swamp that he has never seen before. Spindly, stunted pine trees are growing in the middle of it. Beard lichen hangs from the branches, looking burnt. Where on earth are they?
“We’re lost,” Hjalmar says to his brother. “We must retrace our steps.”
They retrace their steps. But after an hour or so, they find themselves on the edge of the same swamp.
“Let’s cross over it,” Tore says.
“Don’t be silly,” Hjalmar says.
He is worried now. Which way should they go?
They hear a cow lowing in the distance, very faintly.
“Hush,” he says to Tore, who is prattling on about something or other. “It’s Star. It’s coming from over there.”
If they can find the cows, they will be able to get home. Star will find the way as milking time approaches.
But after only a few steps, they realize that they can no longer hear any lowing. They cannot follow the sound. Neither of them is sure where it came from.
They lie down in a clearing to rest. The moss is dry and the sun is warm. They feel sleepy. Hjalmar is no longer on the verge of tears; he is just tired. He drops off to sleep. Tore’s legs twitch, and he says something in his dream.
Hjalmar is woken up by his brother shaking his arm.
“I want to go home now,” Tore whimpers. “I’m hungry.”
Hjalmar is also hungry. His stomach is rumbling. The sun is low in the sky. The forest is filled with different sounds. The heat drains away from the trees, making them crackle. The noise is almost like footsteps. An eerie sound must be a barking fox. It is chillier now, and the boys are cold.
They set off aimlessly.
After a while they come to a beck. Kneeling down, they fill the mugs they have with them. Drink until they are no longer thirsty.
Hjalmar thinks.
What if this is the same beck that flows past Iso-Junti’s farmhouse on the edge of the village?
Hjalmar had once thrown pieces of wood into the beck. They had floated off in the direction of the Kalix. So, if they follow the beck upstream, they should find themselves in the village.
Always assuming it is the same beck, of course. They could well be following one that goes somewhere else.
“Let’s go this way,” Hjalmar says to his brother.
But Tore doesn’t like being told what to do. Nobody is going to tell him which way to go. Except his father, perhaps.
“No,” he says. “Let’s go that way.”
He points in the opposite direction.
They start arguing. Tore’s opposition makes his older brother certain that following the beck upstream is the best thing to do.
Tore refuses absolutely. Hjalmar calls him a stupid brat, tells him he is being idiotic, that he must do as he is told.
“You don’t tell me what to do,” Tore howls.
He starts blubbing and shouts for his mother. Hjalmar slaps him. Tore punches Hjalmar in the stomach. Soon they are both on the ground. The fight doesn’t last long. Tore doesn’t have a chance. Age wins the day. And Hjalmar Krekula is big.
“I’m going now,” he bellows.
He is sitting on top of his brother. Lets go of his arms, but grabs them again when Tore tries to hit him in the face. The younger boy gives up in the end. He has lost the fight. But not the battle. When he eventually stands up, he marches off resolutely in the direction he had chosen to begin with.
Hjalmar shouts after him.
“Don’t be an idiot. Come with me! Now!”
Tore pretends not to hear. After a while Hjalmar can no longer see him.
At 11.15 that night Hjalmar Krekula comes to the main road to Vittangi. He starts walking along it, and just over an hour later a lorry stops and picks him up. It is one of his father’s lorries, but his father is not driving it. The driver is Johannes Svarvare. In the passenger seat is another villager, Hugo Fors. They pull up 50 metres in front of Hjalmar, and both men open their doors and shout to him. Their soft caps are askew over their sunburnt faces. Shirt sleeves rolled up. Hjalmar feels his chest opening up as joy and relief flood
“We’re lost,” Hjalmar says to his brother. “We must retrace our steps.”
They retrace their steps. But after an hour or so, they find themselves on the edge of the same swamp.
“Let’s cross over it,” Tore says.
“Don’t be silly,” Hjalmar says.
He is worried now. Which way should they go?
They hear a cow lowing in the distance, very faintly.
“Hush,” he says to Tore, who is prattling on about something or other. “It’s Star. It’s coming from over there.”
If they can find the cows, they will be able to get home. Star will find the way as milking time approaches.
But after only a few steps, they realize that they can no longer hear any lowing. They cannot follow the sound. Neither of them is sure where it came from.
They lie down in a clearing to rest. The moss is dry and the sun is warm. They feel sleepy. Hjalmar is no longer on the verge of tears; he is just tired. He drops off to sleep. Tore’s legs twitch, and he says something in his dream.
Hjalmar is woken up by his brother shaking his arm.
“I want to go home now,” Tore whimpers. “I’m hungry.”
Hjalmar is also hungry. His stomach is rumbling. The sun is low in the sky. The forest is filled with different sounds. The heat drains away from the trees, making them crackle. The noise is almost like footsteps. An eerie sound must be a barking fox. It is chillier now, and the boys are cold.
They set off aimlessly.
After a while they come to a beck. Kneeling down, they fill the mugs they have with them. Drink until they are no longer thirsty.
Hjalmar thinks.
What if this is the same beck that flows past Iso-Junti’s farmhouse on the edge of the village?
Hjalmar had once thrown pieces of wood into the beck. They had floated off in the direction of the Kalix. So, if they follow the beck upstream, they should find themselves in the village.
Always assuming it is the same beck, of course. They could well be following one that goes somewhere else.
“Let’s go this way,” Hjalmar says to his brother.
But Tore doesn’t like being told what to do. Nobody is going to tell him which way to go. Except his father, perhaps.
“No,” he says. “Let’s go that way.”
He points in the opposite direction.
They start arguing. Tore’s opposition makes his older brother certain that following the beck upstream is the best thing to do.
Tore refuses absolutely. Hjalmar calls him a stupid brat, tells him he is being idiotic, that he must do as he is told.
“You don’t tell me what to do,” Tore howls.
He starts blubbing and shouts for his mother. Hjalmar slaps him. Tore punches Hjalmar in the stomach. Soon they are both on the ground. The fight doesn’t last long. Tore doesn’t have a chance. Age wins the day. And Hjalmar Krekula is big.
“I’m going now,” he bellows.
He is sitting on top of his brother. Lets go of his arms, but grabs them again when Tore tries to hit him in the face. The younger boy gives up in the end. He has lost the fight. But not the battle. When he eventually stands up, he marches off resolutely in the direction he had chosen to begin with.
Hjalmar shouts after him.
“Don’t be an idiot. Come with me! Now!”
Tore pretends not to hear. After a while Hjalmar can no longer see him.
At 11.15 that night Hjalmar Krekula comes to the main road to Vittangi. He starts walking along it, and just over an hour later a lorry stops and picks him up. It is one of his father’s lorries, but his father is not driving it. The driver is Johannes Svarvare. In the passenger seat is another villager, Hugo Fors. They pull up 50 metres in front of Hjalmar, and both men open their doors and shout to him. Their soft caps are askew over their sunburnt faces. Shirt sleeves rolled up. Hjalmar feels his chest opening up as joy and relief flood
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