by Tua Harno
Sanna didn’t answer. She didn’t know what to offer next. She had nothing more.
She was getting dizzy from gazing into the darkness of the cave. The afterimages of the fire and the white beings flickered in the void. Could she please wake up from this? At what point in her life had she fallen asleep, how much of this had been a dream? She’d gladly return to any of those past days of gloomy thoughts, to any of those moments where she’d had a choice, even though she hadn’t realized it at the time.
That morning in the tent, Sanna considered giving in. All right, she would stay here to please Ralda and hone her escape plan. Some day they would wander farther from the cave, and maybe she would see a road then. Maybe she could run away.
But who would she be then, after such a long time? A person of Ralda’s creation, who thought Ralda’s thoughts? How would her willpower compare to the other woman’s? Oh, how she hated Ralda. Hated her with every fiber of her being, her indifference and selfishness, how she was forcing her to take part in her insane plan. You have no right to decide for me, Sanna thought. Even if I agreed to go on this trek, this child hasn’t done anything to deserve to be born into your human experiment.
Sanna engaged in vain negotiations with Ralda, until Ralda lost her patience. Sanna watched angrily as Ralda walked down the rock face with the pack on her back. She didn’t say where she was going or when she’d be back. Hopefully never, Sanna thought.
But Sanna couldn’t tear her eyes from the path that day, did nothing but wait for the other woman’s return. To kill time, she started feeling for the child’s movements. She panicked. They hadn’t slowed, had they? Sanna spoke to the child, encouraged it to kick, but the child had stopped to wait, too.
How long could Ralda stay away? How would Sanna find food?
By evening, Sanna was no longer sure if she felt any movement in the womb. She lay down on the floor of the cave and tried to breathe without making any noise. She listened and prayed. One little kick, she begged.
I need something to spike my blood sugar. Ralda would probably know of some sweet fruit that grew in desert trees.
She felt a listless blow in her belly, like a nonsentient piece of driftwood thudding into a river bank. Sanna’s body shuddered from the tears.
The night started to sing as darkness fell across the desert. Sanna’s tears flowed quietly, and she silently repeated her wish for Ralda’s return, but she heard no footfalls. “Come back,” she whispered and pointed at the white gods, their screaming eyes, because they had no mouths. “Bring her here.”
Ralda returned the evening of the following day, her backpack full of food she had found in the desert. Sanna silently ate the meal Ralda prepared. She no longer nagged Ralda to take her home. Ralda noticed the change and smiled at Sanna. Sanna didn’t know what the smile meant. She felt the baby’s legs move.
She remembered the man with the thick lashes at the Shire, remembered his exact words: “Don’t let anyone bad near her, even if it means you’ll be alone.”
Sanna emptied her pack of almost all her gear. Room for water was more important than anything else. What about cooking utensils? Would she need shelter from the wind? Sanna gripped the tarp. How much should she carry?
As she packed water, she felt like the fool from the fable trying to figure out how many logs to carry. If she could carry this much, she could carry a little more. On the other hand, if her backpack was too heavy now, what about when she was tired? Sanna knew her chances of surviving were counted in liters of water. At least six days’ worth, she estimated. She remembered the image of the map, her hunch that they were in a different spot than where Ralda had indicated. That meant they weren’t as far from the road.
But she couldn’t be sure.
If they just find you in time, she said silently to the baby. If only it could live on inside her after her strength gave out. But Sanna knew that wasn’t possible: her oxygen was the baby’s oxygen, her blood was the baby’s blood, and even though they had separate hearts, both beat in time with each other.
“I’ll take you to safety,” Sanna whispered as she tightened the pack’s straps. The baby rolled over like a tiny dolphin, a happy fish. Sanna consoled herself through her tears.
That evening Sanna gazed at Ralda across the fire, through the smoke and the embers, and tried to guess what the other woman would do once she noticed Sanna had left. Sanna’s tracks would be visible in the sand; if she wanted to, Ralda could find her by following them.
