by Kiley Dunbar
‘Oh, it is. My mother used to bring me and my sister here when we were kids. We’d have a cook out, and we’d dive into the water from that ledge over there.’
He’s pointing to a snowy outcrop jutting from what I’m assuming must be craggy rock when it isn’t encased in glittering ice. The ledge is nearly twice Stellan’s height; I have no idea how he summoned up the courage to plunge from that precipice into the water below as a child.
‘Is the water warm in the summer?’
‘It’s so cold. But it’s clear enough that you can see the pebbles at the bottom.’
He’s got a hazy look in his eyes remembering his childhood summers and daredevil antics, and I’m happy for him. It means he had some joyful moments with his family as a kid, even though it doesn’t sound like his dad was present during those trips to the waterfall. I won’t ask him about that; I wouldn’t cause him pain right now for anything in the world.
‘So… are we going to have a picnic?’ I say, aware that my stomach is rumbling under my many thermal layers. The fruit plate and herbal tea back at the spa really didn’t cut it as fuel for a wintry trek through deep snow and Lappish forests.
‘Here, have this.’
He hands me a chocolate bar in a pink floral wrapper, and I melt a bit because I see his smile as he gives his gift. He’s delighted to make me happy. I thank him and gleefully take my thick outer gloves off and tear at the wrapper with my teeth.
Stellan swings the backpack off his shoulders and sets it on the snow. ‘That should keep you alive until I cook lunch.’
‘Should do, but I was nearly a goner for a moment there!’ I snap a piece of chocolate from the bar, reach over and pop it into Stellan’s mouth, which he opens for me before snapping his teeth shut, pretending to bite at my fingers, and we both laugh again.
How is this so easy? How can two people have this kind of connection and be expected to live two thousand kilometres apart?
There I go again. Less of that! I chastise myself as I munch the creamy hazelnut milk chocolate. Life is sweet right this second. What more can I ask for?
‘You can sit over there, look.’ Stellan stops unpacking items from the bag, which I see contains a small gas camping stove – not a fiddly little thing like Dad would pack for my childhood trips to Anglesey; this is a sturdy army-issue looking contraption. I wonder how the hell he managed to carry that on his back, and turn conspicuously swoony at the thought of his strength.
I realise he’s still pointing behind me to a wide fissure in the great folding curtain of ice cascading from the frozen waterfall, and I clamber into it, sitting down on what, I decide to fantasise, is a broad icy throne.
Stellan laughs as I settle myself with a satisfied smile.
‘Comfy?’
‘Yep. What are you cooking?’
‘Ever had muikku?’
‘Never heard of it,’ I say, as I watch him rest a frying pan over a flaming gas bottle.
He sorts ingredients in zip lock bags, putting on what he clearly thinks is a good American accent and pretending to present a cookery segment on a TV show. Looking up at me in mock earnestness, he says, ‘First we add the muikku to the seasoned flour.’
That’s when I realise muikku are tiny silver fish, like whitebait.
‘I prepared these at home earlier,’ Stellan’s saying confidently.
‘You did?’
‘Well, Rasmus did. Hey, is this your show, or mine? No heckling from the audience please. Then you shake the bag. Heat a little oil and butter in the pan and, whoa!’ Stellan jumps as the pan sizzles, splattering hot oil. ‘Always be careful not to get snow in your oil,’ he says with a lopsided grin.
After a few moments, during which Stellan wryly declines my offers of assistance, I smell the glorious aroma of warming garlic on the impossibly clean air and the savoury scent of the floury fish hitting the oil. My stomach somersaults in response. Stellan shakes the pan, the fish are already turning crisp, and we both fall contentedly silent.
He comes to join me on my gleaming icy throne inside the waterfall where we eat our meal straight from the hot pan, each of us taking turns to make stabs at the muikku with our forks. One for me; one for him, until every morsel is gone.
There isn’t a sound or movement anywhere in the forest; no breeze, no birdsong, not a snowflake falling, and the sky is turning a wonderful blush pink as the watery sun makes its way below the horizon again. This, I think to myself, is Stellan’s world; healthful, outdoorsy, elemental.
