The Dedalus Book of Finnish Fantasy

by Johanna Sinisalo

  Once we had got inside I asked almost angrily:

  ‘What were they?’

  ‘Dogs. Males.’

  ‘I didn’t you were that way inclined.’

  Boman did not respond, and despite her normal ready wit she seemed at a loss for words. I remained silent for a moment, then asked reticently:

  ‘Would you like to go out?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she said.

  She struggled against herself, asked me to read poetry to her again and tried hard to listen, but suddenly gave a start at a sound from outside and began pacing restlessly around the house until she finally went up to the front door in the hallway and started sniffing it. Every now and then she would let out a coarse, mournful sound, then a reply would be heard from outside. She glanced over at me, then crept into a corner of the study.

  This indecision lasted two days and two nights and throughout that time the dogs kept a vigil outside the door. At night the scraping of their paws could be heard on the front steps and during the day they would retreat into the woods, remaining in view the whole time.

  On the third evening after we got back from our walk Boman said:

  ‘You and your books have taught me that one always has to choose between two or more options.’

  ‘That’s true,’ I replied. ‘Life is about making choices.’

  ‘Maybe your life and your truth. I want to choose both options, so I’d like to go outside.’

  ‘By all means,’ I said. ‘Please, no one is stopping you.’

  ‘Then would you open the door,’ Boman growled angrily.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t realise it was shut. Please remember to be careful, it would be terrible if those wild beasts were to bite you.’

  ‘I will take care of myself, and I know those wild beasts. I am a wild beast too. You don’t know anything about these things.’

  I opened the door and Boman disappeared.

  In the morning she returned looking awful, covered from head to toe in dirt and with blood stains matted in her coat. She had prepared herself for a dressing down, so she was behaving as arrogantly as when she had left, but in her eyes I could see her silent distress.

  ‘You see?’ she said. ‘Nothing out of the ordinary went on.’

  ‘Really?’ I retorted and went into the kitchen.

  I made her a substantial meal and she tucked in heartily, then walked over to the darkest corner of my study and went to sleep. I thought she was just resting after the events of the previous night, it was only later that evening, when she refused to leave the house for our daily walk, that I began to worry. The same happened the following day as well. Boman did not want to stay outside for more than a few minutes at a time, and when I offered her food, she would turn her head and slink off to the furthest corner of the room. There she spent day upon day, not sleeping, but staring blindly in front of her. She responded to my speech the way dogs normally do: she stared at me with questioning eyes, and it was impossible to tell whether she had understood anything at all.

  In my mind I was beginning to formulate tragic theories of how moral decline can destroy the spiritual fabric of a well-developed being. Boman had given in to the beast inside her, and because of this had returned to her base animal level and had lost her ability to speak and most probably her ability to think. I returned to my books, which had lain untouched for some time, and they supported this view in every respect. For safety’s sake I never spoke out loud about these thoughts, because you never could tell with Boman. Perhaps she would still understand what I was saying. After a while I became worried about the state of her health. Regardless of whether she was once again a normal dog, tied to her animal needs, things were not at all the way they should have been. As a dog, surely she should recover from her moral crisis and wait calmly for its natural consequences. In no way was she behaving like a healthy dog and I began to worry whether she might have received a serious internal injury during her adventure that night. I decided it was best to call the doctor and as I picked up the telephone I told Boman my decision, the way I had always informed her of such matters in the past. To my surprise she raised her head sharply and said simply:

  ‘No.’

  So she could still speak after all. I did not know quite what to think. Had I yet again tried to find too simple an explanation for things with all my books and life experience? Nonetheless I left the dog in peace and waited.

  A week later Boman became tormented, she began whimpering quietly to herself and there was a pained look in her eyes. At first I pretended not to notice anything, but after a while I could restrain myself no longer. I approached her and she made no attempt to run away. She allowed me to rest my hand on her neck and stroke it. It was then that I noticed for the first time that two large lumps were growing on her back, right on top of her shoulder blades. As my hand lightly touched them she winced and turned to give me a stern look.

  At that moment I understood. I remembered the seagulls along the shore and I remembered the first time Pertti and Boman met. “Why don’t people just grow themselves wings?” Boman had asked. She had said she wanted to choose both options and had then opted for her nocturnal fall from grace. I looked at her fondly and tears welled in my eyes.

  ‘My friend, you are the first true hero I have ever met,’ I said.

  At last I understood how to relate to Boman. I talked to her a lot, even though she just lay silently in the corner and did not respond. I tried to encourage her: I told her that her will was stronger than that of any other living creature and every day I remarked on how the lumps had grown. The day her wings would hatch was drawing close.

  Boman appeared to perk up when I kept her company and it seemed that the worst of the pain was over. She had stopped whimpering, and although she still refused to talk she would give me signs and make it clear when she wanted to go outside. On our walks she would lead me towards the shore. We would often stand on the rocks by the shore as evening approached, the surrounding landscape was deserted and pale grey light trickled from the sky. The seagulls had not disappeared, they continued to swoop noisily above the shore, their delicate wings like sails sketching masterful patterns in the wind. Boman sat on the rocks watching the birds for hours at a time. Sometimes she looked as if she might have wanted to join them, but then she remembered and looked at her back, and her eyes would fill with helplessness.

