Then she recalled her snowshoe tracks, which made it child’s play to locate her. The patrol had only to follow them. “Shit!” she muttered again. Well, she wouldn’t give up without a struggle, and she did still have the sidearm they’d all been issued. She staggered on, trying to minimize the fear and pain by murmuring folksongs in Norwegian. When she could think of no more, she began “God Save the King” under her breath, all the lines she’d been forced to learn in school.
She’d just reached “Not in this land alone, but be God’s mercies known,” when she became aware of the snowfall. It began as a soft sprinkling but soon increased in volume and flake-size, until she could no longer see where she was going. That would at least take care of the snowshoe-tracks problem.
She stopped. Now that she was safe from pursuit, what were her choices? Clearly she had only two: to continue either southeastward or to rest. Rest sounded very attractive, but was that the same as surrendering to the cold? Would she die in the wilderness?
It didn’t seem so. The second coat had warmed her, almost too much, in fact, and the only danger was frostbite where she was less covered. Her brain said, Keep going until daylight, when you might see signs of life, but her body rebelled, and the pain in her foot was almost unbearable. Moreover, the wind had increased, lowering the already-frigid temperature, and the snow was blowing sideways.
She nodded agreement with her body. She’d park. In training, they’d taught her how to build a snow shelter. As long as she stayed dry and well-fed, she could keep her body temperature up. And she had morphine and eight ration packs.
She mentally reviewed the steps. In principle, she had merely to hollow out a minimum of space and insulate it. Fine. She could do that. She dropped down where she stood, first wrestled off her backpack, then untied the shovel-splint. Her ankle still radiated pain, but it had supported her weight for hours, so perhaps it was strained but not broken. Using the spade, she gathered loose snow into a mound. The swinging motion caused her injured side to hurt like hell, but she persisted until the mound was slightly longer than her body length and high enough to allow her to sit up. Exhaling relief, she tamped it all down by lying on the top and pounding it with the spade.
After sliding down on one side, she began excavating the mound from a hole on the side. Ironically, the damaged foot that had forced her to create a splint might have saved her life, for the spade allowed her to dig far more effectively than she could have done with her hands. But she worked blindly, barely making out the form of the exterior under the snowfall and unable to see the interior at all.
She scooped out shovels-full of snow to a depth a bit longer than the spade handle, then turned to hollow out the mound in the other direction of about the same depth. At the spot where she’d begun, she scraped out snow from the roof to make a slight dome, where she could sit upright. Theoretically, this would also help any condensation run down the walls rather than drip onto her head.
Her whole body ached now with the exertion, but she felt a certain satisfaction in completing the shelter. Now she just needed to unfold the tarp from her pack and drag herself, and it, into the tiny cave.
Once inside, she lay for a moment on her side, catching her breath. With a careful shifting, she found a suitable position leaning diagonally against the back wall. It seemed unlikely she’d sleep much. But she could rest and eat.
She also determined that if she withdrew her arms from the sleeves of the outer oversized coat and used it more like a cape, she was still sufficiently warm but had greater arm mobility.
She had to remove her gloves to fish the morphine syrette from her pocket, and before her fingers froze, she yanked up the left leg of her trouser, exposing her swollen ankle. She snapped off the needle guard, which at the same time broke the seal to the tube containing the morphine. Taking a breath, she inserted the hollow needle at a shallow angle under the skin of her ankle and pressed on the tube, forcing its contents into her foot. The pain of insertion made her cry out, but within moments, the morphine took effect, and she exhaled with relief, sliding her pant leg down and tucking it into her boot.
Her fingers were becoming numb, so she slid on her gloves and rummaged in her pack until she located one of the survival ration boxes. It was well sealed, and she had to tear it with her teeth to open it, but, she remembered, it contained matches.
Quickly she scooped out a hollow right at the entrance and piled up the cardboard scraps of the ration box. The fire would last only a few moments, but the thought of it made her euphoric.
