Burnt Land

by Tua Harno

  “I liked being in the room when someone was hired,” she said after a moment’s reflection. She remembered the recent immigrant who’d been blown away when he got the job he’d applied for. He’d raised his hand to his mouth; Sanna could still see the pink skin of his palm, the tears glistening at the corners of his eyes.

  “I can relate,” Ralda said. “I know what people look like in those situations, too. For me, it turned out the only part of teaching I found myself looking forward to were the nature modules. I would take my students into the outback for two- and three-week trips, and it seemed like it was only there that they internalized what they’d been reading. They changed as individuals, they grew.

  “I wanted to focus on that, but it wasn’t possible within the parameters of the university. Maybe you’ve heard what academia is like these days. You can only get funding for big-name projects; basic research is considered unimportant. My students didn’t graduate quickly enough. They were too greedy, took too many classes, were too enthusiastic.” Ralda shook her head. “But I still do research, and on top of that I have private students such as yourself. I use the term student, because I don’t like the sound of patient or client.”

  “What are you researching?”

  “In a nutshell, how the environment affects our mental health. Aboriginal peoples believe, and I believe, that when we spend enough time in a certain environment, nature starts to speak to us. We learn to read the signs of the cycle of life, the seasons, and the weather. We learn to predict when the rains will come and when the flowers will bloom, when the fruit will ripen and the paths predators will take. The cycle of nature and the animals’ movements are eternally linked, and internalizing that connection creates inner peace. We come to understand that we don’t set this eternal rhythm ourselves, and we are neither above it nor outside it, but part of it.”

  That’s what I’m yearning for: peace and feeling like I’m part of something bigger, Sanna thought.

  “I want to move away from the brink of panic,” she said, remembering the concrete station platform.

  Ralda nodded, then said, “Our trek will be very demanding, emotionally and physically. Are you sure you’re up to it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  Ralda combed Sanna’s hair as they discussed the practical arrangements. Sanna’s Mom used to do it, too, braiding and unbraiding her hair like infinite sewing. Sanna remembered her bum going numb as she sat in front of the couch.

  Ralda tied off the braid. “Where are you staying?”

  Sanna had reserved a room on the eastern side of town but hadn’t been there yet. She had come to Ralda’s straight from the airport.

  Sanna turned her gaze to the sundial. The shadow it cast already showed evening. A bee was buzzing around it counterclockwise. She turned to gather up her belongings from the lawn and felt a tug; her hair was still in Ralda’s grasp.

  “If you want, you can stay with me until you leave for Kalgoorlie. The beach is right here and we can talk and meditate together. Do you meditate? I can teach you.”

  Sanna couldn’t believe her ears. She was going to get to stay here, in this garden, with these paintings.

  “The house is too big for one person, anyway. It would be great if you wanted to stay.” Ralda smiled and smoothed a few stray hairs away from Sanna’s brow.

  Sanna held Ralda’s hand against her cheek for a moment and said thank you.

  The bee had stopped at twelve o’clock.

  The dreaded Christmas Eve arrived, and if things hadn’t gone the way they did, Sanna would have remembered it as one of the most beautiful she’d ever had. The day was hazy and warm, and they spent the morning stretching in the garden. Ralda lay across Sanna’s back for extra weight. Sanna was piked at the hips; her face reached her ankles without a problem, as if she could bend through her feet if the earth weren’t there.

  After they finished stretching, Ralda brought out more tea, dried rosebuds floating in the cups. Their scent was sharp and sweet, and reminded Sanna of the ancient perfume bottle in Grandma’s medicine cabinet, the one with the pump covered in a fine pink mesh. When she wrapped her palm around the pump, the nozzle of the bottle hissed and she could smell this exact same fragrance, an old, pungent rose scent. The bottle had been Grandma’s treasure, the one pointless, beautiful object in her little cottage. Sanna had lusted after it and concocted a plan for stealing it, but she was afraid she would break the glass. In the end, she had worked up the nerve to wrap it in toilet paper and shove it into her raincoat pocket. But her courage had failed her on the stairs. I forgot something, she’d said to Mom and run back to return the bottle to Grandma, who was waving from the doorway. Sanna told her that she’d taken the bottle by accident. Grandma gave her an evil look and pulled her pigtail, hissing, “Let it be the last time.”