She didn’t dare look at the Southern Cross. It was like a forbidden spot in the sky now; she was afraid it would give her away. What if Martti hadn’t shown it to her? “That way it will be yours wherever your journey takes you,” he had said. Thank you, wherever you are, Sanna thought. I love you.
“Don’t be afraid, Sanna, everything’s going to be fine,” Ralda said.
Sanna started, afraid if she sank too deeply into her thoughts they would overflow to where Ralda could see them. She was so easy to read, so porous, as Ralda had put it. And so tired and sensitive these days. Her shifting moods were like liquid in a glass, rocked rapidly from one side to the other. Even now, she was looking at Ralda and wondering if she had made a mistake. Was she completely insane to flee from her? Ralda knew her way out of the desert, and all the guidebooks said if your car broke down in an uninhabited area, you were supposed to stay with the car. A car was easier to spot from a helicopter and offered shelter. Ralda was her mode of transportation, her refuge. If she left Ralda she would have to rely completely on herself, and she hadn’t been thinking clearly lately. If she panicked, she might make a stupid mistake.
She had a compass and she had water. The sun rose in the east and set in the west. Making time was critical and she would have to cover a lot of distance in a short period, and yet she couldn’t tire herself to the point of exhaustion. She knew these basic facts, repeated the sentences to herself so she wouldn’t forget.
That night in the tent Sanna silently counted to a hundred; each number led Ralda deeper into her dreams. Her eyes were moving under her lids; a narrow strip of white gleamed beneath the lashes. Did she never sleep with them more than partway closed, like a cat?
Sanna heard her own breathing, like that of a child recovering from fright—agitated, choppy. She held her breath for a moment, then blew it out smoothly and soundlessly. The light of the stars and the moon filtered in through the tent fabric.
When Sanna unzipped the tent, Ralda shifted. Sanna’s hand stopped. You’re not doing anything wrong, open that zipper, Sanna had to tell herself, because her hand didn’t want to obey. What if she just went back to sleep? Tomorrow would be a new day—she didn’t have to leave.
Sanna clambered out. Ralda didn’t move a muscle. Sanna looked back and saw the headlamp hanging from the roof of the tent. She took it. Ralda opened her eyes.
“I need to step outside,” Sanna said softly.
Ralda nodded; she hadn’t woken fully. But Sanna’s legs were shaking as she stood up. She started counting over, to give slumber time to carry off Ralda again.
The sky was thick with stars, and the night air was cold. Sanna was shivering and scared she’d hear Ralda’s footsteps approaching at any moment, or even worse, wouldn’t hear them, and Ralda would just grab her. She didn’t dare turn around for almost half a mile, afraid of what she’d see behind her.
Ralda had thought Sanna would give up, that she could indoctrinate Sanna with whatever thoughts she wanted, that Sanna would believe everything and follow Ralda anywhere. And maybe she would have been happy that way, if Ralda had carefully steeped her in spells and stories. Maybe she would have been glad to stay.
But not yet. No matter how miserable her thoughts were, they were hers, and she didn’t want to live without them. She wanted to think complex, painful thoughts, and pick out the conflicting, difficult moments from among them—poignant, beautiful, comforting memories, memories that bordered on perfection.
I’ll walk with them until the end of my days, Sanna tho
ught, having no idea how close that end might be.
27
MARTTI
A solitary excavator stood on the pile of crushed rock, red mounds reflected in its windshield. The seat of the cab was empty; the pit was still. Martti knew work was continuing over the hills, at another mine; the refinery train had to be filled four times a day, and it was so long you couldn’t see the last car from the locomotive.
No one would say anything; the pressure and boredom would just hang in the air. But the men who cursed their jobs hated the break that was lasting too long. They were thinking, Can’t we get back to work? Because liberation followed the end of their shifts.
Liberation does not exist. Martti was supposed to be on a plane to Finland right now. Minttu had written, Dad, I’d like for you to come after all.
What happened, honey? he’d asked.