She emptied the contents of the box at her side and examined each part as much by feel as by sight. First she identified the folding metal gadget that made up a tiny spoon, fork, and can opener. She snorted to herself. The opener would have been useful to open the pack in the first place. Next she felt the various cellophane packs of oatmeal, sugar, gum, hard and sweet biscuits, and four paper-wrapped cubes. Two of them, she knew, were bouillon, and two were a hard-packed mixture of tea and sugar. Beneath those were packets of biscuits, both hard and soft. Several tube-type items, she recalled, were tightly rolled toilet paper and cigarettes. Best of all, at the bottom, she found a tin, which she knew contained meat, and a block of chocolate. And below those, the precious matches.
With everything laid out within reach, she unhooked her mess tin from her backpack and set it down for the foundation of her micro-bonfire. Then she gathered the cardboard packaging, the cigarettes, and one of the toilet-paper rolls into a tight bundle and set it onto the empty tin.
She struggled to open the meat tin using the attached key, though, with her gloved fingers, it took several long, infuriating minutes to pry the key from the top of the can. She had only a few minutes of flame and so readied both the open meat tin and her metal cup of snow.
Then, praying that the matches were dry, she scratched one of them against the abrasive strip. It lit with a small, intense flame that made her squint, and she held it to the bundle of paper and cardboard.
In the few moments the fire lasted, she held the meat tin and cup of snow over the flames. It was just enough to melt the snow and render it lukewarm, and she dropped one of the tea cubes into it. The meat tin had heated on the outside, but the meat, which she determined now was ham, was still ice cold. She spooned it out with the round end of the metal gadget and swallowed chunks of it along with bites of the dry biscuits. The lukewarm tea, which was at least pre-sweetened, washed it all down.
She nibbled at the sweets, watching the embers of tobacco that still glowed, giving off a sooty odor. Then all was darkness again. Only one task remained before she could try to sleep, and it was going to be a struggle.
She didn’t dare remove her woolen trousers, so simply unbuttoned them and inched them halfway down her hips. Lying on her stomach, she removed one glove, held the empty meat tin under her pubis and slowly relieved herself. It was messy business, but the warmth of her urine heated her legs slightly, and she lay for several moments over the heated tin re-absorbing her own warmth. Then she carefully slid the tin up out of her trousers and tossed it through the hole that was her door. She had no plan for when the other part of her digestive system did its work but would solve that dilemma when the time came.
Bodily needs taken care of, she wiggled back into a sort of fetal position, using the second coat as a blanket and its sleeves as a pillow. In the nearly complete darkness, she pressed snow up against the cave opening, leaving only a small hole for air. Every part of her was chilled or ached, but she was no longer famished, and it was good to lie down. Tightening the earflaps on her sheepskin cap, she made herself as small as possible and attempted to sleep.
It seemed impossible that she’d slept, for she recalled only shivering in various painful positions, but patches of a nightmare of being on a boat lost in a vast dark sea on heaving waves suggested she had in fact dropped off for brief periods.
After what seemed like hours, she punched a hole in the wall of snow, and a soft light poured in. When she widened it, she
saw the snowing had stopped and the sun was just above the horizon. The temptation was great to stay longer in her little snow-cave, but she had to trek onward in the few hours of daylight available.
First, she needed another meal, and she repeated the entire procedure of the previous evening, crumpling the cardboard box into a ball and using the tiny bonfire to melt snow for two morning drinks, one of bouillon and the second of the delicious sugary tea. This time she was able to see the meat tin as she opened it, which saved her the use of a match for light. It held tuna fish, but the biscuits and the block of chocolate were the same. She could chew the chocolate while on the move.
Fortified, she packed her rucksack and swung it onto her back again, noting that the lack of two ration packs made no difference in its weight.
She checked her map and her compass and decided arbitrarily to head southwest. Eventually, she should reach some sort of habitation, and if not…she chuckled bleakly to herself, Sweden was only a few hundred kilometers east.