  “I hate Grandma,” Sanna had muttered that evening. Mom had looked alarmed, until she surprised Sanna by saying, “You know, Mom doesn’t like Grandma, either, but we still have to visit her sometimes.”

  “Oh, ’cause Grandma needs money?”

  “Hush now, go to bed. That’s not nice.”

  I could get used to this, Sanna thought, enveloped in the garden’s tranquil serenity, the roar of the waves crashing beyond the wall. She could help Ralda with her research.

  Ralda asked if she was being serious.

  “I’ll do anything as long as I don’t have to go home.”

  When they finished their tea, they stood. Sanna felt dizzy—the garden was too bright. She gritted her teeth. The ground beneath the grass rocked. Ralda took her by the arm, and Sanna nodded gratefully.

  It was nice, not having to go alone.

  “Let’s see if there’s something alive in there,” the nurse said.

  Ralda squeezed Sanna’s hand and rolled her eyes. Some people just don’t have any tact. Sanna was uncomfortable in the stirrups; she felt nailed down and helpless.

  There was a faint flutter, and a blurry image appeared on the screen. Sanna frowned at it.

  Ralda smiled and whispered, “It’s actually inside you, not that monitor.”

  Sanna couldn’t believe it. She could sort of make out the contours of the fetus and asked about the umbilical cord. Was that a foot? But the head and torso were the most distinct. The child looked like a sea creature, as if plankton and other particles were floating next to translucent skin in the blood-temperature water.

  The doctor traced white lines across the image. The child didn’t move, but its hand was raised as if in greeting.

  Ralda gave Sanna a long hug before they climbed back into the car. Both of them were beaming, and for the first time Sanna felt lucky. Maybe this was a good thing after all.

  The train was called the Gold Digger, and it left Perth in the dead of night.

  “Let me know as soon as you’re back in town,” Ralda said.

  Sanna promised she would; she wished they could start the trek immediately.

  Ralda’s eyes narrowed, and the last thing she said was, “Be careful. They mistreat women in those places. Just like they do the earth and sacred sites. There’s nothing they won’t try to turn into money and discard.”

  Sanna nodded and boarded the train.

  When she was in her seat, she leaned against the window. Dawn was still hours away. Sanna heard the roar before she saw the flames. The lava flows forked and crackled; the train clanked past, but the fire was vast. The train traveled a long distance without any change in the landscape, endless tracts of black soil that smoldered and spat.

  5

  The mine’s offices looked like those of a small-scale operation on its last legs, despite the fact that the dig was at one of the richest gold deposits in the world. A coat of white paint had been slapped across particleboard partitions; the plastic flooring was the shade of a shriveled peach; and there were desk lamps like the ones kids used for homework, strung with name tags, red lanyards, and chains of paper clips. Shelves stacked with helmets stood n
ear the door, and protective goggles were strewn among the papers. A film of orange dust covered everything. The tiny crystals even tinted the keyboards.

  Sanna looked at her watch. She had sent a text message to Martti at lunchtime, which was a couple of hours ago. Sanna shook out her shoulders and stretched her neck as if she had been working at a screen for ages, but couldn’t get her body to relax. If Martti didn’t answer, she wouldn’t have anything to do until the employee bus left for town when the day shift ended.

  She had bumped into him in the canteen the day before, and Martti had asked if she wanted to see gold smelting. “If I get a break,” Sanna had replied. She didn’t mention that she got plenty; she had hours between interviews. Sanna would kill time at the blast barriers or on the stairs of the office dongas. She did her best to look occupied, but her boredom was conspicuous. She had even learned a relevant idiom: one guy had said she was sitting like a shag on rock.

