Excerpts from Frank Bear: The Black Valley Shepherd

New genre opening novel. This is “Nordic Spite”

Then a Seal Bit Me — A Strange and Painful Coincidence

Finnish original: “Sitten minua puri hylje - omituinen ja kivulias sattumus”

From Anton Task's diary:

Interesting guy. We got to know each other a little, though neither of us said much about ourselves. Names, at least, we had to give. Finland is a small country, and on top of that, we're both doctors. Lying in that situation would only have created a risk — it would have looked bad if it ever came out later. His passport read Frank Bear, but in the Legion everyone knew him as Nalle. Call sign Brown Bear, “un ours brun,” and on missions and off, The Bear, mostly just Bear. All the special-forces guys in his group spoke English and worked from the SAS playbook. There's no room for Francophilia when you're moving under no flag, a false flag. Broken English serves you better. It traces nowhere. Why did that colleague come to mind?

We had a similar hobby. We hunted assholes for fun, and wild animals only out of necessity. The timing was insane. A man suspected of criminal activity, with vague ties to organized crime, had gone missing in Järvenpää, a small town near Helsinki. The tabloids had gotten anonymous statements written in a tone of unmistakable mockery. The consensus was that he might as well stay lost. Then a guy vanished in Kontula whose criminal record and padded résumé could have been written as a Greek tragedy — all it was missing was the ending, you know, the part where the protagonist dies too.

I was on a hiking trip when it all happened, and so was Frank. We both had an almost empty pulk in tow, as if we'd come prepared to haul an injured person off the ice to a hospital. I didn't have any electronics on me.

Frank had a satellite phone. Also some gadget that looked like an old Nokia communicator, plus a data link. I'd never seen anything like it before. He made a few calls and spoke French. I don't understand French, so I can't say more about that. Both our pulks were as bare as grandpa's bald head after a birthday. We sat by the fire, calm and content, the way only a grown man can feel outside the company of a paid woman. The weather had caught me off guard, and I'd had to make for his camp. It hadn't caught him off guard at all. What had caught me was a seal bite.

Better said it bit back. I'd been trying to spear it through a hole I'd chopped in the ice, using a harpoon I'd carved from juniper. It was a strange and painful coincidence, even if it doesn't sound like much telling it like this. I'd been forced to hunt them to keep myself alive on that icy, sparse sea. I remember thinking, holding my bleeding hand, that plenty of people mistake themselves for something special because their parents or grandparents sat on some board, designed a chair, owned shares in a privatized state-owned enterprise, or wrote a first-aid manual for the underprivileged. They’ve done nothing themselves.

They mistake all that, and their little bubble for interesting. They think it matters. By the time they hit middle age at the latest, that self-importance starts showing through the seams, like daylight piercing through rotten boards.  They flail about in their easy lives, but a seal has never bitten them.

Frank, though — no. He was clearly something else, even without a seal bite to show for it right then. This guy was the real deal, not just someone who thought he was.

That's where I met Frank — out there in the outer archipelago. The former soldier had pitched his tent close to the best seal-hunting spot. He limped on one leg and seemed to move with a kind of anger — the kind of properly furious man who's on a mission from God.

Or from the devil. Or all the gods and demigods. I don't know. Doesn't matter. Neither of us is the superstitious type. We got along. Sometimes we talked, sometimes we just warmed up by the fire. Odd guy. He never asked about my seal hunting, or really about anything — what the hell I was doing out on some winter skerry with my hand mangled and red raw. I had booze and pills on me. He wasn't a drinking man. Took heroin like it was doctor's orders and didn't bother hiding it. Not many people can take that stuff at a steady 1+1+2 through the day without it suddenly turning into 2+3+4. He'd splash five centiliters of rectified spirit into his coffee each morning. Appreciated its usefulness on the road, I gathered. The purity of it.

I had whisky too, which he found mildly puzzling: “Why whisky, man, when you've got the spirits?” “Well, you've got heroin in that fix-bag and oxycodone in the pill bottle, don't you?” “Ah, I see,” he allowed. What he liked about the 192 proof was that this field medicinal stuff traveled well — small bottle, high value, especially if things went sideways. “It washes the taste of blood out of your mouth in the morning,” he reasoned, over his boiled coffee. At that point he seemed to be talking more to himself than to me. “Maybe nobody's judging us. Even if we took a shot to get going,” I chimed in, and immediately realized how corny that sounded. “Ah. Never mind,” I went on, and Frank nodded his approval. “How's the hand?” he asked, studying my face and then my hand.

