Burnt Land

by Tua Harno

  The sky was turquoise with a dirty brownish tinge to the west, winter’s crisp bite already in the air. Sanna came to the bridge that spanned the train tracks. She could see the lights of a train in the distance. The thought came to her automatically when she saw how low the railing was, how easy it would be to get down to the track, how the train would arrive at this spot from around a bend.

  No voice of resistance rose within her; she heard no reprimand: You wouldn’t really do it. Sanna reflected that she didn’t know her body, anyway; it made no difference what happened to it.

  But it’s not just your body anymore.

  An old man in a blue parka appeared behind Sanna. He was walking a dog; it paused, panting, to sniff her ankles. Its brown eyes were curtained by fur, but it still peered at her knowingly. Sanna was afraid the beast would bite her, but the man pulled it along by its leash. The dog growled.

  Sanna dug her chin into her collar and stepped off the bridge. She walked the long straight along the tracks toward the next station. Trains zoomed past, and she was crying so hard it was like seeing the world through a rain-whipped windshield.

  This cold, this late November, she couldn’t do it. From somewhere within, an image from her senior year thrust its way to the foreground. The weather had been freezing then, too, but she had been so happy she didn’t feel it. Janne had taken hold of her mittened hand, and Sanna pretended that the crowd was cheering for them, showering her and her boyfriend with sweets. After graduation they’d be moving into their shared home together, the one Sanna could never return to, where, in the drafty old building, in the faint current of air, she had raised orchids.

  When she got to the station, she plopped down on the ground. The tiles felt icy through her jeans. The place was deserted. She could barely make out the acid-green letters on the monitor: Caution: Passing Train.

  Across the tracks there was a fence, and beyond that, the park-and-ride. The drooping black boughs of an old birch were reflected in the cars’ rear windows; the leafless tree looked diseased with witches’-broom, the branches impenetrable cobwebs.

  Sanna was reminded of one of her childhood horrors: the white ghost-trees at the nearby stream. Bird-cherry moths teemed under a tentlike membrane, the trunks thick with caterpillars. It never fails, they come every spring, Mom had said. They weave that net and eat everything inside it, her brother had threatened her, and when they’re done they’ll eat you, too.

  “Stop it!” Sanna had begged.

  She stared at the tracks, the black rails and the iron twists fixing them to the concrete ties. The twists looked like decorations, perfectly identical, the pretty curlicues like a cake-maker’s handiwork.

  Two seconds, if I step out there. I’d get to decide when and how these thoughts end. Nothing would ever be out of my control, ever again.

  There was such a thing as an ethics of suicide: you weren’t allowed to hurt anyone else, take anyone with you.

  If I get under the lip of the platform beforehand and just roll out when the train approaches.

  Sanna rose. She couldn’t tear her eyes from the crushed rock between the ties. She saw patterns in it—dark furrows and pale splotches—and when she shifted her gaze it was like rotating a kaleidoscope.

  Now she could hear the train; the whistle sliced into her skin. The driver wouldn’t even notice, if she were already down there. She would have to go through with it—she didn’t want to be crushed halfway.

  I have to move now.

  Her final steps were light.

  “Can anyone give me a hand?”

  Sanna was so startled she almost lost her balance. The train was already braking. She caught a glimpse of the engineer’s torso; the face was hidden behind the sun visor.

  The voice called out again. “Is anyone there?”

  Legs quivering like jelly, Sanna walked toward the platform doors, heard a baby’s bright babbling. Was this really happening?

  Down in the underpass, near the foot of the stairs, she saw a baby carriage and a woman’s back and feet. Her head had vanished under the stroller’s hood. She straightened up, lowered the front of the hood, and noticed Sanna.

  “Hey, can you give us a hand?”

  The stroller’s wheels were too narrowly spaced for the rails running up the sides of the stairs.

  “Someone puked in the elevator, and this is too heavy for me to lift alone. Thank you so much,” the woman said as Sanna came closer, took one end of the stroller, and started hoisting it up the stairs.

