children, the grumble of Russian tanks rolling through on their way to the front. Why was this idiot journalist trying to make small talk? He didn’t want to think about this right now.

  “Tough times,” said Toivo, with sympathy.

  “I suppose.”

  He woke nights remembering the sudden death of a comrade shot by a forest sniper, red blood splashed, steaming upon the snow.

  Toivo retreated and sat in silence. He wished he hadn’t said anything, and pondered what he could do for the man. Life seemed oppressive and sad, and Toivo knew he was merely a balm to dull the pain. Regardless, he felt compelled to keep trying. He spent every waking hour trying to stem the tide of human despair, building a dam from shards of broken hearts, in the hope that someday, someday...

  A boom gate, lit by a single street lamp, materialized out of the gloom ahead. Sergeant Isokoski hit the brakes in just enough time to coast to a stop in front of the bar, cursing under his breath.

  “Oh, Perkele! Get out your papers.”

  The checkpoint guard poked his head out from his tiny house, holding a flashlight up beside his face. Isokoski cranked the window down and proffered the documents, doing his best to diminish the frown that was permanently etched into his face.

  “Sergeant Aarne Isokoski, State Security. I’ve got a foreign visitor coming from the airport. Requesting permission to enter the urban zone.”

  The young guard shone his torch inside the vehicle, letting the beam slide over the leather upholstery and across to Toivo’s guileless face. Without a word, he turned on his heel and disappeared into his yellow-striped shelter. Toivo knew his passport would check out against any list, but waiting was always uncomfortable, especially with the windows open to the winter wind.

  After what seemed like an eternity, the guard reappeared with their papers. He gave a single nod.

  “You’re free to go.”

  The striped boom across the road lifted. They passed on through the dark, into the city of Vainola.

  As the road widened into a broad thoroughfare, the trees gave way to blocks of brutalist apartment buildings. The huge concrete structures loomed on either side, hastily constructed from identical blueprints to house the workers who toiled in the factories on the outskirts of the city. All was still, save the sorry row of bare birch trees quaking in the wind on the median, and the occasional black passenger vehicle sliding past in the yellow haze of the street lamps. In some of the windows, warm light shone out through the curtains and implied hints of humanity, but out on the street, not a soul was to be seen.

  The eerie silence remained as they crossed the river bridge into the Old Town. Driving past the remnants of the ancient city walls, Toivo caught a glimpse of the old castle with its moat, out of place in the sterile modernity of the People’s Republic. He wondered if perhaps the Kalevians clung to their history more than he’d been told. Then again, maybe those in power had kept the little fortress as a reminder of a darker time, before the enlightenment of Communist doctrine had saved the people from the chains of the past.

  They turned down a series of narrow cobblestone streets until they finally rolled to a stop in front of an imposing brick building. It had been made to mimic the pre-war architecture around it, but ultimately failed in its attempt to blend in. There was something too new, too well-planned about this immaculate red brick facade that reeked of Socialist effort. The sign painted above the entrance proclaimed it “New International Hotel.”

  “This is where you will stay,” said Isokoski, matter-of-factly.

  The sergeant clearly expected no argument. Toivo had been assured that everything would be taken care of, and that meant internment at the one hotel for foreigners in the entire region. Guards kept a baleful eye on all travelers that passed over their threshold, recording their comings and goings. Judging by the lack of illumination in the windows, however, the watchers had an easy job at the moment.

  Toivo looked around the hushed city street, dull and foreboding in the near-constant twilight of winter, and was struck by the bleakness of it all. If ever there was a place in need of a blessing, this was it. He leaned against the door of the Volga and stared up at the sky.

  Isokoski came trudging around the back of the car with the bags. He thrust the suitcase at Toivo and sank deeper into his muffler, glaring at Toivo as though blaming him for the chill.

  Damned winter. Sometimes he felt like he would never be warm again.

  “Go inside, they’re expecting you,” he spat. He gestured to the shadows of two armed guards, framed by the light spilling through the glass doors.

  Toivo took his bag. Then, to Isokoski’s apparent surprise, he turned and placed a steady hand on the man’s shoulder.

  “Don’t worry,” Toivo assured him. “Summer isn’t that far away.”

  Usually Sergeant Isokoski would have shaken off the touch, galled by the forwardness of this foreign stranger, but he was caught off-guard. The word “summer” reverberated through him like a drumbeat, shaking him with nostalgic longing.

  Summer. Summer was his wife Mina at the cabin, her chubby arms all freckled in the sunshine. Summer, the whisper of the pines around the one-room they were allotted, the smell of lake mud as they splashed in the shallows with happy abandon. A happy respite where the cold and the past ceased to oppress. They simply lived in the present, unafraid of any burden, loving each other in the long afternoons of midsummer.

  God, Mina. He wanted to see her face more than anything right then. Maybe they could have a glass together and resuscitate those days to sustain themselves through the wretched dark and snow.

  Sergeant Isokoski gave a curt nod of farewell and scrambled hastily into the front seat. As the black car peeled away from the curb,
Toivo drew up his collar to hide his victorious smile.

  One by one, a little at a time.

  Inside, he watched the elderly concierge of the hotel poke through his papers without even looking up.

  “And you mustn’t forget: report to the State Security Building at ten o’clock sharp for your interview.” The concierge slid off his stool, trembling like an aspen. “Don’t worry about getting there; we’ll call for a car.”

  Toivo followed the shuffling man down a dim, dun-colored hallway. The man continued to lecture him, as if hoping to fill the silence with the sound of his creaking voice.

  “When you go out, remember that you need to have your guide with you at all times. All times! If Sergeant Isokoski is unavailable, then ask Iiro there to go with you.”

  He gesticulated vaguely over his shoulder at the guard who loped behind them, Kalashnikov slung casually across his back. His presence gave Toivo the distinct feeling of being followed by a large wolf whose indifference temporarily permitted him to live.

  Toivo focused his gaze ahead, and tried not to bring too many of the guard’s thoughts into his own. He was much too tired, and the hungry leer in the man’s eyes said all that Toivo cared to hear.

  “What time does curfew go into effect?” Toivo asked wearily, recalling the empty streets.

  “City curfew starts at nine, but it’s recommended to stay indoors during dark hours as much as possible. Quite difficult around this time of winter, though.” The old man released a chuckle like an old engine trying to start.

  “Ah, 403. This is your room.” The concierge’s palsied hands fumbled the key into the lock. He waved Toivo inside. “Good night.”

  Finally, mercifully, Toivo was alone. He closed the door and relished solitude for a moment, the only sounds the soft hiss of the steam radiator and the howl of the wind against the window.

  It was a drab room. The carpet and patterned wallpaper were new, yet unsightly--a composition in brown--but it was clean and would suit his needs as a place to rest. He knew that at the first opportunity, his keepers would be in here, cataloging his possessions and searching for the marks of suspicious behavior. For for the time being, though, he would be left to his own devices.