  “Oops, don’t fall now,” Sanna heard before she felt hands grab her waist. Sanna squealed; the heads of the office workers turned. For a second, Sanna was wrapped in a brotherly bear hug. She kicked her feet and shrieked, “Let go!”

  Cooper and the man with him laughed.

  Sanna’s smile was uptight. “Don’t touch my stomach.”

  “Aww. It’s not like you have love handles, or do you? I’d better check again.”

  Sanna backed up, defending herself with laughter like a frightened child. “I’m ticklish, stop, stop.”

  The touch had shocked her; she could still feel the scrape of coarse shirt fabric on her abdomen. Don’t touch my stomach. No one would if they knew. If they knew, Sanna wouldn’t even be here.

  Dad had put it diplomatically: I didn’t mention you were pregnant because you told me not to tell anyone. Sanna had interpreted this as a hint to follow his lead, and when the mining company sent a health questionnaire, she had ticked Not Pregnant. The company didn’t want to take responsibility for any health risks, not even her tripping over her shoelaces in the pit. She tried not to think about it. Pregnancy was a strange secret, impossible to keep.

  “What’s next?” Cooper asked.

  Sanna said she was waiting for Martti. Cooper nodded and smiled knowingly.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Just make sure he sends you to the bus on time, or is he going to give you a ride?”

  Sanna shrugged. She didn’t know—she found asking for rides embarrassing. You weren’t an independent person in Kalgoorlie if you didn’t own a car.

  Cooper told Sanna to give him a call if she needed anything. “And hey, I’m still waiting on my interview.”

  Sanna nodded. Of course, of course. She hadn’t forgotten. She’d just been so busy, she lied.

  Being a woman was irritating and idiotic. She knew that, statistically speaking, men were much more likely to be victims of violence, but did men feel this way all the time, weak and ridiculous? Did other women feel this way? That Tarantino woman would never squeal if some jerk tickled her. Sanna felt like kicking herself.

  Maybe she was as stupid and helpless as her mother. Sanna bit her lower lip until it hurt. She could sense the office workers casting occasional glances her way. When she heard one of them rise from their swivel chair, Sanna made a beeline for the door. She bumped into Martti, who was outside on the stairs.

  “Where are your helmet and goggles?”

  It took Sanna a moment to register the question. She scanned it for sarcasm; after all, she had stumbled into his chest and caught a whiff of him and his sun-warmed shirt.

  Sanna turned back around and grabbed her helmet from the shelf. She looked like a huge idiot in it—the helmet protruded from her head like a burl on a tree. She also put on a pair of transparent protective goggles. Now Mr. Safety Inspector wouldn’t have anything to complain about.

  They walked a few hundred yards to the parking lot. Martti said it wasn’t far but they had to drive. Sanna couldn’t think of anything to say. She wanted to ask why he hadn’t acknowledged her text message. Wasn’t that the polite thing to do?

  “How long have you worked at the mine?” she asked, once Martti was at the wheel and all she could see out the windows were embankments the color of baked clay. It was like driving through a dry streambed.

  “I’ve always worked at mines, but I’ve been with this company for five years.”

  “What do you do?”

  “Is this for your thesis?”

  Sanna blushed. “No, this is for me.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “Or I didn’t mean—I didn’t mean to interrogate you, or you know. I was just asking.”

  “I know, I know, don’t get worked up. You’re allowed.” Martti gave her a friendly look.

  “Seriously, though, you don’t have to answer. People are always interrogating me that way, and I know it’s annoying.”

  “I suppose it depends on if you’re happy with your life,” Martti said. “Whether or not you feel like talking about it.”

  Sanna pursed her lips and nodded.

  “I divide my time between a bunch of mines. I’m on-site from four to ten weeks. The basic scenario is that while I’m there they’ve scheduled safety trainings, employee orientation, or bringing in a new machine. Sometimes it’s an accident investigation. But mostly I listen to team leaders tell me how the men complain about everything and I observe how things work in practice, and then on top of that there’s all kinds of planning I have to do.”