I’ll tell you when you get here, don’t be mad, his daughter had replied with a crying smiley.
“Jake?” Martti said now. “You don’t want to do this.”
“Tell me then: What do I want? Do I want to go back to the city and have a family, settle down? Or maybe take up sailing?”
“What about your screenplay?”
“Childish crap.”
“A lot of movies are. But people still love them.”
A moment of silence, breathing, crackling.
“You guys better not be—you know, trying anything.” Jake’s voice was thick, and Martti promised no one would approach the machine. But Jake already knew that—the excavator was standing on a blast site, and the detonator was in the cab.
Martti leaned against the Jeep, the pit like a frozen scale model far below. The yellow dumpers and reddish-orange water tankers had stopped in place. Off in the distance they could see the break area, a cluster of white trucks. An Australian flag hung from a pole, a red, white, and blue rag.
Martti’s mouth was dry. He’d been talking with Jake for hours, from darkness to dawn. As long as there was communication, there was hope. At least that’s what the police had said, having told Martti to keep the line open no matter what Jake did to provoke or irritate him. “There’s some reason he wants to talk. You can often glean some motivation for him to change his mind.”
But Jake had immediately announced to Martti that there was no room for negotiation.
“I’m going to do it, anyway. I just don’t want there to be any misunderstandings.”
“About what?”
“A lot of time in my scripts the characters have glass helmets, like astronauts. I say something and it gets distorted along the way. I’m tired of explaining myself. Nothing’s unclear. Can we be quiet for a moment?”
Martti said, “Sure,” and they didn’t say anything for a long time.
Martti had time to reflect on his life. Did he have more waiting for him outside the camp than Jake did? Yes, he had Minttu. He was worried, and grateful for being worried.
Losing Sanna felt like an unhealed incision from an operation. If only there were a way to sear it shut—a flash of agony and then nothing. He thought about the Wandjina paintings and Ned’s words of warning. Somewhere under that same cruel, self-assured blue sky, Sanna had seen them, made the same unsettling observation about their similarity to extraterrestrials. Enormous heads and underdeveloped chins, eyes like black pools.
“We’re all extraterrestrials,” Martti said to Jake when the kid was back on the line. “We look to the stars and hope that we’re not alone in the universe, but actually meeting a being that could break through the loneliness is terrifying.”
“You mean Eva?” Jake laughed. “Right, right, of course this is for her. That’s so obvious, everyone’s talking about it.”
“You heard about it?”
“As if you give a fuck. You don’t even want her, you just—because you were bored, because she was there. She’s going to see what it feels like to lose something. Isn’t it funny how some people have something to lose and others don’t have anything? I own all kinds of stuff, but I’ve got nothing to lose. When I disappear, no one will miss me.”
I scanned the yellow shirts looking for you, Martti thought. But he didn’t dare say anything; he was afraid Jake would pose a raw, sharp follow-up question, notice the lie right away, even though his intent was to ease Jake’s mind.
Martti had woken up at the foot of the patio stairs in the middle of the night. Eva, swathed in an ankle-skimming bathrobe, had swayed in front of him like an aquatic plant. She’d been horrified by his gravel-gouged skin. Martti had fallen down the stairs drunk, and would have preferred to suffer his humiliation alone. It was just that for the first time in ages he’d been the tiniest bit happy, tickled that Minttu wanted to see him. Her dad meant something to her after all.
He followed Eva toward the dongas, patted her hand, muttered, “I’m fine, sorry about this.”
“I woke up and didn’t know where you were,” Eva said, a childlike sulkiness in her voice.
Martti knew he would never love this person. But someone needed to. Someone had battered Eva so badly, she was still fearful and eager to please. Martti had felt the bumps below the tattoos. She had covered the traces of torture with those cheery pictures.
He wanted to make all that up to Eva.
“All Lily talks about is Finland and snow and reindeer and rainbows that dance at night,” Eva said.
Martti nodded, even though he had a hard time imagining Lily being talkative. Maybe the girl was different when she was alone with her mother.