“Not much more anyone can do for it out here. Once the weather clears, I'll find a hand surgeon. I know a guy over in Turku.” I grinned to myself for a moment. Frank gave me a slightly questioning look. “I was thinking of telling people a wolf bit my hand first, and then a bear put in these godawful stitches.” “Ha. They might believe the bear part, but there aren't any wolves out on this ice. That's not credible.” “Heh. Everything's credible if you tell it reluctantly enough.”

We skied back by different routes and our paths haven’t crossed yet. It's good, in a way, to get that weight off your shoulders — not having to stress over who's been raiding the chest freezer in the basement. Besides, exercise and fresh air do a middle-aged man good.

A crosswind flurry of snow stung my eyes and visibility was poor, but the way home was clear enough. For me, this was clearer than perfect visibility. I needed challenge. I took my bearing from the ice channel. The whiskey ran out.

“That Frank was quite the interesting guy,” I said out loud, to give the thought some weight.

Part One: Will — Chapter 1. “ A Wool sock. Yeah, it can slip off. I don’t understand how it disappears.”

Finnish original: “Osa 1: Tahto — Luku 1. ”Voin ymmärtää, että villasukka irtoaa jalasta. En ymmärrä miten se katoaa””

“A wool sock. Yeah, it can slip off.”

He breathed heavy.

”I don’t understand how it dissappears.”

This was the first thought he managed to form that morning.

“Goddammit,” thought Frank Bear. “This ache is going to be the death of me.”

In his eighth year in the Foreign Legion, the compound fracture in his shin had needed surgery. He'd developed bone necrosis from it, and osteomyelitis as a complication of the operation. Once osteomyelitis, always osteomyelitis, the surgeon in the military hospital had told him. You can't get the bacteria out of the periosteum. That was the bedside speech he got in the beginning.

It was later that Frank asked another surgeon about this. ”Why is that?” Answer wasn’t any more helpful. ”Hell if anyone knows.” In a way this was the perfect explanation. These was old stuff. Frank, for his part, had come back to Finland, gone to medical school, and now worked as a doctor.

He'd returned to the country on a French passport, even though he was Finnish by birth. The trail on the old cases had gone cold, but Finland was a small country, and there was no point making things too easy for the goddesses of misfortune.

That was why he was Frank Bear now — a Finn turned French and back, a returnee “A doc running on empty,” Frank thought sarcastically, hauling himself out of bed stiffly, like an old man. He got up, set the coffee he'd prepped the night before dripping, and started his morning routine: 20 push-ups, five pull-ups, 20 sit-ups, five squat jumps, 20 back exercises, and functional stretching. Jab, cross, one-two, knee strikes.

He felt decrepit, even though he'd only just turned 42.

His apartment — or rather, his room — could charitably be described as functional. You could just as well say he lived in a cubbyhole and owned almost nothing. Plenty of the army barracks in third-world countries he'd had reason to pass through had been cozier setups than this.

That didn't bother Frank. He was content with it as it was. His rented storage unit, meanwhile, held twelve square meters of space and the shelving he'd built himself. Laid out on it was an assortment of supplies that could have passed for the collection of a survivalist, a terrorist, a war nut, or an overly committed reservist. The kind of reservist who's been pumped full of steroids and laced with a hint of amphetamines.

And that was only the nearest of his storage units. Special-forces men like to be prepared, and if nothing else, Frank was a special-forces man.

He was ready for everything, but not really suited to anything. Any kind of action, any kind of doing, ok. Any kind of ordinary life or normality, friendly people, no. At home he had a computer. In the storage unit, a small server. In an anonymous safe-deposit box (the kind banks no longer offer) he kept hard drives, 256-bit encrypted, holding assets, information, and various personal matters. Now the system was kind of outdated and could be easily cracked by an AI agent. Before this, though someone would have to take the disks from Frank.

In there was music, home videos, photo albums, and the official documents filed under his former identity — birth records, preschool meeting notes, school records, his military service, and so on. Tightly packed.

His whole world and life, then, fit into a fairly small space. On the nightstand sat Sun Tzu's The Art of War, Understanding Modern Warfare (second edition), and Moominpappa at Sea.

In a way, the whole scene looked like a classic motel room, the kind with a Bible on the nightstand. And in a sense, that's exactly what it was. Temporary lodgings, and, for Frank at least, some sacred texts thumbed to tatters.