  “Don’t sound so excited.”

  Martti grunted. “It wasn’t exactly the plan, ending up an office worker, churning out instructional videos on a computer.”

  “What would you rather do? Drive a dumper?”

  “No, thanks, I’ve had my fill. This job has its perks. I get to travel. That’s why I started doing it.”

  “I thought it was for the gold.”

  Martti turned toward her and opened his mouth, but didn’t say anything.

  “Where do you spend most of your time?”

  “You mean, where’s home base?” Martti chuckled. “Good question. My cost center is probably in London, but I never go there. I fly between Africa, Asia, and Australia.”

  “You don’t have a family?”

  “I have a daughter. Minttu’s sixteen.”

  Sanna nodded. It seemed strange that he had a child, especially one so old.

  The roadside embankments rose higher; the riverbed deepened into a red canyon. Sanna saw her face reflected in the passenger-side mirror. She was frowning. She shook away the expression and glanced at Martti, trying to guess his age from his knuckles. They were no longer the hands of a boy.

  She wondered what he meant by mentioning a daughter but not a spouse.

  They pulled up outside a whitewashed building. Sanna stepped out of the car. Martti’s phone rang, and he sighed impatiently before answering. Sanna looked at the row of parked Jeeps covered in an even layer of red grit. She felt like drawing pictures on the hoods with her finger. The air smelled of ammonia and she breathed through her mouth. Martti finished his call, and Sanna followed him toward the door.

  “Isn’t it hard if you’re always on the road? Or do you get long vacations?”

  “I don’t usually take them. I save them. I’ll be able to retire earlier that way.”

  “Retire? How old are you?”

  “Too young to retire.” Martti laughed and opened the door to the one-story structure.

  It was freezing inside. The porter’s office was to the left; a corridor lay ahead, long and straight. The place reminded Sanna of a school. Aerial photographs of the pit hung on the wall to the right. At ground level, the soil was a rich, deep red, but the banked walls gradually faded toward the ash-gray bottom.

  “This is so beyond comprehension, so criminal,” Sanna said, standing in front of the photo.

  “So you’re an environmental activist? How did they ever let you on-site?”

  Sanna’s eyes narrowed to slits. She thought a man from L
apland would appreciate unspoiled nature, but no. Maybe they had too much of it up there.

  “Aboriginal peoples believe that what you do to the earth, you do to yourself,” Sanna said.

  “Dust to dust . . .”

  “Yeah, you’d think we wouldn’t be so estranged from that way of thinking, either.”

  Sanna moved on to the other photographs. The way the pit blazed at night reminded her of an outdoor hockey rink, the blinding lights high above the stadium, and beyond that, pitch blackness.

  “The mine could be beautiful in this one, if you didn’t know what it was.”

  “And what is it to you?”

  Sanna didn’t know what to say. Martti was eyeing her curiously. Sanna’s ear itched, so she took off her helmet and scratched it. The mine reminded her of an upside-down Tower of Babel, but Martti would probably think she was crazy if she said that.

  Martti steered her down the corridor to an auditorium where the chairs were separated from an old kitchen or laundry room by a sheet of Plexiglas. He told her to grab a seat in the first row and continued around to the other side of the plastic screen, where he put on a shiny silver apron and then shot her a questioning look.

  “Are you going to smelt some gold now?”

  “Ten points. You’re smart after all.”

  “Have I given you any reason to think otherwise?”

  The look on Martti’s face said that she had.

  “What?”

  “Luckily I’m here on the other side of the fence, where I’m safe,” Martti said.

  “No, tell me, what have I done that makes you think I’m stupid?”

  Martti put on a helmet that looked like a welder’s mask. “Well, maybe not stupid.”

  “But?”

  “Considering your age and condition, you’re pretty idealistic.”

  Martti’s mask was steaming up from his breath. All you could see were his eyes.

  Sanna was at a loss for words. Condition? What did Martti know about her condition? Or her idealism, for that matter?