  Sanna couldn’t feel her hands properly, her legs were shaking, and the blood was rushing in her ears. Her fingers were numb, and she couldn’t hold on. The stroller slipped from her grasp. The front tires smacked against the stairs and the handlebar whacked the woman in the jaw. Sanna panicked and grabbed the stroller. The woman shouted that Sanna was a lunatic and the baby started crying.

  “Sorry, I’m so sorry,” Sanna said.

  They picked up the stroller again and carried it, swaying, to the top of the stairs.

  “Don’t offer to help if you can’t.”

  Sanna lowered her eyes and opened the doors for them; the woman pushed past briskly. Sanna didn’t follow them back out onto the platform. She stumbled down the stairs and into the underpass. The echoing corridor smelled of cold urine. She leaned against the wall tiles and slid to the floor.

  4

  Iiris was the only friend Sanna had left; the rest remained in Janne’s sphere of influence after the breakup. Back in the early years, Iiris would sleep on their sofa when she didn’t feel like paying for a cab ride home and would regale them at breakfast with her rambling stories about men and the previous night.

  But Sanna noticed how Iiris had tired of her the longer she was with Janne. She knew it was because she didn’t know how to talk openly with Iiris. So much of her life was inextricably intertwined with Janne’s. Sanna dreaded the thought of people gossiping. And it wasn’t like she had anything else to offer. She didn’t view life as a series of ironic coincidences. What Sanna did see was that she had made it into that category of normal people capable of looking after themselves, with a tidy home and clean clothes, which was an achievement for her. Sanna’s greatest fear was revealing something that would prove she was a failure in this regard, too.

  After the split, Sanna discovered she was more interesting to Iiris again. The end of the long-term relationship somehow put a tragic stamp on her, or at least being dumped was something Iiris could relate to.

  When Iiris heard about the breakup, she forced Sanna to go out for a glass of wine, as girlfriends do. Sanna didn’t say anything about her condition—she was afraid of scaring off her friend. Iiris had shrieked in delight when she heard about the internship in Australia. She wanted to know what Sanna planned on doing while she was there.

  “Besides my thesis?”

  “Oh come on, you’ll knock that out in no time. It’s so not fair. One of my friends was an exchange student in Melbourne, and she said it’s awesome there.” Iiris studied a bit of dirt caught under one of her fake fingernails.

  Sanna observed her friend’s quicksilver vitality and reflected that even now she wasn’t interesting enough for her. Had there been a time when they hadn’t needed alcohol or smartphones to make it through an evening? It occurred to her that there was no way Iiris could know what she was going through; it was as if Sanna were from another century or a much smaller town. Sanna and Janne had grown up together, and she didn’t know who she was without a man at her side.

  “Wait, I’ll call her and see if she has any tips for you.”

  Sanna listened to half the conversation. Iiris glanced over at her and nodded. “She wants to talk to you.” Iiris passed over her phone, looking vaguely irritated.

  Sanna swallowed, cleared her throat, and introduced herself.

  “Hi, Sanna!” trilled a cheery voice. “Are you into spiritual stuff at all?”

  “Depends on what you mean.”

  Sanna was acutely allergic t
o homeopathy, crystals, and all things New Age. But she had gotten into the habit of popping into the Narinkkatori chapel on her way home from work. No one talked or demanded anything of her. She would turn off her phone and experience a moment’s peace, lost in thought there, and feel only intermittent guilt for using the chapel even though she wasn’t a member of the church and didn’t believe in God. If there were an abandoned swimming pool or a greenhouse, I could sit there just as well, she’d thought.

  “What about getting out into the wild, hiking?”

  Oh, that sort of spiritual stuff. “Yes, very.”

  “Ralda’s an anthropology professor at the university, and if you at all think you might be looking for a new direction in life, or if you’re going through something, you should get in touch with her. I was able to clear my head and she helped me see what I really wanted to do with my life. She is”—Iiris’ friend emphasized every word—“a very unique individual.”

  I need all the help I can get, Sanna thought.

  She e-mailed Ralda. She asked if Ralda was still organizing retreats and if it mattered that she wasn’t a student at the University of Melbourne.