“The Art of War is a cookbook, nothing more,” he thought, squaring the stack of books against the edge of the table. Then he adjusted the table's position to line up with the wall. On the table he also kept a notebook, in which he wrote task lists and their details in clumsy, crow's-foot handwriting.

The entries were vague, hard to decipher, and encrypted with a simple substitution cipher. He wrote everything private that way. He grabbed the notebook on his way out and made sure the pen clipped to its spine still had a blade in it.

So this was the home in which he now stood, on a perfectly ordinary morning, after his workout, feet on the carpetless floor, missing one sock, sipping his coffee. The pain in his leg was ramping up toward its usual daytime throb faster than normal, since there was no wool sock on that foot. He rubbed some medication into his shoulders and popped a pill from the bottle.

He remembered the sock, took a deep breath, and held it. “That goddamn sock,” he muttered aloud. “Who the hell keeps moving these things.” Nobody ever came to his apartment, so the question was pointless. Then Frank flipped his bed and his pajamas inside out, the way a sulking teenager might remake a bed after being told to three times by an angry parent. “That fucking sock isn't anywhere. My apartment is 24 square meters.”

“I've got five changes of clothes in the closet, three sets of bedsheets.” He looked around like hadn’t seen his room before. “Furniture-wise there's a bed, a desk. A few essential items here and there. I have a sock on my foot. Then I don't. Nobody's been here to visit. Definitely nobody, goddammit. That sock is somewhere in this room, and I can't find it between the blanket, three pillows, and a two-piece pair of pajamas.”

Frank took another deep breath and held it for ten seconds. He did this three times. The irritation didn't disperse. It lingered. “Maybe this is about done. Nothing's ever going to come of anything. It stops here. Here. Here. He-e-e-re… Here. That's it, that's the end of it.” He paused.

It's absolutely, positively over.” He panted for a moment, deep breaths, like a mule on a hot uphill climb. “Or, eh. The sock's not really that important anyway. Fuck if I care.”

Frank sat down on the edge of the bed and finished his coffee looking dissatisfied. Then he poured himself another third of a cup. “I won't kill myself today,” he thought without enthusiasm. This was a part of the routine, so even that got done. The day's to-do list now had checkmarks next to workout, coffee, medication, and the promise not to kill himself today. He also promised not to kill anyone else. At least, not unless they deserved it.

“This is going to be a good day,” Frank said with a tight, thin mouth as he stepped out of his apartment and locked it with it’s three locks. The alarm system was armed — a silent alarm, footage to his phone if it picked up any movement.

He was Frank Bear. Or, by birth name, Zacharias “Sakari” Baer. His mother, Emerald Baer, had genuinely made “Sakari” his official middle name. It sat there in quotation marks on both his driver's license and his Finnish passport.

What had his father, Sten Baer, thought about that? Frank had no way of knowing. His father had died long ago.

Zacharias “Sakari” Baer, born June 2, 1982

Frank Bear, born August 16, 2001

Epilogue

Frank walked down the health center corridor toward his room. Siiri called out a greeting from the urgent care side. A little while later she came into Frank's room. “How's it going?” she asked the man in the white coat. “No aftereffects?” Frank waggled his head and grunted something in reply. “Bad weeds grow tall,” he finally managed to get out of his mouth. He felt like a coffee. “Listen sweetheart won’t you get me a cup of coffee,” he said, glancing at Siiri with a smile. “Get your own cup grandpa,” the woman replied, feigning annoyance. “Well, guess I'll get us both coffee then,” Frank said, and stood up. ”By the way we are about the same age.”  Siiri muttered ”You don’t look the same age.”

He filled two cups and brought them back to Siiri's room. He looked around for a moment, as if he'd never seen the room before. “Nice room you've got here,” he finally said. “Whoa,” said Siiri. “Has our grumpy doctor developed a sense of humor?” Frank smiled faintly. “What's new? Did the place manage to run without me?” Siiri shook her head. Frank thought she actually looked pretty good. He thought of Sofia and Rose. He thought of the woman on the plane who'd bitten half a date on takeoff and finished it on the descent — this grown woman's shape, her youthful ankles, and maybe a hint of thick calves. Frank had a soft spot for slightly thick calves.

Siiri noticed Frank staring at her shape and threw a stack of sticky notes at him. “Ow,” said Frank. “Serves you right,” said Siiri. “If a man could only get lucky on his own rounds for once,” said Frank. He sniffed the air and narrowed his eyes. He looked like a big bad wolf catching a scent. He widened his eyes back at Siiri and kept looking. He considered his own feelings and admitted that yes, he'd sensed a woman. “Is that so,” said Siiri, but she didn't sound angry, offended, or appalled. She sounded cautiously interested. Or at least she was considering something, not shutting the idea down outright.