Strapping on the snowshoes was no easier than on the day before, for the morphine had worn off, and her foot hurt again terribly. It seemed now a mistake to not have taken off her boots to sleep, for she could feel nothing in her feet and couldn’t move her toes.
She set off again, southwestward, grateful at least for the temporary light and clear skies. The wind had died down, and she checked the time. After four hours, she sat down, made a low wall around her from piled snow, and spread out her tarp. Meal preparation had become a smooth operation by now, and she quickly consumed ration pack number three.
It began to snow again as she resumed her trek, and she was glad she’d eaten. It had grown dark, and though she tried to continue in the chosen direction, she could no longer orient herself on the distant mountains and had to rely on her compass. But soon, heading into the wind that threw walls of snow against her, she could make no headway.
On a flat, open plateau, devoid of trees, buildings, and visible boulders, she had nothing to measure movement against. No matter how long she plodded, the mountains, when she could see them, seemed exactly as distant as they had two hours before. Twice she bumped into a snow-covered rock, and once she toppled down a slope into a gully, both causing violent jolts of pain to her side and her foot.
The wind increased, and the ground seemed to boil, sending up snow powder like a vapor. Soon her front became coated with a layer of frost, and she was just another white-covered object on an endless white landscape.
As she had done the day before, she piled up snow and made another shelter, but the fresh snow was too light to pack down. She could construct a wall around her, but had to use the tarp as a cover, and the wind wouldn’t let her build a fire, so she ate the fourth ration pack freezing cold. In the hours that followed, she couldn’t sleep at all, but simply squatted, shivering in her hidey-hole, waiting for the storm to stop.
But it didn’t stop, and all she could do was eat. Under her tarp, which had accumulated snow and so sagged in on her head, she managed to create another tiny fire, but it lasted only long enough to partially melt a cup of snow, and then the wind blew it out. Her fifth and then sixth meal were cold.
* * *
Was it the third day? With so many hours of darkness, punctuated by only a hint of daylight, she couldn’t be sure. It seemed like she’d been trudging for days, weeks. Life before snowshoes became a blur. Her rational brain asserted itself momentarily. How many ration packs were left? Two, she thought. Matches? Several packs of them, but nothing to burn.
Crap. The mission she’d been on. Operation Freshman? Yeah, that was it. Damn. They’d sent advance gliders with canisters of fuel and other supplies, but they lay somewhere far behind her.
And she was so tired. She’d plodded step after step, moved by the sheer urge to live, but her muscles were giving out. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. Her dazed mind meandered. Spirit, flesh. Did she have a spirit? If so, how had it gotten her into this? Obviously, it hadn’t reckoned with the spirits of the Arctic. She hadn’t seen any living thing on her trek, but she was pretty sure the blizzard had a spirit, and that it hated her.
Tired, so tired, and finally she collapsed. She fell sideways, one snowshoe lying on the snow, the other one jutting up vertically. She relaxed inside her double coat. Her muscles stopped aching, and she was no longer even cold. Images of ghosts dancing in the snow flashed in front of her, and then she surrendered to delicious sleep.
Chapter Five
Was she sleeping? Was she dead? Something wet and fetid touched her face. Slightly delirious, Kirsten opened her eyes, bewildered. An animal snout sniffed at her hair, her brow. She flinched and the snout pulled away, revealing several other snouts with light-brown fur leading up to widely spaced eyes. They made a sound, something between a throaty snort and an oink. Slowly she made sense of them. Reindeer.
She thought vaguely of her pistol. Should she shoot one? Whatever for? Then something shooed them apart, and a human face bent over her. Wide, troll-like, with a short, unkempt beard, thick lips, and a flat nose. But the brightly embroidered band around his head, topped by a red pompom, and the banded, blue smock, identified him to her half-conscious brain. Sami.
“Help me,” she croaked weakly, but he disappeared.
* * *
Something poked Kirsten in the chest, and she opened her eyes again. This time it was a woman, wearing the same blue, banded tunic as the man, but younger, less threatening. The woman brushed the snow from Kirsten’s chest.
“Can you hear me? Are you hurt?”
