Somewhere far, far away it is still thundering, when Maria reaches the church with the dogs. The door grows heavier each time she comes, but Maria knows – the trouble is not with the door. When she opens the door, a small wild animal escapes and the dogs joyfully run off to chase it. Rain has drifted into the church; the thunderstorm has carried in debris from the woods. Maria gathers the debris, making from it a cross in the place the altar once stood. She brushes off the bench and, exhausted, sits down. She does not turn to her Friend, but in a soft voice says:

“Why did the floods take the little old dog, why not the basket of mushrooms …?” Now she has something new to say. When she used to come here with the old dog, she would say: “Why did the malignant illness take my son, and not me, Maria?”

She sits on the bench, totally worn out. She sees God’s warm breath rising from rain-drenched dust.

Her son’s health failed when the little dog had grown quite a bit. At the Easter Performances, the dog continued to sit faithfully at the feet of his master. When the son played the accordion, the doggie sang along. Maria had never seen such friends before. Forget the wife. Who needed a wife anyway? The malignant illness eroded her son from the inside out. The parish doctor advised that they should go to the city, to a hospital. He would manage on his own, her son said. Maria brewed up teas for her son, tried to heal him by spanking the illness away with birch twigs in the old sauna, by tying yarn around his wrist. Nothing helped. For nights on end she pleaded with her Friend at her son’s bedside. She, standing vigil at the head of the bed, the doggie at the foot, had not closed their eyes for a moment. When her son fell asleep, she and the dog covered the long road to the church. He did not hide – He listened to her prayer. But He took her son nonetheless. Maria’s only son.

Somewhere far, far away it is still thundering. Beyond the church walls the sound of dogs barking, as they chase the tiny wild beast. She gets up to return home. It is getting dark. A mist is gathering over the field and Maria again sees her son – resurrected, as he was that day in the Easter performance, holding his doggie, when he, the rascal, let go a trickle of pee. The misty phantom wades beside her, until he disappears at the wattle fence surrounding the flower garden.

Maria lights the hearth, feeds the hungry dogs, finishes cleaning the mushrooms and puts the pot on to boil. For supper she eats the twin orange cap mushroom and a slice of dark rye bread with butter, washing it all down with some tea.