I suddenly feel overwhelmed with gratitude for whatever force it was that reunited us and let me share this moment with him. And I don’t mind that it will soon pass. All that matters right now is me and Stellan sitting beneath the waterfall.
* * *
After our lunch by the frozen falls, and after Stellan has shouldered the heavy backpack again, I find myself unexpectedly dismayed that he isn’t leading me back the way we came towards the truck. Instead, we follow a steep and thickly snowdrifted route between the trees in the opposite direction.
‘A hike?’ I say, my heart sinking. I’d been enjoying the satisfied, pleasantly well fed feeling and thinking I’d soon be back on the road in the comfort of Stellan’s passenger seat, heading onwards to the next part of his whirlwind mystery tour, but now we’re going to slog uphill in waist-deep snow? No thanks!
I never was one for a Christmas day walk. Back home, no sooner had the three of us demolished enough roast turkey and sprouts to feed a family of fifteen, than Dad would hustle us into coats and out the front door for the obligatory muddy trudge to the duck pond and back, when all Mum and I wanted to do was flop on the sofa and stuff Quality Street into our faces in front of Mary Poppins.
‘No hike. This is the way to my parents’ lake house,’ says Stellan.
A lake house? Now that does sound festive. Ahead of us, far across the open whiteness, I make out a spire with a black cross atop a white church. Stellan and I struggle on through the snow arm and arm towards it, beneath a waning moon so slim it is barely visible.
‘The house is a little beyond the chapel there.’
‘It’s so pretty here. Basically you were raised in a Christmas card?’ I hear his low laugh but I’m concentrating on dragging my snowshoes out of the white powder that’s trying to sink me like quicksand, so I can’t look over to catch the accompanying grin. ‘This area is stunning. Who owns it? Is it your family’s?’
‘No, not at all.’
‘So we’re trespassing?’
‘It belongs to everybody.’
I squint in confusion, and he must notice it, because he explains, ‘It’s called Everyman’s Rights; the freedom to go where you please, and for free. I’ve never understood the rest of the world’s obsession with parcelling off patches of land that are yours by right. I remember seeing grubby yards and overgrown gardens full of trash in Manchester and thinking how strange it was to fence yourself in and keep others out in this way. And there are English gardens and estates you have to pay to walk in. So weird! Maybe it’s because we have so much space here and the population is so sparse, people don’t feel the need to enclose their little worlds and prohibit people’s movement over them.’
Wow! That’s pretty much the most he’s said without stopping since we met up again, and it’s about how crap and hemmed in England is! I feel a flicker of resentment at him for criticising my lovely Manchester, but more than that, I feel sad. I’m sad that he’ll never feel inclined to come to England and visit me. He had his fill of our parochial habits long ago, on a four-month exchange trip that he couldn’t wait to terminate early.
It strikes me, as I walk along, that I’m now breathless and tired, and not just from the exertion of the walk.
‘I do miss the chippy though,’ I hear him saying hurriedly. ‘And the outdoor football games, and the English ale, and the birds in the trees all winter, and that pizza place near halls, and…’
And the girls? Or one girl in particular? Just say it, and all
will be forgiven. But he doesn’t.
‘And those things… those… sweet flan things from the bakery. With the coconut on top? You eat them with custard?’
‘Manchester tart? I’ll be sure to mail some over in the New Year, if you send me more of those hazelnut chocolate bars.’
‘Deal!’ He stops suddenly, unlooping his arm from mine to offer me a handshake through thick gloves.
We smile and I begin to forget why I was wounded a moment ago, recalling my resolution to enjoy this fleeting escapade for what it is.
I watch him break his eyes from mine. It seems so causal the way he can do it, when I’d be content just standing here and gazing at him all afternoon.
‘It’s there.’ He’s pointing now to a large white cabin, just visible through the trees to the east of the church. Both buildings sit on the frozen shores of a lake.
‘Good! Can I make us both a hot chocolate?’ I offer.
‘I was actually thinking of another way to warm you up,’ he says, and we lock eyes again.
* * *
I peer at the towel, then back at Stellan, my incredulity written all over my face, and he’s got the cheek to just laugh.
