to hear a rumor that “private individuals” had salvaged war materiel left behind in the Lapland retreat and had allegedly sold it for their own profit.
Vatanen folded the paper and put it aside. He wondered where Kurko was now. No doubt he’d gotten himself some new false teeth.
“Shouldn’t we be off, too?” Vatanen asked the hare, who was sitting by his feet.
And so they left Rovaniemi behind. It was already well on into August. There’d been a little snow in the morning, but it had soon melted away.
13
The Raven
B efore the snow set in, Vatanen took the bus to Posio, in South Lapland.
There he took a forest-thinning job five miles from the highway that crosses the deserted forest tracts north of Lake Simojärvi. It was between the Kemijoki and Simojoki rivers, a desolate watershed, but the work brought in money, and the main thing was that the hare didn’t have to live in a built-up area.
Vatanen established camp in a clump of red pines on a marsh islet at the edge of an extensive swamp. He lived in a lean-to canvas bivouac reinforced with a covering of spruce branches. Twice a week he went to Lake Simojärvi for food and cigarettes, and to borrow a few books from the local library. He spent several weeks in the Posio marshes, and he read quite a few good books during this period.
The conditions here, near the Arctic Circle, were very primitive.
The work was heavy, but Vatanen liked that. He knew he was getting stronger, and he wasn’t weighed down by the thought of having to do this work till the end of his life.
Sometimes, as the sleet came down in the failing light of evening, and he felt very tired, he reflected on his life: how different it was now from only last spring, in those days before midsummer!
Totally different!
He spoke aloud to the hare, and the hare listened religiously, without comprehending a word. Vatanen poked the campfire in front of his lean-to, watched the winter coming on, and at night slept with his ears pricked, like a wild animal.
Right at the start, in this deserted and sleety marshland, he met a setback. While he was still fixing up his frugal camp between the little floating island’s dried-up trees, the most villainous bird in the forest was settling in, too—a raven.
Scrawny, it flew several circuits of the islet with sleet-drenched wings, then, noticing no harassment, settled on a tree near Vatanen and shook off the sleet like a rheumaticky dog. It was a most melancholy sight.
Vatanen looked at the bird and felt a profound compassion for it. Everything showed that the poor, ill-shaped bird had not been having a very cheerful time of it recently: it was utterly wretched.
Next evening, coming back tired from the forest and getting ready to make his supper, Vatanen had a surprise. His knapsack, which had been lying open on the bivouac branches, had been plundered. A considerable amount of food had disappeared from it: half a pound of butter, practically a whole tin of pork, and many slices of rye crispbread. Obviously, the culprit was that miserable flap-winged bird that had aroused his sympathy the day before. It had clearly torn open the packaging with its bony beak, spilled the contents around, and then spirited some off to a cache known only to itself.
The raven was sitting on the top of a tall pine, quite close to the bivouac. One side of the pine was covered with a shiny black mess: the raven had been shitting from its branch.
The hare was rather nervous; the raven had evidently been molesting it while Vatanen was away working.
Vatanen threw a stone at the raven but missed. It merely shuffled aside, not even opening a wing. It didn’t switch trees until Vatanen ran at the tree with an ax and started chopping.
If only he had a gun.
Vatanen opened another tin of meat, fried it in the pan, and ate the rest of the crispbread dry, without butter. As he ate his reduced repast, he eyed the raven on its branch and heard it burping.
An unassuageable black rage
Vatanen folded the paper and put it aside. He wondered where Kurko was now. No doubt he’d gotten himself some new false teeth.
“Shouldn’t we be off, too?” Vatanen asked the hare, who was sitting by his feet.
And so they left Rovaniemi behind. It was already well on into August. There’d been a little snow in the morning, but it had soon melted away.
13
The Raven
B efore the snow set in, Vatanen took the bus to Posio, in South Lapland.
There he took a forest-thinning job five miles from the highway that crosses the deserted forest tracts north of Lake Simojärvi. It was between the Kemijoki and Simojoki rivers, a desolate watershed, but the work brought in money, and the main thing was that the hare didn’t have to live in a built-up area.
Vatanen established camp in a clump of red pines on a marsh islet at the edge of an extensive swamp. He lived in a lean-to canvas bivouac reinforced with a covering of spruce branches. Twice a week he went to Lake Simojärvi for food and cigarettes, and to borrow a few books from the local library. He spent several weeks in the Posio marshes, and he read quite a few good books during this period.
The conditions here, near the Arctic Circle, were very primitive.
The work was heavy, but Vatanen liked that. He knew he was getting stronger, and he wasn’t weighed down by the thought of having to do this work till the end of his life.
Sometimes, as the sleet came down in the failing light of evening, and he felt very tired, he reflected on his life: how different it was now from only last spring, in those days before midsummer!
Totally different!
He spoke aloud to the hare, and the hare listened religiously, without comprehending a word. Vatanen poked the campfire in front of his lean-to, watched the winter coming on, and at night slept with his ears pricked, like a wild animal.
Right at the start, in this deserted and sleety marshland, he met a setback. While he was still fixing up his frugal camp between the little floating island’s dried-up trees, the most villainous bird in the forest was settling in, too—a raven.
Scrawny, it flew several circuits of the islet with sleet-drenched wings, then, noticing no harassment, settled on a tree near Vatanen and shook off the sleet like a rheumaticky dog. It was a most melancholy sight.
Vatanen looked at the bird and felt a profound compassion for it. Everything showed that the poor, ill-shaped bird had not been having a very cheerful time of it recently: it was utterly wretched.
Next evening, coming back tired from the forest and getting ready to make his supper, Vatanen had a surprise. His knapsack, which had been lying open on the bivouac branches, had been plundered. A considerable amount of food had disappeared from it: half a pound of butter, practically a whole tin of pork, and many slices of rye crispbread. Obviously, the culprit was that miserable flap-winged bird that had aroused his sympathy the day before. It had clearly torn open the packaging with its bony beak, spilled the contents around, and then spirited some off to a cache known only to itself.
The raven was sitting on the top of a tall pine, quite close to the bivouac. One side of the pine was covered with a shiny black mess: the raven had been shitting from its branch.
The hare was rather nervous; the raven had evidently been molesting it while Vatanen was away working.
Vatanen threw a stone at the raven but missed. It merely shuffled aside, not even opening a wing. It didn’t switch trees until Vatanen ran at the tree with an ax and started chopping.
If only he had a gun.
Vatanen opened another tin of meat, fried it in the pan, and ate the rest of the crispbread dry, without butter. As he ate his reduced repast, he eyed the raven on its branch and heard it burping.
An unassuageable black rage
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