  It only took a few weeks for her wings to mature. First of all, her coat around the lumps disappeared to reveal soft, silken skin, through which two small black wings protruded. On the day the wings hatched came the first snowfall. Boman had again been very restless the previous night, she had whined to herself and paced up and down through the house. In the morning she came to show me her wings; she was both humble and proud, like a mother showing off her newborn child or an artist who is convinced of the unique qualities of a new work. The wings themselves were still very small and delicate and were a shade of bluish black, like the feathers of splendid woodland birds.

  ‘I knew you could do it,’ I said.

  Boman turned her head and examined her wings, then lay down on the floor and slept solidly for two days. I bought her a jacket made of red fabric, as I did not want the neighbours to see me walking about with a winged dog.

  When she awoke Boman seemed to be herself once again. She chatted happily and intelligently and we would go out for many a long walk. She had nothing against wearing the jacket, because she could not yet fly, even though her wings were growing visibly bigger. Still she was impatient.

  ‘They’re growing so slowly,’ she complained. ‘I’m in a hurry.’

  I too was restless. I was worried that Boman’s adventure that night would not be without its consequences. I suggested she practise flying – this would help strengthen her wings.

  One moonlit night we went into the woods and Boman climbed up a small hill, whilst I remained down below waiting. Once at the top Boman stretched out her wings, shook them and finally dared to let them carry
her weight. On her first attempt she only managed to fly a few metres before falling to the ground and rolling down the hill with her wings still outstretched. She yelped excitedly and stood up, nothing serious had happened. I very much enjoyed watching these practice flights, though I was not having as much fun as Boman. I think I was slightly envious of her, and sometimes I secretly touched my own shoulder blades, but the slightest lump did not appear to be growing.

  The day soon came when Boman could fly impeccably. Although it was highly risky we even started going out during the daytime. Boman would jump from the rocks and with only a few flaps of her wings she would rise up amongst the seagulls. She had hoped to make playmates of the seagulls, but they were startled, cawed loudly in distress and swooped out of Boman’s path. Then they flew away to a distant shore frantically flapping their wings. The seagulls’ panic was perfectly understandable as Boman’s wing span was almost two metres and in the air she was a frightening and awesome sight.

  As she returned to me Boman was dissatisfied.

  ‘It baffles me that creatures as stupid as birds should be blessed with such noble limbs.’

  ‘Perhaps flying alone does not make us blessed,’ I replied dryly.

  ‘There is of course a difference between flying and flying. For some it is merely a way of moving, for others it represents freedom.’

  I was happy for Boman’s triumph, I felt that I had had some part in the birth of her wings, but at the same time I was uncomfortable. I knew she had not grown wings for the sheer sake of it. Several times I found her examining a map, and would try to back off as quietly as possible. On one of these occasions she noticed me and followed me into the study; she lay her head on my knee and said:

  ‘Don’t be sorry.’

  ‘I’m not,’ I lied. ‘We’re still friends.’

  ‘Of course we are. I don’t want to make excuses, but it’s not easy being a dog with wings, a talking dog and a normal dog all at once. Many things have become inevitable. My adventure that night, you remember, was inevitable and soon I will inevitably have to fly away.’

  I nodded and we sat there for a long time, neither speaking nor moving. I gradually moved my hand on to her neck and rested it there. Boman gave a start and said:

  ‘In fact, I will have to go now.’

  ‘Wait a moment, I’ll open the door.’

  This was the only farewell we bade each other. On that day the clouds were very low in the sky, dragging across the treetops, and Boman flew hidden safely amongst them for the majority of the journey. Only a few times did she fly low enough to take her bearings from certain landmarks: lakes, railway tracks, towns. Someone idly wandering the streets noticed her black wings outstretched against the clouds and shouted: ‘Look, a black swan!’ But no one heard him and so the wanderer was branded a liar as he told his friends and neighbours that evening that he had seen a black swan flying north at this time of year. Such a thing is impossible.

  Only once did Boman land to rest. She chose a bare hilltop amidst the great wilderness, where all the eye could see was dirty brown pine swamps and bluish forests. Everything was still, never before had Boman heard a stillness like this.

  It was late evening by the time she reached her destination. She circled above the borstal several times before landing in a nearby forest, where she spent her first night. The forest floor was covered in spruce branches and the remnants of the felling season, and from these Boman made herself a shelter and hiding place. In the morning she made an early start, crept up towards the edge of the forest and followed any movement from the borstal. The building looked just like any country house, it was not cut off from the outside world by a wall or a high fence. The boys, still drowsy with sleep, assembled in the forecourt, they were given tools and split into groups, after which they went off in different directions towards the field, each group under the close supervision of one of the masters. The boys moved slowly and from a distance it looked as if they were wearing shoes far too big for them. Sometimes whilst the masters were not looking the boys would push and shove one another, not so much to let off steam, but simply because they resented those with whom destiny had thrown them together.