‘A sauna?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you mean that shed thing by the jetty?’
‘Uh-huh.’
I look from the snow-covered hut back towards the lake house which I only got the briefest glimpse inside. It was luxurious and modern, and there was a massive white sofa in front of a fireplace where I’d happily have flopped down and put my feet up for a bit. I had a quick peek inside the downstairs bathroom too; maybe I could just have a nice hot bubble bath? I follow Stellan’s line of sight towards the wooden sweatbox and it holds zero appeal.
‘You want me to strip out of these perfectly comfy thermal leggings to sit in a cramped, overheated, airless room and just… perspire?’
‘That’s the idea. It’s good for you.’
I remind myself that I came to Lapland to experience all that it has to offer, and I think of Nari raving about the cultural importance of saunas here. If I want to understand Stellan properly, I suppose I ought to at least try this cornerstone of life in Finnish Lapland.
I begrudgingly take the towel and make my way towards the jetty, following Stellan’s broad strides.
He turns the handle and the sauna’s outer door opens. ‘It wasn’t locked?’ I ask as we step inside.
‘No, it’s communal, anyone in the area can use it. In the spring there are hot tubs too. The neighbours all come over, we cook sausages on the sauna coals and drink beers. It’s cool.’
Stellan must have already come out to the sauna to start heating the coals while I was nipping to the loo back at the lake house because I can see the glass in the sauna room is already steamed up.
‘You have neighbours? But there isn’t another house for miles around,’ I say.
‘There are houses secreted all over this forest. We just live out of sight of each other. We’re kind of private.’
‘Except when you’re roasting your chestnuts in the sauna together?’
Enjoying the sound of Stellan’s laughter and hoping he’ll laugh again – and partly because I’m jabbering on to hide my nerves – I tell him about Piero, my elderly Italian neighbour in the flat below mine. I’ve met him three times now by the bins and we’ve chatted about the weather and how I can never keep track of when the recycling collection day is, and we’ve even had a cup of tea in his little kitchen, but in that entire time, it never once occurred to me to ask him if he’d like to strip out of his cable-knit cardi and hop in a steamy room with me and Marjorie, the retired bank clerk from 3A.
Stellan’s still laughing when it strikes me that he’s already out of his jacket and boots and is standing barefoot by the big baskets I’m clearly supposed to be putting my clothing in. Oh God, is he undressing? Right in front of me? He is! I don’t know where to look.
‘Is this OK, Sylvie? Honestly?’ he’s saying to me, though I can barely hear him over my heartbeat somehow pounding out a rhythm on my eardrums.
How do I answer that? If Stellan’s planning on stripping down to his birthday suit then I am definitely A-OK with the idea. It’s just reciprocating that’s going to be a problem. Thank Thor I ran a razor over my legs again this morning, but still, moving straight from two fully clothed kisses yesterday to non-sexual full frontal lounging around feels decidedly odd, and I know I’m blushing bright pink.
‘We can go back to the house, don’t worry. It was just an idea.’ He’s scrunched up the bottom of his T-shirt ready to peel it off – and I caught a tiny glimpse of belly button and firm muscle – but now he’s standing there unmoving, looking at me, cautious and concerned. I’m not sure where to put my eyes, but I hear myself speaking.
‘No, I want to. You go first.’
He grins and in an instant the T-shirt is chucked into the basket and… just wow!
‘So you’ve spent fifteen years doing bench presses then?’ I’ve said it before I can stop myself, and all I can do to recover is take a sudden interest in the straps of my snow boots. He laughs again and although I’m not looking, I can tell he’s setting to work on his bottom layers.
Failing to keep my cool, I turn my back to him entirely and make quick work of my snowsuit and boots, jumper and thermal leggings, thinking if I do it swiftly it’ll be less hideous. But as I turn back, checking to see if he’s watching me struggling with nervous fingers to get this damned bra unfastened, he’s gone.
I notice the coals’ glow through the steamy glass of the swinging sauna door and let out a relieved breath. And I do still have my towel. So, kicking my underwear into the basket and hiding my horrid beige long johns in the big pocket of my snowsuit, I quickly wrap the towel around me, wishing it was slightly less skimpy, and I reach for the sauna door handle.