  Ralda quickly replied that she was no longer teaching, but that Sanna should come see her when she got to Perth; she had moved there from Melbourne.

  Ralda’s home was a huge, cool, gallery-like space filled with paintings. Sanna stood on the doorstep with her backpack, barely daring to breathe. The dark wood floor gleamed, creating a mirror-image room beneath their feet.

  “Can I give you a hug?” Ralda asked.

  Sanna nodded uncertainly. She wasn’t much of a hugger, usually bumping into noses and chins, stepping on toes, necklaces and earrings clinging to her as she pulled back.

  Ralda took Sanna in her arms. There was a dancer-like precision about her, and her voice was gentle. Sanna’s cheek pressed against Ralda’s cool earlobe; the other woman’s short dark hair prickled. From a distance, Ralda had looked young, but when Sanna got close she could see the dry neck and the wrinkles at the breastbone, the grooves at the corners of the mouth.

  Ralda was wearing a formfitting dress shirt and a pair of beautifully draped trousers. There was a delicate gray tint to her raven hair. She looked posh, like the home and its spotlights, the stone counter in the kitchen. Sanna realized she had been expecting something more down-to-earth, ceramic frogs and wind chimes.

  Ralda laughed and pulled up her sleeve, revealing a clutch of wooden bracelets. “Well, Sanna, tell me about yourself. Should we go out into the garden?”

  Tears welled up in Sanna’s eyes; she didn’t know how to accept this woman’s kindness. Ralda hugged her again, and Sanna could smell her warm, sweet, cinnamon scent. It made her think of Christmas, which would be next week, and how she had dreamed that when she and Janne had kids, they would celebrate at home as a family, instead of alone with Mom at her place, where they ate Christmas dinner too early and opened their perfunctory presents in the glow of the television. Mom drank beer from the can and Sanna drank red wine, fishing out her phone whenever she could. They were like wallflowers at a party. It was a huge relief when Mom dozed off and she finally had permission to go to bed; the hours passed quickly while she slept. On Christmas Day, she would leave, Mom standing in the window, watching her go. She had nursed dreams of a real Christmas tree, of its fragrance, of her and Janne starting their own Christmas traditions.

  “I’m sorry, this is ridiculous.” Sanna tried to smile through the tears.

  Ralda kissed her forehead, near the hairline, go on, cry.

  Sanna took a deep breath, shuddered, and sighed. Ralda stroked her hair. Sanna wanted Ralda’s soothing to come to an end, but the tears just kept coming. She apologized again.

  Ralda let her cry and made them mint tea. She set gold-rimmed glasses on a tray and asked Sanna to carry it outside. They sat in the garden until the sun started to sink and it grew chilly. Sanna could still remember the dry grass and the sandy smell of the wall, the spoon swirling in the glass cups, the green tea leaves dancing in the water.

  Ralda read Sanna’s e-mails out loud. “What does this mean?” she asked more than once. Sanna tried to answer, but her voice gave out.

  She ran her hand across the yellow stucco. Roses climbed it; their blooms were as large as kittens’ heads, nodding heavily as bees crawled in and flew out unsteadily. Ralda touched her shoulder. Sanna closed her eyes—she didn’t want to cry again.

  “I promise you will feel different by the time our journey is over,” Ralda said.

  Sanna leaned back into the other woman. Ravens were cawing, their calls raspy, insistent, like cantankerous children.

  “Aboriginal peoples have a lot of stories about ravens and crows,” Ralda said, her voice at Sanna’s ear. “Many tribes claim Crow as their ancestor. According to one myth, during the Dreamtime seven wise women were the only ones who knew how to make fire, and they wouldn’t share the knowledge with anyone. But Crow spied on them and discovered they were carrying live coals. So he heaped up a pile of snakes and frightened the women so badly they dropped the coals. Crow stole the coals and kept them to himself, and jeered at anyone who asked him for fire. Eventually Crow tired of people asking him to share the fire, and he threw the coals at them. The coals started a huge fire during which Crow turned black and died, but his constant, mocking cry echoes in the branches to this day.”

  Sanna wanted to linger in the mood created by Ralda’s story, ask Ralda to tell more.

