came over him, and before settling to sleep he moved the knapsack under his head. The hare hopped behind his head to sleep, sheltering close to the damp canvas of the bivouac.
In the morning, Vatanen carefully closed up the bivouac entrance with spruce branches, hiding the knapsack inside after making sure the cord was tightly fastened.
When he returned in the evening, the camp had again been raided. The raven had knocked the branches aside, dragged the bag outside the charred circle of the campfire, torn open one of the pockets, and eaten the processed cheese. The bird had also snipped through the cord and gobbled up the contents of last night’s meat tin and, likewise, the rest of the crispbread. All that was left was a packet of tea, some salt and sugar, and two or three unopened tins of meat.
That evening, supper was still more frugal.
The pillage continued for several days. The raven succeeded in raiding the knapsack’s victuals even though Vatanen covered it up with large logs before setting off for work: the raven always managed to worm its beak through the cracks and get into the bag. The knapsack would have to be enclosed in a concrete bunker if it was to be safe from the greedy bird’s ravages.
The raven became bolder and bolder, seeming to know that the man in the bivouac had no way of stopping it. Try as he might to dislodge the bird with ferocious roars and stones as big as a fist, the raven remained unperturbed, even a little amused by Vatanen’s impotent rage.
The bird was rapidly putting on weight and hardly bothered to shift from its branch even in the daytime. Its insatiable appetite forced Vatanen to frequent the food van three times a week instead of two. He worked out that the raven was costing him nearly thirty dollars a week.
This went on for two weeks.
The bird had become grossly fat. It sat lazily and impudently on a branch just a few yards away from Vatanen, puffed up, like a shaggy, well-fed sheep; its formerly grayish-black plumage had darkened and developed a prosperous shine.
At this rate, Vatanen’s forest clearance would bring in a very poor return. He gave much cogent thought to ways of getting rid of the bird, and when the invasion had lasted a couple of weeks, he hit on the ultimate contrivance.
The way to make the raven renounce its iniquitous behavior would be exceptionally effective.
And cruel.
Vatanen made another food run to Lake Simojärvi. The girl in the food van couldn’t help looking askance at her odd customer: besides turning up three times a week with a hare, he was buying more and more food each visit. Yet it was common knowledge he was buying food only for himself.
The word started to go around: “There’s this fantastic eater out there. Three times a week he comes. He buys a stack of food, and all he does is get thinner.”
The day after his brainstorm, Vatanen opened a two-pound meat-tin in a new way: instead of cutting around the edge, he slit a cross in the top, forming four sharp tin-triangles. He carefully prized the points upward so that the meat tin resembled a freshly opened flower with four metal petals. Vatanen dug the meat out of the center of this corolla with the point of his sheath knife, fried the meat, and ate heartily. The raven eyed the goings-on with a detached air, clearly expecting the rest of the tin to be its own as usual.
After hurling his usual maledictions at the raven, Vatanen started to conceal his knapsack under the logs. Before doing so, however, he pushed the triangular points back inside, so that the opening formed a kind of funnel, like the entrance to a lobster pot.
As soon as Vatanen left for the forest, the raven flopped down by the dying fire and strutted over to the concealed knapsack. It turned its head to one side for a second and then energetically set to: it edged its beak between the logs, tore at the knapsack straps, croaked a comment or two, nudged the logs around, and very soon pulled out its booty. Every
In the morning, Vatanen carefully closed up the bivouac entrance with spruce branches, hiding the knapsack inside after making sure the cord was tightly fastened.
When he returned in the evening, the camp had again been raided. The raven had knocked the branches aside, dragged the bag outside the charred circle of the campfire, torn open one of the pockets, and eaten the processed cheese. The bird had also snipped through the cord and gobbled up the contents of last night’s meat tin and, likewise, the rest of the crispbread. All that was left was a packet of tea, some salt and sugar, and two or three unopened tins of meat.
That evening, supper was still more frugal.
The pillage continued for several days. The raven succeeded in raiding the knapsack’s victuals even though Vatanen covered it up with large logs before setting off for work: the raven always managed to worm its beak through the cracks and get into the bag. The knapsack would have to be enclosed in a concrete bunker if it was to be safe from the greedy bird’s ravages.
The raven became bolder and bolder, seeming to know that the man in the bivouac had no way of stopping it. Try as he might to dislodge the bird with ferocious roars and stones as big as a fist, the raven remained unperturbed, even a little amused by Vatanen’s impotent rage.
The bird was rapidly putting on weight and hardly bothered to shift from its branch even in the daytime. Its insatiable appetite forced Vatanen to frequent the food van three times a week instead of two. He worked out that the raven was costing him nearly thirty dollars a week.
This went on for two weeks.
The bird had become grossly fat. It sat lazily and impudently on a branch just a few yards away from Vatanen, puffed up, like a shaggy, well-fed sheep; its formerly grayish-black plumage had darkened and developed a prosperous shine.
At this rate, Vatanen’s forest clearance would bring in a very poor return. He gave much cogent thought to ways of getting rid of the bird, and when the invasion had lasted a couple of weeks, he hit on the ultimate contrivance.
The way to make the raven renounce its iniquitous behavior would be exceptionally effective.
And cruel.
Vatanen made another food run to Lake Simojärvi. The girl in the food van couldn’t help looking askance at her odd customer: besides turning up three times a week with a hare, he was buying more and more food each visit. Yet it was common knowledge he was buying food only for himself.
The word started to go around: “There’s this fantastic eater out there. Three times a week he comes. He buys a stack of food, and all he does is get thinner.”
The day after his brainstorm, Vatanen opened a two-pound meat-tin in a new way: instead of cutting around the edge, he slit a cross in the top, forming four sharp tin-triangles. He carefully prized the points upward so that the meat tin resembled a freshly opened flower with four metal petals. Vatanen dug the meat out of the center of this corolla with the point of his sheath knife, fried the meat, and ate heartily. The raven eyed the goings-on with a detached air, clearly expecting the rest of the tin to be its own as usual.
After hurling his usual maledictions at the raven, Vatanen started to conceal his knapsack under the logs. Before doing so, however, he pushed the triangular points back inside, so that the opening formed a kind of funnel, like the entrance to a lobster pot.
As soon as Vatanen left for the forest, the raven flopped down by the dying fire and strutted over to the concealed knapsack. It turned its head to one side for a second and then energetically set to: it edged its beak between the logs, tore at the knapsack straps, croaked a comment or two, nudged the logs around, and very soon pulled out its booty. Every
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