There’s further comfort when I hear the hiss of beer bottle tops being opened and I see Stellan through the steam in the dim light, smiling reassuringly. There’s a towel around his waist.
I know my voice is shaking when I ask, ‘I thought Finns sauna naked?’
‘We do, but not if our guests aren’t into it.’
‘Oh! Of course.’
So I settle myself next to him, not too close, and I try to acclimatise. It’s not the heat I’m aware of first, it’s the strange dryness of the air. I try to slake it away with a big glug of the beer Stellan’s handed me, and we both stare into the coals.
‘Have you enjoyed your trip to Lapland?’ he asks.
‘I have.’ It hits me how much I don’t want to leave in the morning. ‘I feel as though I’ve only just touched the surface of the place. I haven’t even seen the Northern lights.’
‘You might be lucky tonight, in fact I’d say there was an eighty-eight per cent chance of seeing some solar wind activity.’
‘Eighty-eight per cent? Really? That’s quite precise, isn’t it?’
Stellan laughs and drinks from the bottle before saying, ‘There’s an app that gives me the cloud cover and solar wind data direct from NASA. I need it to help manage the tourists’ expectations. Most times Niilo and I take groups out for the aurora experiences we don’t see much, just faint lights in the sky, but if I tell them their chances of success before we set out, it stops angry demands for refunds. Sometimes.’
‘Are we really that troublesome, us tourists?’
‘Some are more trouble than others.’ He turns to face me with a sly wink, and he gets a snuffly laugh in return because I guess I asked for that.
The heat’s making my nose run, and I’m just so glad I didn’t wear any make-up today or I’d be in full Alice Cooper melting mascara mode by now. I huff out a breath.
‘Too hot?’ he says.
I shake my head. He doesn’t look convinced but I want him to keep talking, now he’s on a roll. ‘You grew up under the aurora. How lucky is that! Does the novelty wear off?’
‘Never. And it’s never the same twice. I’ll
always look to the skies at night; even if I only catch a glimpse, it’s always incredible.’
I shake my head slowly, wondering at the childhood Stellan must have had out here, and I realise I’ve relaxed into his company. Instead of feeling gross, sweaty, and next to naked, I just feel safe and happy, and, without even noticing, we must have shifted our bodies around so we’re facing each other.
As I sip my beer and we chat, I allow myself quick glances along his glistening shoulders and over his throat and collar bones. I daren’t attempt to look over his stomach, but I can’t help thinking of the tantalising glimpse of abs I clocked earlier.
I realise it’s my turn to talk but I’m struggling a bit, so I scrabble for a rushed question. ‘What even is the aurora borealis?’
‘Well, when I was a kid my teachers told us a story of the fox that stirred up a cloud of snowflakes with a flick of its tail. The snowflakes sparkled in the moonlight and that’s how we get the Northern lights.’
‘I like that,’ I say. ‘I think I read that somewhere, a long time ago.’
‘Or… you can say its electrically charged particles streaming from the sun, attracted by the magnetic pull of the earth’s poles. The particles meet with oxygen atoms in the earth’s atmosphere and omit beautiful green light. But that’s just not as romantic.’
‘I don’t know. It sounds magical when you say it. But I guess the fox is cuter.’ I realise we’re looking directly into each other’s eyes and falling silent.
‘See, you’re not thinking about the heat now, are you?’ Stellan says eventually. On the contrary, I feel like I’m burning. ‘What do you think of your first Finnish sauna?’ he asks.
‘Great. But then again, I might feel differently if your bare arsed neighbours turned up and asked me to shift along a bit.’
‘It’s really not so strange, you know.’
‘It is a bit. The average British person would rather die than reveal their body to their friends and family.’
‘What even is the average British person?’ Stellan says with a wry laugh, and I find myself nodding and shrugging. ‘You can’t be talking about yourself,’ he adds. He’s rewarded with a smile for that. ‘But there is nothing to be ashamed of, Sylvie. The sauna cleanses you, body and soul. It’s an important custom. You strip away your status, your worries, your sexuality, and you just relax.’