  “I want to know more about you. But I’ll also tell you about me. I don’t like it when only one person, the quote, unquote patient, does all the talking,” Ralda said. “How are you supposed to dare to open up if I don’t share anything about myself?”

  Sanna smiled uncertainly. It was a relief to hear Ralda say this, because Sanna remembered the silent hours at the therapist’s office during sophomore year of business school, and how suffocating they had been.

  She had gathered up every ounce of courage and opened up to Janne about her depression. She had dreaded facing his disappointment. Sanna, his Sanna, was a despondent wreck of a human being. Janne had been incredibly uncomfortable, had refused to sit down next to her, just stood there in the middle of the living room asking over and over if Sanna was capable of going to work and school. Sanna wasn’t sure. It’ll pass, Janne had said. It’s just a phase. It’ll pass.

  But when Sanna had started crying during sex, Janne pulled back and looked helpless. I can’t if you’re going to be like that. You have to see someone. That’s not normal.

  Sanna had gone to student mental-health services and complained about insomnia and lack of motivation. She saw a psychologist, who referred her to a psychiatrist. Sanna was frightened when she received a diagnosis of severe depression. What did that mean? The empathetic psychiatrist told her that the diagnosis was just to make sure the government would pay for therapy, then suggested that Sanna find a good therapist.

  The therapist was even more empathetic than the psychiatrist. He praised Sanna, told her she was a gifted and sensitive individual. Sanna came away with the sneaking suspicion that she was smarter than he was, which made her wonder if she suffered from delusionary megalomania. She figured a guy who’s been a therapist for decades should know what was wrong with her, why she was so unhappy even though everything was fine. She stared at the bottom half of his face, the collar sticking up from under his pullover.

  He didn’t speak much, and Sanna would say anything that popped into her head so she wouldn’t have to sit there in silence. She told him she occasionally felt the urge to jump from a high place, which was why she avoided being alone on balconies. Sanna said she understood these were just passing fancies, little neuroses, that everyone has them, that she wouldn’t ever really do anything. She had a lovely boyfriend; she was healthy; she had so much to be grateful for. The therapist would praise her for how sensible she was, and Sanna would feel embarrassed for both of them. When her first round of government-subsidized sessions end
ed, she hadn’t tried to get another referral.

  Ralda was a completely different animal; she instantly noticed if Sanna was holding back something. Sanna was surprised to realize this was what she had been dreaming of since childhood—for someone to stop her from lying, to see through her words, to be so much wiser and more perceptive than she was, more perceptive than Mom, Dad, or the school psychologist, or any of those authority figures.

  As she looked at Ralda, Sanna found herself admiring the other woman. That’s what she wanted to be like: warm, educated, self-confident.

  Ralda had done her doctoral research on the Dreamtime of the Aboriginal peoples. The concept referred to the past, but also to that which is present now and eternally, a mythical beginning and immutable law that continued to have an impact today. Ralda told her how she had spent her childhood on an Aboriginal reserve near Alice Springs. Both of her parents had been researchers, too.

  “I was so angry when we had to leave. My parents had collected stories about Dreamtime from the tribes and partially revived the old tradition. We were allowed to participate in rituals that are usually off-limits to outsiders. City life in Sydney was nothing compared to that. I was only half-alive until I grew up and could start my studies and research.”

  “Why did you leave the university? How did you become a spiritual guide?”

  Ralda adjusted her bracelets. When she rotated them all the right way, they formed a green-and-black snake with a mother-of-pearl pattern gleaming on its back. Movement made the snake slither.

  Ralda’s eyes narrowed and she ignored the question. “What was it you did again?”

  “I work for—used to work for—UNICEF, doing payroll and assisting in HR.”

  Ralda nodded. “What part of the job did you like best?”

  Sanna thought. As with all the other aspects of her life, when it came to work she had been in survival mode for such a long time, done whatever was asked of her, come in before eight and eaten lunch at her desk, left at three without ever telling anyone anything about her comings and goings or her weekends. When panic struck, she would go into the ladies’ room, close her eyes, and focus on exhaling.