Frank wondered whether there might be some living, breathing flesh left in his life after all. “I was away,” Frank said abruptly. “Huh. Didn't you have influenza?” Siiri wondered. “I did, I did, but I had airline points about to expire, so I made a stop in Pa— P-P-Prague. Went to Prague. Had some kind of experimental treatment. Experimental treatment in Prague, yeah.” Then Frank Bear walked out of the room as if he hadn't said anything at all. Everything was hectic and calm, both at once.

The day went on. A call came in on the duty phone and got forwarded to Frank. “This one's for you,” said Sanna Kivinen. She was on the desk today. “Huh?” said Frank. “Yeah, there's a Jessica Brand, or Sand, or something on the line. Speaks English with a strange accent.” Frank paused for a moment and took the phone. He stared at it as if he'd never seen such a device before. Sanna Kivinen looked at Frank, looked at the phone, then back at Frank. “Just go for it,” she said, and left the room. Frank raised the phone to his ear.

“Brr,” said Frank into the phone. “What!” came from the line. “Is this Frank Bear speaking.” The woman must have grown up in some coal mine in the 1800s, Frank thought — that's the kind of accent she had. “Uhmp,” said Frank Bear. “Ye.” A laugh came down the line. “Okay, we need to meet, Mr. Bear. The sooner the better.” Frank looked at the phone in his hand for a moment and raised it back to his ear. He said, briefly: “Uhmp.” Another laugh from the officer's end.

“Okay, I understand you have some concerns if a police woman, I mean the Police, calls and wants to meet you. You have caught their eye, you might think. A police woman from London nonetheless.” The woman paused. “Anyhow, I followed a lead all the way here but found that my person of interest has disappeared. At the moment there is some controversy within our department about this incident. Some concerns, Mr. Bear.”

Frank said, with surprising clarity: “Oh, sorry to hear that Mrs. … what did you say your name was?” The woman laughed again — the same cough-like huff. “I didn't.” Then she went on, sounding like she was in an unusually good mood. “My name is Jessica Strand and I'm from London. Metropolitan Police Service. Modern Slavery.” Frank drew a short breath and grunted: “What.” His pronunciation came out like some southern-states farmer. The woman shot back sharply: “Modern Slavery.” Frank was too uncertain how the situation was unfolding to get annoyed. He kept his tone soft. “And now, Mrs. Strand from modern slavery, why do you need to meet me?” A moment passed, and the woman said, in a whisper, as if sharing a secret: “We have a common friend. L. From P.” Frank answered unhurriedly: “You speak riddles, Mrs. Strand.”

Same short laugh again. “Oh, no, you got me wrong.”

“What,” said Frank Bear. “It's Ms. Strand. Not Mrs.” A brief pause. “I am a Miss Strand once again.” Now it was Frank's turn to laugh. Luckily, the old hyena laugh didn't come out — that would have raised the suspicions of a seasoned police officer about dark secrets. That's what that laugh was like: a hyena, not  human.

“We shall meet,” said Frank Bear. “Ms. Strand. Ms. Jessica Strand. Modern Slavery.” The woman said she was staying at the Hotel Presidentti. “Do you know the place, Mr. Bear?” Frank answered rather quickly: “Why yes of course, Ms. Strand. I am familiar with that accommodation establishment.” He had no idea why he was talking like that. He found himself mentally tallying up head injuries again and figured this probably had something to do with it. “Tonight at seven p.m.?” “Tonight, tonight,” said Frank Bear. “Smashing Pumpkins,” said Jessica Strand. “If we get bored,” said Frank, faster than he had time to think. Another huff of laughter. He had the odd feeling that this Jessica Strand was more his kind of people than police officers usually were. He decided he'd ask Louis about it once he got home — if the man was even reachable anymore.

“We shall slip a secret,” the woman said suddenly. “Let's see what slips, and where,” Frank shot back. Now the woman giggled. All the living flesh, Frank thought. He looked at the midday sun through the tattered blinds and the smoke from the charcoal grill next to the health center. Now there was this chuckling woman on the line, who apparently knew L. from P. but still seemed to like him regardless. “I'll be there,” said Frank.

“God, all this living flesh,” he thought again. “You get into trouble faster than with corpses.” Frank wasn't resentful like usual. For some reason, he noticed he was thinking about bears. In a good way.