  Boman spent a few days watching these events from a distance before she caught sight of Pertti, who appeared with one of the groups near the edge of the forest. The fields were narrrow and the ditches in between covered in thick willow bushes. Boman had already concluded that she would have to use those ditches to her advantage. Now she put her plan into action; she easily managed to come close to the group, but had to wait for a while until Pertti was far enough away from the others that she could speak to him. Before long a suitable opportunity presented itself.

  Pertti managed to conceal his excitement from the other boys and the masters, for he had long since learnt the art of pretending. He was only able to whisper a few words, but Boman spoke to him for a long time. I do not know what they talked about, but I do know that there was no chance for the two of them to meet in private. Pertti may have wanted to try and escape, but that would have been a desperate thing to do and Boman did not wish to cause her friend any fresh difficulties. Even so, the mere knowledge that Boman was nearby gave Pertti strength. He stood up straight, the former bluish gleam returned to his eyes and he laughed happily at the taunting of the other boys and masters. ‘He’s been taken by the Devil,’ said the nastiest of them. The others simply wondered what had come over him.

  On her first excursion, Boman spent about a week with Pertti, sleeping hidden away in her shelter under the spruce branches. She also had to fend for herself. Boman had never acquired a taste for raw meat and she had never before killed a living being. Now, however, she had no choice in the matter and began with stupid, ugly animals; her diet thus consisted for the most part of crows. She could catch them easily in flight and force herself to eat, though the taste of blood disgusted her.

  After a week had gone by Boman returned to me, not to stay but to rest at my house. She gave me only a scant outline of what she had been doing. Sometimes we would chat generally or talk vividly about our shared memories, but at other times Boman seemed strangely wild. On days like this she would sleep through the daylight, while at night her eyes would begin to glow. She would not let me brush her and if I came too close she would growl angrily. The next day she would once again be like any other dog: playful, mischievous but always considerate. She would also not want to talk about the previous day whatsoever. Sometimes she would ask me to read aloud to her, poetry about wings, clouds and friendship, and at times like this she seemed to cry to herself – without shedding a tear.

  Boman made many subsequent visits to Pertti, though these visits were not as long as the first. I was worried about her and kept a close watch on her, and before long I realised she was expecting puppies. Soon she would be unable to fly at all.

  Talking about hunches is normal between humans, but what humans had mere hunches about, Boman knew as fact. Of course, she had nothing to hide from herself; her role as both a dog with a collar and a winged animal were in constant interaction. Boman knew this and made sure I also knew this as she softly began to speak.

  ‘I don’t seem to have complimented you very often,’ she said.

  ‘But why would you have offended me?’

  We both sneered quietly, sadly, both of us understanding. Then Boman continued:

  ‘If you had no imagination, I wouldn’t exist. I would have been born, of course, but imagine what would have happened if I’d had a master who couldn’t believe his eyes or his ears! He would have predefined the limits of my being. In that respect I would never have existed.’

  ‘My friend,’ I said. ‘You’re making this conversation very difficult for me. Perhaps it’s my turn to tell you what a great service you have done me, a dog who can cross the boundary between the possible and the impossible as if it weren’t there.’

  ‘Oh I believe you, I’m hardly modest. To tell you the truth, I have also fulfilled my nature as a d
og, in everything I’ve done. It’s because of you that I learnt to speak, and you also played an important part in my wings – they belong equally to you, although they are on my back.’

  ‘In my mind I’ve often flown with them. This is not a gift many dogs have given their masters.’

  ‘Most dogs would be only too happy to do so, but such a gift needs a recipient, or else it won’t exist. In any case, I hope that, even as you walk alone, you will always hear the patter of my paws beside you.’

  These words, which sounded so like a farewell, dispelled the smile which had rippled across our eyes throughout this solemn exchange. I wanted to ask, to implore her for an explanation, but could not bring myself to do so. Boman left that same day without my noticing, leaving me alone to spend my time longing for her. I did not read very much during this time; I found the self-importance of books, searching for something eternal, somewhat objectionable. I settled instead for newspapers and numbed my brain by reading their every last word. Soon after she had left I noticed a small announcement in the paper warning people of a wolf or a wild Alsatian moving in the vicinity of Borstal K. The local authorities were to arrange a hunt, in which the military would also take part. The paper fell from my hands.

  The following day the newspaper reported the wolf as fact. There had been many reported sightings of the animal and people were afraid it would break into a barn and ravage their cattle. A wolf hunt was underway. Dozens of men, each of them armed, combed their way through the forest from dawn till dusk. The wolf was behaving strangely: it did not flee the area, as many unarmed people had seen it, and it refused to be caught in meticulously laid traps. Newspaper articles gradually became more and more fanatical, the wolf was suddenly front page news, men in both the forest and the editorial office were in a frenzy. An animal, which so skilfully evaded its pursuers, had to be dangerous. One person even used the word “criminal” to refer to this stubborn animal, which refused to give itself up and be killed.