Kirsten worked to find her voice and managed only a weak sound. “Can’t feel my legs.”
The stranger patted her arm. “You’ll be all right. We have sleds. Just a few minutes and I’ll come back. Don’t worry.”
The curious reindeer re-formed around her as the woman disappeared, and roused now by the realization of being saved, Kirsten stared up at them. Their nostrils sent out a cloud of steam with each snort, as if they cleared their throats. A strangely comforting sight.
When the woman returned, shooing away the deer, it was with two elderly Sami, bulky in their heavy tunics, who brought a sled right up next to where she lay. She glanced up hopefully at the wooden contraption and the tame deer that was hitched to it.
Unlike the flat snow toys of her childhood, the Sami sled was built to carry cargo. Slightly longer than a man, the boat-like body consisted of a high back and sides that sloped toward the foot. It stood on runners that curved upward in the front and extended beyond the back.
“We’re going to lift you now,” the young woman said as she knelt behind Kirsten’s head and reached down to grasp her under the arms. One of the old men lifted her at the knees, and together, they swung her into the sled, covering her with reindeer hides.
While Kirsten relaxed into the increasing warmth of her new bed, she became aware of something bony and fidgety next to her, and when it honked into her ear, she grasped it was a young calf. Someone loaded her rucksack and snowshoes on top of her, and with a jerk, the sled took off.
Her sheer sense of relief seemed to enliven her, and she turned her head toward the woman skiing alongside the sled. She seemed a little tall and fair-skinned for a Sami, but her clothing was identical to theirs. Catching her glance, the woman skied closer.
“Don’t worry. You’re safe now. In a couple of hours, we’ll stop to make camp. Once we’ve set up, we’ll make some food and coffee and warm you up.”
The Sami woman spoke good Norwegian, which Kirsten hadn’t expected. She wanted to talk and express thanks, but her face was so cold, and her lips wouldn’t move. Then the calf bent its little head and snorted into her neck, warming both itself and her.
She fell into a half-sleep, faintly conscious of the rocking of the sled over the swells of snow. When she opened her eyes, the nameless woman was still within sight, as well as an older woman, who led the reindeer drawing the sled. She recalled seeing two men also, but noticed no sign of them.
The sky overhead was dark and relatively clear, a few stars visible. Kirsten savored the comforting shish shish of the sled over the snow, the tinkling of the bell on the reindeer that pulled her, and the dull mix of grunting, honking, and snorting from the beasts that seemed to be all around them. The dark form of a single reindeer had detached itself from the main herd and remained close to the sled. The tiny calf at her shoulder kept raising its head, so perhaps it was the mother.
Abruptly, the sled stopped, and Kirsten’s rescuer skied up to her side. “Ah, you’re awake. How do you feel?”
Kirsten’s body felt divided. Her lower part was numb, while her arms, face, and shoulders tingled painfully. Perhaps the reindeer calf had added just enough warmth to save her. “My chest hurts, broken ribs, I think. My legs ache, but I can’t feel my feet.”
The woman nodded, solicitously. “Unfortunately, I can’t do anything for you just yet, but we’re stopping now, and in a few minutes, we can at least put something warm inside you.”
The sled edged a bit farther along, and Kirsten could finally make out another sled next to a circle of tall poles tied at the top. Two other Sami were covering it with something, and a third one was unloading sacks from the sled.
Her heart sank. She could already see that the shelter was tiny, barely large enough for all four of the Sami. They would certainly have no room for her. “We’ll stay here?” she asked weakly.
“Only for a few hours to sleep. My grandparents have to rest, and so do I.”
The flap that served as the entrance to the tent was open, and from her position, Kirsten could see an old woman apparently preparing a fire inside. While she watched, it ignited, sending out a spot of blinding yellow light. In the middle of the wasteland, the flames caused the tent itself to glow and offered deeply satisfying comfort. With her fire started, the old woman stepped out of the tent, and all four Sami approached the sled.
To Sleep With Reindeer Page 5