“If you two still want to go there,” Martti said.
“Yes, anywhere! As far as possible. There are mines there, too,” Eva said, squeezing Martti’s hand. The bones in the back of her hand were taut and thin, like piano strings.
“I’m not saying we would be together or anything like that, but I could help you get on your feet,” Martti said.
Eva nodded enthusiastically and smiled. “I’d be so grateful. And who knows?”
Martti gulped. He felt uneasy inside, bad. They were walking past the swimming pool, the glimmer slithering across them like eels of light.
The rustle of footsteps echoed ahead and Martti saw a figure striding toward them. Behind him, the sun between the hills was already green.
“Martti?”
It was Timothy. Martti let go of Eva’s hand. Timothy glanced at her, then pulled Martti aside. He turned up his nose at the sour smell emanating from Martti.
“We have a little situation at the pit. I tried to call you.”
Martti searched for his phone, realized that it wasn’t in his pocket. He asked Eva to go see if he had dropped it by the stairs.
“I’m not sure the police will make it in time, but he’s demanding to talk to you, anyway.” Timothy eyed Martti nervously. “Are you in any condition to work?”
Martti nodded.
“You’re sure?”
Eva called out that she had found the phone, lifted it so they could see. The light came on, but the screen was shattered and the surface didn’t respond to touch.
Timothy had driven Martti to the edge of the blast site, listening to Jake’s demands through a walkie-talkie. The terms were unambiguous. He would detonate if he saw a car approach, or anyone else except Martti.
Others had already asked him what he wanted, what were they bargaining over, but Jake hadn’t answered. They’d be bargaining with everything they had.
Now Martti thought he caught the wheeze and whistle of a sleeping person’s breath. He tried to think what the right course of action would be. Should they trust Jake’s word or attempt to storm the excavator? His intuition told him they should hold off.
We have to get him out alive. He has a whole other life. This isn’t everything, Martti thought. Maybe he’s forgotten that, or has never had a chance to live it. He could tell Jake about the world beyond the camp, the same way Jake had shared his crazy stories with him. Maybe Martti would have the guts to open up about Sanna.
As things stood, she was
like some product of Jake’s imagination. Her white hair, the traces of light and shadow on her skin, even when neither was present. Martti wondered where to begin: once upon a time there was a woman who let men beat her at pool so she could just play and not have to talk. He remembered how he’d noticed, how he’d already fallen in love.
Martti wanted to hate Sanna, but his heart refused. Maybe Jake would be able to understand that, that other people were hurting, too, you just had to try and find the people you could be with despite the pain.
The walkie-talkie crackled again and there was a squeal. Martti was instantly alert, shook himself into full focus. The line was open. He heard sticky breathing, lips touching the receiver, a tongue thudding into it like a feeble knock.
A little girl’s voice: “Daddy?”
28
SANNA
Sanna swished the water around her mouth, felt it travel down her throat and through her chest. She lay nearly flat against a rock in the quiet desert, taking in the landscape, and rested. Grave black birds flew across the sun. Sanna knew if birds were flying in regular formation, they were headed toward water. If they were flying raucously and scattered across the sky, they had already eaten. But these birds offered no clues as to where they were headed and why.
There was still some water in the bags, but Sanna needed to find a tree so she could gather dew from its branches. In theory she understood how to collect water through distillation, but she had never imagined having to do it herself. Ralda had been the one responsible for making sure they had drinking water.
Sanna had put complete faith in Ralda’s experience, even though she remembered Martti having questioned it, asking if they had a backup plan. What if one of them was bitten by a snake, or badly twisted an ankle? “Phones don’t work out there in the middle of nowhere,” Martti had warned her. Especially phones left behind somewhere, Sanna thought. She had been completely blind. Maybe she’d been blind the whole time, and now she was paying for her stupidity. But now wasn’t the time for self-pity any more than it was for stupidity. Sanna had to concentrate on surviving. Sobbing over past mistakes would be idiotic. There wasn’t anything she could undo.